“Sorry, no.”
She laughed. “At least you’re apologizing.”
Milo said, “How did Rick take to being dumped?”
“He sent me a couple of weepy-face emojis, called a couple of times, are you sure, Joanie, we can just do it the regular way. I told him it had nothing to do with that and he gave up. As much as I’d like to think of myself as irresistible, I knew he’d just find another green pasture.”
“Why?”
“Handsome, inoffensive, reliable erection, good stamina. He was made for dalliance.”
I said, “Did he ever talk about having conflict with anyone?”
“Never. He didn’t talk much period, thank God. I wasn’t interested in learning about his psyche or his family or his aches and pains. This was all about reassuring myself.”
She grinned. “And, of course, having fun.”
Milo showed her the photos of the other three victims.
Blank look. “Who are they?”
“People Ricky knew. Please don’t be offended but I need to ask. Where were you Friday night through Sunday morning?”
Joan Blunt said, “Really? Like in the movies? I spent the entire weekend from Friday afternoon through Sunday night with Brooklyn, my daughter. Friday we were in my apartment streaming movies, Saturday we saw a matinee of The Little Mermaid at the Pantages, Saturday evening we had dinner at Ivy at the Shore, Saturday night we watched TV in bed — bingeing on Chopped, this month she wants to be a chef. Sunday, we went horseback riding in Griffith Park. Sunday night, I drove her back to you-know-who. If you must have them, I can get my CPA to dig up the credit card slips.”
“At your leisure,” said Milo.
“You’re serious.”
“If it’s not a problem.”
“I fucked Ricky so I’m a suspect,” said Joan Blunt. “May I ask why the mixed message? ‘At your leisure.’ If it’s so relevant, why dawdle?”
Milo smiled. “I’d order you to do it A-sap but if you flew combat, you outrank me militarily.”
“I flew Apaches. How high did you get and what did you do?”
“Sergeant, military police and some medic.”
A crescent of pearly teeth. “Then I expect you to salute me when you clear out of here.” She checked an orange-banded Apple Watch. “Which is now. I told you ten, you got sixteen.”
We stood. Milo took the time to get a closer look at her military certificate. I managed a peek at the two framed photos on her desk.
She said, “Historical document, Milo. I’ll get you those slips,” and left her office. By the time we caught up she was talking to the receptionist.
“Chrissy, call Hal Moskowitz and have him contact my platinum Amex account...”
No notice of our presence. We slipped out the waiting room door.
In the lobby, he said, “What do you think?”
“Tough woman but no tells that I noticed.”
“Same here but she could probably shoot someone without too much hesitation.”
“What was the commendation for?”
“Valor under fire. Captain Joan Sybil Blunt.”
I said, “All the more reason not to suspect her.”
“You’re invoking the patriotism defense?”
“She’s gifted at focusing. If Gurnsey was her target she’d have found a way to take him down clean, not mix her methods and add three other people to the mix. And two dogs. She owns three, two doodle types and a collie, obviously adores them.”
“How do you know that?”
“Picture on her desk. Mother, daughter, pooches in a love fest. Daughter’s a blond version of her.”
We left the building and headed for the unmarked.
“One lawyer down, time for a doctor,” he said. “Give Gurnsey credit for one thing: He was comfortable with women smarter than him.”
“No reason not to be,” I said. “Brains weren’t the organs that interested him.”
Chapter 17
Dr. Ellen Cerillos’s name was listed at the bottom of a ten-physician roster. Valley Oaks Women’s Wellness Center took up the ground floor of a wheat-colored building on Moorpark just east of Van Nuys Boulevard. On the second, a six-dentist group specializing in oral surgery and cosmetic reconstruction.
Joan Blunt’s waiting room had been small and silent. This space was the size of a double garage and crowded with women, several of whom held babies in their arms. A notable number of the babies squalled. That noise reduced a piped-in new-age music soundtrack to bleeps, burps, and fragments of synthesized tones.
Interesting mix of fragrances: infant-poop, zwieback, perfume, antiseptic wipes.
Heads turned as Milo and I stepped in. Stares followed us as we took our place behind an exhausted-looking woman at the reception window who appeared precariously ready to deliver. An earnest conversation continued between her and a gray-haired receptionist. Scheduled C-section, still working out insurance details. Two other women worked in the front office, both busy clicking keyboards. The only people not paying us any mind.
One of the waiting patients nudged the woman next to her and pointed at us. Murmurs circulated; vocal relay race fueled by curiosity.
The weary woman stepped away and found a seat. The gray-haired woman said, “Yes?”
Milo leaned close, showed his card, covering Homicide with his thumb. His voice was soft, conspiratorial. “Is Dr. Cerillos in?”
“She’s with a patient.”
“Could you please tell her it’s about Richard Gurnsey.”
“Who’s that?”
“A friend.”
The receptionist cocked an eyebrow. “She’s booked until seven, why don’t you try later?”
“We may have to,” said Milo. “But if you could tell her.”
“The police, huh?” Loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Yes, ma’am. We’d appreciate if—”
“The police,” she repeated, cranking up the volume. As if sharing a joke with an audience. “Hoe-wold on.”
She got up slowly, walked to the right, and disappeared. Half a minute later, the door to the inner office opened. “Must be a good friend. Fifth door to the right.”
Returning to her desk, she shuffled forms and held up a finger. “Ms. Langer? Step back up for a sec.”
The fifth door was open. To the left, the names of three M.D.’s and a trio of racks for charts.
Inside, room for one practitioner at a time. The white-coated woman behind the desk was in her thirties, narrowly built and buttermilk-pale but for the merest sprinkle of freckles across broad, flat cheeks and a nub nose. Cute in an elfin way. A high-backed desk chair made her look small.
She said, “Please close the door,” and avoided looking at us.
The tint of her eyebrows said her hair had probably begun as strawberry blond. She’d dyed it flame orange and styled it ragged and boy-short. Three thin gold hoops glinted in her left ear, four decorated her right.
Once we’d sat down, she aimed rusty-brown eyes at us. One hand drummed a memo pad atop the desk; the other clutched the tubes of a stethoscope. More framed paper than free space on the wall. I found hers on the far right. M.D., Stanford. Internship, residency, and fellowship in high-risk pregnancy, UC San Francisco.
Milo said, “Thanks for seeing us, Doctor.”
“I’m really pretty busy.”
“Then special thanks.”
“The police about Rick? Has he done something?” Ellen Cerillos plucked at a white lapel.
“Doctor, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but Mr. Gurnsey’s deceased.”
Cerillos’s mouth dropped open. Smallish, misaligned teeth. The lack of childhood dental privilege said maybe a poor girl who’d worked her way up. “I don’t understand — deceased? How?”