Leaving suspects alone sometimes gives up the best information. People who forget they’re being taped, or are too stupid to know it in the first place, talk to themselves, display anxiety they were able to mask during the interrogation. Sometimes detectives leave suspects’ cell phones in the room and monitor calls. The Motorola paid for by Mary Whitbread sat on the table.
During the half hour Robert Fisk was alone, he never touched it. Closed his eyes five minutes in, and went to sleep.
Raul Biro returned from the all-night market, glanced through the glass, and said, “Zen felon.”
Petra said, “You need a conscience for insomnia.”
She and Milo and I had been reviewing Fisk’s story. Unanimous conclusion: His strength and assaultive nature said he’d strangled Lester Jordan at Blaise De Paine’s behest, probably Moses Grant, as well. All the rest was the typical criminal dance-away.
Clumsy dance; he’d given away enough to be vulnerable on a dozen felony charges.
When Petra and Raul reentered the room, Fisk sat up, took the juice and the granola bar. Thanking both detectives by name and title, he drank, munched, folded the wrapper into a neat little square.
“That do the trick, Robert?” said Petra.
“Yes, thank you.”
“My pleasure, Robert. So why’d you strangle Lester Jordan?”
“I didn’t, he did.”
“Peterson Whitbread.”
“To me he was always Blaise.”
“What does his mother call him?”
Fisk smiled. “Mostly, ‘the little shit.’”
Raul Biro said, “Papa beats him and Mama doesn’t care.”
“He’s been giving her stress since day one,” said Fisk. “That’s how I met him, she wanted me to babysit him.”
Petra said, “Mary paid you to watch over Blaise?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Hundred here, hundred there.”
“Cash?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you and Mary meet?”
Fisk rolled his shoulders. “I was working out five times a week at The Steel Mill, Santa Monica and La Cienega. Guys there were always talking about how much money they were making doing adult-genre films. Directors like guys with cut bodies.”
Stroking his own forearm.
“Adult genre,” said Petra.
Fisk nodded. “I was between teaching jobs, some guy at the gym says they’re auditioning out in the Valley, I figured why not? Mary was there.”
“Mary was auditioning also?”
“No, running the audition. With some other guys.”
Petra checked her notes. “Was the company Righteous and Raw Productions?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of teaching jobs were you in between?”
“Yoga, aerobics, tae kwon do, kendo, Javanese spear, judo, you name it. My ultimate goal is to be a fight coordinator.”
Milo said, “Idiot’s still talking in the present tense.”
Petra said, “A fight coordinator like for the movies?”
“Fights don’t just happen,” said Fisk. “You’ve got to set them up.”
“Choreography.”
“Kind of.”
“So,” said Petra, “you auditioned for Mary. Get the job?”
Color seeped up Fisk’s neck, made its way to flat, static cheeks. “I changed my mind.”
“Adult genre wasn’t for you.”
“Not really.”
Petra said, “But you hooked up with Mary.”
Fisk said, “It started off as a training thing. I got her into advanced stretching, light weights, balance and posture. Cardio she already did on her treadmill. She’s in great shape for forty-seven.”
Mary Whitbread’s stats put her at fifty-three.
Petra said, “She is a very attractive woman, Robert. So the two of you developed a sexual relationship.”
“Not really,” said Fisk.
“Robert, we found you guys in bed.”
“There was sex but it wasn’t primarily sexual.”
“What was it?”
“Intimacy. Being friendly.”
“But that did include a sexual relationship.”
“Depends on what you mean by relationship.”
Milo muttered, “This guy should run for president.”
Raul Biro said, “We’re defining it as you fucked her.”
Long pause. “That happened. Occasionally.”
Biro leaned in. “Is there some reason you’re ashamed of that, dude?”
“No, she’s…no, I’m okay with it.”
“What?” pressed Biro.
Fisk didn’t answer.
“Something go wrong in that department?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” said Fisk. “She’s older, that’s all.”
“Hey,” said Petra, “age is arbitrary.”
“That’s what she said.”
“You and Mary became intimate and you came to see her tonight.”
“We didn’t see each other in a while, she said she was making a vegan dinner, tempeh and tofu. I got her into vegan, sometimes we went to Real Food Daily.”
Milo said, “Ah, the pitfalls of tragic love.”
