Quick didn’t keep much of an office: A small, mostly empty reception area fronted an office marked PRIVATE. The carpeting was brown, stomped glossy, the walls cheap woodite paneling. The receptionist sat behind a cheap woodite desk. She was young and thin, pretty but hard-looking, with randomly chopped hair tinted electric blue at the tips. Her makeup was thick and grayish, her lipstick, anoxic gray-blue. Curving bright azure nails were an inch long. She wore a tight white sweater over leather-look black vinyl pants and chewed gum. In front of her was a copy of Buzz Magazine. The lack of other periodicals or chairs and her surprise at our presence said visitors were infrequent.
The sight of Milo’s badge raised a penciled eyebrow, but the pulse in her neck was slow and steady.
She said, “Mr. Quick’s out of town,” in a surprisingly sultry voice.
“Where?” said Milo.
She wiggled her shoulders. “San Diego.”
“He travel a lot?”
“All the time.”
“Nice and quiet for you.”
“Uh-huh.” The blue nails tapped the magazine. No computer or typewriter in sight.
Milo said, “You’re not surprised the police want to talk to him.”
She shrugged. “Sure I am.”
“Is it the first time the police have wanted to talk to him?”
“I’ve only been working here for a couple of months.”
“Cops been here before?” said Milo.
“Nope.”
Milo showed her the photo of the blonde. She blinked hard, turned away.
“You know her?”
“Is she dead?”
“Very.”
“Don’t know her.”
“She’s the girl who died with Gavin Quick.”
“Oh.”
“You do know about Gavin.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Sad,” said Milo.
“I didn’t really know him,” she said. “Very sad.” She turned the corners of her mouth down. Trying to mean it. Her brown eyes were flat. “Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Ms. . . .”
“Angie.”
“Gavin come in here?”
“Once in a while.”
“How often, Angie?”
“Not often.”
Milo unbuttoned his jacket and edged closer to her desk. “How long have you been working here?”
“Three and a half months.”
“In three and half months, how many times did you see Gavin Quick?”
“Hmm . . . maybe three times. Could be four, but probably three.”
“What did Gavin do when he was here?”
“Went in to see Jerry—Mr. Quick. Sometimes they’d go out.”
“For lunch?”
“I guess.”
“Was it lunchtime?”
“I think it was.”
“What’d you think of Gavin, Angie?”
“He seemed like an okay guy.”
“No problems?”
She licked her lips. “No.”
“No problems at all? He was always a gentleman.”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“We’ve heard,” said Milo, “that Gavin could get pretty enthusiastic. Overly enthusiastic.”
No reply.
“Overly enthusiastic with women, Angie.”
She placed a hand on the copy of Buzz. As if preparing to take an oath. I swear on all that is hip . . .
“I never saw that. He was polite.”
“Polite,” said Milo. “And by the way, what is your last name?”
“Paul.”
“Angie Paul.”
“Yup.”
“So Mr. Quick travels a lot.”
“All the time.”
“Must get boring, just sitting around.”
“It’s okay.” She flexed her shoulders again.
Milo sidled closer to the desk. The top bit into his thigh. “Angie, did Gavin ever hit on you?”
“Why would he do that?”
“You’re an attractive woman.”
“Thanks,” she said, without inflection. “He was always polite.”
“Where’s the boss off to?”
“Somewhere in San Diego. He didn’t say.”
“He doesn’t tell you where to find him?”
“He calls in.”
“Leaving you all by yourself,” said Milo.
“I like it,” she said. “Nice and quiet.”
*
Before we left, Milo took down her North Hollywood address and phone number and driver’s license registration. Driving back to the station, he ran her through the data banks. Three years ago, Angela May Paul had been arrested for marijuana possession.
“Paxton said Quick hired sluts for secretaries,” he said. “I don’t know if ol’ Angie would qualify for that, but he’s sure not tapping the executive roster. That office of his, pretty downscale, huh?”
“Keeping the overhead low,” I said. “Eileen said he’s no tycoon.”
“She said he was hustling . . . think Angie was telling the truth about not knowing the blonde? I thought she reacted a bit to the photo, though with that stone face it was hard to tell.”