Therapy

“No worse than anyone else.”

“What about pilferage problems?”

“Same answer, people are people. Over the years, I’ve lost a few tools, some furniture, but that goes with the territory.”

“Your secretary said properties get broken into.”

“From time to time,” said Koppel. “Not the halfway houses, though. What’s to take from there?”

“You recruit your own tenants as janitors?”

“I get recommendations from the halfway-house managers. They send me guys they think are reliable.” Koppel lifted the popcorn bowl.

“How’d you get into the parolee business?”

“I’m in the real estate business. A handful of my properties are halfway houses.”

“How’d you get into that, sir?”

“I’d never have done it on my own. I’m a bleeding heart liberal but only to a point. It was Mary’s idea. Actually, I was pretty wary, but she won me over.”

“How’d she come up with the idea?”

“I think Dr. Larsen suggested it- one of her partners. Have you talked to him yet?”

Milo nodded.

“He’s an expert on prison reform,” said Koppel. “He got Mary into it, and she was all afire. She said she wanted to do more than build up equity, she wanted her investments to do some social good.”

“The halfway houses are the properties she partners with you?”

“We’re also together on some conventional rentals.”

“Pretty idealistic.”

“When Mary believed in something, she got very focused.”

“But you tried to un-focus her.”

Koppel lifted a leg in order to cross it, changed his mind, and planted a heavy foot on the carpet. “I approached the issue like a businessman, let’s look at the assets and debits. Mary did her homework, showed me the subsidies the state was offering and I had to admit the figures looked good. Even so, I was concerned about tenant damage, so I’d look at the crowd you’re talking about. I also told her I could get equal or better subsidies on what seemed to be safer investments- senior citizen housing, historic properties, where, if you respected the integrity of the structure, you could get three separate funding sources.”

His eyes had dried, and he was talking faster. In his element.

Milo said, “Mary convinced you.”

“Mary said the tenants would be more reliable, not less, because they weren’t paying rent so they had no incentive to leave. On top of that, the state mandated supervision by parole officers and provided in-house managers and security guards. She had to work on me for a while, but I agreed to give it a try. Smartest thing I ever did.”

“Good deal?”

“The funding’s ironclad- long-term state grants that get renewed easily- and the properties can be had dirt cheap because they’re always in fringe areas. You’re not going to stick a building full of criminals in Bel Air, right? So there are no NIMBYs, no zoning problems, and once you get past financing the part the state doesn’t cover, the rents are great. And listen to this: On a square-footage basis, the income’s close to Beverly Hills, because you’re not talking multiroom apartments, it’s all single rooms. And as opposed to a senior citizen situation where the tenancy-terminating event is death so your occupancy is uncertain, you go in knowing the tenants are there on a short-term deal but they’re always going to be replenished.”

“No shortage of bad guys.”

“Doesn’t seem to be,” said Koppel. “And turns out there are fewer repairs. The bathrooms are all communal, so the plumbing’s centralized, there are no kitchens in the rooms, all the tenants get is hot plates. And their use is restricted to certain hours. There’s some paperwork, but nothing I haven’t seen before. And, let’s face it, the state wants you to be a success.”

“Define ‘success.’ ”

“The residents stay put and don’t roam out in the community to hurt or kill someone.”

“Where do I sign?” said Milo.

Koppel smiled. “I should’ve known listening to Mary would never lead me wrong.” He shifted his bulk in the recliner. “Now she’s gone. I can’t believe it- is there anything else I can tell you?”

“Back to the halfway houses, sir. Great deal notwithstanding, have you ever had any problems with tenant violence?”

“Not to my knowledge. But I wouldn’t know.”

“Why not?”

“All that’s handled in-house,” said Koppel. “I’m not a warden. I just own the building, and the state runs it. Why, do you think one of those lowlifes killed Mary?”

“There’s no evidence of that,” said Milo. “Just covering all bases.” He opened his pad. “What’s Charitable Planning all about?”

“My foundation,” said Koppel. “I give away ten percent a year. Of after-tax income.”

“We’ve been in the building a few times and never saw any activity on the ground floor.”

“That’s because there isn’t much. Twice a month, I go in and write checks to worthy causes. It takes a while because the solicitations come in constantly, everything really piles up.”

“An entire ground-floor suite for you to write checks? That’s Beverly Hills space, Mr. Koppel. Why don’t you rent it out?”

“I had a deal, last year, for a tenant to take the whole floor. An online brokerage. You know what happened to the market. The deal fell through. I was planning to subdivide- rent most of it out and leave a small office for Charitable Planning. But Mary asked me to put a hold on that until she and Larsen and Gull could decide if they wanted it.”

“Why would they want it?”

“To expand their practice. They were talking about doing group therapy, needed larger rooms. The only space I use is a small office, the rest is empty. Mary was supposed to tell me in a week or so.”

“Group therapy,” I said.

“From a business standpoint, I thought it was a smart idea. Treat the max number of patients in the shortest time. I joked with Mary that it had sure taken her a long time to figure it out.” Koppel smiled. “She said, ‘Sonny, you’re the moneyman, and I’m the healer. Let’s stick to what we know.”

He tugged the side of his mouth, ate some popcorn.

Milo showed him the picture of the dead girl.

Koppel chewed faster, swallowed hard. “Who’s that?”

“Someone else who got killed.”

“Someone else? Related to Mary?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“You’re saying what happend was part of something… that it wasn’t just Mary?”

Milo shrugged.

“What’s really going on, Lieutenant?”

“That’s all I can tell you, sir. Does the name Flora Newsome mean anything to you?”

Koppel shook his head. Glanced at the photo. “That’s her?”

“What about Gavin Quick?”

“I know a Quick,” said Koppel, “but not Gavin.”

“Who do you know?”

“Jerry Quick- Jerome Quick. He’s one of my tenants. Who’s Gavin? His son? The one who had the accident?”

“You know about the accident.”

“Jerry told me about it, said his son was having some emotional problems. I referred him to Mary.”

“How long has Mr. Quick been your tenant?”

“Four months.” He frowned.