The Museum of Desire

Chapter 13

Custody evaluations pay most of my bills but I prefer trauma and injury suits because kids who’ve been injured deserve compensation and no one gets hateful.

Thursday morning, I was finishing the final report on a case I’d worked a couple of weeks ago. A three-year-old had swallowed bug bait left out by the manager of the apartment where he lived with his mother. Full recovery after a stomach pump, now the litigation. My job was evaluating the child for emotional repercussions.

I’d told the attorney the boy seemed fine, that I wouldn’t be offering any radical predictions.

He said, “No prob, I just need the basics with your stamp of approval.”

I rechecked what I’d written, auto-signed and emailed, went into the kitchen for coffee. When I got back my cell was bouncing on the desktop.

Milo said, “Got through Gurnsey’s calls, separated business from personal. I’m having the troops backward-directory each number to see who actually answers. The media coverage brought in eighty-eight tips so far and one might even be interesting. A woman phoned an hour ago, said she’d been at a party at the same house. Which is interesting because the address hasn’t been released. I asked when, she said January, a benefit, she preferred to talk about it in person. Which is different, no? Most people’ll do anything to avoid a face-to-face. She lives in Little Holmby, you could walk there. Can you make it in an hour?”

“Sure.”

“Her name’s Candace Kierstead. Here’s the address.”

I was in running clothes but hadn’t run. Showering, shaving, and shifting to work duds, I left the house, fast-walked down the Glen, sharp-eyed, facing traffic, crossed Sunset at the light, and continued south and west to Conrock Avenue.

Little Holmby is a tranquil pocket of traditional architecture sandwiched between the imperial estates of Holmby Hills and the town-sized campus of the U. Conrock was a predictably pretty street lined with immaculate houses just large enough to forestall teardown fever.

Milo’s Impala was parked on the east side of the street, midway up the block. When he saw me, he got out.

“You actually walked?”

“I thought it was an executive order.”

“More like I enabled your addiction to fitness — say nothing. Body-shaming folk such as myself is malignant.” He slapped my back. “Thanks for coming on short notice. We’re going to that one.”

He pointed to a vanilla-covered Mediterranean fronted by a precise emerald lawn. No car in the driveway. Maybe stashed behind a black-iron gate.

His knock was moderate — a friend dropping in. The woman who opened the door was thirty-five to forty, medium height and slender, with true-blue eyes and long brown hair that crowned a pleasant, unremarkable face. Oversized tortoiseshell eyeglasses rested atop a small, thin nose. No makeup or jewelry. White top, white jeggings and flats.

“Ms. Kierstead? Lieutenant Sturgis. This is Alex Delaware.”

A tentative, whispery voice said, “Candace. Please come in.”

She led us through a black-granite foyer into a living room furnished with art deco pieces that looked real. Pointing to a pair of silver velvet club chairs, she kicked off her shoes and folded onto a facing gray sofa. Bare walls. Behind the couch, a long narrow table held a framed photo of Candace Kierstead and a silver-haired man significantly her senior. Somewhere with a cathedral in the background.

Between the couch and the chairs a round bronze and mirror-top table was set up with a white porcelain coffee set and a plate of graham crackers.

Milo said, “Thanks for seeing us, Ms. Kierstead.”

“I felt I had to call. Do you want to ask questions or should I just tell you what I know?”

“Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever called the police, I’m not sure anything makes me comfortable. Except for once, a few years ago, when my husband thought he heard a prowler. Turned out to be an opossum on the roof with little babies. Can you believe that? We love animals, of course we let them be.”

I said, “This close to the mountains we do get critters.”

“I’ve seen coyotes,” she said. “In the morning when I run. The look in their eyes... rather menacing.”

Placing her palms together, she dropped them to her lap. “I’ll try to make this brief. Last night, I heard from a friend of mine about that hideous house on Benedict. She lives nearby, said there’d been police and reporters milling around Sunday morning and then a detective came to her house but wouldn’t tell her much.”

Milo said, “Unfortunately, we can’t give out details at the beginning stages.”

“She understood that, but still, it’s good to know what’s happening in your neighborhood, right? Anyway, she called me because she knew I’d once been there. Last January, a benefit for Daylighters, it’s a cancer advocacy group. I didn’t think much of it. Then I read the paper and it mentioned a mass shooting on Benedict Canyon and I said wow. Then I remembered something and figured I should tell you. But it’s probably not relevant.”

