Chapter
23
Three days later, at noon, he was at my kitchen table picking at a monumental DYI sandwich and looking deflated.
“Got the warrant and spent every damn second trying to access Boykins’s dough. Problem is, he’s got a buncha corporate entities shielding him, could take weeks to peel everything back and even then who knows? I did access a couple of checking accounts. Joint with Mrs. Boykins and relatively small-time. For him. Six grand a month. Probably for household expenses.”
I said, “No hit man allowance to go with the grocery budget.”
“Nada. Obviously, he’s too smart to leave breadcrumbs. I talked to the gang guys again, asked them for a deeper dive into his former life but the same thing came up: youthful affiliation, no violence. Any new thoughts about the kindhearted chia-munching family of O’Brien’s other victim?”
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 canliterallylook 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.
