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.
Sometimes he chooses shiny metal because it’s a better choice initially than the business card that specifies Homicide.
The man said, “What’s up with Ricky?”
“You’re his...”
“Roommate. Jay Briggs. What’s going on?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Gurnsey’s deceased.”
Briggs’s eyes bugged. “What?”
“We’re really sorry to—”
“What?” A massive fist hammered Briggs’s right thigh, leading my gaze to knees clumped with surfer knots. “What the — what? This is totally fucked.”
“Could we come inside, Mr. Briggs?”
“You’re telling me Rick is — oh, shit, what happened?” Jay Briggs ran his hand through his hair.
Before Milo could answer, he said, “Whatever,” and stepped away from the door. It began to swing shut. I caught it and we stepped inside.
Small living room, more of the moldy sourness from the lobby. Décor was a brown corduroy couch worn bare in spots, a chipped black steamer trunk used as a coffee table, and three pine-and-burlap chairs — red, yellow, blue. The same blue carpeting as out in the hallway. On the table, crushed beer cans, empty beer bottles, a jar half filled with salsa, bags of corn chips. A paper Trader Joe’s bag crammed with more empties tilted precariously near the open entrance to a plywood kitchenette. Two surfboards stood propped in a corner. To the left, a hallway led to three open doorways.
Jay Briggs padded to the fridge, fished out a can of Heineken, popped the top, took a long deep swig, and sat cross-legged on the floor.
“What, some drunk hit him?”
Time to show him the card.
Briggs’s mouth dropped open. “Homicide? I don’t get it. Who? Where?”
“When’s the last time you saw Ricky?”
“I dunno,” said Briggs. “I guess Friday, but not for long, he was going out.”
“With who?”
“Some chick.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t say. He never said, it wasn’t like there was anyone regular.”
“Casual dating,” said Milo.
“You could call it that,” said Briggs. “More like going fishing. Ricky was always ready to fish. A lot of times he caught something.”
“Any details on his Friday night catch?”
“I don’t even know if he had anyone in mind, just that he was going out.” Briggs threw up his hands. “That was Ricky. It was like his... hobby.”
“Women.”
“He lived for ’em.” Briggs’s mouth sagged. “You’re saying he got into trouble ’cause of that?”
“We don’t know enough to say anything, yet. Was Ricky discriminating in his choices?”
“Was he a racist?” said Briggs. “No way, equal opportunity, he liked ’em all.”
I said, “Not picky.”
“About what? Looks? That depended on his HL.” Small smile. “Horniness level. Murdered? Jesus. Where did it happen?”
“Up near Benedict Canyon. You guys ever go up there?”
“We?” said Briggs. “We didn’t go places together anymore, we just roomed.”
“Anymore?”
“We knew each other in high school. I b-balled and ran the mile and Ricky covered sports for the paper.”
“Which high school?”
“Fontana High. We weren’t like tight bros but then we met up a couple years ago, bar at the beach — The Hungry Croc, now it’s called something else — had a few beers and started to conversate. I had just moved back from Tucson, had been looking for a place. Ricky said he had a two-bedroom near the beach, would never let go of it ’cause of the rent control but he didn’t need the second bedroom, I could have it cheap.”
Briggs sighed. “It’s been working out fine, he works days, I work nights. That’s what I mean by not talking much.”
He flexed big hands. “Oh, shit. I can’t handle the rent myself.”
“What do you do nights, Jay?”
“Take care of an old guy. Professor Van Ness, he’s like a hundred, can’t move but his brain’s still okay. I take care of him at night, mostly he sleeps so I can, too. Sometimes I have to change a diaper but it’s cool. I like helping people, used to assistant-coach middle school b-ball in Tucson, then the school, it was a private school, Christian school, had money problems so I decided to come back.”
“Ricky was a lawyer at Sony.”
“Um, not exactly,” said Briggs. “He went to some law school but didn’t pass the bar. To be honest, he was more of a paralegal.”
“Ah,” said Milo.
“He was pretty smart,” said Briggs, sounding uncertain. “Said he didn’t want the hassle of being a lawyer, the main thing was to make enough bank and have free time to party.”
Our eyes swept over the mess on the coffee table.
Briggs said, “That’s on me, Ricky was kind of a neat freak.”
I said, “When were you expecting him back?”
“When he didn’t come up Friday, I figured Saturday. When he didn’t come up Saturday, I figured maybe tonight. But there was no way to tell.”
Milo said, “Did Ricky know a guy named Benson Alvarez?”
“Uh-uh, who’s he? Some Mexican gangster?”
“Did Ricky do any charity work?”
“Like what?” said Briggs, as if the concept was absurd.
“Volunteering his time, helping the homeless, people with disabilities, stuff like that?”
Slow head shake. “Only thing I know is he gave twenty bucks to United Way at the office. Asked me if I wanted to also. I said when I have more, I will, dude. Ricky was cool with that. Ricky was always cool.”
“So not much into volunteering.”
