The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(41)

“All those months ago?”

I said, “Was he rational to begin with?”

“Oh, God,” said Cerillos. “It can’t happen again!”

Milo said, “How about this, Doctor. The moment we find out where he is, we’ll let you know. Most probably he’s nowhere near and you’ll be reassured. Because you have wondered, right?”

Slow head shake.

“I also promise you that he’ll never know we spoke to you, Doctor. Scout’s honor.”

“Scouts,” said Cerillos. “I was a Brownie.” She exhaled twice. “Tibor Halasz. With a ‘z’ at the end.”

Milo pulled out his phone.

She said, “What are you doing?”

“Just what I said.”

“Now? You can do that? On a phone?”

“Sure can.”

“Scary,” said Cerillos. “Orwellian.” She snatched up the stethoscope.

Milo worked, I waited, Cerillos opened a drawer and applied lip balm.

He said, “Here we go. Mr. Halasz moved to Illinois and got into more trouble. Aggravated assault four years ago, nine-year sentence in a state penitentiary starting a year ago.”

“He beat up another woman?”

“Doesn’t say, Doctor. In any event, he’s in no position to bother you.”

“Or to kill Rick,” said Cerillos, dropping her head, then looking up. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“So what else can you tell us about Rick?”

“There really isn’t much to tell. Simple guy.”

I said, “Into his basic needs.”

“Very basic,” she said. “For him it was all about physicality. Which isn’t a problem if you don’t force it. And he didn’t. But at some point, if you’ve got a brain in your head, you want more. Like substantial conversation.”

“Rick didn’t supply that.”

“Never. Small talk and then…predictable, I suppose. I came to realize he did me a favor by not prolonging something that wouldn’t have gone anywhere. So I don’t resent him and I’d certainly have no reason to hurt him.”

She hung the stethoscope around her neck. “This is going to sound mean but after I got my head straight, he didn’t mean anything to me. I hadn’t thought about him at all until Agnes came in and told me why you were here. Now I do have to go.”

“Fair enough, Doctor. Here’s my card.”

Cerillos took it and scanned. “Homicide. What an ugly word.”



* * *



—

Back in the waiting room, we passed through a visual gauntlet. Nursing women shifted their babies away from us, others stared.

In the car, I said, “Nice of you to run Halasz.”

“Did it for myself. Maybe I’d actually have a suspect. But should life be easy?” He started up the car. “So what do you think about Gurnsey’s choice in women?”

I said, “Cerillos and Blunt are highly educated and extremely bright. Other than that, it doesn’t seem as if he went for a type.”

“More like who he could pick up and put against a wall. You find Cerillos any more interesting than Blunt?”

I shook my head.

“Damn,” he said. “Great minds moving in the same futile direction. How about the fact that the other women dumped Gurnsey but Gurnsey dumped Cerillos?”

“She could’ve told us different,” I said. “Maybe some of the others did.”

“Making themselves look good. Good point. Unfortunately.”

He phoned Reed, told him to add the Proud Rooster to his canvass list.

Reed said, “Sure, it’s right on the way, just finished at Shutters and Loew’s. No one remembers Gurnsey. I also called a few animal shelters, see if anyone adopted two pit mixes. Waste of time, L.T. Pits and Chihuahuas make up a big proportion of roundups, we’re talking thousands of dogs. Record keeping is sketchy and we have no idea when these two dogs were actually acquired. Plus, they could’ve come from another source—puppy-milled, bred for fighting, bought in a parking lot.”

“A dog’s life,” said Milo.

“On the bright side, Sean had good luck with Roget’s phone records, they’re coming tomorrow.”

“Fingers crossed, Moses.”

“Speaking of crosses,” said Reed, “be nice to crucify this bastard.”





CHAPTER


    18


We stopped for coffee at a diner on Moorpark near Fulton. Twenty-year-old retro refit of what had once been a chain restaurant. Two decades of paradigm shift made it an L.A. antiquity.

The place was thinly occupied and smelled of vintage grease. Pastries revolved in a slo-mo, sugar-flecked case. Milo glanced at them, contemplated, shook his head.

A middle-aged waitress in a too-tight brown dress came over smiling, took our coffee order, and straightened her lips when Milo said, “Just coffee.”

“We’ve got nice pies, boys.”

Milo glanced at the menu. “Okay, throw in a slice of your ‘famous berry-merry.’?”

“There you go, bone-apperteet.”

“Is it really famous?”