“Albin Larsen doesn’t,” I said.
“He’s more of a professor.”
“Apparently he’s some sort of human rights advocate. Maybe they brought him into the group for respectability. When we interviewed him and Gull, Gull was sweating and Larsen seemed to be holding his tongue. As if he found Gull a bit . . . distasteful.”
“It doesn’t sound as if Mary Lou and Gull were very discreet about their affair,” she said. “So maybe Larsen knew.” She shook her head. “Leaving his car parked in front of her house. I’m enough of a shrink to think accidents are pretty rare. My sense is they both wanted Gull’s wife to find out. Pretty cruel.”
I said, “Maybe Koppel saw herself as an alpha female.”
“A true alpha wouldn’t need to steal someone else’s man,” she said. She glanced at the dash clock. “I’ve got five minutes.”
“Shucks.”
“So what happens to the practice now that Mary Lou’s gone?”
“Gull and Larsen say they’ll take any patients who want to continue with them and refer the rest out.”
“If even a small percentage of her patients transfer, that could be quite an income boost.”
I stared at her. “You see a profit motive, here?”
“I agree with you, there’s dominance and anger at play and probably some sexual overtones. But profit would a nice side benefit. And if Gull’s your murderer, it would fit. What would be more intoxicating to a psychopath than eliminating someone he once possessed sexually and looting her business? It’s basic warfare.”
Coins of color spotted her ivory cheeks. Robin had always been repelled by these kinds of discussions.
“You,” I said, “are an interesting girl.”
She said, “Interesting but weird, huh? You drop by for some romance, and I’m analyzing at warp speed.”
Before I could answer, she kissed me full on the lips, sat back suddenly.
“On the other hand,” she said, “analyzing is what they sent us to school for. Gotta go. Call me soon.”
*
Dr. Leonard Singh was tall and slightly stooped, with nutmeg skin and clear, amber eyes. He wore an exquisite Italian suit—navy blue overlaid with a faint red windowpane check—a yellow spread-collar shirt, a glistening red tie with matching pocket foulard, and a jet-black turban. His beard was full and gray, his mustache Kiplingesque.
He was surprised to see me in his waiting room, even more surprised when I told him why I was there. But no guardedness; he invited me into the cramped, green space that served as his hospital office. Three spotless white coats hung from a wooden rack. A glass jar of peppermint sticks was wedged between two stacks of medical charts. His medical degree was from Yale, his accent by way of Texas.
“Dr. Gull,” he said. “No, I don’t really know him.”
“You referred Gavin Quick to him.”
Singh smiled and crossed his legs. “Here’s the way that happened. The boy came to me through the ER. I was one of two neurologists on call, just about to go off service, but someone I’ve worked with asked me to do the consult.”
Jerome Quick had given me a name. The family doctor, a golfing buddy . . .
“Dr. Silver,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Singh. “So I saw the boy, agreed to follow him, did what I could. Given the situation.”
“Closed-head injury, nothing obvious on the CAT scan.”
Singh nodded and reached for the candy jar. “Care for some late-afternoon sucrose?”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself, they’re good.” He pulled out a peppermint stick, bit off a section, crunched, chewed slowly. “Cases like that, you’re almost hoping for something blatant on the CAT. You’re don’t actually want to see tissue damage, because those situations are usually more severe. It’s just you want to know what the insult to the brain is, want to have something to tell the family.”
“Gavin’s situation was ambiguous,” I said.
“The problem with a case like Gavin’s is you just know he’s going to have problems, but you can’t tell the family exactly what’s going to happen or if it’s going to be permanent. When I found out he’d been murdered, I thought, ‘Oh my, there’s a tragedy.’ I called and left a message with his folks, but no one’s returned it.”