“Thanks for taking the time, ma’am.”

“Would you like some coffee? A biscuit?”

“Coffee would be great, thanks.”

“Black, cream, sugar, sweetener — stevia’s what I’ve got.”

“Black’s fine.”

“Certainly.” She poured and handed us cups. Grim but with steady hands. Nothing for herself. As we sipped, she took hold of her hair, drew it forward over her right shoulder and onto her chest. A dangling hand twisted the ends.

“So,” said Milo, “what happened when you were at the house?”

“Before we get into anything, I’d like to know something. If what I tell you does turn out to be relevant — and I don’t think it will — will I have to go to court or anything?”

Milo put down his cup and smiled. “We’re a long way from that, Ms. Kierstead.”

“You’re saying you don’t know who the — what do you call them — the perp is.”

“We’re just starting out, so anything you can tell us will be highly appreciated.”

“But still,” she said. “Going to court? I wouldn’t like that.”

“It’s unlikely that would be necessary. But honestly, we do need to hear what you have to say before that’s clear.”

“Okay. Makes sense... another thing. Sig — my husband — doesn’t know I’m doing this, so I’d appreciate if he doesn’t find out. At least for now.”

“No problem.”

She tapped her teeth. “All right, here goes. Daylighters is a small group. We require a minimum donation but we’re not snobby. I’m actually one of the youngest members. Mostly it’s Sig’s peers. His first wife passed from breast cancer.”

She licked her lips. “I guess I’m a bit nervous.”

“Take your time,” said Milo.

“Okay... what I’m trying to get across is we’re a well-behaved group, not some crazy party animals. Maybe what happened wouldn’t stand out in another setting but... back when I danced with the San Francisco Ballet, I saw all kinds of things... sorry, back to January. We call it The Newer Than New Year’s Fling. Two hundred or so good people, a grand buffet, champagne, full orchestra, dancing. To be honest, too classy for that house. It’s rather vulgar, isn’t it? And gloomy, all that gray stone.”

I said, “It is different.”

“Exactly. So. Everything was rolling along according to plan. I was on the steering committee, had to stay on top of things. So I circulated, checking. I can’t tell you how many times but several and on one of them it happened — I think I will have some coffee.”

She poured, sweetened, sipped, and placed the cup back in its saucer. “The property, we brought in lighting but not enough so it was dark in some of the distant spots. Mostly behind a gazebo, along the rear of the property. I wanted to make sure no one would go back there, trip and fall. Some of our people are on the elderly side.”

A well-shaped silver fingernail tapped the cup. She reached for a graham cracker, snapped it in two, studied both halves, and placed them next to the cup. “I heard it before I saw it. Heavy breathing, my first thought was, Uh-oh, someone did fall. So I hurried over.”

Deep inhalation. “I’m no prude but I was thrown pretty hard.” Eyelids lowered and rose. She gnawed her bottom lip. “Heavy breathing? You know what I’m getting at.”

Milo said, “Two people having sex?”

“Against the rear hedge. Standing up. The woman’s back was to me, her dress was up to her waist, and the man was... I’m sure I don’t need to draw you a picture.”

“No, ma’am.”

Candace Kierstead said, “I stopped in my tracks but he turned and saw me. And that’s when I got scared because he looked really angry. As if I was the intruder.”

Deep sigh. “I’d helped compile the invite list and this guy was not on it.”

“What about the woman?”

“I never saw her face but from the back she looked too... I’ll be perfectly frank, she looked too young. Young legs, at least. That’s not the Daylighters’ crowd. I’m a good ten years younger than every other woman in the group. These were definitely crashers. And he’s getting irate? I thought, How dare you! So I managed to collect my courage and came right out and said, ‘You need to stop this now and leave.’ Something to that effect. You’d think he’d be embarrassed and get moving. Just the opposite. He just gritted his teeth and kept going. Faster! So I ran off to get Sig but by the time I located him and got him back there, they were gone. And when I asked the security people, they had no clue. Sig said I shouldn’t make a fuss, it would poop the party. But now that something’s happened at the same place, I just thought I should tell you.”

