Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 11

Chapter

11

The largest interview room at West L.A. is down the hall from Milo’s office. Not used much; detectives downstairs have their own spaces, and the cold, lab-like ambience makes it wrong for meetings with the families of victims. Talking to multiple suspects is possible, but isolating suspects is the rule and exceptions are rare.

Milo uses the place for group meetings, rolling in a couple of whiteboards, lugging chairs and long tables from wherever he finds them, furnishing boxes of pastries he picks up at a bakery in West Hollywood.

Today’s group was the two of us, Petra, Raul, the three “baby D’s” he sometimes got to work with him, and an older bald man with a white brush mustache sprouting under a sunburnt nose.

Milo and Petra stood near the whiteboards, markers in hand. The rest of us sat facing them.

Petra began by introducing the stranger as Hawes Buxby, the original investigator on the Jamarcus Parmenter murder. The retired D, eyeglasses hanging from a chain around his neck, had dressed for the occasion in a wide-lapel gray suit, royal-blue shirt, and tan tie patterned with red fleurs-de-lis.

When he heard who I was he shot me a quizzical look. The type of scrutiny you give a strange animal in a zoo.

Of the young D’s, only Sean Binchy matched Buxby’s level of formality. His suit was the usual narrow-lapel navy blue, his shirt fresh and white, his tie a Technicolor display of flamingos and palm trees. The tropical touches and Doc Martens harked back to his days as a ska-punk bass player.

Alicia Bogomil, clean-jawed, intense and sharp-eyed, long hair still blue at the tips, wore a fitted brown leather bomber jacket, black turtleneck, and skinny black slacks.

Moe Reed, chronically enlarged by power lifting, had on an unstructured charcoal sport coat sewn from a miracle fabric that stretched past the point of apparent danger, a gray T-shirt, and thigh-accommodating Barbell jeans.

Both boards were nearly filled.

The first held headshots of Marissa French, Paul O’Brien, and Jamarcus Parmenter, each topped by a question mark. A second grouping showed crime scene shots for all three victims. Marissa’s revealed where she’d been dumped. An adjacent photo showed her clothes and purse on the floor of Paul O’Brien’s bedroom.

Next to that was a blowup of Dr. Basia Lopatinski’s Cause of Death summary with gamma hydroxybutyrate and diazepam ringed in red.

O’Brien was memorialized slumped in the corner of his balcony, Jamarcus Parmenter in gold-embroidered baggy black sweats, sprawled on his back with car bumpers visible on the periphery of the photo.

Night-dimmed parking lot.

Two other images featured Parmenter as a living being: a thirteen-year-old mugshot and a six-year-old DMV portrait. Five-six, a hundred thirty-eight. Had he survived, he’d be twenty-nine.

In the arrest photo, Parmenter wore long dreads and sported flat eyes and a sullen look. In the later image, his hair was neatly clipped, tattoos brocaded his neck, and he offered a crooked, almost boyish smile. But no additional nuance in the eyes.

On the next board was a photo of a red laser beam up-slanting from Paul O’Brien’s third-floor balcony to a window on the fourth floor of the prison-like building next door. Slightly rightward of the kill-spot.

That was followed by brightly illuminated views of a white-walled, black-floored room, empty but for a trio of large water heaters, a mass of HVAC equipment, and hefty ductwork, all to the left. To the right was open space, the front wall centered by a high, square window.

Below that, photographs of two double-width gray metal doors, one ajar.

The final illustration returned to the shooter’s lair and showed the single window open, a red beam arcing down toward O’Brien’s balcony.

Petra pointed to a single yellow marker on the windowsill.

“As you can see, this is all of it forensically and even this is just a little disruption of the dust where the rifle, a bipod, or a stand may have rested. But no prints, hair, skin flakes, zero.”

Alicia said, “Too bad the guy isn’t a shedder. Would the window be high enough for him to shoot standing?”

“If he was up to five-nine, he could be upright. Taller, there’d likely be some stooping.”

“Which could throw off aim,” said Sean. “That level of accuracy, some kind of rest was probably used.”

“From that distance?” said Moe. “That and a good nightscope.”

“Even with all that, it’d take a steady hand,” said Sean.

Alicia said, “Sounds pretty professional.”

Petra said, “If you’re wondering about someone with military experience, so was I. But I checked with a few sources and verified what I already suspected: Serious military snipers prefer hollow points or bullets they customize themselves in order to maximize internal damage. That doesn’t rule out a pro who downgraded because basic equipment was all he needed. Including choice of firearm: Winchester 70 Featherweight. But why go easy if you don’t have to?”

Hawes Buxby said, “I got one of those. Featherweights. Used it for deer, back when.”

“Exactly,” said Petra. “You and a gazillion other shooters.”

Milo said, “He could’ve downgraded because he is military and wanted to distract away from it. Not that civilian means unskilled. There’s a precise element to both shootings. Leaving nothing behind and hitting the neck off center, which Basia says would’ve maximized the odds of getting the jugular, the carotid, and the trachea with one shot.”

