CHAPTER 27

I got home just after five, tried the Times human resources office, found out it was closed. I tried to recall the names of colleagues Ned Biondi had mentioned and came up with one, Don Zeltin, like Ned, once a reporter, now a columnist. I phoned the paper’s switchboard, asked for him, got patched through.

“Zeltin,” said a gruff voice.

I started to explain who I was and that I wanted to get in touch with Ned.

“Sounds complicated,” said Zeltin. “You could be some nut.”

“I could be but I’m not. If you don’t mind calling Ned-”

“Maybe Ned didn’t leave you a number because he doesn’t want to hear from you.”

“Would calling him and asking be a huge imposition? It’s important.”

“Psychologist, huh? My ex-wife decided she was going to be a psychologist. Back when she was still my wife. I’ve got three friends in the same boat. Wife talks about going back to shrink school, get on the horn to your divorce lawyer.”

I laughed.

He said, “It’s not funny. Actually, it is. She ended up dropping out, and now she lives in Vegas and sells clothes at a crappy boutique. Okay, what the hell, I’ll call Ned. Give me your name again.”

I looked up Franco Gull in my American Psychological Association directory. He’d gone to college at the University of Kansas, Lawrence. Double major: psychology and business. His move to Berkeley for grad school had been delayed by two years playing semipro baseball at a farm club in Fresno. Not the kind of thing generally listed in the APA book; Gull had been proud of his athletic stint.

Charismatic at a young age, sure about his physicality.

Gull had no academic appointments, had conducted no research since grad school that he cared to specify. His areas of interest were “interpersonal relations” and “insight-oriented therapy.” From what I could tell, he’d gone straight from a postdoc at UC Riverside into private practice with Mary Lou Koppel.

While I had the book in front of me, I checked out Albin Larsen. His bio was considerably longer and more impressive. Undergraduate work at Stockholm University, followed by a one-year fellowship in public policy at Cambridge, back to Sweden for a doctorate at Göteborg University and an assistant professorship in the Social Sciences Institute at that same institution. His areas of interest were cultural factors in psychological assessment, the integration of social and clinical psychology, the application of psychological research to conflict resolution, and the appraisal and treatment of war-related trauma and stress. He’d done relief work in Rwanda and Kenya, consulted to Amnesty International, Doctors Without Borders, the Human Rights Beacon Symposium, World Focus on Prisoners’ Rights, and a child welfare subcommittee of the United Nations. Though he’d lived in the U.S. for eight years and had earned a California license shortly after arriving, he’d maintained an academic appointment at Göteborg.

Substantive fellow. Would Koppel and Gull’s shenanigans have offended him?

I got on the computer, logged on to the California Board of Psychology website and checked the list of disciplinary actions. Nothing on Gull or Larsen. Whatever Gull’s transgressions had been, they’d remained private.

Which might very well be the point.

Had Gavin learned something that made him a threat to Gull?

Was the secret something to do with the Quick family? Why had Jerome Quick lied about Barry Silver being a golfing buddy? Why hadn’t he told us that he, himself, had spearheaded the referral?

Did Quick have some kind of prior relationship with Koppel or Gull? Some specific reason he wanted Gavin under the group’s care?

If so, he wasn’t saying, and now Gavin was dead.

And so was his therapist.

I turned it over a couple of times, produced nothing but a headache, broke for a cup of coffee, found the machine empty, and was loading it when Ned Biondi called.

“Doc,” he said. “Sorry for not keeping in touch, but I just moved, and the boxes aren’t even unpacked.”

“Oregon?”

“The other direction. Got myself a great little apartment on Coronado Island. Dinky little place because everything’s so expensive, but what do I need, one guy.”

I said, “It’s pretty out there.”

“Got a view of the bay, the bridge. Norma and I got divorced. To be accurate, I divorced her. Last year.”

“Sorry to hear about it.”

“Don’t be, I should’ve done it years ago. She’s a mean woman, terrible mother- you remember how she wouldn’t give you the time of day, wouldn’t participate in Anne Marie’s treatment?”

“I do.”

“Ice queen,” he spit. “As far as I’m concerned she was a big part of Anne Marie’s problem, I should’ve recognized it sooner. You probably saw it, but you couldn’t come out and say that, right? ‘Go divorce your wife, Ned.’ You’d have said that, I’d have fired you. But you’d have been right.”

“How’s Anne Marie?”

“Mostly good,” he said. “Not always great. She has her moods, but most of the time, good. That husband of hers is okay, and they just had a third kid. Career-wise, she never got it together, but she says she loves being a mom and why shouldn’t I believe her? She’s a terrific mom, the kids love her, Bob loves her. Do you know what made me realize I needed to divorce Norma?”

“What?”

“I decided to quit smoking. Finally got serious about it. So what does Norma do? Tries to talk me out of it, I’m talking a pitched battle. She didn’t want to quit because smoking was something we did together- cigarettes and coffee in the morning, reading the paper. Taking walks and puffing away like the cancer fiends we were. She actually accused me of abandoning her by wanting to quit. I stuck to my guns, and she went ballistic. So I sat back and thought, ‘Dummy, she doesn’t care if you get sick or die, she just wants what she wants, it’s all about her.’ Thirty-five years too late, but what the hell, I’m here, and she moved to New York to write a novel and I’m wearing the patch and have worked myself down to seven Winstons a day.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. So what can I do for you?”

I told him about the photo of the blond girl.

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 Times.”

“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.”