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.”
Chapter 14
Thursday at eight fifty a.m., I met Milo on Sunset Boulevard just east of San Vicente in the heart of the Strip.
Like any district that feeds on nightlife, the Strip turns tawdry in daylight. I’ve always imagined that as the street’s empathy with the clubs, bars, and comedy stores that sadden when the sun threatens.
L.A. was streaming another episode of blue skies and crisp air and that helped a bit. But when we entered the Tidy Tavern things got predictably dingy.
The place was narrow, dim, devoid of customers. Tables and chairs were scattered randomly, as if pushed aside in haste. The blue vinyl floor was speckled with trash. A broom and dustpan leaned against a wall painted a repellent, lumpy red-brown.
Before we’d stepped in, Milo had shown me a photo of the man we were meeting. That turned out to be unnecessary. He was the only one in the room, standing behind the bar wiping the cloudy top sluggishly.
He heard us, then saw us. His mouth opened and formed a cartoonish oval. The rag in his hand began making frantic circles.
His name was Martin Kehoe and he’d changed his mind about talking to the police, phoning Milo at six thirty a.m. to say so.
Milo had ignored the message.
“Mr. Kehoe? Lieutenant Sturgis.”
Kehoe said, “Oh no.”
We took stools at the bar. Mine was rickety. Milo’s seemed secure. Or maybe burdened into immobility. He’d bellied up, doing his best to enter Martin Kehoe’s personal space.
“Oh no, what, sir?”
“I don’t want to do this. I called.”
“When was that, sir?”
“Early,” said Martin Kehoe. “Like six thirty.”
Milo said, “By then I was out in the field. Sorry for the inconvenience but as long as we made the trip, why don’t you tell us what’s on your mind.”
“Nothing,” said Kehoe. Even a bass voice can sound small when tremoloed by anxiety.
We gave him time to think. He used the opportunity to grip the rag tighter, creating white knuckles the size of brussels sprouts.
Big, broad man, with the same kind of bulk as Paul O’Brien. Unlike O’Brien he made no effort to show it off. Just the opposite; he wore a baggy white button-down shirt with the sleeves buttoned at the wrists.
The same diffidence applied to his cranium. When men lose their hair young they often shave their heads rather than emphasize pattern baldness. I’d scanned Kehoe’s license and knew him to be thirty-eight. His dome was bare except where it was girdled by gray-flecked brown fuzz. What some of my patients call the Dad Look.
Kehoe’s rough-hewn face was shelved by a huge chin and fronted by a beak that supported steel-framed eyeglasses. Wrinkles had set long enough ago to deepen.
Not yet forty but aging quickly. Our drop-by wasn’t helping matters.
He shrank back as Milo leaned in further. “Really, sir. It’s a mistake.”
“Hmm. I’m confused, Mr. Kehoe. You phoned and said you had important information about Paul O’Brien.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
Kehoe transferred the bar rag to his other hand, half turned, and pretended to study a mirrored wall full of bottles.
“Before what, sir?” said Milo.
“Before I talked to my girlfriend,” said Kehoe, swiveling back but avoiding eye contact.
“She said you shouldn’t talk to us.”
“She watches all those true-crime shows, reads crap on the internet. She said even when you’re trying to be righteous it can come back to bite you in the ass.”
“How so, Mr. Kehoe?”
“The person who comes forward. You know.”
“Know what, sir?”
Kehoe turned back to us. “They sometimes get suspected.”
“Your girlfriend told you that.”
“Caitlin’s smart.”
“I’m sure she is,” said Milo. “And what she said has some truth to it. But it doesn’t apply to people with the good sense and the moral fiber to phone in tips.”
Martin Kehoe took no comfort from the compliment. “Whatever.”
“What Caitlin’s talking about can happen when someone finds a body in a strange way. Or when a person injects themselves way too much into an investigation.”
“Whatever.”
“Honestly, Martin — can I call you that?”
“Marty.”
“I’m being straight with you, Marty.”
“Sure, yeah... but... I really don’t think I have anything. I was just trying to be helpful when I heard.”
“About Paul O’Brien.”
“Yeah,” said Kehoe.
“You were friends with Paul.”
“Not really... we used to room together. He owes me money. That’s how I found out.”
“That he’d been murdered.”
Kehoe winced. “Caitlin’s been telling me I should call him, tell him to finally pay up. I called but he didn’t answer so she went online to find out if he’d moved somewhere and it was there. What happened. What he did.”
The door to the bar swung open, letting in light and noise before hissing shut. A small, bandy-legged man limped in waving his arms and shouting.
“Life is marvelous, Marty Martian! Here’s your chance to make it stupendous!”
Kehoe reached into his pocket and drew out a ten.
Milo gave me a small nod and I took the bill from between Kehoe’s fingers and walked toward the new arrival. As I got near, his aroma took over. Months of unwashed laundry mixed with long-term avoidance of dental care.
I gave him the money.
“Who’re you?”
Milo said, “Someone making Marty’s life easier.”
“Oh. Good for you, man, good for you. He makes my life easier. I’m putting him up for saintliness at the Vatican. Even though I’m a Martin Lutheran.”
A brief staring contest ensued. Milo won and the man tottered out.