The Museum of Desire

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.

“Um, you called before.”

“We did.”

“I’m sorry, she’s super busy. If you want to make an appointment—”

“Not necessary, we can wait.”

“Um... it’s not necessary.”

“It is for us.”

“Um... hold on — please have a seat. Okay?”

We remained on our feet but moved back a few inches to give her the illusion of privacy. She punched an extension. Nervous eyes scanned us as she spoke softly into the receiver. Frowned.

“In a moment.”

A “moment” was twenty-two minutes. For the last fifteen, we’d relented and sat, thumbing through Air & Space, Elite Traveler, Soar, and Flying.

I’d taken in a whole lot of data I’d never need — maintenance costs on a ten-year-old Gulfstream III — by the time a throaty voice said, “I have ten minutes. Come.”

Joan Blunt stood to the right of the reception desk. Perfect posture and shorter than I’d expected from the strong shoulders in her photo. Five-three, tops, a lot of it trim but no shortage of curvy torso.

Even more gorgeous than the photo. Like her receptionist, she wore jeans under a simple top — a maroon crewneck. Brown flats, no makeup, the abundant dark hair drawn back on both sides by tortoiseshell barrettes.

That level of beauty could’ve taught her to coquette her way through life. Instead, she’d worked hard and done well at good schools and learned to fly planes at five hundred miles an hour. Her posture, the authority in her voice, the functional work space, said Take me or leave me.

She turned to the right and began walking without waiting for us to follow.

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

Without stopping, she said, “Joan. And you are?”

Milo always uses his rank. This time, he said, “Milo Sturgis. This is Alex.”

“Milo. Alex. Fine, let’s get this show on the road.”

No style upgrade in Joan Blunt’s private office. A desk larger but no less utilitarian than the receptionist’s, a pair of the same stiff chairs. One window provided an eyeful of the office building across Wilshire. The desktop was clear but for two framed photos facing away from visitors. Diplomas on the wall behind the desk — her B.A. in history magna cum laude — shared space with a certificate from the U.S. Air Force.

Before our butts hit the chairs, she said, “So someone murdered Rick Gurnsey. Wouldn’t have thought it.”

Milo said, “He didn’t seem the type to get murdered?”

“Too easygoing. Does that sound ridiculous to you?”

“Of course not—”

“It probably does. I understand that anyone can get killed, I was in Iraq. What I meant was Rick always seemed utterly inoffensive. Can’t see him generating that level of hostility.”

Joan Blunt smiled. Her eyes didn’t. “You’re talking to everyone he knew?”

“Something like that.”

“Or maybe just everyone he dated?”

“That, too.”

Joan Blunt said, “So it wasn’t a street robbery or something like that, it was personal.”

We said nothing.

“Got to keep it close to the vest, huh? Now’s when you’re going to ask how I met him and the nature of our relationship?”

“That would be helpful.”

“It won’t be,” she said. “There’s no there there. But fine, here’s the whole sordid tale: My husband cheated on me so I filed for divorce and began the process of taking as much from him as I could and bucking myself up with mindless sex.”

“Rick was—”

“A vehicle. One of several. How’d you connect him to me? His phone?”

“Yes.”

“So you know we spoke a total of — what — ten times? Making dates, breaking them, a bit of flirting, why not? The breaking was always me. Something coming up here at the office or I needed suddenly to travel. Rick was a nine-to-fiver.”

Milo said, “Where did the two of you meet?”

Joan Blunt said, “I thought I answered that. I was on the prowl, he was an easy catch.”

“That’s how. We’d like to know where.”

“Why?”

“It might help us understand Rick. His social habits.”

“You think they got him killed?”

“At this point, we’ve got more questions than answers, Ms. — Joan.”

Blunt’s smile spread slowly. A woman used to calling the shots. “Can you tell me when he was murdered?”

“Sometime Saturday morning.”

“Six days ago,” said Blunt. “And you still don’t know his habits?”

“It’s a tough case, Joan.”

“Guess so but Ricky never impressed me as a mystery man. Where did we meet? He picked me up at Coast, the lounge at Shutters. When I left my husband I moved from our house in the Valley to an apartment in Pacific Palisades. But you probably know that.”

“Actually, we don’t.”

“Oh,” said Blunt. “Of course, I haven’t changed my DMV, better do that soon so my churl of an ex doesn’t get hold of my registration and throw it out. Anyway, I’m in a tiny little place with no charm but at least it’s close to the beach so Shutters seemed like a practical choice for meeting men. I didn’t want to do the online thing, too many unknowns. I trust my own intuition and ability to read people. Not that it was easy, I’d been out of circulation for a while. But at some point, you just dive in.”

Brief, furious glower. “Unlike the churl, who circulated the whole time — sorry, I’m doing what I despise, bleeding in public. My dad was a colonel in the air force. He’d be giving me the death-stare.”

Milo said, “You and Rick both happened to be at Coast?”

“Yup. He was already at the bar when I arrived. Cute, nicely dressed, well built. Nice hands with clean well-shaped nails, I always look at the nails. And he was obviously interested.”

Another smile, this one broader, flashing luminous teeth. “The moment I sat down he was sneaking looks at me. Then I allowed him to catch my eye and he smiled. The second time, I smiled back. The third time, he bought me a drink. Then he came over. Pretty boilerplate, but I was primed and ready.”

I said, “You were both interested—”

“For him sex was probably a state of being. For me, it was a mission and I was horny as hell. And lonely. The churl had taken our daughter to visit his parents. That night, I was going to meet someone and Rick was the cutest guy in the lounge. I talked to him long enough to decide he was safe and brought him to my apartment. Before the door closed we were up against the living room wall.”

Blue eyes turned to gas flames. Daring us to judge.

“I’d seen it in the movies but never did it that way. Not the most comfortable position but I figured time to be open-minded. In the end I was okay with it but had to eventually lie down. Rick loved it. And afterward he was so well behaved. Soft-spoken, solicitous, not one of those where-are-the-frozen-waffles troglodytes. We hooked up maybe... six, seven times, essentially the same deal: drinks, sometimes a light dinner, and... I don’t need to spell it out. The seventh time he tried to explore me anatomically in a way I didn’t welcome and that was it.”

“Did he get pushy about it?”

Joan Blunt smiled. “Literally or figuratively? No, he started poking around, I said uh-uh, he pouted a little so I... gave him compensation. But that was enough for me, he’d become boring. Not a genius. I told him it had been fun but now it was over. It’s the kind of thing guys do to women all the time. That’s not a political statement, merely fact.”

I said, “Time to chart another course.”

Joan Blunt cocked her head to the side and touched a fingertip to her lips. “That’s rather insightful or you’re faking it well. Are you single?”

“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.”