Milo lurched into his office and jabbed at his desk phone. Slammed down the receiver.
“Out of service. Guess it’s no surprise someone who slaughters four people is gonna be careful.”
His eyes returned to the list. “The numbers you marked in yellow are what?”
Reed said, “I made a list of anything that comes back to a personal number, not business. Eleven numbers but one is the roommate, Briggs. I marked his R.”
He took a step into the office and pointed. “Briggs and Gurnsey don’t talk that much, last time was four days prior to the murder, which matches what he told you about Gurnsey going away for the weekend. I haven’t finished backward-booking all ten but the six I have done are females. I’ve listed them on the back.”
Milo flipped and read. “Admirably organized, kid. Finish with the last four, meanwhile I’ll start contacting.”
“Um, one more thing, L.T. I know you wanted Alicia to keep checking the stores for those tear-off ads but I already asked her to do something else and couldn’t reach her to call her off until just before you got here.”
“What’d you ask?”
“Run background on the six females. Maybe she should finish the last four?”
Milo smiled. “I defer to your initiative and judgment, Moses. Send her up when she’s got everything.”
* * *
—
Bogomil showed up twenty minutes later with a sheaf of papers. Milo and I were both in the office; no room for anyone else larger than a toddler.
I stepped out. She said, “Thanks, Doc,” and handed Milo her work product.
Milo said, “That was quick.”
“Thank God for the backward book, DMV, and the social network. No one’s invisible anymore.” She flinched. “Except our suspect, but we’ll get him, too.” Smacking a palm with a fist. “We will.”
Milo tapped the papers. “Anything interesting?”
“Ten females between the ages of twenty-eight and forty-four, residences range from Santa Monica to Pasadena. Two with DUIs, one four years ago, one six years ago, no jail time for either. Three have jobs at the studio where Gurnsey worked: couple of office managers and a human resources clerk. The others are two lawyers, an accountant, three nurses, one doctor.”
“Impressive memory, Alicia.”
Bogomil blushed. “No big deal, it’s a technique I do, drawing up categories and making a mental list.”
“Who were the DUIs?”
“The HR person and the doctor.”
“Please don’t tell me the doctor’s a neurosurgeon.”
“Didn’t check specialties, L.T. If you want I can do that.”
“No, it’s fine. Back to Roget’s ads, please.”
Bogomil saluted and left.
Milo said, “It’s so nice when the kids turn out right.”
He studied the list. “All over the city, days of driving. Think I could start with phone screens?”
I said, “If you turn the calls into psych tests.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything that surprises you. Start with how they react to being called by a detective. Then tell them you’re Homicide and see what that elicits. Step three is informing them it’s about Gurnsey, after which you probe their relationship with him. Nothing too personal: how long they dated, most recent contact, you’re trying to get a feel for what kind of guy he was. Someone who weeps too much or can’t hide her callousness would interest me immediately. But there’s no guarantee there’ll be no acting going on so you’ll want face-to-face.”
“Got it,” he said, rising and squeezing past me to the doorway. “When I’m finished, I’ll let you know. Sooner if big question marks pop up.”
Nice way to say Adios, let me do my job. Sometimes, he can be subtle.
CHAPTER
15
By Friday, ten a.m., I’d taken a four-mile run followed by a brief stroll for Blanche as a cool-down. Robin was busy in the studio, so breakfast for the other woman in my life, coffee for me as I checked my service.
Even professional screeners have trouble filtering noise and it was mostly that. Except for a call from Judge Martin Bevilacqua.
Marty was a smart, organized jurist who tried to be fair when cynicism didn’t get in the way. The custody cases I’d worked in his court had turned out as well as could be expected.
I reached him in his chambers.
“Alex.”
“Thanks for getting back to me.”
“I was intrigued. Ansar’s not your case but you’re asking about it.”
“Police work.”
“That aspect of your life, huh? Can’t let go of the excitement?”
“Keeps life interesting. I called because some murder victims were found at the Ansar property.”
“Victims, plural?” he said.
“Benedict Canyon.”
“Oh. Didn’t put it together because the news said Beverly Hills and I’ve been working Ansar long enough to know it’s L.A.”
“Minor inaccuracy.”
“Okay for the media but no such thing in my field. People hate each other they pounce on every misplaced letter. Murder, huh? Maybe it’s not a surprise. These two despise each other.” A beat. “You’re not telling me one of them was a victim?”
“No,” I said.
“Who, then?”
“It’s a strange one, Marty.”
“That aspect of your life, aren’t they all? Strange, how?”
“This needs to stay between us. Four victims with no apparent relationship to each other.”
“A gang thing?”
“Are the Ansars gang-connected?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “What their cousins do over in Afghanistan, who knows? What do you want to know about them?”
“The basics of the divorce.”
“It’s public record, you can get a transcript, Alex. But you generally don’t bullshit me so I won’t sentence you to reading thousands of pages of yakkety-yak. The gist is Matin and Ramineh Ansar have been here fifteen years, both are U.S. citizens. He’s rich from banking and real estate, she says also from graft. She’s rich from inheritance, he says also from graft. Bottom line, there’s enough money on both sides to feed the sharks so the damn thing drags on. The custody aspect’s what you’d expect. Two kids, boy, girl, they gave them American names…Dylan and Courtney. Cute little kids, four and six, mutual accusations that amount to crap because of the crap expert witnesses the sharks have hired. World War Three, obviously, is the money.”