He said, “I’ll make a call, but I’m sorry to say I can’t promise you, Doc. The paper’s not about public service- if it ever was. It’s about peddling ad space, and that means going for the hook. From what you’re telling me there’s no juicy angle to this one.”
“A double killing?” I said. “Two kids up on Mulholland?”
“Unfortunately L.A.’s more of a company town than it ever was, and juice means a Hollywood tie-in. Give me a klepto starlet boosting scanties on Rodeo, and I’ll guarantee you lots of print inches. Two kids on Mulholland is tragic, but it ain’t man bites dog.”
“How about this for a hook: The police didn’t want to release the photo because it was too early in the investigation, but an anonymous source supplied it to the
“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe the editors will go for that, they’ve got a reflexive dislike of authority. Anytime they can show they’re not in lockstep with LAPD it makes them feel the muckrackers they wish they were… okay, I’ll try. By the way, is it true?”
“LAPD Communications didn’t want to release it because they thought it lacked a hook.”
He laughed. “Everyone’s in showbiz. I’ll call and get back to you. Anything more you can tell me about this girl?”
“Nothing,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Doc. Good talking to you- as long as I’ve got you, let me ask you something. Do you believe that study that came out, said guys do better married than single?”
“Depends on the guy,” I said. “And the marriage.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You hit it on the head.”
Soon after I hung up, Milo called, and I told him Biondi would try to get the photo in.
“Thanks. Some of the prints came in from Koppel’s house, and sure enough, Gull’s are all over the place. Along with a bunch of others we can’t identify. One we could tag was some guy who showed up in the system because of an assault record, turns out he works for a heating and air-conditioning company, did a service call a month ago. His latents were on the furnace and nowhere else, so that fits. The assault was punching a guy in a bar.”
“Like Roy Nichols,” I said.
“Lots of anger out there. If people only knew who they let into their homes.”
“Do Gull’s prints mean much?” I said. “Given his relationship with Koppel?”
“That’s what he’d say. What his lawyer would say. He hired a B.H. mouthpiece, by the way. Don’t know him, but one of the guys here does. Not high-powered, more like medium-powered.”
“Meaning Gull’s not that scared?”
“He’s scared enough to lawyer up,” he said. “Maybe he doesn’t know better. Or couldn’t afford better. He’s got his baby Benz and his Vette, but he’s not really rich, right? Even with a hefty fee, you guys are limited by the hours you work.”
“Interesting you should bring that up,” I said. I told him what Allison had said about profit motive.
“Kill Koppel and steal her patients… smart girl, Allison… I’d sure like to get into Gull’s finances but can’t see a way to do it yet.”
“How’d it go with Gavin’s room?”
“It didn’t,” he said. “No one home, I’ll try tomorrow.”
“I spoke to Dr. Singh.” I recapped the interview.
“Jerry Quick lied,” he said. “What was the point of that?”
“Good question.”
“It’s time to pay Mom and Dad a closer look. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to arrange an appointment with Mr. Edward Koppel, but I can’t get past his receptionist.”
“The old tycoon shuffle?” I said.
“Seems to be. I figure the best thing’s to drop in tomorrow morning. Early, say eight-thirty, maybe catch him before his day gets too tycoonish. You up for that?”
“Want me to drive?”
“What do you think?”
He came by the next morning just before eight, marched into my kitchen, drank coffee and ate two bagels standing at the counter, and said, “Ready?”
I drove over the Glen into the Valley, then east, across Sepulveda, into the heart of Encino.
This was Boomtown Valley, high-rises shining like chrome in the morning sun, traffic jams worthy of downtown, the flavors of money and boosterism comingling easily. But Edward Koppel’s office was located in a straggler from an earlier age: a shopworn, two-story stucco box on Ventura just past Balboa, stuck between a used-car lot crammed with secondhand Jaguars, Ferraris, and Rollses, and a storefront Mideastern restaurant.
Behind the building was a small, outdoor parking lot accessible through an alley, with most of the spaces marked RESERVED. Entrance was through a glass door. Identical setup to the building that housed Mary Lou Koppel’s group, and I said so.
Milo said, “Here I was thinking some big-time executive suite setup. Maybe Koppel specializes in small buildings he can rent out easily. Why don’t you park at the far end, over there.”
He directed me to a spot where we could observe every vehicle that arrived. Over the next half hour, four vehicles did. Two compacts driven by young women, a bottled water delivery truck, and a faded green, ten-year-old Buick that disgorged a sloppy-looking, heavyset man wearing wrinkled pants and an oversized brown polo shirt. He carried a brown paper bag and looked half-asleep as he stumbled up the stairs.
Ten more minutes brought two more Toyotas bearing secretarial types. Soon after, the heavy man exited, and drove off, minus his sack.
“What was that?” I said. “A literal bagman?”
Milo frowned, read the face of his Timex, didn’t answer.
Half an hour after we’d arrived, we were still sitting there. Milo seemed fine, eyes alive under half-closed, hooded lids, but I was getting itchy. I said, “Looks like Mr. K keeps tycoon’s hours.”
“Let’s pay his office a visit.”
The ground floor of the building was divided into three offices: Landmark Realty, SK Development, and Koppel Enterprises. Above were a travel agency, a general contractor, and a secretarial service.
Milo tried the doorknob to Koppel Enterprises and Landmark Realty, found them locked. But SK Development was open for business.
We walked into a large, bright, open area, sectioned into cubicles by waist-high partitions. All four of the young women we’d seen in the parking lot sat at computers typing briskly. Three wore headsets.
At the rear was a door marked PRIVATE. Milo strode past the secretarial pool and tried it. Also locked. The sole typist without a headset got up and walked over to him. Midtwenties, pleasantly plain, she had short dark hair, freckles, and an easy smile, wore a tan cotton-poly pantsuit.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Mr. Koppel.”
“Sonny?” she said. “You just missed him.”
“What’s he look like?”
She glanced around, moved in close, cupped her hand over her mouth. “Kind of chubby. He was wearing a brown polo.”
“Drives an old Buick?”
“That’s him. Are you guys the police or something?”
Milo showed her the badge.
