“You’re the sole occupant now.”
“Yeah.Thatsucks.”
—
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.”
