Therapy

“That’s really absurd, sir. Gavin tormented Beth, but I’d never gloat about him or anyone else dying. I’ve seen way too much dying ever to gloat.”

“The Army?” said Milo.

“Growing up, sir. My brother was born with lung disease and passed away when he was nine. This was back in Des Moines, Iowa. Most of those nine years were taken up by Bradley going in and out of the hospital. I was three years older and ended up spending a lot of time at hospitals. I saw someone die once, the actual process. A man, not that old, brought into the emergency room for some kind of seizure. The doctors thought he’d stabilized and sent him up to the ward, for observation before discharge. The orderlies took him on a gurney in one of those big patient elevators, and my parents and I just happened to be riding in the same elevator at the same time because we’d gone down to X-ray with Bradley. The man on the gurney was joking, being friendly, then he just stopped talking, gave this sudden stare off into nowhere, then his head flopped to the side and the color just drained from his face. The orderlies began pounding his chest. My mother slapped her hand over my eyes so I couldn’t see, and my father started talking nonstop, keeping up a patter, so I couldn’t hear. Baseball, he talked about baseball. By the time we got off the elevator, everyone was quiet.”

Co

“As opposed to?”

“People who are.”

“You’re protection-oriented,” said Milo.

Co

Milo said, “Where were you last Monday night?”

“Not killing Gavin Quick.” Co

“In view of the topic, you’re being kind of lighthearted, sir.”

“How should I be? Mournful? That would be dishonest.” Co

“Her own way,” said Milo.

“Avoiding him,” said Co

“Man-to-man.”

Co

“Where were you Monday?”

“With Beth. We stayed in. Even if you don’t trust me, you should trust Beth. She’s all about forgiveness, operates at a high level, spiritually.”

“What’d you have for di

“Who remembers… let’s see, Monday, so it was probably leftovers. Sunday we barbecued steaks and had a lot of leftovers… yeah, definitely, leftover steak. I cut it up and sautéed it with peppers and onions, did a stir-fry. Beth cooked up some rice. Yeah, for sure. We stayed in.”

“Ever been in psychotherapy, Mr. Co

“Why is that your business?”

“Covering bases,” said Milo.

“Well, I find the question kind of intrusive.”

“Sorry, sir, but-”

“I’ll answer it anyway,” said Co

“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?”

Co

“Someone who died alongside Gavin Quick.”

“Sad,” said Co

Back in the car, Milo ran Co

“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.”