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.”
“What comprises door work?” said Milo.
“Security. Like the fool outside. The Swede. Who obviously isn’t worth much, going to call the company, get someone who actually protects me.”
“O’Brien was a private guard?” said Milo.
“No, no, no, nothing fancy. Just stand in the door and look big.”
“Bouncer.”
“Whatever keeps out the riffraff.”
“At events,” said Milo. “Like showcases.”
Boykins’s eyes turned hard. “You do some Google shit and think youknowme?”
Milo said, “Sir. We’re trying to solve a homicide. No one’s saying you had anything to do with it but we wouldn’t be doing our job if we—”
“Didn’t barge into my house? What does drinking milk—this O’Brien, anyone—have to do with me?”
Milo showed him Jamarcus Parmenter’s DMV shot. “It’s possible his case is related to O’Brien’s.”
Boykins’s head shot forward, eyes slitting. “That piece of shit again? I’ve already been gestapoed on him. Read your own fucking files, it’s all in there, not going to add anything to what I already said. Nowgo.Get the hell out. Shut the door behind you and let the stupid Swede open the gate and don’t come back without an appointment.”
Milo said, “Who do we make an appointment with?”
“Nobody.” Boykins jammed the buds back in his ears, shut his eyes, and made a show of settling back. But one hand remained curled in a tight-knuckle fist and his shoulders remained high and stiff.
Just before we reached the door, he said, “Two lowlifes are dead. I don’t give a shit and don’t pretend you do.”
As we closed it, a higher voice: “Everything okay, Daddy?”
“Perfect, baby. Like you. Go study.”
Chapter
13
Walt Swanson was in his Camaro, the seat tilted back to recline. He thrust his arm upward through the lowered driver’s window and clicked the gate open.
As we passed through, Milo said, “No collegial bye-bye? I’m feeling unpopular.”
I said, “Good for you.”
“Meaning?”
“You did your job well.”
—
We traveled a few blocks east to Alpine Drive where he pulled over, put the car in Park, and let the motor idle.
But he didn’t idle. His eyes were active, his shoulders humped, his fingers drumming the steering wheel nonstop.
“Touchy fellow, Mr. Boykins,” he said “And now we’ve got him linked to ParmenterandO’Brien.”
I said, “If he was involved with O’Brien’s death why would he tell you he recognized him?”
