Walters’s eyes bounced and roamed. “Believe this shit? Build a castle and let assholes party in it?”
“Crazy,” said Milo.
Walters tensed and stepped back, nearly tripping but waving off Milo’s helping hand. “I ain’t crazy. My heart’s okay, too, I’m not celling up in some fucking ward.”
“No offense intended, Mr. Walters. I meant the situation.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” Eyelids twitched. “I need to get out of here.”
Milo produced another panatela. “Smoke?”
“Don’t do that shit, used to do Viceroys,” said Walters. “Quit last year. Being healthy. Been here since six thirty, gotta get the fuck out.”
“Sorry for your inconvenience. Could you please tell us what happened when you got here at six thirty?”
“More like six twenty.” Walters looked at the cigar, snatched it, and slipped it into a jean pocket. “Why not, you tried to stick me in that death wagon so yeah, you owe me.”
His eyes bounced around. “I’m being a citizen and you hold me. You guys are something.”
Milo said, “When you got here at six twenty—”
“Yeah, yeah yeah,” said Walters. “Listen carefully, I ain’t repeating.”
Rocking on his feet and fighting for concentration, he told the story, the pace picking up with each sentence until he was racing, spewing out words, barely intelligible.
Brain alleyways detoured permanently by speed. When the verbal flash flood stopped, Walters was mouth-breathing hard.
Lots of words, no revelations.
Milo said, “Thanks. Could I please have your address and phone number?”
“Why?”
“For the record.”
“I don’t do the record,” said Walters. “And I don’t got no phone.”
“You called 911—”
“On this.” Fishing a burner out of his jeans. “Runs out in a few minutes, you won’t reach me so don’t waste my time.”
“How about your address?”
“The Cyril.”
“On Main?”
“Yeah.”
“Room number?”
“It changes,” said Walters. “Now let me outta—”
“The company you work for, Bright Dawn—”
“Bright Dawn Assholes Corporated. I’m finished with that shit.”
“ ’Cause of this?” said Milo.
“ ’Cause of everything. Start early, end late, fuck-all pay.”
“You ever clean this property before?”
“First time. Last time.”
“Who’s the owner of the company?”
“How should I know?” said Walters.
“Who pays you?”
“Irma.”
“Last name?”
“How should I know? Why’s it matter?”
“Filling in details, sir.”
“I was a sir, you wouldn’t detain me like a fucking prisoner. For doing the right thing.”
“Appreciate your help, Mr. Walters. Irma—”
“In the office. Ask for the bitch with the fat ass.”
Milo smiled.
Walters said, “You think I’m kidding? Like this.” Stretching his arms.
“The people in the limo, recognize any of them?”
“Why would I?”
“Okay, thanks, Mr. Walters. You can go now.”
Walters’s gnarled hands slapped his hips. He stood there.
“Something the matter?” said Milo.
“How the hell’m I gonna do that? I got dropped off.”
“The company won’t pick you up?”
“I’m over with them. Don’t want nothin’ from them.” Walters jutted his negligible mandible and stretched out a palm. Tattoo on his inside wrist. Ridiculously buxom naked woman smoking a cigarette. Below that: Viceroys. Taste That’s Right.
Below that what could have been an old razor scar.
Milo pulled out his wallet and handed over two twenties.
Walters inspected the money. His eyebrows rose. “Huh.” He teetered away.
Milo said, “He’ll probably walk all the way downtown and use my money for crank.”
I said, “Oh, you enabler.”
“Does that mean I have to attend meetings? Anyway, he didn’t add a thing.”
“He’s emotionally unstable so I don’t see him helping you in court.”
“Court? Talk about jumping guns, you just vaulted an arsenal. Yeah, so much for ol’ Eno. You know why I asked about knowing the vics.”
“The Cyril’s downtown.”
He nodded. “SRO, a dump among dumps. But Walters didn’t throw off any tells and he’s not exactly a criminal mastermind.”
He hitched his trousers. “Time to deliver some really bad news. Whose day do we ruin first?”
“Gurnsey lived the closest.”
“There you go,” he said. “Thinking efficiently.”
Chapter 5
We got in Milo’s Impala and he rolled it slowly down the drive. Nowadays journalism’s a short-attention-span business; at least half the reporters had left. When those that remained saw us, they tried to compensate with arm waves and revved-up volume.
Milo said, “You hear something, Alex? I don’t.” Nosing past the throng, he turned right on Benedict. Eno Walters was down the road a thousand feet, walking unsteadily and smoking the cigar.
Milo pulled up alongside him. “The press get hold of you?”
“I told ’em to fuck off.”
“Good man.” Another twenty exchanged hands.
Walters looked at it suspiciously, then jammed it in a jean pocket.
“Want a lift to Sunset?”
“Why? So you can lock me up again?” Hunching and working his lips, he turned his back on us.
“Love the job,” said Milo, putting on speed. “Makes me feel like one of the popular kids.”
Richard Gurnsey had lived in a forgettable three-story building the color of Swiss cheese left too long in the fridge. Vintage seventies, when boxes were nailed up all over L.A., style be damned.
Beach city but at a mile from the beach, no salt-aroma or view of water.
No security, either. A weathered front door opened to a linoleum foyer sour with mold that T-boned a few feet later at a brown-carpeted stairway.
Milo sniffed. “Not what you’d expect from a hotshot studio lawyer.”
I said, “Maybe he was just a gofer who padded his online résumé. Or he’s frugal and spent his dough on all that recreation.”
“Wine, women, and song, the rest foolishly.” He inspected a bank of bronze mailboxes oxidized black at the corners. Four units per floor, R. Gurnsey and J. Briggs in 3B.
Milo said, “Maybe a live-in girlfriend if we’re lucky. If we’re lottery-lucky, she’s in.”
We climbed the stairs. Now the carpeting was blue, an uninterrupted hallway ending at a blank wall.
Music from behind the door to 3B. A pro-tooled female voice exhaling over an acoustic guitar loop of C major and G major. What qualified, nowadays, as folk.
Milo gave the V-sign. “We’re buying tickets, at least scratch-offs.”
He knocked on the door.
A male voice said, “Hold on.”
The music lowered but persisted. “Who is it?”
“Police.”
The music died.
“About what?”
“Richard Gurnsey.”
“Ricky?” The door creaked and opened on a tall, shirtless, blue-eyed man in his thirties. Denim shorts rode low on his hips. Slightly taller than Milo, so at least six-four. He had bushy too-yellow hair and eyebrows to match, patchy, three-day gray-blond stubble, a burgeoning double chin. But for the neck flesh, lean, with a long-limbed beach-volleyball build. A deep tan said a mile to the sand was no obstacle.
Milo said, “Morning, sir. Lieutenant Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.” Talking as he flashed his badge.