“No parole officer?”
“Clean release, no parole.”
“Sounds more like a parking violation than choking someone out.”
“Fisk had no priors, and given Bassett Bowland’s size I suppose a case could be made for self-defense.”
“No priors,” said Milo. “A guy that aggressive stays clean for twenty-eight years?”
“Or doesn’t get caught,” I said.
Petra shadowboxed. “Maybe he channeled his aggressiveness.”
Milo said, “He channels, then all of a sudden he’s choking Bowland and a year later he’s a murderer.”
I said, “Maybe all it took was meeting the right person. Someone who needed a job done and was willing to pay.”
Petra nodded. “I like that.”
“From the way Jordan died-sitting there, no struggle-he was stoned or not alarmed seeing Fisk.”
Milo said, “Fisk crawls through the window and Jordan’s not alarmed?”
“Maybe someone else let Fisk in.”
“The contractor,” said Petra. “Maybe Jordan’s dealer. He supplies Jordan, Jordan fixes up, zones out heavily. Would’ve been easy enough to go to the bedroom, crack the window. Fisk is waiting by the side of the building, climbs in, sneaks behind Jordan, and slips the cord.”
No one spoke for a while.
Milo said, “Whose body did Fisk guard?”
“Gold’s notes just say he described himself as a bodyguard. And Gold is retired, traveling somewhere in Southeast Asia. Guess it’s time to start visiting gyms and yoga classes, what a drag.”
“You don’t like exercise, either?”
“All those automatons in spandex running nowhere fast, idiots thinking they’re never going to die? Spare me.”
“I’d take you for a runner, kid.”
“What, because I’m bony? Genetics, sir. You should see my brothers, all rails. Except for Bruce, who’s spreading a little, claims it’s creative individualism.”
Milo patted his gut. “Luck of the draw.”
“That and anxiety,” said Petra. “Getting too wound up to eat helps.”
“You wound up over Fisk?”
“I’d like to have him in that chair.” She slid the report back, placed it in a thin blue file. “Now it’s your turn to show and tell, guys. What’s the story on my victim and your nurse? Give me the long version.”
When we finished, she said, “Your dredging up the past is threatening someone big-time? Something to do with the Bedards?”
“Rich folk pay others to do their dirty work,” said Milo.
Petra traced the outline of one smooth, black eyebrow. “Maybe Fisk’s easy plea-down was more than Bowland being too embarrassed to testify.”
“Paid off to keep his mouth shut,” said Milo.
“If the Bedards are behind this, they just had one of their own killed.”
I said, “One of Mrs. Bedard’s own. She and hubby are long divorced.”
“Meaning Mister could be behind it,” she said. “But Missus owns the building. How would her ex know you’d been there to talk to Jordan? And if Missus has been out of Mister’s hair for a while, why would he care?”
Silence.
Milo said, “Maybe we’re way off base. Jordan was no charmer. Guy like that could tick off lots of people.”
“On the other hand,” said Petra, “there’s ticking off and there’s setting yourself up as the target of a hit.” She turned to me. “What bothers me is that with a junkie like Jordan, it would’ve been easy to fake a burglary gone bad. Open drawers, toss stuff around. Instead, Fisk cleans up nicely except for one palm print, leaves a grand’s worth of heroin under Jordan’s skivvies. Leaves Jordan sitting there with a curtain cord around his neck and the music blasting. Making sure Jordan’s going to be discovered. This was a message hit.”
She frowned. “Generic curtain cord, by the way. No forensic possibilities, there.”
Opening the blue folder, she drew out a crime scene photo, studied it, pushed it across the table.
Lester Jordan, slumped on the toilet. I’d witnessed the reality but in some ways the snap was more brutal.
“Given Fisk’s rabbit,” she said, “I’m thinking we should talk to someone who’s seen his dark side.”
“Mr. Too-embarassed-to-testify,” said Milo.
“Him I do have a current address on, North Hollywood. I tried his number. A male voice answered, kind of hoarse, and I hung up. How say we subject Mr. Bowland to additional humiliation?”
Milo said, “I could use some recreation.”
Petra said, “As long as we don’t have to wear sweats.”
CHAPTER 18
Bassett Bowland lived in a white, three-story apartment complex on Laurel Canyon, just south of Saticoy. That far north, Laurel ceases to be a leafy canyon and devolves to a noisy, smoggy mixture of low-rent commercial businesses and housing to match.
Sparkles embedded in the stucco gave the building the look of a Styrofoam cooler. A sign in front said units could be rented by the month. A ten-year-old brown Camaro in the rear carport matched Bowland’s DMV registration. His single was on the top floor, just off an open stairwell.
Petra pushed his doorbell. The resulting buzz was barely audible over traffic noise.
Just as she was about to try again, the door opened, and the space filled with flesh.
A refrigerator with limbs whispered, “Huh?”
“Bassett Bowland?”
“Yuh.”
“Detective Connor. This is Lieutenant Sturgis and Alex Delaware.”
Bowland rubbed the front of his neck and curled his mouth. Puffy cheeks inflated to grapefruit size nearly blocked out his eyes.
Pink grapefruit; his skin tone was Permanent Sunburn. Limp, bleached-blond hair fringed his shoulders. Porcine features belonged on a much smaller man. He wore a black System of a Down T-shirt, frayed red shorts, no shoes.
Not much older than Kyle Bedard but he hunched like an old man.
“May we come in?”
Bowland coughed, didn’t bother to cover his mouth. His raspy “I guess” was overpowered by the traffic.
The apartment was the usual lonely-guy combo of cheap furniture and wide-screen TV. The set was on mute. ESPN Classic, the L.A. Rams getting walloped by Dallas. It’s been a long time since Los Angeles has rooted for a home team.
Bowland glanced at the score, yawned, and dropped onto a black leatherette couch. A half-gallon carton of milk stood on the blue plastic counter of the kitchenette, spout open. A huge olive-green uniform hung from the knob of a kitchen cabinet. Military pockets, epaulets.
Petra said, “We’d like to talk to you about Robert Fisk.”
Piggy eyes jumped. “Whu for?” Even with the door closed and the traffic noise dimmed, his voice lacked volume.
“He’s a suspect in a crime and we’re doing background.”
“Little shit. Who’d he cold-cock this time?” Managing no more than a phlegmy whisper, each word taking effort.
“A guy in Hollywood,” said Petra. “Fisk’s a dirty fighter?”
“Cocksucker,” said Bowland. “Motherfucking cocksucker dipshit.” A melon fist pounded a catcher’s-mitt palm. Bowland’s arms and torso jiggled.
“What did the two of you fight about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He jumped me.”
“Tell us about it.”
Bowland breathed in through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. “I was working. Bouncer.”
“At Rattlesnake,” said Petra.
“That’s what they called it that week.” Another pause for breath. Bowland touched the front of his throat. “Still hurts. Motherfucker. Tell me where he’s at and you don’t need to waste no time.”
Holding up a fist. Jumpy eyes tuned machismo down to pathetic.
“Don’t blame you for feeling that way,” said Petra, sitting next to him. He screwed up his lips, ran his tongue under one cheek. Each of his thighs was as broad as her body. “So you were working at Rattlesnake and then what happened?”