Chapter 12
Chapter
12
The meeting ended with a well-delineated division of labor.
Moe would look for prior .308 shootings and field any tips following the postings and if the quantity grew formidable, enlist Sean to help. Until then Sean would work with Alicia researching prior body dumps with any similarities to Marissa’s and return to the urgent-care facility to requestion staff.
Petra and Raul would canvass every apartment in Paul O’Brien’s building and talk to other neighbors as well as to street people to see if anyone had spotted a person of interest the night of the shooting.
“Which in Hollywood,” said Petra, “is a low bar.”
That completed, they’d do as deep a dive as possible on both O’Brien and Jamarcus Parmenter.
Buck Buxby would remain “on-call.” A euphemism that didn’t escape him. He said, “Like the bull with the smaller cojones who waits in the stall in case the real stud gets lazy.”
Milo and I would attempt to interview Gerald Irwin Boykins né Jamal B.
“Beverly Hills,” said Buxby. “There must be a lesson in there, somewhere.”
—
Wednesday at ten a.m. we set out for an address on the six hundred block of North Bedford Drive.
Milo had informed a Beverly Hills lieutenant, who’d said, “Never had any calls there but go for it, we always like to know who we’re protecting and serving.”
He’d also done background on Gerald Boykins. The former record producer and talent manager, now fifty-one, had been crime-free for sixteen years but before that had amassed a sealed juvenile file followed by a substantial criminal record.
His sheet, as Buck Buxby had said, featured no violent offenses despite Boykins’s early involvement as a Compton Crip. Nothing remotely sexual, either, nor was he a party to any lawsuits.
I said, “Same gang as Parmenter.”
Milo said, “Good basis for rapport but business trumps all.”
—
The house was a two-story English Tudor replete with half timbering, a slate roof, and enough brickwork to build a bridge. The landscaping was uninspired but impeccable. Like the overall feel of the residence, unobtrusive in this quiet, respectable patch of the Beverly Hills flats. Most of the properties on the block were open to the street. A few, including Boykins’s, were fenced and gated.
Through the gate slats, a white Land Rover, a red Bentley, and an orange Camaro were visible on a faux-cobble driveway.
Milo’s bell-push was followed by the Camaro’s driver’s door opening. A man stepped out and looked us over. Fifty-ish, tall, broad, buzz-cut, and sunburnt, he wore a black suit over a red muscle shirt. Small round-lensed eyeglasses shot sunlight back in our faces.
He stepped forward deliberately, never shifting his attention from us. When he got close enough, he removed the glasses and his eyes took on form. Small, pale, scrutinizing.
Milo flashed the badge.
The man smiled. “Figured as much. What station?”
“West L.A.”
“Worked Venice for twenty years.” Reaching into a trouser pocket, he pulled out a module and opened the gate.
When we were inside he shook our hands, his paw a rough-sanded block of hardwood.
“Walt Swanson. What’s going on, guys?”
“We’d like to talk to your boss about a case.”
“He’s not my boss,” said Swanson. “I work for an agency—Pacific Security—and they assigned me.”
“Not a fun gig?”
Swanson flashed perfectly configured but yellowed teeth. “Not if you want something to actually do. Which I don’t, so yeah, it’s okay.”
He shifted his jacket, revealing a holstered Glock. “Never used it on the job, don’t expect to use it now. He do something?”
Milo said, “Nothing says so.”
“But you want to talk to him.”
“Exactly.”
Swanson ran a finger across his lips and grinned. “We’re CIAing, got it.”
“Anything interesting about him?”
“Not so far. Maybe you’ll make him interesting.”
He unlocked the front door with a key and led us into a small, oak-paneled entry hall. Straight ahead was an oak staircase that led to the second floor. To the left was a dining room, to the right a living room.
Your basic center-hall layout. Furnished with your basic respectable, traditional furniture.
A blond-bearded man around thirty sat at the dining room table with a pretty teenage girl. On the table were textbooks, stacks of paper and pencils. No phone or device. Old-school academics?
They both looked up. He smiled. She didn’t.
Walt Swanson said, “Keep up the studying, Keisha. They’re visiting your dad.”
The young man said, “Maybe we should go back to the family room.”
Keisha bit her lip. Said, “Sure,” and collected the study materials.
“Tutoring,” said the young man, as he passed us. “Not that she needs it much.”
