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.