Buxby shook his head. “I was figuring a one-off gang deal on Mr. Parmenter. Now we’ve got a slick assassin?”

“Open season on sketchy guys,” said Alicia.

Silence.

Petra broke it. “Next issue: How’d the shooter get into a full-security building? Anyone want to guess?”

Sean said, “It wasn’t that secure.”

“Bingo. Despite the locked door up front and a gate across the sub-garage, there are two service entrances.”

She tapped the photos of the wide gray doors. “This one, on the southern wall perpendicular to the entrance, was dead-bolted, but this one, on the rear wall, wasn’t. Both are key-op but the back door isn’t a dead bolt, just a latch. Which hadn’t been turned. We walked right in and this is what we found.”

Her next tap landed on a rising delivery ramp followed by a shot of a dim, cavernous space filled with cartons.

Petra said, “The ramp goes up two full stories, bypassing the garage and ending up in this cheerful place. It’s massive and windowless and a mess. Filled with the boxes you see here and here and here, along with tools, stacks of garbage cans and bags, rolls of insulation, replacement AC units.”

Raul said, “Lots of rat turds in the corners, meaning no one pays it much attention. Probably because the people using it—delivery drivers, maintenance workers—don’t stick around long enough to care.”

I said, “Is there any direct route to the main elevators?”

“Nope, Doc. But there is a big key-op freight elevator and an out-of-the-way, unmarked door to stairs that descend to a far corner of the garage. Well away from cars, so no reason for tenants to even be aware of it. But once you’re down in the garage, you can catch the tenant elevator or use the main stairs. Both of which we examined and found nothing.”

Milo said, “Know about the back door and you’ve got total access.”

“Exactly,” said Petra.

Hawes Buxby said, “How about cameras?”

Petra said, “Three. Main entrance, first-floor lobby, entrance to the parking garage. None of which would snag someone using the elevator to a floor above the lobby.”

Buxby shook his head again. “Another brand of stupid.”

Alicia said, “Can we go back to the utility room for a sec? Can it be locked from the inside?”

Petra said, “Yes, by a simple latch. But we found it unlocked and the same was true of the other utility room on the floor.”

Sean said, “Assuming the shooter locked it while he was inside, there was still a big risk. Someone tries to get in, it could get nasty.”

Petra said, “There are always risks but at that hour the chance of needing maintenance on a water heater would be low.”

Hawes Buxby cleared his throat.

Petra said, “Yes, sir.”

Buxby’s mustache smiled. “Don’t make me feel as old as I am, Buck’s fine.”

“You got it, Buck.” She winked. “ Sir. What’s the question?”

“How many units are in the building?”

“Hundred eighty-five.”

Buxby whistled.

Petra said, “Exactly. And obviously not every apartment is a single-occupancy so we could easily be talking three, four hundred people. We obtained the names on leases and rental agreements and will try to see if anyone with a violent record pops up, especially firearms violations. Raul and six uniforms and myself did door-knocks. It took all of yesterday to talk to ninety-seven people. No one seemed off and none of the vacant apartments—four to be exact—showed any signs of disruption or someone squatting without authorization. We also talked to the maintenance staff and got the same result but their histories will also be checked out. Even if we do clear everyone, it says nothing about people who’d lived or worked there in the past. Then there’s the whole issue of guests. So we’re going to lay off that approach for the time being and try to learn more about Mr. O’Brien.”

I said, “Makes sense.”

Five sets of eyes fixed on me.

I said, “Familiarity with the building is more likely the result of research on O’Brien than the shooter living or working there. Unless it was a bad-neighbor thing—some sort of prior conflict with O’Brien.”

Milo said, “O’Brien got stalked for an extended period and whoever was hunting him figured out an optimal kill-spot.”

Petra said, “That would mean his death had nothing to do with Marissa and he just happened to O.D. her the night he was targeted.”

I said, “That’s how I see it but it doesn’t rule out someone avenging another of O’Brien’s victims. Either as a paid job or getting personal.”

“So we need to concentrate on any link between O’Brien and Parmenter. Which is why Buck is here to fill us in.”

Buxby said, “And here I was thinking it was my good looks. Okay. The late Mr. Parmenter.” Frowning. “He was at a record-industry party dealie—what they call a showcase for new talent. The talent in this case was a deejay, whatever talent that involves. The party was thrown by their producer/manager who also owned the recording company. A citizen named Gerald Irwin Boykins, aka Jamal B. Another guy with Crip roots but in Boykins’s case a long time ago. He’d signed up Parmenter but not for big bucks, which apparently was his M.O.”

“Always has been in the music world,” said Sean. His voice, usually soft and mellow, had taken on an edge.

Alicia said, “Voice of experience?”

Sean blushed. “Yeah, we went through that.”

Buxby said, “Who’s ‘we’?”

“I used to be in a band.”

“That so? Which one?”