Keisha rolled her eyes. “AP calculus.”
The tutor said, “No worries, you’ll ace it.”
As the two of them walked around the staircase, Swanson pointed left where a heavyset gray-bearded man sat in an electric wheelchair, eyes shut, buds in his ears, iPad in his lap. A café au lait complexion was dotted with freckles. The hands were huge and still, with well-tended nails that glinted.
Listening to something that made his body sway gently.
He wore a starched, blue-striped, button-down shirt, cream silk slacks, and blue velvet bedroom slippers with gold lion’s heads embroidered on the toes.
Swanson said, “That’s his thing. Music. All day.”
Milo motioned Swanson over to the vacated dining room. On a sideboard was a gold-framed photo of Gerald Boykins, a pretty blond woman ten years his junior, and Keisha. From the girl’s age, taken five or so years ago.
Milo said, “The wife still around?”
Swanson said, “They’re married but I don’t see her much. She’s off somewhere now, don’t ask me where. Nice lady when she’s here. I think she was some sort of beauty queen.”
“What’s with the chair?”
“Some kind of stroke deal, half a year ago. Ask me, he’s not that messed up, I’ve seen him walk when he needs to. But his energy’s low so he wheels himself around a lot. Sits around mostly. Like I said, music.”
“Anything else you wanna tell us?”
“Nah, like I said, it’s super-quiet.”
“Why does he need you?”
“They don’t tell me that,” said Swanson. “I’m assuming something in his past. Or maybe he’s just nervous, being Black around here.”
Milo looked over at Gerald Boykins. “You wanna wake him up or should we?”
Swanson smiled. “I vote for you. He’ll probably get pissed off that I let you in but so be it. If they send me to another job so be that, too. If they hassle or can me, I can always go to another agency.”
“Nothing like confidence,” said Milo.
“You bet,” said Swanson. “Got the pension, anything else is gravy. And compared with the real job, this is babysitting bullshit.”
“You mentioned his past.”
“What I was told is he made his money in music, that hip-hop crap. You know the type does that. Maybe he pissed someone off. I don’t know. Or care.”
Anger had crept into his voice. Boredom can only take you so far.
Milo said, “He used to be a Compton Crip.”
Swanson’s eyes widened. “Huh, go know. He’s pretty conservative now. Politically, I mean. Sometimes he says stuff and I can’t find anything I disagree with.”
I said, “Friendly discussions.”
“Nope, no discussions,” said Swanson. “He talks, I listen. Perfect, the less anyone knows about me the better. So he was a gangster, huh? And now his kid’s getting tutored for Harvard or wherever.” He chuckled.
Milo said, “Not sure how he ranked in the gang, just that he belonged. Any pals from back then ever show up?”
“Here? Don’t think so, amigo. Only people show up are the maid, the gardener, the kid’s violin teacher, and the tutor.” Big grin. “Oh yeah, occasionally the wife.”
—
We crossed to the living room, where Milo approached Gerald Boykins and touched a shirtsleeve tentatively.
Boykins’s eyes opened slowly, as if operated by motor-driven shutters.
When they cleared, his head jerked back and he raised both fists.
Milo said, “Sorry for waking you, sir,” and showed his badge.
Boykins’s eyes remained hot but his arms dropped. His lips set grimly as he ripped the buds out of his ears. “Police? What’s the problem?”
“No problem, sir. We’re looking into a case and wondered—”
“What case? I don’t know about any cases? What’s going on ?” Boykins half rose out of the chair, sank back down looking exhausted.
For all his anger, not much volume to his protest. Big, fleshy man with a small, almost boyish voice.
He looked at Walt Swanson. “You just let them in?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind—”
Boykins’s lips curled in contempt. “You didn’t think.”
“Due to our prior discussions, sir,” said Swanson. “What you always say about being supportive of law enforcement.”
Gerald Boykins stared at him. “That doesn’t mean anyone’s free to just come in here.”
“Sorry, sir. Shall I ask them to leave?”
“No, no, just go back outside and do your job.”
“Yes, sir.”
Swanson turned and left. Shielding the smile on his face from Boykins but making sure we saw it.
The details change but upstairs-downstairs never dies.
—
When the door had hissed shut, Boykins said, “Let’s make this quick. I’m listening to great music. Want to guess what?”
Milo said, “No idea.”
