No style upgrade in Joan Blunt’s private office. A desk larger but no less utilitarian than the receptionist’s, a pair of the same stiff chairs. One window provided an eyeful of the office building across Wilshire. The desktop was clear but for two framed photos facing away from visitors. Diplomas on the wall behind the desk—her B.A. in history magna cum laude—shared space with a certificate from the U.S. Air Force.
Before our butts hit the chairs, she said, “So someone murdered Rick Gurnsey. Wouldn’t have thought it.”
Milo said, “He didn’t seem the type to get murdered?”
“Too easygoing. Does that sound ridiculous to you?”
“Of course not—”
“It probably does. I understand that anyone can get killed, I was in Iraq. What I meant was Rick always seemed utterly inoffensive. Can’t see him generating that level of hostility.”
Joan Blunt smiled. Her eyes didn’t. “You’re talking to everyone he knew?”
“Something like that.”
“Or maybe just everyone he dated?”
“That, too.”
Joan Blunt said, “So it wasn’t a street robbery or something like that, it was personal.”
We said nothing.
“Got to keep it close to the vest, huh? Now’s when you’re going to ask how I met him and the nature of our relationship?”
“That would be helpful.”
“It won’t be,” she said. “There’s notherethere. But fine, here’s the whole sordid tale: My husband cheated on me so I filed for divorce and began the process of taking as much from him as I could and bucking myself up with mindless sex.”
“Rick was—”
“A vehicle. One of several. How’d you connect him to me? His phone?”
“Yes.”
“So you know we spoke a total of—what—ten times? Making dates, breaking them, a bit of flirting, why not? The breaking was always me. Something coming up here at the office or I needed suddenly to travel. Rick was a nine-to-fiver.”
Milo said, “Where did the two of you meet?”
Joan Blunt said, “I thought I answered that. I was on the prowl, he was an easy catch.”
“That’s how. We’d like to know where.”
“Why?”
“It might help us understand Rick. His social habits.”
“You think they got him killed?”
“At this point, we’ve got more questions than answers, Ms.—Joan.”
Blunt’s smile spread slowly. A woman used to calling the shots. “Can you tell me when he was murdered?”
“Sometime Saturday morning.”
“Six days ago,” said Blunt. “And you still don’t know his habits?”
“It’s a tough case, Joan.”
