Chapter 13
Chapter
13
Walt Swanson was in his Camaro, the seat tilted back to recline. He thrust his arm upward through the lowered driver’s window and clicked the gate open.
As we passed through, Milo said, “No collegial bye-bye? I’m feeling unpopular.”
I said, “Good for you.”
“Meaning?”
“You did your job well.”
—
We traveled a few blocks east to Alpine Drive where he pulled over, put the car in Park, and let the motor idle.
But he didn’t idle. His eyes were active, his shoulders humped, his fingers drumming the steering wheel nonstop.
“Touchy fellow, Mr. Boykins,” he said “And now we’ve got him linked to Parmenter and O’Brien.”
I said, “If he was involved with O’Brien’s death why would he tell you he recognized him?”
“Maybe he figured we’d find out eventually and wanted to take some control—make it sound minimal.”
“Okay.”
“What’s the problem?”
“O’Brien’s picture didn’t set him off, as opposed to when he saw Parmenter’s. Did Buxby interview him extensively about Parmenter?”
“Why?”
“Maybe we brought back bad memories.”
“Was what we just saw Parmenter-related PTSD? Nope, nothing prolonged. There was one sit-down in Boykins’s lawyer’s office where they covered the basics, then the lawyer cut the whole thing off and that was it. Basically, the guy was untouchable.”
“Drinking milk,” I said. “What’s that, Crip-talk for murder?”
“You got it. Guy may be working hard at respectable but when he’s threatened, he digs back to his roots. And what’s more threatening than having a murder you thought you got away with reopened? Meanwhile his kid’s being tutored for the Ivy League, lots at stake.”
I said, “The Ivy League has always welcomed the offspring of dictators and robber barons.”
“Huh…anyway, I can’t eliminate Boykins for O’Brien just because he stayed cool. O’Brien’s a fresh hit, maybe Boykins had mentally prepped for a visit. Parmenter, on the other hand, was ancient history he thought was over. One more thing: Why does he need a rent-a-cop unless he’s still got ties to the bad old days?”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but when you showed him O’Brien’s picture I was looking for the slightest tell and he gave none. Not a blink. And he’s not exactly stoic, so hiding a reaction would’ve been next to impossible. To me that says Parmenter’s case may threaten him but O’Brien’s doesn’t.”
“Two victims with links to Boykins just happen to get shot with the same rifle?”
“Can you tolerate an alternative theory?”
He sighed. “What?”
“Suppose Parmenter and O’Brien were at that showcase but it wasn’t Boykins they angered, it was someone else.”
“Some random partygoer gets dissed by the two of them and takes nearly two years to finish the job?”
The time-lag issue could apply to Gerald Boykins as a dual death contractor. No sense getting into that; Milo’s shoulders had bunched higher.
I said, “Okay, alternative two: Parmenter and O’Brien were at separate events, months apart, where they got on the same person’s bad side.”
“C’mon, Alex.”
“It’s not as unlikely as it sounds. O’Brien freelanced as a bouncer and Parmenter could’ve gotten on those invitation lists Marissa’s friends talked about.”
“BeThere.com,” he said. “Tried to reach them, their headquarters are in Thailand. Talk about not keeping it local. Anyway, Parmenter being the gifted vocal artist he was, I went looking for his music like Buxby did, found only one YouTube video. Recorded live in some dive, bad sound and lighting, he’s rubbing his crotch and doing unpleasant things with the mic. The song title was ‘Fold Over Bitch.’?”
“Which could lead us right back to sex crimes by each of them.”
“Mr. Sniper’s a knight-errant avenging victims of abuse and O’Brien just happens to get nailed the night he O.D.’s his last victim? Talk about poetic justice.”
“Sometimes the stars are in alignment.”
“Not in my world, for the most part.”
I said nothing.
He said, “In the movies, I’d say good riddance to bad rubbish and not bother to work the case.”
“In the movies, cheesy music would be playing right around now.”
He cracked up. Lowered his shoulders, freed his hands from the wheel, shook himself off like a water dog. Big, heavy dog—a Newfoundland.
“Okay,” he said. “So Boykins could theoretically be clean for both shootings. Or dirty for only one of them. Or back to basics and he did pay for both.”
He rubbed his face, like washing without water. “ That clarifies matters.”
—
During the drive to the station something else came to mind. Gerald Boykins’s daughter being tutored at eleven a.m.
A homeschooling situation? If so, that could mean heavy-duty parental involvement.
Perfect like you, baby. Go study.
Some of the most engaged parents I’d seen in practice were strivers who’d never experienced the privileged youth they desperately wanted for their kids, and that fit a father who’d transitioned from thug life to a taste for Bach.
Sitting pretty in 90210 only to be felled by his own arteries.
Fearful enough about other threats to hire full-time security.
Maybe Milo was right and Gerald Boykins hadn’t managed to break completely clear of his past. Or he had, but remained fiercely protective of the domestic life he’d built.
Pretty house, pretty wife, pretty child with the brains to handle AP calculus.
Had Jamarcus Parmenter’s capital offense been coming on too strong with Keisha? Threatening some other aspect of Boykins’s carefully curated renaissance?
But even if that had fueled the hit on Parmenter, my instincts told me I was right about Paul O’Brien. Boykins had remained unfazed upon seeing his face. Unlikely to be involved.
Two separate victims, two separate motives?
United in death by one hired killer, equipped with a .308 Winchester, a steady gaze, and an ample supply of full metal jacket ammo.
—
When I got home I looked up Keisha Boykins’s social platforms and learned that until last year she’d attended the Brentwood School but was now being homeschooled due to a bout with what she called “stomach troubles.” Despite that, she’d posted only happy photos, her face graced with a wide, warm smile and supplemented by a variety of gleeful emojis.
If her posts were accurate, she’d managed to hold on to a large group of friends even after leaving school.
“Stomach troubles” could mean anything from an eating disorder to bowel disease.
Whatever the diagnosis, in the eyes of her parents, she was now a girl requiring extra care. Which could’ve heaped an extra helping of stress on Gerald Boykins’s plate.
I called Milo and told him what I’d learned.
He said, “There you go. Good-looking rich kid, O’Brien tries to get freaky with her, she tells Daddy, time to drink milk.”
“Could be.”
He said, “Hey. If you don’t want me to grasp, don’t keep handing me straws—hold on.”
I waited for a couple of minutes before he came back on.
“That was Moe, sounds like there finally might be a decent tip in the junk pile. Guy who knew O’Brien and wants to talk about it. Got an appointment lined up.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning at nine, if that works for you.”
I checked my calendar. “Free until one.”
“What happens at one?”
“Work that actually pays.”