“Bullshit,” said Boykins. “You’re cops so you know about me and even if you didn’t you’d see the color of my skin and assume hip-hop. Or some other jungle music.”
We said nothing.
“Not that it matters,” said Boykins, “but it’s Bach. The Cello Suites. Which you’ve probably never heard of but there are six and I’m only in the middle of Three.”
I said, “Saraband or bourrée?”
Boykins’s mouth dropped open. His smile was cold. “Look at this, a cop with culture.”
“The suites are among my favorites, too.” When I didn’t mind feeling clumsy, I tried playing them on the guitar.
“Didn’t say they were my favorites, ” Boykins snapped. “Don’t try to—don’t know why I’m even tolerating you.”
Milo said, “Again, sir, sorry for the interruption.”
Boykins waved dismissively.
Milo pulled out an enlargement of Paul O’Brien’s DMV photo.
Gerald Boykins said, “What about him?”
“You know him?”
“I know the face because I’m great with faces. He did some security work for me. Don’t remember his name, just his face. Probably never knew his name. Why are you showing that to me?”
He fooled with an earbud.
Milo said, “He got murdered.”
No movement from Boykins. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“We’re collecting data from past employers—”
“How the hell did that lead you to me?”
Milo said, “Sorry, can’t get into that.”
“Of course you can’t,” said Boykins, turning to face us. “You march in here and go all gestapo on me while I’m chilling but you can’t tell me a fu—a thing about why. Great country we live in.”
“Sir, we’re just looking for information on Mr. O’Brien.”
“O’Brien…Irish, huh? No idea about him or his tribe or anything else except he did some door work for me, lots of people work for me. Used to. When I worked. Now can you leave?”
“Just a few more questions, please? When was Mr. O’Brien in your employ?”
“He wasn’t in my employ,” said Boykins. “We hire freelancers by the job. Hired. Past tense.”
“Hire them for—”
“Events.”
“So no idea when Mr. O’Brien was hired.”
“Now I’m a calendar?”
“When’s the last time you ran an event?”
“Not for…a year and a half. But if you’re asking me when he did door work, no idea. Could be then, two, three. I just remember his face because that’s how my mind works. With faces I’m a camera. Faces and numbers, that’s my thing. My daughter’s gifted with numbers. She loves ’em, going to go places.”
Suddenly he winced and shot a hand to his right temple.
“You okay, sir?”
“No, I’m not okay, do I look fu—okay? Got the headache. You gave me the headache. Could be just muscle tension. Or the systolic—the blood pressure’s rising. Either way, you’re messing me up.”
We stood there.
Boykins said, “What are you waiting for? I told you what I know. And I still don’t get how some piece-of-shit nothing who worked for me maybe only once—as an independent contractor, like everyone we used for events—how that figures into my life now. I shouldn’ta told you, that’s what I get for being up-front. But you caught me off guard.”
“What comprises door work?” said Milo.
“Security. Like the fool outside. The Swede. Who obviously isn’t worth much, going to call the company, get someone who actually protects me.”
“O’Brien was a private guard?” said Milo.
“No, no, no, nothing fancy. Just stand in the door and look big.”
“Bouncer.”
“Whatever keeps out the riffraff.”
“At events,” said Milo. “Like showcases.”
Boykins’s eyes turned hard. “You do some Google shit and think you know me?”
Milo said, “Sir. We’re trying to solve a homicide. No one’s saying you had anything to do with it but we wouldn’t be doing our job if we—”
“Didn’t barge into my house? What does drinking milk—this O’Brien, anyone—have to do with me?”
Milo showed him Jamarcus Parmenter’s DMV shot. “It’s possible his case is related to O’Brien’s.”
Boykins’s head shot forward, eyes slitting. “That piece of shit again? I’ve already been gestapoed on him. Read your own fucking files, it’s all in there, not going to add anything to what I already said. Now go. Get the hell out. Shut the door behind you and let the stupid Swede open the gate and don’t come back without an appointment.”
Milo said, “Who do we make an appointment with?”
“Nobody.” Boykins jammed the buds back in his ears, shut his eyes, and made a show of settling back. But one hand remained curled in a tight-knuckle fist and his shoulders remained high and stiff.
Just before we reached the door, he said, “Two lowlifes are dead. I don’t give a shit and don’t pretend you do.”
As we closed it, a higher voice: “Everything okay, Daddy?”
“Perfect, baby. Like you. Go study.”