“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.”
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.