“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.”
