“If it’s not a problem.”
“I fucked Ricky so I’m a suspect,” said Joan Blunt. “May I ask why the mixed message? ‘At your leisure.’ If it’s so relevant, why dawdle?”
Milo smiled. “I’d order you to do it A-sap but if you flew combat, you outrank me militarily.”
“I flew Apaches. How high did you get and what did you do?”
“Sergeant, military police and some medic.”
A crescent of pearly teeth. “Then I expect you to salute me when you clear out of here.” She checked an orange-banded Apple Watch. “Which is now. I told you ten, you got sixteen.”
We stood. Milo took the time to get a closer look at her military certificate. I managed a peek at the two framed photos on her desk.
She said, “Historical document, Milo. I’ll get you those slips,” and left her office. By the time we caught up she was talking to the receptionist.
“Chrissy, call Hal Moskowitz and have him contact my platinum Amex account…”
No notice of our presence. We slipped out the waiting room door.
—
In the lobby, he said, “What do you think?”
“Tough woman but no tells that I noticed.”
“Same here but she could probably shoot someone without too much hesitation.”
“What was the commendation for?”
“Valor under fire. Captain Joan Sybil Blunt.”
I said, “All the more reason not to suspect her.”
“You’re invoking the patriotism defense?”
“She’s gifted at focusing. If Gurnsey was her target she’d have found a way to take him down clean, not mix her methods and add three other people to the mix. And two dogs. She owns three, two doodle types and a collie, obviously adores them.”
“How do you know that?”
“Picture on her desk. Mother, daughter, pooches in a love fest. Daughter’s a blond version of her.”
We left the building and headed for the unmarked.
“One lawyer down, time for a doctor,” he said. “Give Gurnsey credit for one thing: He was comfortable with women smarter than him.”
“No reason not to be,” I said. “Brains weren’t the organs that interested him.”
CHAPTER
17
Dr. Ellen Cerillos’s name was listed at the bottom of a ten-physician roster. Valley Oaks Women’s Wellness Center took up the ground floor of a wheat-colored building on Moorpark just east of Van Nuys Boulevard. On the second, a six-dentist group specializing in oral surgery and cosmetic reconstruction.
Joan Blunt’s waiting room had been small and silent. This space was the size of a double garage and crowded with women, several of whom held babies in their arms. A notable number of the babies squalled. That noise reduced a piped-in new-age music soundtrack to bleeps, burps, and fragments of synthesized tones.
Interesting mix of fragrances: infant-poop, zwieback, perfume, antiseptic wipes.
Heads turned as Milo and I stepped in. Stares followed us as we took our place behind an exhausted-looking woman at the reception window who appeared precariously ready to deliver. An earnest conversation continued between her and a gray-haired receptionist. Scheduled C-section, still working out insurance details. Two other women worked in the front office, both busy clicking keyboards. The only people not paying us any mind.
