JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THERAPY

Gull patted his own midriff. “In my opinion, that’s really why she left him. He wouldn’t assert himself with her.”

“So she used him.”

“She said, ‘Sonny wants to be controlled, I’m doing him a favor by pulling his strings.’ ”

“But she never mentioned Sonny being involved in Sentries?”

“All she mentioned was his owning the buildings.”

“What about Albin Larsen?” I said. “He and Mary ever develop anything physical?”

Gull looked offended. “I’m certain they didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Albin’s not Mary’s type.”

“Also not dominant?”

“As far as I can tell, Albin’s asexual.”

Milo said, “Got a monk thing going on?”

“In all the time I’ve known Albin, he’s never expressed any interest in sex or sexual matters. And we’ve worked together for years.”

“Too busy doing good works,” I said.

“People channel their drives in various ways,” said Gull. “I don’t judge. I always have seen Albin as someone who might’ve been comfortable in a monastic setting. He lives very simply.”

“Admirable,” said Milo.

Gull said, “About all those names. Are you saying someone actually claims I treated those men and billed Medi-Cal?”

“The state of California claims.”

“Ridiculous. It never happened.”

“The paperwork says it did, Doctor.”

“Then someone screwed up, or someone’s lying. Check my bank accounts—check the money trail or whatever you call it. You won’t find any three hundred thousand unaccounted for.”

“There are plenty of ways to hide money, Doctor.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know what they are.”

“The paperwork, Doctor—”

“Someone’s lying!” Gull shouted.

Milo smiled. “Now who could that be?”

Gull was silent.

I said, “Any theories?”

Myrna Wimmer said, “Be careful here, Franco.”

Gull inhaled deeply and let his breath out very slowly. “You’re saying Mary and Albin falsified bills in my name and pocketed the money.”

Milo said, “You’re saying it, Doctor.”

Gull swiped at his glassy brow. “I guess I am. And now Mary’s dead.”

“So she is, Doctor.”

Gull sweated profusely and didn’t bother to mop it up. “You can’t be serious.” His voice had changed. Higher register, strained.

I said, “During the same period you ostensibly billed for 340,000 dollars’ worth of felon therapy, Mary billed for 380, and Albin Larsen billed 440.”

Gull said, “Albin?”

I said, “That’s the question. Now let’s work on the answer.”

CHAPTER

41

As we rode the elevator from Wimmer’s high-rise to the ground floor, Milo said, “You squeezed him dry, congrats.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Not pleased?”

“It needed to be done.”

As we pulled out into traffic, he said, “When I hunt and actually bag something, I get hungry. I’m thinking red meat.”

“Okay.”

“Not up for it?”

“Red meat’s fine.”

“Had a big breakfast?”

“Had nothing.”

“You find playing Grand Inquisitor that repugnant?”

“A little outside my training.”

“Hey,” he said. “Psychological warfare. In Vietnam, the Army woulda had you writing pamphlets.”

“Where’s the red meat?” I said.

“Okay, change the subject . . . Wilshire, near the beach, there’s a new place that dry-ages, but if you find the notion of feasting after breaking down another human being repugnant, I understand. Even though said human being is a self-serving slimeball.”

“Now that you put it that way.”

“Gull may not have been in on the scam or the killings directly, but I don’t buy the complete-innocent act. I think the deal the ADA authorized was a gift.”

Two-year suspension of Gull’s psychology license in return for full cooperation in all criminal and civil matters pertaining to . . .

“More than fair,” I said. “Let’s eat.”

*

The steak house had microbrews on tap and an adjacent dry-aging room whose picture window faced the boulevard. A family of tourists stopped to admire sides of beef hanging from gleaming hooks, and Milo took the time to join them. Two little kids pointed and giggled, and the father said, “Cool.” The mother opined: “I think it’s brutal.”

Inside, seated at a back booth, Milo said, “Controlled decay kicks up the taste. Kind of like real life.”

I said, “Real life is hard to control.”

He clapped my shoulder. “All the more reason to gorge.”

Over two mountains of Steak Delmonico, baked potatoes the size of running shoes, and a bottle of red wine, we reviewed what we’d learned from Gull.

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 *