Milo said, “You thought right. What did the man look like?”

“Thirties, dark hair.” Quick intake of breath. “To be frank, somewhat good looking. In a certain way.”

“What way?”

“Not substantive good looks. The kind of guy you see all over L.A., spends too much time in front of the mirror.”

Milo took out his phone, scrolled to Richard Gurnsey’s DMV photo, and showed it to Candace Kierstead.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God, that’s him! He’s a mass murderer? I got that close to a serial killer?”

A tremor began at her shoulders and coursed down her torso.

Milo said, “You were never in danger, Candace.”

“But—”

“He’s not a murderer.”

“What then?”

“He’s a victim.”

“Oh,” she said. “So telling you this is important. Wow.” She played with her hair. “Who is he?”

“As I said, can’t get into details.”

“Oh, of course, sorry — so he actually came back there? Was it also a benefit? Was exploiting a good cause his thing?”

Milo said, “May I show you some other faces to see if you recognize them?” and scrolled to Benny Alvarez’s social service I.D. photo.

“No,” she said. “Never seen him.”

Same response to Solomon Roget and the unidentified woman. “Who are all these people?”

Milo smiled. “I wish I could be more specific—”

“Sorry, sorry... I have to say, Lieutenant, they’re a diverse group, aren’t they? If they’re also victims, it’s as if someone’s trying to kill a variety of people. To murder the world.”

She got up to use “the little girls’ room,” returned moments later.

Milo said, “Can you tell us anything more about the woman having sex?”

“I really can’t, Lieutenant. Never saw her face.”

“Height?”

“Hmm. Average? Not super short or tall.”

“Build?”

“She had a good figure, like I said, nice legs.”

“Hair?”

“Hmm. Probably brunette but I can’t swear to that because the lighting was extremely weak. There was just enough to see what he — what they were doing.” She tapped her cheek. “I don’t want to go out on a limb but I think her dress was dark. At least it wasn’t shiny bright — not lamé or satin or anything along those lines. As I said, most of it was bunched up — you know, now that I think about it I didn’t see any underwear on the ground. So obviously she came prepared for... whatever — she did have a rear, that was certainly in full view. Not that hipless boy thing they like on models nowadays, how does anyone live up to that?”

Surveying her own svelte body.

Nothing Milo and I could say that wouldn’t come out wrong.

We thanked her and stood.

She said, “Take the biscuits with you. That way Sig won’t be tempted, he’s a big snacker and he needs to watch.”

Milo cruised a couple of blocks before pulling over and parking on a street indistinguishable from Conrock. “Helpful citizen, God bless her.”

He found the shot of Gurnsey he’d shown Candace Kierstead and studied it. “Richard, Richard, what sins did you pay for? Maybe she’s right about his returning to the same place, some kind of memory thrill. Though how would he know about a teen party?”

I said, “If the first time was a big thrill, he could’ve googled the address from time to time.”

“Five months between parties,” he said. “Patient guy.”

“Sexual fantasy’s a great motivator and sounds like he was into risk-taking. He’d stand out in a bunch of teenagers but age difference didn’t stop him at the Daylighters’ bash.”

He turned to me. “Ricky and a fellow risk-taker. But she’s not dumped in the limo.”

I said, “No reason for her to be there. Gurnsey was promiscuous, he probably moved on.”

“Or he didn’t, Alex, and wanted to relive the same scene with the same girl and she agreed? A boyfriend or a husband finds out, ounce of prevention and all that. Gurnsey gets stalked before the party, overpowered, stabbed, stashed somewhere, and finally dumped.”

“Him and three others? Simple jealousy doesn’t explain that. To my mind the production thing fits better.”

“So what’s the story line?”

“No idea.”

We sat for a while. He started the car. Grumbled and shot forward.

A block later: “None of this is remotely sane.”

I said, “At least we know focusing on Gurnsey is the right approach. Look at his calls on the days prior to both parties. The same number shows up twice you’ll be legally allowed to smile.”

He flashed a fierce grin and yanked so hard at his cell that it snagged in his pocket. Freeing it, he speed-dialed. “Moses, you still working Gurnsey’s calls... forget all that for the time being, just concentrate on these dates... yup — a week prior to both. There’s a number in common don’t try it, just find out who owns it. I should be back in ten.”