“You’ve seen that, personally?”
“It’s usually more subtle, but you’d be amazed at what goes on at faculty parties when the scholarly set thinks no one’s listening.”
“Wonder if Issa Qumdis spouts off that way at Harvard. Don’t colleges have hate speech regulations?”
“The rules are enforced selectively.”
“Whose ox is being gored . . . yeah, it’s a sweet world. Enough about that, time to focus on the evil Dr. Larsen. Learn anything about any local scam?”
“Not yet. I asked Olivia to look into it. Gave her the Sentries program as a lead because I came across it surfing.”
“Sentries for Justice . . . Olivia’s as good as it gets . . . By the way, Franco Gull finally broke routine and went to a health club. Pumped iron, ignored the ladies, went home. So maybe he knows about the scam and what the stakes are. The guy tends to get emotional. Maybe he can be wedged and cracked open. Make sense?”
“You’d be showing your hand.”
“Yeah, but if I don’t make any other progress soon, what choice do I have?” He rubbed his face. “Okay, I’ll wait till you hear from Olivia, but eventually I’m gonna have to make a decision—” His cell phone beeped, he slapped it against his ear. “Sturgis . . . when? Really. Okay, give me the number.”
His pad and pen were still out and he scrawled hastily, clicked the phone shut with a strange smile on his face. “Well, well, well.”
“Who was that?”
“Detective Binchy. Obedient lad that he is, he is at his desk wrapping up his paperwork before he sets out for another look-see on Gull. A call just came in for me, and he took it. Sonny Koppel, wanting to talk. He’s dining. Coffee shop on Pico. I’m invited to drop by.”
“That include me?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’m including you.”
CHAPTER
35
The coffee shop was called Gene’s, and it was one of the few bright spots on a dark, quiet block. South side of Pico, just a few yards from the traffic on La Cienega. A short stroll from the eastern border of Milo’s district.
It was ten-forty when we got there, and the place was fully lit. Long, skinny room with grubby vinyl floors, a Formica counter, and seven matching tables bleached by high wattage. A sign in front said OPEN TO MIDNIGHT. Inside, two young guys in oversized eyeglasses whispered conspiratorially over coffee, pie, and the bound screenplay placed equidistant between them. An old woman gummed an egg salad sandwich. Behind her, a muscular man in gray work clothes read old news in the morning paper and worked on a hamburger.
Shrouded in a limp, gray raincoat, Sonny Koppel sat at the counter forking bacon and eggs into his mouth. The counterman ignored Koppel, as he scrubbed a deep fryer. When we approached, he turned briefly then returned to his chore.
Koppel wiped his mouth, got off his stool, and carried his plate, his napkin, and his utensils to a front table. Near the door but away from the other diners. Under his raincoat, he wore mocha brown sweats with white piping. Loosely laced tennis shoes covered smallish, wide feet. He’d shaved recently, had nicked himself several times.
His coffee cup remained behind, and Milo brought it over to the table. The counterman turned, and said, “Anything for you guys?”
“No, thanks.”
Koppel was still on his feet when Milo brought the coffee cup over.
“Thanks,” he said. “One sec.” Returning to the counter, he snagged ketchup and Tabasco sauce. Finally, he pulled out a chair, sat, wiped his lips. Bounced a fork tine against the rim of his plate and smiled at his plate. “Breakfast food. I like it for dinner.”
“To each his own,” said Milo. “What can we do for you?”
“That photograph—of that girl. Do you still have it with you?”
Milo reached into his jacket pocket, produced the death shot, and handed it to Koppel.
Koppel studied it and nodded. “When you first showed it to me, there was something about it. But I couldn’t place it, really had nothing I could tell you, so I said I’d never seen her. I really wasn’t sure I had.” He licked his lips. “But it stuck in my mind.”