“All those cars,” said Milo.
“I know, I know, it probably seems eccentric, but I need to have reliable transportation . . . Jerry’s son? He was young, right? Just a kid.”
“He was twenty.”
Koppel’s face had turned an unhealthy color—bologna left too long in the fridge. “You can’t tell me anything?”
“The truth is, we don’t know much ourselves.”
“Quick’s son . . . the girl you showed me—Flora—was she a patient of Mary’s, as well?”
“The girl we showed you hasn’t been identified yet, so I don’t know if she was one of Dr. Koppel’s patients. The files are confidential, we can’t get in there.”
“All those questions you asked me,” said Koppel, “about the halfway houses. Are you saying you suspect one of my—one of those tenants had something to do with something really horrible? If you do, please tell me. I really need to know if you do.”
“Do you think that’s a possibility, sir?”
“How would I have a clue?” Koppel bellowed. One of his hands moved spasmodically, knocked against the popcorn bowl, sent it flying.
Yellow rain. When it settled, Koppel was covered with kernels and husks and dust.
He stared at us, breathing heavily. Milo went into the kitchen and unrolled a paper towel from a wooden spool. He came back and began brushing Koppel off. Koppel snatched the paper away and flailed at himself. When he finally stopped, yellow grit clung to his sweatshirt and his pajamas.
He sat there, staring at us, still panting.
Milo said, “What else can you tell us about Jerome Quick?”
Koppel didn’t answer.
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry. For losing my temper. But you’re freaking me out. First Mary, now Jerry Quick’s son. That girl.”
Milo repeated his question.
“He didn’t pay his rent on time, that’s it. His excuse was the up-and-down nature of his business. He trades metals, makes deals on scrap. Once in a while he has a windfall that carries him for a while; other times, he loses money. To me it sounded more like gambling than business. Had I known, I never would have rented to him.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He came to me through a leasing agent. In the past they’d been reliable,” said Koppel. “It’s not as if his rent is prohibitive. I keep all my rents reasonable, want the turnover low.”
He looked down and picked stray bits of popcorn from his pajamas. Dropped the first few into the bowl. Ate the rest.
“His son. Poor Jerry. Guess I’ll need to cut him some slack.” Suddenly, he stood with surprising grace, brushed himself off some more, sat back down.
“What kind of emotional problems did Jerry Quick describe?”
“He didn’t get specific. At first I wasn’t sure I even believed him. He brought it up when we were having one of our rent discussions. Second month’s rent, and he’s already twenty days late. I dropped by to talk about it, and he gave me a sob story about how he’d been cheated out of a deal, lost big, and now on top of it his kid was having psychological problems.”
“Which he didn’t specify.”
“I wasn’t interested. Figured he was just trying to make me feel sorry for him. The way the referral came about is I called his bluff, said, ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you get him some help?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, I need to do that.’ And I said, ‘My ex-wife’s a psychologist, and her office is close to your house. You want her number?’ He said sure, and I gave it to him. Like I said, I thought it was a dodge. So he actually followed through.”
Milo nodded. “How’s he been with the rent since then?”
“Chronically late.”
“Dr. Koppel never told you about the referral?”
“She’d never do that,” said Koppel. “Confidentiality, she was big on that. The whole time we were married she never talked about patients. That’s another thing I admired about her. Her ethics.”
“Mr. Koppel,” said Milo, “where were you the night your ex-wife was murdered?”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, sir.”
“Where was I? I was here.”
“Alone?”
“Don’t rub it in,” said Koppel. “That night . . . let’s see, that night I think I ran into Mrs. Cohen, the art teacher—in the front unit. Both of us were taking out the garbage. Are you going to ask her? If you do, could you please not mention that I’m her landlord?”