No security, either. A weathered front door opened to a linoleum foyer sour with mold that T-boned a few feet later at a brown-carpeted stairway.
Milo sniffed. “Not what you’d expect from a hotshot studio lawyer.”
I said, “Maybe he was just a gofer who padded his online résumé. Or he’s frugal and spent his dough on all that recreation.”
“Wine, women, and song, the rest foolishly.” He inspected a bank of bronze mailboxes oxidized black at the corners. Four units per floor, R. Gurnsey and J. Briggs in 3B.
Milo said, “Maybe a live-in girlfriend if we’re lucky. If we’re lottery-lucky, she’s in.”
We climbed the stairs. Now the carpeting was blue, an uninterrupted hallway ending at a blank wall.
Music from behind the door to 3B. A pro-tooled female voice exhaling over an acoustic guitar loop of C major and G major. What qualified, nowadays, as folk.
Milo gave the V-sign. “We’re buying tickets, at least scratch-offs.”
He knocked on the door.
A male voice said, “Hold on.”
The music lowered but persisted. “Who is it?”
“Police.”
The music died.
“About what?”
“Richard Gurnsey.”
“Ricky?” The door creaked and opened on a tall, shirtless, blue-eyed man in his thirties. Denim shorts rode low on his hips. Slightly taller than Milo, so at least six-four. He had bushy too-yellow hair and eyebrows to match, patchy, three-day gray-blond stubble, a burgeoning double chin. But for the neck flesh, lean, with a long-limbed beach-volleyball build. A deep tan said a mile to the sand was no obstacle.
Milo said, “Morning, sir. Lieutenant Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.” Talking as he flashed his badge.
Sometimes he chooses shiny metal because it’s a better choice initially than the business card that specifies Homicide.
The man said, “What’s up with Ricky?”
“You’re his…”
“Roommate. Jay Briggs. What’s going on?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Gurnsey’s deceased.”
Briggs’s eyes bugged. “What?”
“We’re really sorry to—”
“What?” A massive fist hammered Briggs’s right thigh, leading my gaze to knees clumped with surfer knots. “What the—what? This is totally fucked.”
“Could we come inside, Mr. Briggs?”
“You’re telling me Rick is—oh, shit, what happened?” Jay Briggs ran his hand through his hair.
Before Milo could answer, he said, “Whatever,” and stepped away from the door. It began to swing shut. I caught it and we stepped inside.
Small living room, more of the moldy sourness from the lobby. Décor was a brown corduroy couch worn bare in spots, a chipped black steamer trunk used as a coffee table, and three pine-and-burlap chairs—red, yellow, blue. The same blue carpeting as out in the hallway. On the table, crushed beer cans, empty beer bottles, a jar half filled with salsa, bags of corn chips. A paper Trader Joe’s bag crammed with more empties tilted precariously near the open entrance to a plywood kitchenette. Two surfboards stood propped in a corner. To the left, a hallway led to three open doorways.
Jay Briggs padded to the fridge, fished out a can of Heineken, popped the top, took a long deep swig, and sat cross-legged on the floor.
“What, some drunk hit him?”
Time to show him the card.
Briggs’s mouth dropped open. “Homicide? I don’t get it. Who? Where?”
“When’s the last time you saw Ricky?”
“I dunno,” said Briggs. “I guess Friday, but not for long, he was going out.”
“With who?”
“Some chick.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t say. He never said, it wasn’t like there was anyone regular.”
“Casual dating,” said Milo.
“You could call it that,” said Briggs. “More like going fishing. Ricky was always ready to fish. A lot of times he caught something.”
“Any details on his Friday night catch?”
“I don’t even know if he had anyone in mind, just that he was going out.” Briggs threw up his hands. “That was Ricky. It was like his…hobby.”
“Women.”
“He lived for ’em.” Briggs’s mouth sagged. “You’re saying he got into trouble ’cause of that?”
“We don’t know enough to say anything, yet. Was Ricky discriminating in his choices?”
“Was he a racist?” said Briggs. “No way, equal opportunity, he liked ’em all.”
I said, “Not picky.”
“About what? Looks? That depended on his HL.” Small smile. “Horniness level. Murdered? Jesus. Where did it happen?”
“Up near Benedict Canyon. You guys ever go up there?”
“We?” said Briggs. “We didn’t go places together anymore, we just roomed.”
“Anymore?”
“We knew each other in high school. I b-balled and ran the mile and Ricky covered sports for the paper.”
“Which high school?”
“Fontana High. We weren’t like tight bros but then we met up a couple years ago, bar at the beach—The Hungry Croc, now it’s called something else—had a few beers and started to conversate. I had just moved back from Tucson, had been looking for a place. Ricky said he had a two-bedroom near the beach, would never let go of it ’cause of the rent control but he didn’t need the second bedroom, I could have it cheap.”
Briggs sighed. “It’s been working out fine, he works days, I work nights. That’s what I mean by not talking much.”
He flexed big hands. “Oh, shit. I can’t handle the rent myself.”
“What do you do nights, Jay?”
“Take care of an old guy. Professor Van Ness, he’s like a hundred, can’t move but his brain’s still okay. I take care of him at night, mostly he sleeps so I can, too. Sometimes I have to change a diaper but it’s cool. I like helping people, used to assistant-coach middle school b-ball in Tucson, then the school, it was a private school, Christian school, had money problems so I decided to come back.”