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.”