JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THERAPY

“Anything about obsessive behavior?”

“No, but they hadn’t seen him for a while. They were pretty shook-up about his being murdered. Neither had any clue who’d want to hurt him, and they didn’t know about any blonde he’d dated other than Kayla. Who one of them called ‘a spoiled little witch.’ ”

“The anonymous blonde,” I said.

“I called the TV stations,” he said, “asked if they’d run the death shot. They said no, too scary, but if I got an artist’s rendition that toned it down, they might. If airtime permitted. I sent a copy of the photo to one of our sketchers, we’ll see. Maybe the papers would run the actual photo. Grant the poor kid her fifteen seconds of fame.”

“Too scary,” I said. “Are they watching the same tube I am?”

He laughed. “The media talk about public service, but they’re out to sell commercial time. Alex, it was like pitching a story to some showbiz asshole. What’s in it for memememe—okay, here we are, why don’t you circle around to the back, see if Mary Lou’s Mercedes is there?”

*

It wasn’t, but we parked anyway and went into the building.

The door to the Pacifica-West Psychological Services suite was unlocked. This time, the waiting room wasn’t empty. A tall woman in her forties paced and wrung her hands. She wore a gray leotard set, white athletic socks, pink Nikes, had long legs, a tiny upper body, short, black, feathered hair combed forward. Her eyes were blue and sunken and pouched and too bright, her face was glossy and raw, the color of canned salmon. Skin flaked around her hairline and ears; recent skin-peel. Her expression said she was used to being mistreated but was learning to resent it. She ignored us and continued pacing.

All three call buttons were red.

Drs. Gull, Koppel, and Larsen healing souls.

Milo said, “I wonder when her session ends.”

The black-haired woman kept walking, and said, “If you’re talking about Dr. K, take a number. My appointment was supposed to start twenty minutes ago.” She crossed the office twice, picked at her scalp, stopped to investigate the magazines on a table. Selecting Modern Health, she leafed through the issue, kept it folded at her side as she paced some more. “Twenty-three minutes. She’d better have an emergency.”

Milo said, “She’s usually pretty punctual.”

The woman stopped and turned. Her face was stretched tight yet drawn. Fear scalded her eyes, as if she’d stared at an eclipse. “You’re not patients.”

“We’re not?” said Milo, keeping his voice light.

“No, no, no, no. You look like—why are you here?”

He shrugged, unbuttoned his jacket. “We’re just waiting to talk to Dr. Koppel, ma’a—”

“Well, you can’t!” the woman shouted. “I’m next! I need to see her!”

Milo glanced at me. Begging for help.

“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s your time. We’ll leave, come back later.”

“No!” she said. “I mean . . . you don’t have to, I don’t own this place, I’m not entitled to assert myself at that level.” She blinked back tears. “I just want to have my time. My own time, that’s not overly narcissistic, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“My ex-husband claims I’m an incurable narcissist.”

“Exes,” I said.

She stared at me, probing for sincerity. I must have passed because she smiled. Said, “It’s okay for you to sit down.”

We did.

*

The waiting room remained silent for another fifteen minutes. For the first five, the woman read her magazine. Then she introduced herself as Bridget. Returned her eyes to the pages, but her heart wasn’t in it. A pulse throbbed in her temple, conspicuous enough for me to see from across the room. Racing. Her hands clasped and unclasped, and her head bobbed from the magazine to the red buttons. Finally, she said, “I don’t understand!”

I said, “Let’s call her. Her service will pick up, and maybe they can tell us if she’s got an emergency.”

“Yes,” said Bridget. “Yes, that’s a good plan.”

Milo whipped out his phone, Bridget rattled off the number, and he punched it. What a team.

He said, “Dr. Koppel, please . . . Mr. Sturgis, she knows me . . . what’s that? You’re sure? ’Cause I’m right here in her waiting room, and her session light’s on . . .”