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.
