Chapter 23
Chapter
23
Three days later, at noon, he was at my kitchen table picking at a monumental DYI sandwich and looking deflated.
“Got the warrant and spent every damn second trying to access Boykins’s dough. Problem is, he’s got a buncha corporate entities shielding him, could take weeks to peel everything back and even then who knows? I did access a couple of checking accounts. Joint with Mrs. Boykins and relatively small-time. For him. Six grand a month. Probably for household expenses.”
I said, “No hit man allowance to go with the grocery budget.”
“Nada. Obviously, he’s too smart to leave breadcrumbs. I talked to the gang guys again, asked them for a deeper dive into his former life but the same thing came up: youthful affiliation, no violence. Any new thoughts about the kindhearted chia-munching family of O’Brien’s other victim?”
I smiled.
He said, “Fine, but keep an open mind.”
He lifted the sandwich. Put it down. “With that rap garbage Parmenter put out, I know his death is tied to Boykins but it’s outta reach. Like that Greek myth—the guy with the grapes dangling overhead.”
“Tantalus.”
“Me and the T-man, stymied at every turn.”
I said, “Tantalus was punished for trying to serve his own son as a course at a banquet.”
“Are you telling me there’s a moral there?”
“Just saying that’s not you.”
“Who am I, then? That idiot with the wax wings who flew too close to the sun?”
“Icarus? Nah, you’re a pretty good driver.”
He stared at me. “Was that supposed to be emotional support?”
“Nothing but.”
Sighing, he gave the sandwich a try. Savored, swallowed, took another bite, then two more before swigging a glass of water and suppressing a belch.
Successful therapy.
“So,” he said, “any ideas about anything?”
“I’d stay on Boykins but also look at Jay Sterling.”
“I already told you, can’t get paper on him, either.”
“I meant literally.”
“Ah.” Three additional bites, a napkin swab of his lips, then out came the file from his green vinyl attaché case. He paged through, jabbed a spot. “He works at home. San Vicente Boulevard, Brentwood, near the border with Santa Monica.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
“The wages of sin. Okay, let’s see if we can literally look at this guy.”
—
Jay Christopher Sterling resided and worked in a sizable white two-story Mediterranean on the north side of San Vicente Boulevard. The east–west thoroughfare is divided by a green median loved by joggers and dog-walkers. Lots of fitness on parade. Even the toy canines looked buff.
Most of the properties were fenced and gated and Sterling’s was no exception. During the drive, I’d checked and learned the place was a rental.
Milo said, “Wages of sin paid out monthly.”
His bell-push was answered by an accented female voice. “Hallo, who?”
“Police. We’re here to talk to Mr. Sterling.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Sterling,” said Milo. “The man who lives here.”
“Ohhh.”
A minute of dead air was broken by a deep male voice.
“Police? Really? What’s going on?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re working a case and your name came up.”
“What case?”
“Whitney Killeen.”
“Oh man! You finally found him?”
“Could we talk, sir?”
“You didn’t. Shit . So what do you want?”
“A few minutes of your time, Mr. Sterling.”
“Fine, fine, fine, hold on.”
The gate slid to the right with a slight clatter and we stepped into a small courtyard set up with struggling palms.
An oak door studded with oversized nail-heads swung open. Jay Sterling was in the doorway before we reached it, hands on hips, glaring.
He was tall and husky, in his mid-fifties, with silver hair faded at the sides and clipped short on top. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain. He wore a charcoal sweatsuit that draped beautifully and might’ve been cashmere. Pale feet were bare, ending in manicured toenails. Same for his fingernails. A ruddy face featuring high-wattage true-blue eyes was shaved glossy. As we got closer, the aroma of a citrus-based cologne asserted itself.
“Total letdown,” he said. “I was hoping you finally found him.”
Milo said, “Him.”
“The fucking asshole who killed her. What’s your name by the way? And how about some I.D.”
Milo flashed the badge. “I’m Lieutenant Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.”
