JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THERAPY

I nodded.

Milo said, “Maybe this one didn’t.”

CHAPTER

10

Canfield School occupied a block of Airdrome Avenue, three blocks south of Pico and east of Doheny. Through the chain-link fence, kids played against a backdrop of mural. Peace, love, harmony. Little kids, their faces shone with possibility.

The neighborhood was Baja Beverly Hills, a five-minute ride from Mary Lou Koppel’s office on Olympic. If Flora Newsome had driven to therapy from her apartment in Palms, the trip would have stretched longer, but not much. Twenty minutes in bad traffic.

The vice principal was a black woman named Lavinia Robson with an Ed.D. and a pleasant demeanor.

She checked our credentials, asked the right questions, got on her intercom and summoned Brian Van Dyne.

“Coffee?” she said.

“No, thanks.”

“Flora was a sweetie, we were all saddened. Is there new evidence?”

“Sorry, no, Dr. Robson. Sometimes it helps to take a fresh look.”

“That’s true in education, as well—ah, here’s Brian.

*

Flora Newsome’s former boyfriend was a tall, narrow-shouldered man in his midthirties with thinning blond hair and a wispy mustache the color of gruel. His complexion implied an aversion to sunshine. He wore a green shirt, khakis, a brown wool necktie, and rubber-soled walking shoes. Thick-lensed eyeglasses gave his eyes a stunned glaze. Add to that his genuine shock at our presence, and he looked like a man who’d landed on a foreign planet.

“Flora?” he said. “After all this time?” His voice was whispery, anemic.

Lavinia Robson’s phone rang. “Brian, Pat’s out for the day, why don’t you take these gentlemen to her office?”

*

The absent Patricia Rohatyn was the school’s special ed counselor. Her office was cramped, linoleum-floored, filled with books and games. The air-conditioning vent rattled. The room smelled of rubber eraser.

Two child-sized chairs faced a cluttered desk. Brian Van Dyne said, “You guys sit,” and went to fetch a third. He came back, settled opposite us in a large chair. No attempt to dominate; he slumped, trying to sink to our level.

“Your being here today is so strange,” he said. “I just got engaged yesterday.”

“Congratulations,” said Milo.

“For a long time after Flora, I didn’t feel like dating. Finally, I agreed to let my sister set me up on a blind date.” His smile was wistful. “Karen—my fiancée—doesn’t know the details of what happened to Flora. Just that she died.”

“No need for her to know.”

“Exactly,” said Van Dyne. “I still have trouble with it. Remembering. I was the one who found her . . . what brings you here? Do you finally have a suspect?”

Milo crossed his legs, taking pains not to kick over a stack of box games. “We’re reviewing the case, sir. Is there anything that’s occurred to you since the first detectives questioned you?”

“Reviewing,” said Van Dyne, deflated. “No, nothing.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why has the case been reopened?”

“It never closed, sir.”

“Oh,” said Van Dyne. “Sure, of course.” His knees bumped together.

The small chair was cramping my back, and I stretched. It had to be agony for Milo, but he appeared fine.

He said, “One thing that came up in our review was that Ms. Newsome was seeing a psychotherapist. Detective Ogden told me that was a surprise to you.”

“It was a total surprise. Flora never told me. Which was strange because I’d been in therapy and told her.” Van Dyne fooled with his glasses. “I thought we had an open relationship.”

“You were in therapy, too,” said Milo.

Van Dyne smiled. “Nothing crazy, Lieutenant. I was married for three years, got divorced six months before I met Flora. My wife left me for some guy, and I was having a rough time. To be honest, I was pretty depressed. I saw a psychologist, and he counseled me and referred me to a psychiatrist for some short-term antidepressants. After three months, I felt a lot better and stopped the pills. Another two months of therapy, and I was ready to be on my own. That’s what enabled me to be open to a relationship with Flora. So I’d be the last person to look down on therapy. I guess Flora felt differently.”

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 *