“Another form of obsessive behavior,” I said. “Sure, it could be consistent with a prefrontal injury. The other thing to consider is that the vindictive boyfriend wasn’t the blonde’s. He’s Beth Gallegos’s beau. What if Gavin broke the terms of his probation and resumed stalking?”
“So the guy stalks Gavin in return, offs him and the blonde? And Koppel?”
“No accounting for passion,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s visit the object of Gavin’s passion.”
*
Phone work revealed that Beth Gallegos had switched jobs again, from the Long Beach clinic to a private educational therapy firm in Westwood.
“Westwood’s close to Beverly Hills,” I said, as we drove there. “If Gavin was still stalking her, I doubt she’d have chanced it.”
“Let’s find out.”
*
Beth Gallegos was gorgeous. That did nothing to explain Gavin’s obsession—stalking is psychopathology, and plain people are victimized as often as lookers—it was simply a fact.
Petite and black-haired and dusky-skinned, she wore a pale blue uniform cut for blandness that couldn’t conceal her tiny waist, flaring hips, and bountiful breasts. Her eyes were amber, her lashes long and curling. Twenty-seven years old, she wore no makeup and looked eighteen. A clean, fresh eighteen. Her nails were unpolished and clipped short. The black hair, sleek and wavy, was tied back in a ponytail and fastened by a rubber band.
Aiming for low-key. Her perfect-oval face and cameo features and lush body rendered the effort useless.
She was uncomfortable talking to us in the lobby of the educational service, and we took the elevator down to the ground-floor coffee shop. A young waitress approached us with a smile, but even though Milo smiled back, something in his greeting wiped the joy from her face.
Beth Gallegos ordered tea, and Milo and I had Cokes. When the order came, he pressed a bill into the waitress’s palm. She left quickly and never reappeared.
Gallegos had been edgy since we’d shown up, and Milo tried to put her at ease with chitchat about her job. The outfit she worked for was called Comprehensive Rehab and specialized in stroke victims. Her job was to help patients regain fine motor skills. She found the challenge satisfying.
Milo said, “Sounds like it would be.”
Gallegos fumbled with her teacup and avoided our eyes.
“Let’s talk about Gavin Quick,” said Milo. “Have you heard what happened to him?”
“Yes. I read it in the paper. It was horrible. I cried.” She had a slightly nasal, little-girl voice and narrow hands with smooth fingers. A diamond chip ring banded the third finger of her left hand.
More than a boyfriend.
“You cried,” said Milo.
“I did. I felt terrible. Despite what Gavin put me through. Because I knew what he’d been through. Knew it was the CHI making him do it.”
Milo blinked.
“Closed head injury,” I said.
Beth Gallegos nodded and spooned sugar into her tea but didn’t drink. “CHIs are weird that way. Sometimes nothing shows up on scans, but people change drastically. I’m sure Gavin wouldn’t have done those things if he hadn’t been injured.”
“You’ve had other brain-damaged stalkers?” said Milo.
Gallegos’s hand flew to her mouth. “No, God forbid I should ever go through that more than once. I’m just saying the brain controls everything, and when it’s compromised, you get problems. That’s why I did everything I could to avoid making it a criminal situation for Gavin.” Her eyes got wet.
“The way I see it, ma’am, he left you no choice.”
“That’s what everyone told me.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“My family.”
“Your family local?”
“No,” she said. “My parents live in Germany. My father’s a captain in the Army. At first, I didn’t tell them what was going on because I knew how my dad would react.”
“How’s that?”
“For sure he’d have gotten himself a leave, flown right over, and had a stern talk with Gavin. Once he did find out, I had a hard time convincing him not to do exactly that. That’s part of what led me to file charges. I had to assure Dad I was taking care of myself. But I had to do it, no matter what. It was just getting too intense, and Gavin obviously needed help.”