“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 specifiesHomicide.
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 totallyfucked.”
“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?”
