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.”