thing, though I can’t figure it out. Got any wisdom for me?”
“Left the wisdom pills in the car.”
He laughed again, in that joyless way he’s perfected. “Savagery reigns. I’ll never be lacking for work.”
*
The door to his office was open, and he was sitting at his desk, reading a file. The space is windowless, barely large enough for him, with nothing on the wall and a picture of Milo and Rick on the desk. Fishing, somewhere in Colorado. Both of them in plaid shirts, they looked like a couple of outdoorsmen. For most of the trip, Milo had suffered from altitude sickness.
His computer was on, and his screen saver was a shark chasing a diver. Each time the fish’s rapacious jaws nudged the swimmer’s fins, he got kicked in the face. A floating legend read, NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED.
I knocked on the doorjamb.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, without looking up.
“Good day to you, too. Turns out Gavin Quick’s not the first patient of Koppel’s who’s seen an untimely end.”
He looked up, stared as if we’d never met. His eyes cleared. The file was Gavin’s. He slapped it shut.
“Say what?”
I did.
*
I sat in a spare chair. Our noses were three feet apart. None of Milo’s cheap panatellas were in sight, but his clothes were ripe with stale tobacco.
He said, “Two Aprils ago.”
“Allison can’t be certain, but she thinks the victim was female. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Well, guess what? The department has finally limped into the cyberage.” He tapped his computer monitor. The shark and diver dissipated, giving way to several icons, haphazardly placed. The screen was clouded and cracked in one corner. “At least, theoretically. This little sucker tends to freeze—donated by some private high school in Brentwood, because the kids couldn’t use it anymore.” He began typing. The machine made washing-machine noises and loaded slowly. “Here we are, m’boy. Every felonious slaying under the department’s jurisdiction for the last five years listed by victim, date, division, and status. Probably no impaling, because I already searched for impaling . . . let’s see what April produces . . .”
He scrolled. “I’m counting six . . . seven females. Five closed, two open. Let’s start with Westside cases because Koppel’s practice is on the Westside. More important, I can walk a few yards and get hold of the folders.”
I scanned the screen. “Folder. Looks like only one’s West L.A.”
“Wouldn’t that be easy.”
It was.
*
Flora Elizabeth Newsome, thirty-one years old, brown and brown, five-five, 130. A third-grade teacher at Canfield Street School, found in her Palms apartment on a Sunday morning, stabbed and shot. She’d been dead for at least twelve hours.
Dr. Mary Lou Koppel had been interviewed by Detective II Alphonse McKinley and Detective II Lorraine Ogden on April 30. Dr. Koppel had nothing to offer other than the fact that she’d been treating Flora Newsome for “anxiety.”
No Solve.
I read the autopsy report. “Stabbed and shot with a .22. Wouldn’t it be interesting if the ballistics matched. And stabbing isn’t that far from impaling.”
Milo sat back in his desk chair. “I can always count on you to spark up my woefully dreary life.”
“Think of it as therapy,” I said.
Detective Alphonse McKinley had transferred to the Metro Squad at Parker Center. Detective Lorraine Ogden was down the hall, trying to make sense of the gibberish her computer was dishing out.
She was thirty-five or so, a big, square-shouldered woman with short, dark, gray-flecked hair and a determined jaw. She wore an orange-and-cream paisley blouse, brown slacks, cream-colored flats. Wedding band and half-carat diamond on one hand. High school ring on the other.
“Milo,” she said, barely glancing up. Her screen filled with rows of numbers. “This thing hates me.”
“I think you just broke into a Swiss bank.”
“Don’t think so, no swastikas. What’s
“Left the wisdom pills in the car.”
He laughed again, in that joyless way he’s perfected. “Savagery reigns. I’ll never be lacking for work.”
*
The door to his office was open, and he was sitting at his desk, reading a file. The space is windowless, barely large enough for him, with nothing on the wall and a picture of Milo and Rick on the desk. Fishing, somewhere in Colorado. Both of them in plaid shirts, they looked like a couple of outdoorsmen. For most of the trip, Milo had suffered from altitude sickness.
His computer was on, and his screen saver was a shark chasing a diver. Each time the fish’s rapacious jaws nudged the swimmer’s fins, he got kicked in the face. A floating legend read, NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED.
I knocked on the doorjamb.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, without looking up.
“Good day to you, too. Turns out Gavin Quick’s not the first patient of Koppel’s who’s seen an untimely end.”
He looked up, stared as if we’d never met. His eyes cleared. The file was Gavin’s. He slapped it shut.
“Say what?”
I did.
*
I sat in a spare chair. Our noses were three feet apart. None of Milo’s cheap panatellas were in sight, but his clothes were ripe with stale tobacco.
He said, “Two Aprils ago.”
“Allison can’t be certain, but she thinks the victim was female. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Well, guess what? The department has finally limped into the cyberage.” He tapped his computer monitor. The shark and diver dissipated, giving way to several icons, haphazardly placed. The screen was clouded and cracked in one corner. “At least, theoretically. This little sucker tends to freeze—donated by some private high school in Brentwood, because the kids couldn’t use it anymore.” He began typing. The machine made washing-machine noises and loaded slowly. “Here we are, m’boy. Every felonious slaying under the department’s jurisdiction for the last five years listed by victim, date, division, and status. Probably no impaling, because I already searched for impaling . . . let’s see what April produces . . .”
He scrolled. “I’m counting six . . . seven females. Five closed, two open. Let’s start with Westside cases because Koppel’s practice is on the Westside. More important, I can walk a few yards and get hold of the folders.”
I scanned the screen. “Folder. Looks like only one’s West L.A.”
“Wouldn’t that be easy.”
It was.
*
Flora Elizabeth Newsome, thirty-one years old, brown and brown, five-five, 130. A third-grade teacher at Canfield Street School, found in her Palms apartment on a Sunday morning, stabbed and shot. She’d been dead for at least twelve hours.
Dr. Mary Lou Koppel had been interviewed by Detective II Alphonse McKinley and Detective II Lorraine Ogden on April 30. Dr. Koppel had nothing to offer other than the fact that she’d been treating Flora Newsome for “anxiety.”
No Solve.
I read the autopsy report. “Stabbed and shot with a .22. Wouldn’t it be interesting if the ballistics matched. And stabbing isn’t that far from impaling.”
Milo sat back in his desk chair. “I can always count on you to spark up my woefully dreary life.”
“Think of it as therapy,” I said.
Detective Alphonse McKinley had transferred to the Metro Squad at Parker Center. Detective Lorraine Ogden was down the hall, trying to make sense of the gibberish her computer was dishing out.
She was thirty-five or so, a big, square-shouldered woman with short, dark, gray-flecked hair and a determined jaw. She wore an orange-and-cream paisley blouse, brown slacks, cream-colored flats. Wedding band and half-carat diamond on one hand. High school ring on the other.
“Milo,” she said, barely glancing up. Her screen filled with rows of numbers. “This thing hates me.”
“I think you just broke into a Swiss bank.”
“Don’t think so, no swastikas. What’s
Similar Books