“Lieutenant?” said Jay Sterling. “That mean Whitney’s finally being taken seriously after two fucking years?”
“You feel she wasn’t?”
“I don’t feel, I know—you’re Ventura County, right?”
“LAPD.”
Sterling squinted. “Well that’s good, I guess. The Ventura guys were clowns. But why LAPD? I don’t get it.”
“Could we come in?”
“Place is a mess but sure. Been here nine weeks, finally scored a cleaner but she’s no great shakes.”
—
Inside, the house was spacious with whitewashed walls, Mexican tile flooring, and high vaulted ceilings crossed by hand-hewn oak beams. The only visible furniture was a pair of brown Ultrasuede couches facing each other at a careless angle. Cardboard shipping crates stacked four-high filled an entire wall. Across the room, brightly colored plastic kids’ vehicles took up a generous chunk of floor space.
Said cleaner was young and skittish as a colt, avoiding eye contact as she repetitively swept an empty corner.
Jay Sterling frowned. “There’s nothing there, go upstairs and vacuum both bedrooms. Especially Jarrod’s, he’s allergic to dust mites.”
Biting her lip, the woman hurried up a curving staircase.
Sterling said, “You let her, she does the same thing over and over, total OCD. Finding competent help’s the bane of my existence. This one won’t last, you blink the wrong way she gets all teary. Got her from my mom, her maid is this one’s aunt. Great lady but this one’s a ninny. C’mon, sit.” He took the left-hand couch and we faced him.
Milo said, “Nine weeks.”
“I know what it looks like, it should be set up by now. But most of my shit didn’t arrive until two weeks ago and I’ve concentrated on getting set up for my kid and my office. The whole move took me by surprise, first they ship me to the Big Apple, then sorry, Jay, back to La La Land.”
“What business are you in?”
“ Shmaates, ” said Sterling. “That’s Yiddish for the rag trade. I’m not. Of the Semitic persuasion. But that’s what we call it. My bosses are Taiwanese and the company’s Japanese.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s a whole different story.”
I said, “The company moved you back suddenly.”
“Yup,” he said. “Big Apple’s a mess but the vibe can be good if you know where to find it. I had a nice place on the Upper West Side and the bonus was my two older kids are in college there, NYU and the New School. Not that I saw them much, but still.”
He threw up his hands and dropped them to his lap. “Got to admit, I have a bad feeling about the whole deal. The move. Supposedly they want me closer to Asia again but I’m pretty sure they’re going to dump me. Fine with me, plenty of other fish in the sea, I might quit first.”
He waved a hand. “You don’t give a shit about any of this. You’re here about Whitney. That’s good. I hope.”
His voice faltered. Water had collected around bright-blue irises. He swiped quickly.
I said, “You feel Ventura Sheriff’s didn’t take her case seriously?”
“I don’t feel, I know. C’mon, a woman’s murdered, who’re you going to talk to? The love interest. Aka me. Yeah, I was in New York but you’d think they’d do more than a five-minute phone conversation.”
“That was it?” said Milo.
“That was it,” said Sterling. “No follow-up, either, and when I called them for updates they had nothing to say.”
He crossed and uncrossed his legs. “In the beginning, I was totally freaked out. Whitney dying was bad enough but what’s to say some fucking head-case isn’t going to come after me? Plus I was totally freaked out about what my little guy went through. I assume you know about that.”
“Jarrod left in the boat.”
“Miracle he didn’t drown or freeze to death.” Sterling shivered. “I had nightmares, thinking about what could’ve been. Moment I was notified, I took the first red-eye out to L.A., drove straight to Camarillo, and liberated him from this Kiddie Jail where they put him. Took him to the pediatrician Whitney used, got the okay, and flew straight back to the B.A.”
Milo said, “Kiddie Jail?”
