“Verify to your heart’s content.”

Milo slapped the pad shut. Gull gave a start and wiped his brow with his sleeve again.

“Doctor, why did Gavin Quick dump you as a therapist?”

“He didn’t dump me. I transferred him to Mary.”

“Why?”

“That’s confidential.”

“No it’s not,” barked Milo. “Gavin lost his privilege when someone shot him. Why’d he transfer away from you, Doctor?”

Gull’s arms had gone rigid, and his palms pressed against the seat cushions, as if bracing himself for takeoff.

“I’m not going to talk to you anymore,” he said. “Not without a lawyer.”

“You’re aware of how that makes you look.”

“I assert my rights, and it makes me look bad?”

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, why have concern about rights?”

“Because,” said Gull, “I don’t want to live in a police state. With all that implies.” He forced a smile. Perspiration glazed his face and his neck. “Did you know, Detective, that of all the professions who joined the Nazi party, the police were the most enthusiastic recruits?”

“Really? I heard it was doctors.”

Gull’s smile faltered. He burned some calories restoring it. “That’s it. Not another word.” He drew a finger across his lips.

“Sure,” said Milo, rising. “No sweat.”

CHAPTER 26

As we left Gull’s office, he got on the phone.

Out in the hallway, Milo said, “Lawyering up.”

I said, “What did it was your question about Gavin transferring to Koppel.”

“Some deep dark secret,” he said. “Something that makes him look bad.”

“I wonder how much the Quicks know.”

“If they know, why didn’t they tell me?”

“Maybe it also reflected poorly on Gavin.”

“What, Gavin found out the guy supposed to help him with his stalking problem had outstalked him, so he decided to expose him? Why wouldn’t his parents talk about that? And how does Koppel figure in?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But everything seems to connect to this place.”

“I’ll have Binchy do a loose surveillance on Gull. See if I can get another baby D on it, too.”

“Loose?”

“This ain’t TV, unlimited gizmos and manpower. I’ll be lucky to get two shifts a day.”

We descended the stairs to the ground floor. He said, “So, how effective do you think my leaning on him was?”

“He’s lawyering up,” I said.

“And would an innocent guy do that? Yeah, I got to him… I really wanna know why Gavin left him.”

“The neurologist who sent Gavin to Gull might know something about it. Specialists need to stroke their referral sources, so Gull would have offered some kind of explanation.”

“Singh,” he said. He whipped out his pad, flipped pages. “Leonard Singh, over at St. John’s. You mind doing the doctor-to-doctor bit?”

“Not at all.”

“Also, if you’re still up for calling Ned Biondi, to try to get the blonde’s picture in the papers, go ahead.”

He handed me a sealed envelope stamped PHOTO, DO NOT BEND. “Here’s your chance to be an ‘anonymous source.’ ”

I ran a finger across my lips.

We reached the bottom of the stairs. Roland Kristof and his vacuum cleaner were no longer in sight, and Milo gazed down the empty corridor.

“Ghost town,” he said. “ ‘Charitable Planning.’ You picking up eau de scam?”

“At the very least eau de shadow corporation,” I said. “You hassled Kristof. What about him bugged you?”

“He gave off eau de con in waves, and my nose is always sensitive to that.”

“I thought it might be more than that.”

“Like what?”

“A parolee hired by Koppel’s ex, working in the building where three murder victims spent some time. Flora Newsome’s job at the parole office. Before Koppel got killed, we were surmising about an ex-con.”

“Flora again,” he said, and resumed walking.

When we got outside, I said, “It doesn’t bother you?”

“What?”

“Sonny Koppel hiring a junkie parolee for building maintenance. The whole con connection?”

“Everything bothers me.” When we reached the car, he said, “In terms of Flora, what we were surmising about was her sleeping with a con. She mighta slummed, Alex, but I don’t see her getting anywhere near a burnout like Kristof.”

“So maybe Kristof’s not the only parolee on Koppel’s payroll. Maybe Koppel’s found himself a source of cheap labor. Mary Lou was into prison rehab. There could be some connection.”

“Larsen says he gave her the idea.”

“Larsen was disappointed we didn’t hear him on the interview tapes. Everyone’s got an ego.”

“Even shrinks?”

“Especially shrinks.”

He tried to pull the car door open. I hadn’t unlocked the Seville, his arm strained, and he grunted. By the time I’d turned the key, he’d wandered back toward the alley.

When he returned, he said, “It’s time to meet Mr. Sonny Koppel. Something else that shoulda been done right away. Woman gets killed, go straight for the ex, it’s goddamned Detection 101.”

“You’re dealing with three cases that point in all directions.”

He threw up his hands and laughed. “Supportive therapy again.”

“Reality.”

“If I wanted reality, I wouldn’t live in L.A.”

As we drove off, he sank into silence. I crossed Olympic, and he announced he’d face Sheila Quick alone for the toss of Gavin’s room. I dropped him at the station and returned home. Spike was waiting for me at the door, looking forlorn.

That was new. Generally, his game was nonchalance: remaining in the service porch when I came home, waiting me out when walk time approached, feigning sleep until I lifted his limp body and set four paws on the ground.

“Hey, guy.”

He snorted, shook a drizzle of saliva my way, licked my hand.

“Lonely, huh?”

His head dropped, but his eyes remained fixed on me. One ear twitched.

“Really lonely.”

He gazed upward and let out a low, hoarse moan.

“Hey,” I said, bending on one knee and ruffling his neck, “she’ll be home tomorrow.”

In the old days, I’d have added, I miss her, too.

Spike snuffled and rolled over. I scratched his belly. “How about some exercise?”

He snapped to attention. Pant, pant.

I had an old leash stored in my office closet, and by the time I brought it back he was jumping and yelping and scraping at the door.

“Nice to be appreciated,” I said.

He stopped fussing. His expression said, Don’t get carried away.

His stubby little legs and attenuated palate could handle a half mile up the Glen and back. Not bad for a ten-year-old pooch- in bulldog years, he was well past retirement. When we returned, he was famished and parched, and I filled his bowls.

While he ate, I called the most current number I had for Ned Biondi. Ned had retired as a senior writer for the Times years ago, talked about moving to Oregon, so when I got a no-longer-in-service message, I wasn’t surprised. I tried Oregon information, but he wasn’t listed.

I’d treated Ned’s daughter years ago, a brilliant girl with too-high standards who’d starved herself and nearly died. I supposed the fact that Ned hadn’t bothered to leave his forwarding was encouraging. The family didn’t need me anymore. How old would Anne Marie be, now- nearly thirty. Over the years, Ned had phoned to fill me in and I knew she’d gotten married, had a child, was still waffling about a career.

The information always came from Ned. I’d never achieved much rapport with his wife, who’d barely spoken to me during therapy. Once treatment was over, Anne Marie didn’t speak to me either, not even to return follow-up calls. I mentioned it once to Ned, and he grew apologetic and embarassed, so I dropped it. A year after discharge, Anne Marie wrote me an elegant letter of thanks on pink, perfume-scented stationery. The tone was gracious, the message clear: I’m okay. Back off.