“You never heard of us—Savage Seashore—anyway, that’s the deal with most indie companies. Pay nothing or close to it and hope for the best. When there are royalties, the honest ones pay out. If the company loses money, they sometimes try to claw it back from the artists.”

“Sounds lovely,” said Buxby, fooling with the knot of his tie. “Anyway, that seems to have been the situation between Mr. Boykins and Mr. Parmenter. But. Parmenter’s alleged music never got released. When I spoke to Boykins he claimed it was because there were quality issues. Not that I could tell the difference.”

Milo smiled. “You actually listened to it.”

“Hey, suffering for the job. I was hoping a lyric would tip me off to something but it was just about having rough sex with women, why those woke types don’t get on the rappers is beyond me.”

I said, “Sexual aggression. There’s a possible link to O’Brien.”

Hurried note-taking.

Buxby said, “Someone avenging women who’ve been abused?” He scratched his scalp. “I was concentrating on Boykins, the whole business angle, and there was nothing like that on Parmenter’s history. But who knows?”

Frowning at the possibility of missing something.

Petra said, “We haven’t found any sex-crime arrests for O’Brien or Parmenter but we all know what it’s like with sexual assaults.”

Alicia said, “Women afraid to report it.”

Buxby looked at me. “You’re raising an interesting point, Doctor.” As if the zoo animal had performed an exquisite trick.

Milo said, “Okay, we’ll dig around more on both of ’em. Coupla days ago I took a calculated risk and gave O’Brien’s name to Marissa’s friends. They had no idea who he was but my bet is it’ll be circulating around the sosh platforms and maybe pull in some decent tips. Moe’s monitoring.”

“Nothing so far?” said Raul.

Reed said, “So far, we’re basically getting hearts and flowers and teddy bear messages about Marissa.”

Milo said, “Another possible link between O’Brien and Parmenter just occurred to me. Both were entertainment wannabes so a business angle can’t be ruled out. Buck, how serious of a suspect was Boykins?”

“He was my only real suspect but I can’t say I was sure of anything,” said Buxby. “There was definitely conflict the night of the murder. Parmenter made a scene at the showcase and had to be escorted out. Not exiled permanently, they told him to cool out in the alley and they’d give him a second chance. That’s what he was doing when he got shot. That and smoking weed.”

“Was he by himself?” said Alicia.

“Himself and a big joint. Guess that was his tranquilizer of choice. Not sure how soon after he stepped out it happened. But it was around forty minutes before someone found him.”

“Who was that?”

“Bartender, came out for his own smoke break. Hired for the night, like the waitress. Like everyone.”

I said, “Where was the showcase held?”

Buxby said, “Big abandoned house on Franklin east of La Brea. One of those old frame Victorians, you still got a few of them on the north side of the street. Place was scheduled for a big remodel to turn it into a B and B but no ground had been broken and the owners were renting it out.”

“Not that far from O’Brien’s place.”

Milo looked at me. “A shooter who lives nearby?”

“Lots of criminals do like to keep it local.”

Buxby said, “I was looking at Compton where Boykins lived.”

Milo turned and wrote Geographic Link? on the board, below the victims’ faces. “Where does Boykins live, Buck?”

“Back then he was in Leimert Park.”

Upscale district in South L.A. Attractive, low crime, tree-lined, predominantly affluent Black.

Raul worked his phone.

“He’s in Beverly Hills now…” His eyebrows climbed. “No surprise, sold his music company six months ago to a private equity group. For a”—he made air quotes—“ rumored thirty mil.”

Buxby’s whistle was loud and piercing. “Man, we’re all in the wrong business.”

Alicia said, “With a deal like that pending, there’d be motive for getting rid of a pest. Was Parmenter threatening to sue?”

“All I was told was he was unhappy with his deal and made a scene at the showcase.”

Raul typed some more. “Nothing between Parmenter and anyone on the civil docket.”

I said, “The threat of litigation could’ve been enough for Boykins to want to houseclean.”

Buxby said, “That’s what I figured, Doc. Even as a Crip, Boykins had never gotten busted for anything violent, but years ago he did do some burglaries and larcenies. Before discovering art.”

Moe said, “And like Doc said, O’Brien was a Hollywood hanger-on, so he could’ve also crossed paths with someone like Boykins.”

“Not as a musician,” said Sean. “But maybe as a bouncer or a bodyguard.”

“If that was the case,” said Alicia, “O’Brien could’ve been at the showcase and seen something related to Parmenter’s death and became a threat to Boykins.”

Milo said, “Twenty-two months lapsed between the murders.”

She said, “I don’t see a problem with that, L.T. Enough time for Boykins to make a few extortion payments while setting up a permanent solution. If he’d arranged the hit on Parmenter and gotten away with it, why not another one?”

Milo chewed his cheek. “Good point. Okay, Boykins definitely bears looking at.”

“Beverly Hills,” said Petra. “Closer to you than us.”

He laughed. “Happy to do it. Given my interest in the arts.”