“Not that he told me,” said Briggs. “To be honest, Ricky had time, he’d spend it on one thing.” Shaping an hourglass in the air.
I said, “Did he ever have a long-term relationship — girlfriend, ex-wife?”
Briggs said, “Not since I knew him.”
“He never mentioned a bad situation?”
“Never. But Ricky wasn’t much to bitch. Didn’t talk about his love life, period, just sometimes he’d come home looking happy and I’d say, ‘A hot one, huh?’ And he’d smile and give the thumbs-up.”
“Friendly guy.”
“He liked everyone,” said Briggs. “Sometimes I wondered if that would get him into trouble.”
“In what way?”
“I mean, it’s okay to be okay with people, right? But not all people are good people, right? I mean sometimes it pays to be a little... not paranoid, just a little suspicious. Watch your back, right? I had an ex-wife, right after high school. She lied and told me she was pregnant then she cheated on me, then she got to keep my truck.”
He frowned, remembering.
I said, “You’re careful but Ricky wasn’t.”
“Ricky liked everyone,” Briggs repeated. “Now look what happened.”
Milo said, “You’re thinking he got friendly with the wrong person.”
“It’s possible, no?” Briggs recrossed his legs. “I guess what I’m saying is the guy had no walls around him and sometimes you need walls.”
His hands clasped on his knees and he rocked a couple of times. “He was my friend, I don’t want talk smack about him.”
“Of course not,” said Milo. “But if you know something that helps find his killer, you need to tell us.”
“Yeah... it’s just, all this me-too shit going around. You know?”
“Ricky didn’t always treat women right.”
“He’d say he did. Because they had fun, too.”
We waited.
Look,” said Briggs, “I’m not saying he ever roofied anyone. Did a Harvey or a Cosby, that kind of thing.”
Long arms folded across his bare chest.
I said, “But...”
“But he... oh, man, don’t take this the wrong way. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” said Briggs. “He didn’t need to be a perv, chicks liked him.”
As if that mattered. Milo and I waited.
Briggs said, “I’m just saying his way wouldn’t be mine.” His cheeks ballooned. He let the air out slowly. “He liked to get them a little... relaxed. Then, once they were in the mood... already doing it... he liked to stand them up. Sometimes in... both ways, you know?”
I said, “Anal sex by surprise.”
“That makes it sound twisted, he never really forced anyone, they were already in the groove.” Briggs unlaced his hands and waved them. “It was more like... he called it shifting gears.”
“How’d his dates react?”
“He never said they had problems with it.”
“Not your thing,” said Milo.
“I mean... I like to know where I’m going so I assume a chick does, too.” Small smile. “Not that I been doing much. Between the job and hitting the waves. Also I try to do some volleyball.”
I said, “Ricky’s sport was women.”
Emphatic nod. “In school, he was never a jock, so I guess for him...”
Milo said, “What did he use to relax his dates?”
“Nothing weird,” said Briggs. “Sweet drinks, he said chicks always went for the sugar, liked to pretend they were doing 7UP or something.”
“He mixed them sweet cocktails.”
“No, he’d buy them. Getting them to try stuff during dinner. Or at the bar.”
I said, “Stuff with parasols.”
“He said little paper things.”
“He didn’t party here?”
“He brought a few home but I can’t tell you who. I’d only know the next day, I’d come home he’d be washing sheets, giving me the V-sign. Like I said, I work nights. Even on the weekend.”
Milo said, “Seven-day job.”
“Professor Van Ness needs me. Also, I need the money, got loans.” Briggs’s head dropped. “I didn’t want to talk smack about Ricky like he’s some sort of freak. He was just a friendly dude who liked to have fun.”
“Sure,” said Milo. “Okay, tell us what else you know, Jay.”
“Nothing,” said Briggs. “A couple of times, he bragged. Like the few times when we were both home. I’d be in my room, Ricky would have the door closed. I’d be getting ready to leave and he opens it, does this.”
Hushing himself with a finger on his lips.
“Someone’s sleeping.”
“Exactly. But not him. He’d open his robe and peel off his rubber and give this big smile.”
“Mission accomplished,” said Milo.
“What can I say, it made him happy,” said Briggs. “Nothing wrong with happy, right?”
“Ever see who he was with?”
“Never.”
“Deep sleepers.”
“I guess.”
“Think they were unconscious?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. I don’t want you to think of Ricky as a bad person. ’Specially now that he’s — this is freaking me out. This is the last thing I expected to hear.”
Milo said, “You okay with us seeing Ricky’s room?”
“Sure.” Briggs pushed himself upright. “You need my permission?”
“You’re the sole occupant now.”
“Yeah. That sucks.”
First door up the hall.
Moderate bedroom, small en-suite bathroom with a tub-shower combo. The walls of Rick Gurnsey’s sleeping quarters were painted maroon, the ceiling, white, the floors faded oak laminate partially covered by an imitation Persian rug. Bare-topped wicker nightstand, king bed with a white spread tucked tight, both facing a sixty-inch streaming-compatible flat-screen.
