“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?”
“Motherfucker comes in with some other motherfuckers, everything’s cool. Then motherfucker thinks he’s gonna get up and dance with the band. I tell him he ain’t, he smiles and gets off the stage, like he’s cool.”
Bowland sighed. “I’m walking him away from the stage, he starts running his mouth. But being cool, he knows I’m just doing my job, he’s been there, dude. I’m like you been there? You’re a toon, man, know whum saying?”
“He is a little guy, Bassett—can I call you Bassett?”
“Bass. Like the ale.” Bowland rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. “You do like this he could disappear, motherfucking toon.”
“So he’s cooperating with you, pretending to be friendly.”
“We keep walking, I get him past the bar, go have a drink bro, chill, he’s like I don’t drink, keep it real. Holds out his hand like this.”
He formed a power shake. “I wanna keep it cool so I do it know whum saying? Instead of shaking he gets me here.” Touching a wrist. “My fucking arm goes dead then he kicks me in the knee then he grabs me.”
“By the neck,” said Petra.
“Fucking iron claw,” said Bowland. “I’m hitting him upside the head, he’s kicking me.” Caressing a knee. “Dislocated the bone or something, I’m falling over and he’s still doing the claw. They told me he stomped my back but I’m big, you know, he didn’t break nothing.”
Rasping out the words had exhausted him. He panted, sat back hard
enough to budge the couch.
“Sneak attack,” said Petra.
“Only way he coulda done it,” said Bowland. “That’s the whole story. Now I gotta sleep.”
“Working hard?”
His reply was a yawn.
“What kind of work you do, Bass?”
“Security.”
“Where?”
“Pawnshop on Van Nuys. Persians. Gotta wear that, pay to clean it.”
“Who’d Fisk come to the club with that night?”
“Other cocksuckers. He’s gonna get his.” Lazy smile as he formed a finger gun.
“We sympathize, Bass, but we are the law, so be careful.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Bowland. “God’s gonna pay him back.”
“You’re religious?”
Bowland reached inside his T-shirt and drew out a small gold crucifix. “Everyone pays.”
“Fisk didn’t pay because you didn’t want to testify.”
Bowland didn’t answer.
“Guy did that to me, Bass, I’d want him to serve some jail time.”
Bowland appraised her slender frame. “Guy did that to you, he should get the death penalty.”
“As opposed to you?”
“I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but still—”
“What?” said Bowland. “I go to court and cry and everyone’s saying Bass is a pussy, needs the po-lice to do his game?”
He closed his eyes.
Petra said, “What else can you tell us about Fisk?”
“Nothin’.”
“Ever see him before that night?”
“Coupla times.”
“He always hang with the same people?”
“Yeah.”
“How about some names?”
“One was Rosie,” said Bowland. “The other was Blazer.”
“Rosie his girl?”
“Black guy, he deejays sometimes.”
“At Rattlesnake?”
“No.”
“Where, then?”
“Dunno.”
“How do you know he deejayed?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“Before.”
“Before Fisk attacked you.”
“Yeah.”
“You and Rosie were having a conversation.”
“We were by the stage and he was saying the band was okay but he could deejay more power by himself.”
“Ever have problems with him?”
Head shake. “Always cool.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Dunno.”
“What about Blazer?”
“Little guy, last name’s something with Pain.”
“Blazer Pain?”
“Something like that,” said Bowland.
“Black or white?”
“White. Thinks he’s a ceeleb.”
“Wants the VIP room?”
“There weren’t none at the Snake. Motherfucker just acts stupid.”
“Stupid, how?”
“Walks around like he’s all that.”
“Blazer Pain,” said Petra.
“Something like that.”
“Robert Fisk hung with these two regularly.”
“I guess.”
“You don’t know?”
“It was always crowded.”
“You were at the door, you saw who came in.”
Bowland shook his head. “Sometimes I was by the stage.”
“The night Fisk attacked you, where were you stationed?”
“The stage.”
“So you don’t know if Fisk came in with Rosie and Blazer.”
“I seen ’em inside. Rosie was with Blazer then Blazer walks away and Rosie stays by the stage. Fisk’s like watching out for Blazer, then he comes back and says he’s gonna dance.”
“Watching out for Blazer how?”
“Standing close to the motherfucker, looking like, you know.” He narrowed his eyes, bobbed his head.
“Fisk was Blazer’s bodyguard?”
Shrug.
“Blazer needs a bodyguard?”
“Maybe he thinks so.”
“Do you know of any reason for him to need a bodyguard?”
“Ask him.”
“What I meant,” said Petra, “was does he engage in illegal activities.”
“Ask him.”
“Where can we find him?”
Bowland laughed. “Maybe in toon-town.” Yawning. “Gotta sleep.”
“Why are you so tired?” she said. “Never heard of a pawnshop with a night shift.”