“County facility,” said Sterling. “Alleged safekeeping for toddlers. Jarr-o looked okay physically but he was totally blitzed emotionally and when he saw me he latched onto me like one of those monkeys you see in those nature shows my twins used to watch. For a long time he was quiet, spaced out, waking up in the middle of the night. Couple of years later, he’s okay. I got him into a Montessori preschool not far from here, very highly rated. I had my mom check, she used to be a teacher and she gave the thumbs-up. So he seems okay. For the most part. But sitting in that fucking boat for what, an hour?”
He rolled his hands into fists. “If I knew who was behind it, I’d…not going to say what I’d do.”
Milo said, “Horrible situation.”
“Beyond horrible,” said Sterling. “So why’s LAPD all of a sudden involved?”
“Whitney’s murder may be related to one of ours.”
“How so?”
“Sorry, sir, can’t get into that.”
“Yeah, yeah, got it. But the truth is, I don’t have any more to tell you than I would’ve with those clowns if they had talked to me. So sorry if you wasted your time.”
I said, “Could you tell us about the relationship between Whitney and yourself?”
“Not relevant, but sure, why not?” said Sterling. Another attempt at a leg-cross. Another reversal. Finding it difficult to get comfortable. He swung his legs up and lay across the couch.
“Like at the shrink’s office,” he said. “Our relationship, such as it was, started when Whitney came to do the books at the company. They tell me a CPA’s coming, I’m expecting some mumbly bald dude and she walks in. I assume you’ve seen pictures of her.”
“We have.”
“So you know. Gorgeous. Hotter than hot. But different from your typical L.A. woman. Like she didn’t care about being hot. Later I found, she just didn’t care what you thought of her, period. She was different from the get-go. All business, no flirty-flirt. But man, I was smitten. I’d been divorced for twelve years, first wife’s the typical L.A. woman, probably running up a major-league Botox bill on the sucker she snagged. Not that Whitney needed Botox. She was young. Fresh. I just fell, man. I was hers, whatever she wanted.”
He sniffed. Dried his eyes again. “First CPA thing visit, I held back. Second, I asked her out and she said yes. Like she’d been expecting it. I’m planning to take it slow, be a gentleman, she’s clearly one of those who needs time. But she didn’t. That night was…her idea, she ran the whole show. I assumed she was taking birth control, why wouldn’t I? Turns out Jarrod was conceived that night. She didn’t tell me for a couple of months. When she did obviously I was freaked out but happy. ’Cause I was really into her. And she seemed into me. Then she wasn’t. Why? She wouldn’t say. It was like a switch got flipped. You’re on, Jay, now you’re off. By then I realized how different she really was. Personality-wise. Not into expressing her feelings. Icy calm. If she wasn’t so hot she’d be tagged as a nerd. Even with that, basically a loner.”
“When you broke up,” I said, “was she still pregnant?”
“Yup, seven months,” said Sterling. “And we didn’t break up. She dumped me. Just stopped taking my calls. I thought it might be hormones, once she had the kid it would change. But it didn’t. She never wavered. That was Whitney, once she made up her mind, don’t waste your breath.”
“Was child support—”
“Not an issue, my friend. I’d been paying for the twins for twelve years, never missed a month, am still footing their tuition. So what was another kid? Problem was, Whitney started out letting me see Jarr-o, then she flipped another switch. Canceling appointments, changing her number and not giving it to me. I go by her apartment, no answer. I’m like what the fuck’s going on? Is she isolating him or something? Then I started to think, she’s different, maybe she wants Jarrod to be different in the same way.”
“Not social.”
“Totally asocial. I’m telling you, she had no friends, not a one. Said she hated her mother. Which I couldn’t relate to, I love my mother. I’ve got tons of friends. I didn’t want my son brought up to be a loner weirdo, so I called my attorney and he got me a good family lawyer and I sued to get joint custody, physical and legal—there’s a difference. Then when I found out I was moving to the Big Apple, I amended it to full custody. Lawyer said I didn’t have much chance but I could probably get joint and because Jarrod was so young, there could be mandated transportation.”
