“Bet he does.”

“And here’s the fun part, Alex: This supervisor, God bless him, told me all the hits featured some kind of impaling and a combination MO, which is unusual for prison killings, mostly it’s cut and run. Degussa cut all right- your basic throat and multiple body slashing by shiv. But he followed it up with a coup de grâce through the neck or chest with some sort of pointed object. In a couple of cases, the objects were found: sharpened fountain pen, meat skewer purloined from the prison kitchen. Raymond’s definitely our bad guy.”

“He has no record of sexual crimes?”

“His sheet’s what I told you- larceny, drugs, armed robbery. But those are only the things he gets caught for. Who knows what he does in his spare time? Starting tonight, I’m switching Sean Binchy from surveilling Gull to watching Degussa. I’ll be there at the start, to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble. Watching a sweating shrink’s one thing, this bad boy’s another.”

“Gull’s off the screen?”

“On the contrary. Now that we know the scam’s real, we’ve got something to use against him. Assuming you still see him as the weakest link.”

“If you want to lean on someone, he’d be my choice.”

“I want badly to lean,” he said. “A couple more things. The address Christi Marsh gave is a mail drop, big surprise. She only rented the box for two months, and the clerk has no recollection of her. Did you check the paper this morning?”

“Not yet.”

“They finally ran the photo. Page thirty-two, at the bottom, along with three sentences asking anyone with knowledge to call me. No calls yet. On the Quick family front, I tracked down sister Kelly. She stayed in Boston to work at a law firm. But she just took a sudden leave of absence, supposedly sick grandmother in Michigan.”

“You think she could be well west of Michigan.”

“I phoned the house but no answer, have a call in to Eileen Paxton just in case she got sisterly, again. How about we get together, sooner rather than later, to talk about Franco Gull. I have a few ideas about the fine art of social pressure.”

CHAPTER 38

Franco Gull had retained the services of a criminal defense lawyer named Armand Moss. Moss had passed the assignment to an associate, a stunning brunette woman of around forty named Myrna Wimmer.

The meeting was held in Wimmer’s office, a glass-lined room on the top floor of an office building on Wilshire near Barrington. It was a glorious day, and the glass served its purpose.

Myrna Wimmer wore a burgundy pantsuit and had flawless ivory skin. Her artfully highlighted wedge cut was glossy and efficient. A Yale law degree was displayed like the icon it was. The photos on her credenza said she had a doting husband and five gorgeous kids. She moved like a dancer, her greeting was warm. Slanted gray eyes under artfully shaped brows could’ve melted paint.

She said, “For the record, Dr. Gull is here of his own volition and is under no obligation to answer any questions, let alone those deemed inappropriate.”

“Yes, ma’am, anything you say,” said Milo.

Wimmer regarded him with amusement, turned to Gull, who sat on a club chair near the longest glass wall, feet planted on the carpet, looking drained and thinner. The chair rested on casters, and Gull’s movements made it shudder.

He had on a black suit, white mock-turtleneck, oxblood calfskin loafers. Little red clocks on his black socks. A folded linen handkerchief was wadded in one big hand. No sweating, yet, but preparing himself? Or maybe his lawyer had provided the hankie.

Milo took the seat farthest from Gull. I got close.

“Good morning,” I said. It was 11 A.M., and the view out Myrna Wimmer’s glass walls deserved some serious meditation. I was there for anything but, dressed in my best navy suit, a white pin-collar shirt with French cuffs, and a gold jacquard tie. Last time I’d gone that route someone had mistaken me for a lawyer. The sacrifices we make for the public good.

Two days had passed since Christina Marsh’s photo had run in the paper. A couple of schizophrenics had phoned Milo, each with oddly congruent stories about alien abductions, each certain Christina was really from Venus. Comic relief; with the schedule he’d been keeping Milo needed it.

Two nights attempting to surveil Raymond Degussa had gone flat when the bouncer had failed to show up for his club gig. A check at his last-known address revealed it to be eighteen months out-of-date, and now Milo had more to search for.

Before we’d headed for Myrna Wimmer’s office, he’d shown me mug shots of Degussa and a DMV photo of Bennett Hacker. Degussa’s stats put him at six feet, 198, with multiple tattoos. Long, seamed face, thick neck, strong features, black hair oiled and brushed straight back. In one of the pictures, Degussa wore a thick, drooping mustache. In others he was clean-shaven. Tiny slit eyes projected profound boredom.

Hacker was six-two, 170, with thinning dishwater hair and a chin that fell far short of assertive. He wore a white shirt and tie, smiled faintly for the motor vehicles camera.

According to Medi-Cal investigator Dwight Zevonsky, the PO was a rich man. Both of them were.

Franco Gull hadn’t responded to my greeting, so I repeated it.

He said, “Morning.”

I kept my suit jacket buttoned, kept my posture authoritative. “Pretty outside,” I said. “But that’s irrelevant to you.”

No answer.

“All that dissonance must be tough, Franco.”

Myrna Wimmer said, “Pardon me?”

“Dissonance. When self-image clashes with harsh reality.” I scooted closer to Gull. He pressed himself against the back of the armchair. The chair rolled back a couple of inches.

“What is this?” said Wimmer. “I canceled an appointment to hear psychobabble?”

I addressed Gull. “First off, you need to know that I’m not a police officer, I’m your peer.”

Franco Gull’s left eye twitched, and he glanced at Wimmer. She said, “What’s going on?”

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware’s a clinical psychologist. He consults to the department.”

Gull glared at me. “You never thought to mention that.”

“No reason to,” I said. “There is now.”

Wimmer folded her arms across her chest. “Well, this is different.”

“Any problem with that?” said Milo.

She held up a finger. “No one talk, I’m thinking.”

“Maybe it’ll be more pleasant for your client,” said Milo. “No rubber hose, a bit of collegiality.”

“That remains to be seen.” To me: “What’s your angle- first of all, what’s your name, again?”

I told her, and she made a show of writing it down. “Okay, now what’s your angle?”

“Clinical psych.” I turned to Gull. “I’ve been trying to understand how you got into this dismal situation.”

Gull looked away and I went on: “I did a little research on you, but that only put more pieces in the puzzle.” I edged even closer. Gull tried to wheel backwards, but the casters caught in the carpet.

“Franco- may I call you Franco? Franco, the gap between the person I learned about and what’s happening to you now is rather wide.”

Gull licked his lips.

Myrna Wimmer laughed. “Oh boy, Psych 101.”

I turned to her. “Is that okay with you?”

The question surprised her. “You’re asking my opinion?”

“What I mean,” I said, “is that if I’m taking the wrong approach- if you’ve got a better approach to communicating with Dr. Gull, please let me know.” Speaking softly, so that she had to cant her head to hear.

She said, “I- just get on with it. I’ve got another appointment in forty-five minutes.”

I turned back to Gull: “You graduated summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa from the U. of Kansas in Lawrence. You managed that while playing four years of varsity baseball. Not just run-of-the-mill baseball. In your senior year, you came close to breaking the university’s RBI record. I find that more than impressive, Franco. Talk about your well-rounded scholar. Kind of a Grecian ideal, no? You’d know about that, you switched from classics to psychology in your sophomore year.”