“Gotta be there eight in the morning.”
“Till when?”
“One,” said Bowland.
“Part-time gig,” said Petra.
“Feels like full-time. Standing around looking at the crazy shit those Persians buy.”
She stood. “Bass, was not wanting to look like a wimp the only reason you didn’t testify?”
“Yeah.”
“No other reason?”
“Like what?”
“No one paid you to stay away?”
“Someone paid me, you think I’d be standing around looking at the crazy shit those Persians buy?”
Flipping on his back, he rested his hands on a mountain of belly and stared at the ceiling.
By the time we made it to the door, he was pretending to snore.
Loud, theatrical. More volume than he was able to produce by speaking.
Outside, standing next to her Accord, Petra said, “Rosie and Blazer Pain. Maybe the gang squad will have them on the moniker list.”
I said, “Rosie’s a deejay, Robert Fisk thinks he’s a dancer, and Blazer has visions of celebrity. ‘Pain’ could be a stage name.”
“Or an S and M angle.”
“The club scene,” said Milo. “You know what goes with that. Maybe Jordan will end up as just another dope hit.”
Petra said, “Gyms, now clubs. Great. One place I don’t have to go is Rattlesnake. I checked and it closed down three months after Fisk assaulted Bowland. Most of those dives are fly-by-night. This is not going to be simple.”
I said, “There are a couple of places right on Cherokee, just off the boulevard. Walking distance to Jordan’s place.”
“Meaning it would’ve been easy for Jordan to walk over and sell or buy or whatever,” she said. “Problem is I know those places, El Bandito and Baila Baila. They’re reggaeton, a Latino crowd, white and black guys wouldn’t make it past the door.”
She checked her watch. “Got some time before the night crawlers are out, maybe Eric and I can have some dinner. What’s on your schedule, guys?”
“Nothing too complicated,” said Milo. “Gotta pick up a gun.”
“The maybe match to Lowball Armbruster,” she said. “I’m still trying to locate the slugs dug out of him. Coroner claims they have them, but all those years pass, you know how it goes.”
“No casings on record?”
“Nope, either someone picked up after themselves or it was a revolver.”
I said, “Patty’s gun was a semi-auto.”
“Would Patty be someone who’d pick up?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she said, “it’s probably nothing, tons of .22s floating around. Meanwhile, I search for Robert Fisk.”
She crossed her fingers.
Milo said, “We could all use some luck.”
CHAPTER
19
At six fifteen we pulled up in front of Tanya’s duplex. Over an hour of daylight left but the outdoor spots were on and the drapes were drawn.
The peephole on her door was covered by a tiny door. Before I knocked, it cracked an inch. A pale green eye inspected me.
“One second.” A bolt turned, then another.
She wore a pink buttondown shirt and a khaki skirt and held a plate of cookies. Big Daliesque chocolate-chip inventions, the chocolate soft and runny.
“I just got these out o
f the oven.”
Milo took one, finished it in two bites. “I like your style.”
“How about some coffee?”
While she was gone, he helped himself to another cookie. “Playing grown-up makes her feel in charge. Only reason I’m eating this is to be supportive.”
“That was my assumption from the beginning.”
He walked around the living room, parted the drapes, looked down at the street, took in the space. “Roomy.”
For a small girl.
Letting the curtains fall, he headed for the coffee table and examined Patty’s graduation photo.
Tanya returned with a mug of coffee and a wooden box. “Here it is.”
Milo wiped his hands and took the box. The interior was black foam with a gun-shaped cutout that cradled a small, blued pistol. He removed the clip. Empty. Dropped it into a Baggie and sniffed the weapon. “Oiled. Anyone use it recently?”
“Mommy took care of everything she owned, but I haven’t seen it for years.”
He shut the box, tucked it under his shoulder, reached for another cookie.
Tanya said, “You’re really not trying to match it to a specific crime?”
Milo looked at me.
I said, “An unsolved murder came up in the files. Another drug addict, a man who’d known Lester Jordan. He was shot a few blocks from your apartment on Cherokee with a .22 back when you lived there. There’s absolutely no reason to think your mom had anything to do with it. What’s more likely is this man and Jordan were both involved in a dope war. But let’s find out for sure so we can put your mind at ease.”
“My mind at ease? This is just—my God, it’s so weird!”
Milo said, “I don’t have to check if you don’t want me to.”
“No,” she said. “Do it, I want to know. Please.”
“As long as we’re here, does the name Robert Fisk mean anything to you?”
“No. Who is he?”
“An unpleasant fellow whose palm print was found on Lester Jordan’s windowsill.”
“You got him?” she said.
“No, we’re looking for him. Identifying him should speed things up.”
“Robert Fisk,” she said. “Has he killed other people?”
“Not that we know about.”
“Is there a good chance you’ll find him?”
“We’ll definitely get him.”
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