I said, “Lots of pit mixes in shelters.”
“That’s what I figured. Evil assholes — that coffee I smell? Let’s use the kitchen so I can spread out.”
He placed the case on the floor next to the kitchen table, began scrounging in the fridge.
I said, “Anything I can fix you?”
“No, I’ll self-serve... just a snack — this turkey?”
“Left over from last night and all yours.”
“Music to my ears.” He cut the meat thick, added tomatoes and lettuce, and made himself a deli-sized sandwich on dark rye.
I brought two mugs of coffee to the table. He said, “Mind reader,” took a swallow, then three bites, unlatched the case, and placed two sheets of yellow legal paper next to his plate.
His forward-slanting cursive. Names and details, numbered 1 to 10.
“The first three are the women from Gurnsey’s work. They all claimed to be just friends and that matches their sosh pages — they have boyfriends and don’t seem to have actually dated Gurnsey. They describe Gurnsey almost identically: easygoing, fun company, never hit on them though he could get ‘flirty.’ Their contact with him was lunch at work, sometimes dinner afterward in a group. All three were either star actresses or genuinely horrified to hear what had happened. No problem with a face-to-face but they doubted they had anything to offer and I’m inclined to agree.”
He took another bite of sandwich. “Now the non-work crowd. Three met Gurnsey on dating sites but Gurnsey hasn’t been on for three months, seems to have reverted to old-school, as in cocktail lounge pickups. Mostly places not far from his apartment: Shutters, Loew’s, an upscale bar in the hip part of Venice. I’ve got Moses and Alicia checking out the locales, see if anyone remembers Gurnsey. One woman — the doctor — met him at a fundraiser. Young Professionals Saving the Bay, back to her later. One of the nurses came right out and said she and Gurnsey dated but not for long and that matches her only exchanging three calls with him months ago. She also sounded genuinely shocked about his death but not in a personal way, more like hearing about anyone getting killed. I asked her to describe him and at first she went quiet.”
He opened the case again, produced pages of notes. “I say, ‘Something the matter, Leslie?’ She says, ‘Look, I don’t want to dis the dead but frankly, Ricky was a total horndog. Nice guy but out for one thing only.’ I probed about Gurnsey getting overly aggressive, she insisted no, he never forced anything, just got verbally persistent and that got boring.”
“No anger on her part.”
“Not that I picked up, she really did sound bored, Alex. I got similar descriptions from Five and Six — one of the lawyers and the accountant. The accountant used the same phrase — total horndog — and the lawyer called Gurnsey a ‘low-rent lothario.’ Both of them put up with him for a few dates because he was ‘basically nice,’ ‘cheerful,’ ‘well-groomed,’ and ‘generous, always picked up the tab.’ The accountant also acknowledged he was good looking and knew how to behave in public. The lawyer said he enjoyed good food and wine, even though... hold on... ‘Ricky wasn’t really sophisticated or knowledgeable about culture. He was a nice guy but I was looking for more.’ ”
I said, “His public persona was fine, private not so much.”
“Exactly. Get alone with him, sooner or later he’s making a move and being pushy about it. Maybe a pain in the ass. Literally, based on what Briggs and Candace Kierstead told us, but so far no one’s complained. Onward... Number Seven, another nurse, said it wasn’t that Gurnsey dispensed with the niceties like a lot of guys, on the contrary he could be a total gentleman. But eventually he’d show his entitlement by... ‘Ricky could be holding the door open for you and kissing your fingertips one minute, then he’d want to put you up against a wall and jam it in and assume you wanted it as much as he did. But he did take no for an answer.’ Again, no animosity. More like a game she didn’t want to play. She’s the oldest, forty-four, told me she’d been married twice, didn’t want to have to ‘deal with another guy’s issues.’ ”
He turned to the second page. “Nurse Number Three. The least recent, four dates with Gurnsey five months ago. Gurnsey was ‘cute and okay but a little pushy when it came to sex. We didn’t mesh.’ She works at Cedars so I asked Rick and he knows her. Straight shooter, lovely, no way she could be involved in anything like this.”
He tapped the list. “Now the two I want to meet soon. Nine is the other lawyer, a woman named Joan Blunt. Works at a B.H. firm. Haven’t been able to talk to her yet, got blocked by her secretary, no call-back after three tries and that twangs the antenna. She’s the second oldest, forty-one, and if her Instagram page is accurate, she looks like a movie star. She’s also ahem married to another legal eagle, one kid, nice house in Encino. Which gives me a motive. Like you said, a jealous hubby. But also like you said, why kill three other people? She and Gurnsey exchanged a dozen calls, always at night, with some of the conversations lasting ten, fifteen minutes. Combine it with the stonewall — you’d think people, especially a lawyer, would figure out that’s gonna backfire — and I definitely want to talk to her.”
His finger traveled to the bottom of the list. “Last and certainly not least: Ellen Cerillos, M.D., she of woke ocean consciousness. Her front desk I couldn’t even get to. Group practice in Sherman Oaks. Twelve-step voicemail then I got cut off.”
“One of the DUIs,” I said.
“And look at this.”
He pulled out another sheet from the case. Printout of an online map, his handwritten red marker line connecting the Benedict Canyon house and the clinic’s location on Moorpark Street.
Six miles due south, a fifteen-minute drive taking it slow.
“Doesn’t mean much by itself,” he said. “But.”
He drank coffee. “Kierstead said the woman she saw was youngish and Blunt’s older than she is. But like I said she’s a looker. And fit, runs marathons. Kierstead’s got kind of a prim, matronly air, no? I can see her thinking Blunt was younger.”
He chomped the sandwich, continued eating as he got to his feet. “Ready to consult a lawyer?”
Chapter 16
Kagan, Kiprianidos, Blunt, and Shapiro occupied one of a dozen suites on the third floor of a determinedly undistinguished steel and gray-glass building on Wilshire just west of Robertson. Cheap black carpeting, cheap white doors, Thai food aromas wafting from somewhere.
I’d looked up the firm as Milo drove. Aviation and air-transport law. No associates, just the four partners. Joan Blunt had solid qualifications: B.A. from Penn, J.D. from Berkeley.
Her website photo was the Instagram shot Milo had commented on. Accurately. Milky oval face graced by full lips, enormous blue eyes, firm, dimpled chin. All of that under luxuriant black hair.
Broad, square shoulders suggested vitality. So did her extracurricular interests: marathons and piloting jet planes with instrument certification.
Her waiting room was three stiff-backed chairs on either side of a brown-marble floor. No one waiting. Magazines filled a plastic wall rack. Chagall prints not even pretending to be real hung on three beige walls: cows, fiddlers, bemused brides floating midair.
A young ponytailed blonde in jeans and a black T-shirt looked up from a no-nonsense reception desk and smiled automatically. Behind her, more beige. The kind of wallpaper you see in hospitals because it’s easy to clean.
Milo introduced himself. The receptionist’s smile flickered and fizzled.