“Okay,” he said. “So Boykins could theoretically be clean for bothshootings. Or dirty for only one of them. Or back to basics and he did pay for both.”
He rubbed his face, like washing without water. “Thatclarifies matters.”
—
During the drive to the station something else came to mind. Gerald Boykins’s daughter being tutored at eleven a.m.
A homeschooling situation? If so, that could mean heavy-duty parental involvement.
Perfect like you, baby. Go study.
Some of the most engaged parents I’d seen in practice were strivers who’d never experienced the privileged youth they desperately wanted for their kids, and that fit a father who’d transitioned from thug life to a taste for Bach.
Sitting pretty in 90210 only to be felled by his own arteries.
Fearful enough about other threats to hire full-time security.
Maybe Milo was right and Gerald Boykins hadn’t managed to break completely clear of his past. Or he had, but remained fiercely protective of the domestic life he’d built.
Pretty house, pretty wife, pretty child with the brains to handle AP calculus.
Had Jamarcus Parmenter’s capital offense been coming on too strong with Keisha? Threatening some other aspect of Boykins’s carefully curated renaissance?
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 butwas 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?”