In the skimpy closet two navy suits with a Saks Fifth Avenue Men’s Store label shared space with a charcoal suit from Neiman Marcus, a black leather jacket with no label, three pairs of black, Diesel slim-cut jeans, same number of dress slacks: black, navy, cream linen. Dress shirts in blue, pink, and white. On the floor, two pairs of Nike runners, black and brown calfskin loafers, intentionally scuffed brown suede boots, red rubber beach sandals. The top shelf held a Dodgers cap, a gray knit stocking cap, and a cheap-looking panama.
The top drawer of a wicker dresser under the TV was filled with Calvin Klein briefs and socks rolled inside out. In the middle drawer, polo shirts, tees, a black silk Nat Nast bowling shirt with golden saxophones embroidered on the front.
In the bottom drawer, twelve packages of Ultra-Sleek XL ribbed and lubed condoms (“For her pleasure and yours”). One package opened, three rubbers missing.
“The simple life,” said Milo. “Long as it’s ultra-sleek and lubed.”
He checked the bathroom. White tile and towels. The toilet seat lid was shut.
Milo said, “Endearing himself to his visitors,” and opened the medicine cabinet. A couple of Speed Sticks, OTC analgesics and cold remedies, a boar-bristle shaving brush, cream from Truefitt in London, a walnut-handled razor and a week’s worth of blades. Off to the right, given its own space, sat a small blue glass canister. Milo squinted at the label, handed it to me.
Cannabis blended with “a host of other botanicals.” Inside, a waxy, fragrant paste the color of beer.
The entire top shelf was more condoms. Another ten packages.
Milo said, “His date comes in here, sees that, what’s she gonna think?”
I said, “Sounds like Ricky arranged things so they wouldn’t be thinking much.”
“Then he shifts gears.”
“A woman’s caught off guard, thinks about it later, doesn’t like the memory. Could be a motive.”
“So what about the other three victims?”
I shrugged.
He laughed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
Jay Briggs was across the hall, in his own quarters, smoking. Two-thirds the size of Gurnsey’s room, set up with a plastic carton for a nightstand and a mattress on the floor that dipped under Briggs’s weight. He’d put on a crushed-looking gray T-shirt. Piles of equally tortured-looking clothing littered the floor randomly.
Briggs stood. “Anything?”
Milo said, “Just doing our thing, Jay. I know I can trust you to stay out of Ricky’s room until our forensics crew gets here.”
“They’re coming here? When?”
“Probably sometime today, they’ll call first so give me your number, please.”
Briggs recited, Milo copied. “Thanks. They’ll also take your fingerprints.”
“Mine? What for?”
“To eliminate you from any prints we find in Ricky’s room.”
“I never went in there.”
“Then your prints won’t come up.”
“I have to do that?”
“Any reason you wouldn’t want to?” said Milo.
Briggs’s lips twisted. His eyes raced to the right, then back.
“They use a little computerized gizmo, Jay, you won’t even get your fingers dirty.”
Briggs chewed his cheek. “Here’s the thing. I’ve been busted. A long time ago. DUI. Twice.”
“Couldn’t care less, Jay.”
“But here’s the thing. Sir. I lied about it when I applied for the job with Professor Van Ness. I need the job.”
“No background check, huh?”
“They said they did,” said Briggs. “I was figuring, Oh, shit, I’m screwed. But then they hired me so I figured it didn’t come up.”
“How long ago were your busts?”
“Like... fifteen years ago.”
“Sometimes minor stuff doesn’t make it to the files, Jay. Sometimes they’re wiped off the record.”
“Really? Cool.”
“Whatever the situation, same answer: Couldn’t care less, this is about homicide.”
“Okay, sure, I’ll do it. Sure, thanks, anything to help.”
“There you go,” said Milo. “Now give us contact information for Ricky’s parents.”
“They both died,” said Briggs. “He talked about it once, some kind of accident. Then he said don’t bring it up again, just wanted you to know. ’Cause I’d asked. Right after I’d moved in. Shooting the bull, you know? I’m telling him about my family, trying to be polite, ask about his. That’s when he told me.”
“Any sibs?”
“I have four, he had none. He liked that, said he got all the attention. I told him brothers were cool, sisters could be also. I hope you analyze pretty soon. There’s bad energy floating around since you told me. Like I’m out in the water waiting for a wave, see this red tide floating toward me.”
I said, “You and Ricky both surf?”
“Nah, just me. His only sport was chicks.”
Milo said, “Where’s Ricky’s BMW?”
“We’ve got two spaces and his has been empty since Friday. Like I said I figured he’d hooked up with a hot one.”
Briggs knuckled an eye and sucked in breath. “Guess he didn’t. Once you guys leave, I’m getting out of here, too. Take a run. A walk, something.”
Milo said, “The girls Ricky brought home. Remember any names?”
“Can’t remember what I never knew, sir.”
I said, “Did he have a type?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tall, short, blond, brunette.”
“All I know was what Ricky said. White, black, Mexican, Chinese. Whichever fish were biting.”