Milo smiled.
Gull said, “Patty’s going through a rough patch. She’ll be fine.”
“She didn’t sound fine.”
Gull smoothed back his hair. “Why don’t you come in? I’m free for the next hour.”
“Or at least forty-five minutes of it,” said Milo, under his breath.
Gull didn’t hear. He’d turned and was striding toward the trio of inner offices. Albin Larsen’s and Mary Lou Koppel’s doors were closed.
Gull’s was open. He stopped before entering.
“My wife—has got problems.”
“Bet she does,” said Milo. “Maybe she could use some therapy.”
CHAPTER
25
Gull’s office was two-thirds the size of Mary Lou Koppel’s and set up surprisingly simply. No bird’s-eye maple paneling, just beige paint on the walls. Thin, beige carpeting blurred the room’s boundaries. Off-white leather couches and armchairs were loosely arranged. Koppel had displayed crystal eggs and Indian pottery. Franco Gull’s sole nod to decoration were cheaply framed photographic prints of animals and their young.
I found myself sniffing for the aroma of sex, smelled only a syrupy mélange of perfumes.
Gull sprawled on a sofa and invited us to sit. Before our butts hit the leather, he said, “The thing you need to know about Patty is that she’s dealing with some very serious issues.”
“Marital infidelity?” said Milo.
Gull’s lips produced a pained semicolon. “Her problems go way beyond that. Her father was extremely abusive.”
“Ah,” said Milo. “Ah” was a running joke between us. The old therapist’s dodge. He turned his head so Gull couldn’t see him wink. “All this talk about Mrs. Gull. Guess wives don’t get confidentiality.”
Gull’s eyes sparked. A fleck of moisture appeared from under the shade of a wavy, salt-and-pepper forelock.
I’d been right: Losing the power rule played havoc with his adrenals.
“I’m telling you about Patty because you need to put her in context.”
“Meaning I shouldn’t believe anything she tells me.”
“That depends on what she told you.”
“For one thing,” said Milo, “she thinks you didn’t kill Dr. Koppel.”
Gull had been primed to protest. He regrouped, shifted position. “There you go, even someone who’s not feeling kindly toward me knows I’d never do anything like that. I don’t even own a—”
“You hate guns,” said Milo. “She told us that, too.”
“Guns are an abomination.”
“Mrs. Gull feels she’s provided you with an alibi for the night Dr. Koppel was killed.”
“There you go,” Gull repeated, sitting a bit straighter.
“Yeah, I’m going strong,” said Milo. “The thing is, Doctor, what your wife considers an alibi, we don’t.”
“What? Oh, come on, you’ve got to be kidding.” Sweat beads popped at Gull’s hairline. “Why would I need an alibi?”
“Don’t you want to know what Mrs. Gull told us?”
“Not really.” Theatrical sigh, then: “Fine, tell me.”
“Mrs. Gull drove by Dr. Koppel’s house around 2 A.M., searching for your car. She didn’t see it—”
“She did that?” said Gull. “How . . . sad. As I told you, Patty’s got serious trust issues.”
“You blame her?” said Milo.
“Why did you speak to Patty in the first place? Why would you even consider something so far-fetched—”
“Let’s get back to the alibi, Doctor. Your car not being parked on McConnell. That really doesn’t mean much. You could’ve parked somewhere else in the neighborhood. Or taken a cab from the hotel you stayed at—which was . . . ?”
Gull didn’t answer.
“Dr. Gull?”
“This is my personal life, Detective.”
“Not any longer, sir.”
“Why?” said Gull. “Why are you doing this?”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Which hotel, sir? We’ll find out anyway.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. The Crowne Plaza.”
“Pico and Beverly Drive.”
Gull nodded.
“You stay there often?”
“Why would I?”
“It’s close to your office, for when you and the missus have a spat.”
“We don’t have spats that often.”
Milo’s pencil tapped the pad. “Same question, Doctor.”
“I’ve lost track of your questions.”
“Do you stay there often?”
“Occasionally.”
“When your wife throws you out.”
Gull flushed. His hands tightened. His fists were enormous. “My marital issues are of no concern to—”
“What I’m getting at,” said Milo, “is do they know you at the Crowne Plaza?”
“I don’t know . . . those places.”