“No-o,” she said. “And there wasn’t much of an estate. R-Two was a lovely man who’d inherited money and despite being a great CPA for other people, he didn’t care much for his own finances. With both of us working, we always had what we needed and never tapped into a blind trust set up by his grandfather. When Rolf passed we found out the trust had been funded with stupid stuff that didn’t appreciate much and that taxes had sapped most of that. So the estate amounted to a house in Hancock Park that was falling down and sold for a couple of mil, plus a few hundred thousand in miscellaneous assets. I split the proceeds down the middle with Three per the terms of the will. He’s like his dad, couldn’t give a rap about money, so it wasn’t life changing for either of us. I had my own investments for the long term and used my half to get the hell out of L.A. and buy my current place. Got it?”
“You’ve been extremely specific, ma’am.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” said Donna Batchelor. “And specifically, you should be looking at that bastard. Even if it means flying back to New York. But don’t imagine the bureaucracy you work for would ever think of funding that.”
Click.
Milo shook his head. “Why squabble over a measly two mil? Okay, looks like Dr. Rolf’s off the table. And despite what La Donna thinks about Sterling, I’m not feeling him, either.”
He yanked open the top drawer of my desk, drew out a pad of Post-its, peeled one and waved it.
“Know what this is?”
“Square One.”
He sighed. “Why do I bother?”
He’d been gone for ten minutes when I thought of something. But it didn’t solve any of his immediate problems so I put it aside.
Time to put all of it aside. I made coffee and brought it out to Robin.
Milo called just after seven p.m.
“Moe came up with a coupla unsolved .308 shootings but nothing that sounds similar — probably hunting accidents and none are within a thousand miles of here. Adding to that joy, no more sightings of creepy Mr. Hoodie skulking around Hollywood but Petra pulled up thirty-nine parking tickets from that night. Eight of the drivers have serious criminal records — how does that make you feel about tooling around our city? She’ll follow up on all of them. Raul got no sightings from any parking lot attendant, but the morning guy at a place on the east end of Hollywood that closes at ten came to work the following morning and found the chain cut.”
I said, “Our boy carries wire cutters along with his rifle?”
“Yeah, at first glance it does feel professional. Especially because that lot has no cameras and is out of the way. But on second thought, maybe not so much because it was needlessly risky. What if someone came by and found the damage and a car parked illegally? He gets towed and I.D.’d.”
“Maybe whoever did it knew it was safe because he’s familiar with that lot.”
“Back to the local thing.”
“If the chain-cutter’s our shooter, it raises the probability of him being from that area. Where’s the lot?”
“East Hollywood.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Walking from the east end to O’Brien’s place would be tough if you’re toting tools. Alternatively, he used to live there but no longer does.”
“Or the chain-cutter’s just a low-impulse scrote wanting free parking. Next item: Boykins’s finances. Slooow ride, only thing I’ve accessed so far is a seven-figure brokerage account with no withdrawals at all. Looks like he’s one of those buy-and-hold guys. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working, kiddo. If moolah’s the goal, gangsta to promoter’s the way to go and we are both in the wrong businesses. What else... oh yeah, on the off chance, I got one of our technically gifted officers to check out the dark web for supposed contract killers. No word back, so far. And that’s the day’s wrap-up, sports fans.”
His bringing up Boykins’s accounts reminded me of what I’d put aside.
I said, “Don’t want to complicate your life but if we’re right about Parmenter threatening Keisha as the motive, she’s got two parents.”
“Mrs. B’s involved?”
“Affluent people often have individual accounts.”
“Hmm, sure why not, let’s see if we can take a look at Mrs. B. Don’t even know her name. Have a nice evening.”
“You, too.”
“Rick’s on-call so I’m staying at the office to eat cold pizza and think. For what that’s worth.”
Chapter 26
A nice evening sounded like a great idea. I focused on that, placing the rifle murders in one mental box and everything else in another.
I’ve always been pretty good at compartmentalizing. A useful strategy when you’re the object of child abuse, live by the fruits of your own labor, spend years treating pediatric cancer patients, and want to segregate the horror you see at crime scenes from the rest of your life. And your lover. And your dog.
Robin, Blanche, and I enjoyed dinner and a few mindless streamed TV shows before Blanche was escorted to her crate and rewarded with a treat and we returned to the bedroom making the night even more pleasant.
I slept well initially. I usually do. But this time it only lasted until three a.m., an hour hospitable to insomnia and random thoughts. But struggling to fall back asleep wasn’t my problem. I had intentions.
Throwing on a robe, I padded out of the bedroom and walked up the hall to my office.
I use a filter to screen blue light from my computer monitor but whatever illumination remained kicked me fully alert.
Tap, tap, tap as I began the search for gerald boykins wife.
Not an elusive goal. Kiki Boykins wasn’t shy.
Blond, hazel-eyed, with Marilyn Monroe lips and hips. Ten years younger than her husband, she’d been born KarenAnne Amundsen in Palo Alto, the only child of a custodian at Stanford and a convenience store manager.
Early years as a tomboy shifted radically in the face of puberty. A few local beauty contest wins followed by a move to L.A. where she’d modeled swimsuits, lingerie, and yoga wear, then danced in music videos, attracting the attention of Jamal B.
The couple had been wed two decades ago in Las Vegas, a bond that had apparently endured free of rumor or other social blemish.
One child, Keisha, born seventeen years ago.
The devoted care Kiki Boykins gave her husband following his stroke was noted on several entertainment sites. It’s easy to be cynical when you’re dealing with that world, and money can affect coverage. But those posing as entertainment journalists mainline dirt and the Boykinses’ avoidance of even a hint of tarnish suggested earned respectability.
Kiki’s other love, after her family, was travel.
So grateful and excited to see the world God has created for all of us!!!
Pages of photographic gratitude filled her platform.
In a gondola on the Grand Canal in Venice; sitting atop an elaborately saddled elephant in Sri Lanka; pointing to the entrance of the Louvre in Paris; at the Western Wall in Jerusalem inserting a prayer message (praying for healing for G, MSD, and everyone else) between the crevices of ancient stones.
Who was MSD? Nothing came to mind and I plowed on.
What wasn’t given over to geography was devoted to Keisha. And that answered the question.
My sparkling diamond!
Straight A’s again!!!!! She didn’t get it from me. LOL.
I didn’t recall any mutual admiration on the girl’s pages but checked.
No mention of Kiki or Gerald.
Mom worshipping daughter, daughter totally ignoring her parents.