“Flora told her mother and Van Dyne she hated the job at the parole office because of the lowlifes. You think she was lying?”

“People compartmentalize their lives.”

The light turned green, and we rolled along with the traffic sludge. The sky was brown at the horizon, bleeding to dishwater where the sun struggled through. He fooled with the radio dial again, listened to more police calls, lowered the volume.

“Cheating on Van Dyne with Mr. Bad Boy,” he said. “Or maybe Van Dyne found out something he shouldn’t have and went ballistic. Hell, for all we know, Van Dyne’s not as innocent as he comes across.”

I thought about that. “Flora’s mother implied that Van Dyne was less than manly. That could’ve come from Flora. And his alibi turned out to be no better than Roy’s.”

“So maybe the sexual problems weren’t limited to her. What if Ol’ Brian can’t cut the mustard? That could get a quiet boy plenty frustrated.” He turned up the volume, seemed to be lulled by the nonstop patter of the dispatcher. The traffic swell pitched us forward a few more yards, and he switched abruptly to AM. Tuning in a talk show, he listened to the host berate a caller for admiring the president, lowered the volume yet again.

“Ogden and Al McKinley didn’t include Nichols in the file, but they spent two days questioning him. Sweet old Brian didn’t even get that… but what the hell, it’s not even my case. Unless it ties in to Gavin and the blonde.”

He returned to the talk show. The host was berating a caller for not taking personal responsibility for her obesity. He cut her off and on came a commercial for an herbal weight-loss concoction.

He said, “What do you think of these shows?”

“The exuberance of free speech,” I said. “And bad manners. You a fan?”

“Nah, I get enough nastiness on the job, but according to today’s paper, our girl Mary Lou’s scheduled to be on in an hour.”

“Really,” I said. “You going to listen?”

“I believe in continuing education.”

CHAPTER 14

Milo went to talk to Lorraine Ogden while I sat at his desk and reviewed the Gavin Quick murder book. Nothing new. I turned to the Flora Newsome file.

No progress there, either. Milo returned five minutes letter, red-faced, shaking his head.

I relinquished his chair, but he perched on the desk edge, stretched his legs, loosened his tie. “My sensitivity failed. I brought up Nichols and she told me she’d worked the hell out of the case and I had no business second-guessing her. She said I should stick to my own case, the more she thought about it, they weren’t that similar after all, keep her out of it. Then she shoved this in my face.”

He handed me a crumpled piece of paper that I smoothed. Ballistics report from the crime lab, stamped PRIORITY and initialed by Detective L. L. Ogden. Comparisons between the.22 used to kill Gavin and the blonde and the gun that had terminated Flora’s life. A tech named Nishiyama had signed off on the test.

Similar weapons, probably cheap, imported semiautomatics, but no match.

“With a cheapie,” I said, “you could use one, toss it, get another.”

“Anything’s possible, but a match would’ve been a helluva lot nicer. Now I’ve pissed off a colleague and gotten no closer to a solve.”

“She’s a D-II, you’re a lieutenant. I thought the lines of authority were clearer.”

“In title only. My lack of administrative duties cuts both ways, everyone knows I’ve got no juice.” He rifled though his messages. “Looks like no luck yet on the blonde…” His eyes shifted to his Timex. “Koppel’s on the air.”

He switched on his desk radio and tuned in the talk station. Another host, same level of derision. A rant about racial profiling; this guy hated it.

Milo said, “Sure, let’s inspect Grandma’s shoes at the airport while Mr. Hamas waltzes through.”

The host said, “Okay, folks, this is Tom Curlie at the top of the hour, and we’ve got a hot guest coming any minute. Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, noted psychiatrist, and anyone who listens to the show knows she’s been on before and knows she’s smart… and anyone who doesn’t listen, who the hell needs you heh-heh… today we’ll be talking about… what’s that… my engineer, the ever-charismatic Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel is running late… better do something about the punctuality, Doc. Maybe see a psychiatrist heh-heh-heh… meanwhile let’s talk about car insurance. Have you ever been rear-ended by one of those lunatics who seem to be everywhere like invaders from outer space? You know what I’m talking about: space-outs, cell-phone freaks, and just plain lousy dri-vers. Has one of them bendered your fender? Or worse? Then you know the value of good insurance, and Low-Ball Insurance is the best value around…”

Milo said, “Koppel’s a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”

“Why let facts get in the way?”

Tom Curlie finished his spiel and segued to a prerecorded commercial for do-it-yourself legal forms. Then a woman with a sultry voice reported on the weather and freeway traffic.

Another commercial came on- Tom Curlie rhapsodizing about something called a Divine Mochalicious that could be had at any branch of CafeCafe, then he said, “The enigmatic yet pedestrian Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, our psychiatric guest, has still not arrived at the studio and that said headshrinker cannot be reached on her cell phone. Tsk, tsk, Mary Lou. You are now officially off the privileged roster that makes up guests on the Tom Curlie show because Tom Curlie stands for punctuality and personal responsibility and all the other virtues that have made this country great. Even though this country, in a lapse of judgment, elected a president who don’t talk good… okay, who needs her, folks? Let’s talk about psychiatrists and why they’re so doggone nuts themselves. I mean, is that just my imagination, or are they all just a little bit off? So what’s that all about, gang? Someone becoming a headshrinker because her own head’s too doggone big for her own good? Or is it a matter of a rotten childhood heh-heh-heh? How do you guys feel about that, c’mon, call and let me know at 1 888 TOM CURLIE. Here we go, those lines are lighting up and my first call is Fred from Downey. Hey, Fred. Had your head shrunk lately?”

“Hey, Tom. First of all I wanna tell you that I listen to you every day, and that you’re really coo-”

“Excellent judgment, Fred, but what about those psychiatrists- those head docs, those voodoo incantators, those shrinks? Think they’re rowing with one paddle, blinking with one eye, suffering from brain freeze, dancing with shadows in the hall of mirrors? Is that what it boils down to, Fred? They become shrinks because they need to get shrunk?”

“Well, Tom, as a matter of fact, Tom, I know about those people. It was just about twelve years ago that I was sitting out under the stars minding my own business and they abducted me and implanted these electrodes in my-”

Milo flicked off the radio.

“Civilization and its discontents,” I said.

“Malcontents is more like it. Maybe Lorraine’s right, and I should keep focused on Gavin. I’m gonna call the kids who were in the crash with him, see what that dredges up. Also, see if I can have a go with the girlfriend- Kayla Bartell- without her old man hovering.”

“Still planning to reinterview Koppel?”

“That, too.” He settled in his chair. “She’s obviously not in her office, or that idiot could’ve contacted her. Let me make some calls first, then how about we drop by in two hours? Or later, if that cramps your style.”

“Two’s fine. Want me to try to talk to Kayla?”

“If you saw her on the street, I’d say fine,” he said. “But what with it being B.H. and the father so uptight, we’d better stick to protocol.”

“Visits limited to an official police presence.”