The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(9)

Walters inspected the money. His eyebrows rose. “Huh.” He teetered away.

Milo said, “He’ll probably walk all the way downtown and use my money for crank.”

I said, “Oh, you enabler.”

“Does that mean I have to attend meetings? Anyway, he didn’t add a thing.”

“He’s emotionally unstable so I don’t see him helping you in court.”

“Court? Talk about jumping guns, you just vaulted an arsenal. Yeah, so much for ol’ Eno. You know why I asked about knowing the vics.”

“The Cyril’s downtown.”

He nodded. “SRO, a dump among dumps. But Walters didn’t throw off any tells and he’s not exactly a criminal mastermind.”

He hitched his trousers. “Time to deliver some really bad news. Whose day do we ruin first?”

“Gurnsey lived the closest.”

“There you go,” he said. “Thinking efficiently.”





CHAPTER


    5


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.