“That’s the only time you had therapy,” said Milo.
“Yes, Lieutenant. It took a while—a long while—to stop feeling guilty about Bradley’s dying and my surviving, but I got there. Life’s darned good, nowadays.”
Milo reached into his pocket and brought out the death shot of the blonde. “Ever see this girl?”
Conniff studied the picture. “Nope. But I know the look. Pure dead. That’s the look that flavored my childhood. Who is she?”
“Someone who died alongside Gavin Quick.”
“Sad,” said Conniff. “There are always sad things in this world. The key is to push past all that and lead a spiritual life.”
*
Back in the car, Milo ran Conniff’s name through the data banks. Two parking tickets.
“No con, but he’s a strange one, no?”
“Tightly wound,” I said.
“The type to clean up carefully.”
“He says he was with Beth.”
“I’ll ask Beth,” he said.
“Her say-so will be enough?”
“Like he said, she operates at a high level.”
*
A call from the car produced the same story from Beth Gallegos.
Steak stir-fry.
We returned to the station where Milo found a faxed artist’s rendering of the dead girl and a message to call Community Relations.
“Look at this,” he said. “Michelangelo’s rolling in his crypt.”
The drawing was sketchy, lacking in character, useless. He crumpled and tossed it, phoned CR downtown, listened, hung up, grinding his teeth.
“This city, everything’s a goddamn audition. They talked to the papers, and the papers aren’t interested. Maybe it’s even true.”
“I can call Ned Biondi. He retired from the Times a few years ago, but he’d know who to talk to.”
“Now that the PR idiots have given me an official ‘no,’ I can’t just go off and hot-dog. But maybe in a few days, if we still can’t ID her.” He peered at the Timex, muttered, “How’s your time and your intestinal fortitude?”
“A visit to the Quicks?” I said. “Sure.”
“You do tarot readings too?”
CHAPTER
19
“That girl,” said Sheila Quick. “She was hired to help Gavin, so instead she goes and gets him into trouble.”
Her living room looked the same, but drawn drapes turned it funereal, and the space had gone stale. The cigarette box from which Jerome Quick had lifted his smokes was empty. Sheila Quick wore a black cotton robe with a zipper up the front. Her ash hair was turbaned by a black silk scarf. Her face was tight and white and old, and she wore pink mules. Above the slippers, her feet were knobby and blue-veined.
She said, “Unbelievable.”
Milo said, “What is, ma’am?”
“What she did to him.”
“You see Gavin’s arrest as Beth Gallegos’s fault.”
“Of course I do! Do you know how Gav met her? She was a therapist at Saint John’s, was supposed to be helping Gav get back his dexterity. She knew what he’d been through! She should’ve been more understanding!”
Milo and I said nothing.
“Listen,” said Sheila Quick, “if she was so concerned about her safety, why’d she take so long to complain? And then what does she do? Goes straight for the police, dials 911 like it’s some big-deal emergency when all Gav did was knock on her door—I know she said he pounded but no one else heard any pounding and Gav told me he just knocked and I believe my son!”
“You don’t think she should’ve called 911.”
“I think if she was so convinced there was a problem, she had ample opportunity to come to us. Why didn’t she? All she had to do was call and let us know she thought Gavin was a little . . . eager. We’d have talked to him. Why’d she let this alleged problem linger if it was so bad? You’re professionals. Does that make sense to you?”
Milo said, “She never got in touch with you beforehand.”
“Never, not once. See what I mean?”
Milo nodded.
“And then all of a sudden Gav’s arrested and we have to hire a lawyer and go through all that rigamarole.” Her smile was sickly. “Of course, in the end they dismissed it. Obviously, it was nothing.”
Gavin had pled to a misdemeanor and been sentenced to therapy.