CHAPTER
16
Kagan, Kiprianidos, Blunt, and Shapiro occupied one of a dozen suites on the third floor of a determinedly undistinguished steel and gray-glass building on Wilshire just west of Robertson. Cheap black carpeting, cheap white doors, Thai food aromas wafting from somewhere.
I’d looked up the firm as Milo drove. Aviation and air-transport law. No associates, just the four partners. Joan Blunt had solid qualifications: B.A. from Penn, J.D. from Berkeley.
Her website photo was the Instagram shot Milo had commented on. Accurately. Milky oval face graced by full lips, enormous blue eyes, firm, dimpled chin. All of that under luxuriant black hair.
Broad, square shoulders suggested vitality. So did her extracurricular interests: marathons and piloting jet planes with instrument certification.
Her waiting room was three stiff-backed chairs on either side of a brown-marble floor. No one waiting. Magazines filled a plastic wall rack. Chagall prints not even pretending to be real hung on three beige walls: cows, fiddlers, bemused brides floating midair.
A young ponytailed blonde in jeans and a black T-shirt looked up from a no-nonsense reception desk and smiled automatically. Behind her, more beige. The kind of wallpaper you see in hospitals because it’s easy to clean.
Milo introduced himself. The receptionist’s smile flickered and fizzled.
“Um, you called before.”
“We did.”
“I’m sorry, she’s super busy. If you want to make an appointment—”
“Not necessary, we can wait.”
“Um…it’s not necessary.”
“It is for us.”
“Um…hold on—please have a seat. Okay?”
We remained on our feet but moved back a few inches to give her the illusion of privacy. She punched an extension. Nervous eyes scanned us as she spoke softly into the receiver. Frowned.
“In a moment.”
—
A “moment” was twenty-two minutes. For the last fifteen, we’d relented and sat, thumbing throughAir & Space, Elite Traveler, Soar,andFlying.
I’d taken in a whole lot of data I’d never need—maintenance costs on a ten-year-old Gulfstream III—by the time a throaty voice said, “I have ten minutes. Come.”
Joan Blunt stood to the right of the reception desk. Perfect posture and shorter than I’d expected from the strong shoulders in her photo. Five-three, tops, a lot of it trim but no shortage of curvy torso.
Even more gorgeous than the photo. Like her receptionist, she wore jeans under a simple top—a maroon crewneck. Brown flats, no makeup, the abundant dark hair drawn back on both sides by tortoiseshell barrettes.
That level of beauty could’ve taught her to coquette her way through life. Instead, she’d worked hard and done well at good schools and learned to fly planes at five hundred miles an hour. Her posture, the authority in her voice, the functional work space, saidTake me or leaveme.
She turned to the right and began walking without waiting for us to follow.
Milo said, “Thanks for seeing us, Ms. Blunt.”
Without stopping, she said, “Joan. And you are?”
Milo always uses his rank. This time, he said, “Milo Sturgis. This is Alex.”
“Milo. Alex. Fine, let’s get this show on the road.”
—