He swung back to a sitting position. “It went on for nearly two years. And that’s where it stood when it happened. See what I mean about sending in the clowns?”
Milo said, “Not exactly.”
“C’mon,” said Jay Sterling. “Custody battle, one party gets mysteriously killed and the other ends up with the kid? You wouldn’t suspect me? You’d be happy with a five-minute phone call and no follow-up?” He shook his head. “You say yes, please leave.”
“You wanted to be investigated thoroughly.”
“It’s not a matter of that. Lieutenant.” As if unsure the title was merited. “I had nothing to do with it but at least try, okay? Then I know you’re going to be trying every other thing.”
“Makes sense,” said Milo. “So you’re okay with letting us examine your financial records.”
“Don’t you need a court order or something for that?”
“Not if you voluntarily grant permission.” Milo tapped his attaché case. “We could write up a release, here and now.”
“Financial records,” said Sterling, shifting his body back and forth. “What exactly are we talking about?”
“Bank and brokerage accounts, anything else that might produce interesting withdrawals.”
“To pay someone to shoot my girlfriend? I’m that kind of murderous fuckhead, I’m going to leave a trail?”
Milo smiled. “How would you go about it, then? Speaking theoretically.”
“I don’t know,” said Sterling. “Because I’ve never hired anyone to shoot anyone, including Whitney. But sure, you want to look at my finances, go right ahead. Give me your form and I’ll sign it right now.”
Snapping open the case, Milo drew out a sheet of paper and used the hard top as a writing surface. A few minutes later, he was up on his feet and handing the sheet to Sterling.
Sterling lifted his glasses, perched them on his nose, and read. “This is it? No official form?”
“No need to get complicated, sir.”
“You’re right about that, Lieutenant.” No doubt about the title now. Jay Sterling was grinning. “I think I could possibly like you. I think if anyone can figure out who the fuck shot Whitney it could possibly be you.”
He scrawled, held out the paper. “Signed and dated, do your thing.”
Milo said, “Please list all your accounts at the bottom.”
“It’s not like there’s a collection of them,” said Sterling. “Got a checking at Chase and a brokerage dealie at Morgan Stanley.”
“Please supply the account numbers.”
“You think I know those by heart? Hold on.” He stood, grimaced in pain, muttered, “Bursitis,” and went up the stairs, gripping the banister. Several minutes passed, during which the sound of Sterling’s deep voice filtered down. Lecturing about the fine points of vacuuming.
He returned with a pale-blue Post-it that he handed to Milo along with the impromptu release.
“Ms. OCD, found her doing the same thing up there. Dusting one spot over and over.”
Milo said, “Thanks, sir,” and placed the papers back in the attaché case.
“That briefcase thingie of yours,” said Sterling. “Haven’t seen one of those since I was in junior high. You’re old-school, huh?”
“Whatever works, sir.”
“Sir. That’s old-school. I called my friends’ dads ‘sir.’ My kids’ friends call me Jay.”
I said, “Who do you think might’ve murdered Whitney?”
Sterling’s head drew back. “Back to business? Good idea, I’m running my mouth. No idea. Not a clue.”
“Was there a love interest before you? Someone who could’ve been jealous?”
“Same answer,” said Sterling.
“No knowledge at all.”
“None. Like I said, Whitney never talked about her past. About herself, period. Maybe I’m not getting it across: She was different. Okay, weird. Gorgeous and hot but icy when she wasn’t having sex. Most girls after they do it, they want some affection, right? Whitney? She’d go pee and not want to talk. When I was mad at her I’d think, ‘You are strangely wired, girl.’ But I never said it.” He sighed. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”
I said, “You can’t think of anyone who might’ve resented her.”
“Not saying there wasn’t anyone,” said Jay Sterling. “Just that I don’t know about them. That’s your job. Finding out. Hope you do. Want to one day be able to tell my little man Jarr-o a story with some kind of ending.”