JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THERAPY

Gull said, “You do the job.”

“You did more than the job, Franco. Lots more. And your research—’Reactions of Latency-aged Girls from Divorced Homes to a Personal Space Challenge.’ Good stuff, you got it published in Clinical and Consulting Psych, no mean feat for a student. After you graduated, you didn’t pursue it. Pity. Your findings were provocative.”

Gull said, “Ancient history.” He crossed his legs, forced a smile at Wimmer. “Is there a point to this, Myrna?”

Wimmer touched her platinum watch and shrugged.

I said, “Your postdoc supervisor, Dr. Ryan, also remembers you as bright and industrious. That entire year, you never came close to any ethical breach. The odd thing is that she remembers you as exceptionally respectful of women.”

Gull’s lips clamped shut.

I kept silent.

He said, “I still am.”

I said, “The year you graduated, academic jobs were tight, and the offers you received were all in the Midwest. Is that why you opted for private practice? How can you keep ’em down on the farm once they’ve seen Beverly Hills?”

Gull said, “Ever been to Kansas?” He shifted the hankie to his other hand. “I graduated with serious debt. No one gave me a damn thing for free.”

“No need to apologize for going into practice,” I said. “Who says academics accomplish that much for society?”

“True.”

“Take Albin Larsen, for example. Academic appointments on two continents, travels all over the world, touting ideals. But we both know where most of his money comes from.”

Gull said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I said, “Okay, then, back to this thing with you and women. The promiscuity—the compulsive skirt-chasing. When exactly did it start, Franco? Were you able to fool Dr. Ryan, or was it something that you latched onto when you realized how much power you had as a therapist?”

Gull reddened. “Screw you,” he said, wrapping big fingers around the hankie. “Myrna, let’s end this.”

“Absolutely,” said Wimmer. “Gentlemen, we’re through.”

“No prob,” said Milo, genially.

“That was beyond rude,” said Gull, getting to his feet.

“It certainly was,” said Wimmer.

We remained seated.

She said, “Gentlemen, I’ve got a busy calendar.”

“I understand, ma’am,” said Milo. He stood, removed some folded white papers from his pocket. “I’ll be as quick as possible enforcing this arrest warrant on Dr. Gull.”

Gull had been fooling with the neck of his sweater. His hand dropped as if scalded, and his head snapped back. “What!”

Milo stepped closer to him. “Doctor, this is an arrest war—”

Wimmer said, “What’s the charge, Lieutenant?”

“Char-ges,” said Milo. “Multiple counts of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud. A few other things. Your client should be—”

Gull’s eyes were wild. “What the hell are you talking—”

Wimmer said, “Let me handle this, Franco.” To Milo: “Give me that.”

Milo handed her the warrant. He’d trolled the D.A.’s Office for an Assistant D.A. willing to issue the paper. Gull’s fingerprints all over Mary Lou Koppel’s house had helped, as had a call from State Fraud Investigator Dwight Zevonsky. The finishing touch had been a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenlivet pressed into the palm of a sixty-year-old hardnose ADA, Eben Marovitch, two months from retirement, whose wife had left him for a psychiatrist.

“Proud of me?” Milo had asked, as we ascended the elevator to Wimmer’s office. “Applied psychology and all that.”

*

As Wimmer read the particulars of the warrant, Franco Gull retreated from Milo, keeping his back to the glass. Behind him were gorgeous blue sky and the coppery contours of a sunlit downtown. He stood as still as a piece of sculpture. Life-size sculpture. California Terror with Panoramic View.

Wimmer finished reading, returned to the first page, reviewed. Her mouth tightened.

“What, what?” said Franco Gull.

No answer.

“Myrna—”

“Shh, let me finish.”

“Finish what? It’s ridiculous, it’s—”

Wimmer silenced him with an air-chop, completed her perusal, refolded the warrant. “It’s patently ridiculous, Franco, but apparently valid.”

“What does that mean, Myrna? What the fuck does that mean?” The handkerchief was wadded tightly in his hand, and his knuckles were ivory knobs. Sweat trickled from his hairline, but he made no attempt to swab. “Myrna?”

Milo took out his cuffs. The metallic sound made Gull jump.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *