He clicked off.

Bridget said, “What, what?”

“Her service says she didn’t check in this morning the way she usually does, and they have no idea where she is. She had two early patients before her radio interview, missed them, too.”

Bridget cried out: “Damn her! That’s fucking narcissistic!”

Snatching her purse, she raced to the door, swung it open, slammed it behind her. The silence she left behind was sour.

“I think,” said Milo, “that I prefer my job to yours.”

Five minutes later, he was pounding the door to the inner offices. A muffled man’s voice said what might have been, “Hold on!” and the door opened a crack. The eyes that looked out at us were pale brown and down-slanted behind octagonal bifocals. Analytic. Not amused.

“What’s going on?” Well-modulated voice, tinged by a Nordic inflection. What I could see of his face was smooth and ruddy, the chin melting into soft flesh. A chin coated by a clipped, gray-blond goatee. Centering the beard was a prim, narrow mouth.

“Police,” said Milo. “We’re looking for Dr. Koppel.”

“Police? So you pound the door?” Calm voice- almost amused, despite the irritation.

“You’re-”

“Dr. Larsen. I’m in the midst of seeing a patient and would prefer that you leave. Why are you looking for Mary Lou?”

“I’d rather not discuss that, sir.”

Albin Larsen blinked. “Suit yourself.” He began to close the door. Milo caught it.

“Officer-”

“Her session light is on,” said Milo, “but she’s not in.”

The door opened wider, and Larsen stepped out. He was five-ten, in his midfifties, upholstered by an extra fifteen pounds, wore his whitening hair in a longish crew cut. A green, hand-crocheted, sleeveless vest sheathed a pale blue button-down shirt. His khakis were pressed and pleated, his bubble-topped brown shoes polished glossy.

He took a long moment to look us over. “Not in? How would you know that?”

Milo recounted his conversation with the service operator.

“Ah,” said Larsen. He smiled. “That doesn’t mean anything. Dr. Koppel could have been called in to the office because of a patient crisis and simply neglected to check with her service.”

“A crisis here in the office?”

“Our profession is rife with crisis.”

“Frequently?”

“Frequently enough,” said Larsen. “Now I suggest that the best way for us to deal with this situation is for you to leave your card, and I’ll make sure-”

“Have you seen her today, Doctor?”

“I wouldn’t have. I’ve been booked clear through since 8 A.M. So is Franco- Dr. Gull. We all have very full schedules and try to stagger our patients in order to avoid a logjam in the waiting room.” Larsen tugged at his shirtsleeve, exposed a pink-gold vintage Rolex. “In fact, my next appointment is in ten minutes, and I’ve left a patient waiting in my office, which is grossly unfair and unprofessional. So kindly leave your card, and-”

Milo said, “Why don’t we check to see if Dr. Koppel’s in her office?”

Albin Larsen began to fold his arms over his chest but stopped himself. “That would be inappropriate.”

“Otherwise, I’m afraid we’re going to have to wait right here, Dr. Larsen.”

Larsen’s prim mouth got even smaller. “I believe that if you pause to reflect, sir, you’ll find you are being heavy-handed.”

“No doubt,” said Milo. He sat down and picked up the copy of Modern Health discarded by the face-peeled woman.

Larsen turned to me, as if hoping for reason. I looked at the carpet.

“Very well,” he said, “I’ll go check.”

He stepped back into the inner hallway and shut the door. Seconds later, he returned, expressionless.

“She’s not there. I don’t understand it, however I’m sure there’s an explanation. Now, really, I must return to my patient. If you insist on staying here, please don’t create a commotion.”

CHAPTER 15

“Now that,” said Milo, as we left the building, “is what I call a shrink. Unflappable, soft-spoken, analyzing everything.”

“I don’t qualify?”

“You, my friend, are an aberration.”

“Too flappable?”

“Too damn human. Let’s check out Dr. K’s residence. Have time?”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s see how the real shrinks live.”

Motor vehicle records put Mary Lou Koppel’s address on McConnell Drive, in Cheviot Hills.

I drove west, past Century City and south to Pico, continued half a mile past Rancho Park and the radar gun of a stone-faced motorcycle cop. Milo waved at the officer, but he didn’t return the gesture. McConnell was a lovely street, hilly and winding and, unlike the horticulturally regimented arteries of Beverly Hills, graced by an adventurous mix of street trees.

Koppel’s house was a two-story brick Tudor set high on a knoll above thirty stone steps. The steep driveway would have been a challenge for a car with a puny engine. No sign of the Mercedes, but the garage door was closed.

Milo said, “Maybe she was more scared of two murders in her practice than she let on and decided to take a little vacation.”

“With no advance notice to her patients?”

“Fear can do that to you.” He eyed the climb. “Okay, pass the pitons and let’s start the climb. How’re your CPR skills?”

He trudged up first, muttering, “At least there’s a view,” and I followed two steps behind. He was huffing and gasping by the time we got to the top.

“With… this,” he panted, “she… doesn’t need… a… damnhomegym.”

Up close, the house was beautifully kept, windows sparkling, copper gutters spotless, carved oak door freshly varnished. Plantings of ferns and elephant ear and papyrus and white roses softened the used-brick front. A stone pot of mixed herbs bathed the covered entrance in fragrance. A multitrunk jacaranda formed the centerpiece of the tiny, perfect lawn. Between its branches was an eastern panorama: the L.A. basin and the San Gabriel Mountains beyond. Despite the smog blanket, staggering. As Milo rang the bell, I stared out at miles of terrain and thought what I always think: way too big for one city.

No one answered. He tried again, knocked, said, “With her car gone, no big surprise, but let’s be thorough.”

We walked around the left side of the house to a small square of backyard dominated by a lap pool and more thick planting. High ficus hedging on three sides prevented scrutiny by the neighbors. The pool was gray-bottomed and immaculate. A covered patio covered a brick barbecue with a built-in chimney, outdoor furniture, potted flowers. A hummingbird feeder dangled from a crossbeam, and, off in a corner, a miniature fountain- a bamboo spout tipping into a tiny barrel- burbled prettily.

The rear wall was a bank of French doors. Three sets were blocked by drapes. One wasn’t and Milo went over and peered in.

“Oh my,” he said.

I went over to have a look.

The back room was set up with white leather sofas, glass side tables, an oak-and-granite wet bar, and a five-foot-wide plasma TV with accompanying stereo gizmos. The TV was tuned to a game show. Ecstatic contestants jumped as if on trampolines. Great color and definition.

Off to the left side, Mary Lou Koppel slumped on one of the sofas, facing us, her back to the screen. Her limbs were splayed, and her head was thrown back, mouth gaping, eyes staring at the vaulted ceiling.

Staring sightlessly. Something long and silver protruded from her chest, and her color belonged to nothing living.

All around her, white leather was blotched rusty red.