The Museum of Desire

Chapter 15

By Friday, ten a.m., I’d taken a four-mile run followed by a brief stroll for Blanche as a cool-down. Robin was busy in the studio, so breakfast for the other woman in my life, coffee for me as I checked my service.

Even professional screeners have trouble filtering noise and it was mostly that. Except for a call from Judge Martin Bevilacqua.

Marty was a smart, organized jurist who tried to be fair when cynicism didn’t get in the way. The custody cases I’d worked in his court had turned out as well as could be expected.

I reached him in his chambers.

“Alex.”

“Thanks for getting back to me.”

“I was intrigued. Ansar’s not your case but you’re asking about it.”

“Police work.”

“That aspect of your life, huh? Can’t let go of the excitement?”

“Keeps life interesting. I called because some murder victims were found at the Ansar property.”

“Victims, plural?” he said.

“Benedict Canyon.”

“Oh. Didn’t put it together because the news said Beverly Hills and I’ve been working Ansar long enough to know it’s L.A.”

“Minor inaccuracy.”

“Okay for the media but no such thing in my field. People hate each other they pounce on every misplaced letter. Murder, huh? Maybe it’s not a surprise. These two despise each other.” A beat. “You’re not telling me one of them was a victim?”

“No,” I said.

“Who, then?”

“It’s a strange one, Marty.”

“That aspect of your life, aren’t they all? Strange, how?”

“This needs to stay between us. Four victims with no apparent relationship to each other.”

“A gang thing?”

“Are the Ansars gang-connected?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “What their cousins do over in Afghanistan, who knows? What do you want to know about them?”

“The basics of the divorce.”

“It’s public record, you can get a transcript, Alex. But you generally don’t bullshit me so I won’t sentence you to reading thousands of pages of yakkety-yak. The gist is Matin and Ramineh Ansar have been here fifteen years, both are U.S. citizens. He’s rich from banking and real estate, she says also from graft. She’s rich from inheritance, he says also from graft. Bottom line, there’s enough money on both sides to feed the sharks so the damn thing drags on. The custody aspect’s what you’d expect. Two kids, boy, girl, they gave them American names... Dylan and Courtney. Cute little kids, four and six, mutual accusations that amount to crap because of the crap expert witnesses the sharks have hired. World War Three, obviously, is the money.”

I said, “She claims she financed the bulk of his ventures, he says she’s a lazy princess who did nothing but spend.”

“Ah, great oracle of Beverly Glen. What makes it especially stupid, Alex, is they’re wasting time, money, and stomach acid on a relatively small amount. Twelve million, basically the house and some art — yeah, yeah, I know, for the average person it’s a big deal. But trust me, either of them probably has overseas dough, they could afford to split the U.S. estate down the middle. You’d think they’d respond to my sage advice to do just that. You’d be wrong.”

“Who are the sharks?”

“Trapp and Trapp versus Charteroff.”

“See what you mean.”

“Even they’re getting worn out, but the principals won’t budge. Surprisingly, the kids were doing okay, per the therapist — Alfree London. You were busy so I’m using her. One suggestion they did take was separating her from the expert witness shrinks.”

He tossed out two names. “You feel otherwise?”

I said, “No, they’re whores and Alfree’s a good therapist.”

“Unfortunately, she hasn’t been able to therapize because Mrs. Ansar took the kids out of the country. Not much I could do other than write an order to return because she blindsided Mister, neither had asked for travel restrictions. He was certain she went over to Europe, hired private eyes who traced her to Paris then Monte Carlo then Belgium before the trail got cold. Can’t see her heading back to Kabul but you know how it is when people don’t think straight.”

“Why’s she so angry?”

“What do you think, Alex? Matin watches too much porn and fools with other women. He claims she’s been sexually unresponsive for years and hints she’s gay. What the truth is, who knows? Or cares. Hopefully the kids aren’t in some Taliban kindergarten. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of. Thanks, Marty.”

“As long as we’re talking, a new one landed on my desk yesterday. Likely to be equally vitriolic but the parties are only semi-big rich, so at some point it’ll end. You up for it?”

“Happy to take a look.”

“Good man,” he said. “After mass murder, you’re going to glide through it.”

I was on my third cup of coffee when Milo rang my private line. I summarized what I’d just learned from Bevilacqua.

He said, “Can’t see how it relates. Talked to most of the ten women on Gurnsey’s call list, got a coupla question marks. I can come to you to go over it.”

He drove up six minutes later, meaning he’d phoned from the road, assuming a drop-by would fit my schedule. Despite all the Old Sod gloom, a closet optimist.

He strode in, one hand clutching his olive-green vinyl attaché case. Blanche trotted up and nuzzled his cuffs.

“Hey, pooch.” He stooped to pet her and slipped her a Greenie treat from a jacket pocket. He smiled as she gobbled, then his lips turned down. “Speaking of dogs, just got DNA on the” — looking down at Blanche — “the you-know-what.”

Another glance at Blanche.

I said, “She’s smart but no need for code.”

He bent for another head rub. Sighed. “Two donors for all the blood, pit bull mixes, one male, one female. The vet Basia spoke to said the poor things were probably totally drained.”

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?”