Petra said, “Mary had you hang with Blaise so…”
“He wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
“It wasn’t dope Mary was worried about, was it, Robert? She was concerned about some really bad stuff. She knew about other crimes Blaise had committed.”
Silence.
“Robert, we got you the juice and the PowerBar and we even bought some extra bottles, which are right outside if you get thirsty again. But you’ve got to hold up your end. Let’s not forget: Those were your prints on Lester Jordan’s windowsill. If Blaise tells another story, that makes it your word against his and we’ve got to follow the evidence. But if we knew Blaise had a history of violence, that would change things.”
“Let me ask you,” said Fisk. “Again, theoretically.”
“Sure.”
“Knowing about something isn’t a crime, right?”
“Not if you had nothing to do with the crime.”
“That fingerprint, Detective Connor, it could happen any kind of way. Maybe I walked by there another time and touched it. Maybe Blaise got one of my prints and stuck it there. Or someone made a mistake, that happens, right?”
Petra smiled. “Anything’s possible, Robert. But even flawed evidence is better than none.”
Fisk said, “I can tell you more important stuff than what happened to Lester. But all I know is what Blaise said. I was never there.”
“What kind of important stuff?”
“Mary knew, too. You’re right, that’s why she hired me.”
Milo said, “Intimacy goes the way of all bullshit.”
Petra said, “Anything you can say to help us—and yourself—would be appreciated, Robert.”
Fisk sucked in his breath. Stared at the empty wax cup he’d drained five times. “I’m thirsty again.”
Petra sat back, crossed her legs.
“Detective Connor, all I know is what Mary told me. She said Blaise killed some guys over dope, they tried to cheat him because he was young, fifteen, sixteen. They figured he’d be too scared to fight back, so he shot them.”
“Names?”
“She said one was Lester’s friend and Lester didn’t like that, woulda slapped Blaise around but he got scared Blaise would shoot him, too.”
“Bunch of anonymous dope guys,” said Raul.
“Don’t know any names. She said he also killed some girls,” said Fisk. “Two girls, used to live on top of them. Mary knew Blaise did it, probably with some guy he used to run with, but she couldn’t prove it.”
“Yet another anonymous guy,” said Petra.
“Some tweaker,” said Fisk. “Sold smack for Blaise and Blaise gave him speed.”
“Why’d Mary figure the two of them were involved?”
�
��The guy showed up in a van one night, late, packed stuff with Blaise.”
“Stuff,” said Petra.
“Garbage bags. Mary thought maybe bodies, she was scared,” said Fisk.
“But she never told anyone except you.”
“Scared,” Fisk repeated.
“Where’s this pal of Blaise’s?”
“Dead, O.D.’d. Right on their street, Mary figured he came by to score from Blaise, shot up and dropped.”
Raul said, “Another anonymous addict bites the dust.”
Fisk squirmed in his chair. “Don’t you want to hear about those girls?”
Petra said, “Sure, why not.”
“Actresses,” said Fisk. “Adult genre.”
“Why did Blaise kill them?”
“Because he’s insane.”
Petra scrawled in her pad. “No-name dope guys, no-name porn actresses, no-name tweaker. Quite a list.” She looked up. “Anything else?”
“That’s all I know—heard about.”
“How many years ago did these girls supposedly get killed?”
“Way before I met Mary. Ten, fifteen years, I don’t know.”
“Mary never told anyone.”
“She’s scared of him,” said Fisk. “He used to look at those girls and yank himself. She caught him, out in the garage. Instead of apologizing, he tells her she doesn’t stop bugging his privacy, he’ll hurt her.”
“He threatens his mommy—your intimate friend,” said Petra. “You hang with him anyway?”
“With me, he’s respectful.”
Milo said, “This guy’s brain-dead.”
Petra said, “Must’ve been fun hanging with someone like that.”
“No, ma’am, it wasn’t.”
“Blaise ever talk to you directly about any of these alleged murders?”
“Never,” said Fisk, too quickly. “He bragged about other stuff. Being a big-time music producer.”
Petra said, “Mary knew he’d murdered two girls a long time ago, waits years later to hire you to watch over him? Why would she do that unless she knew about other murders he’d done in the interim?”
Fisk didn’t answer.
“Robert, what else has Blaise De Paine done?”
“Never seen or heard anything. I swear.”
“Okay, let’s talk about Moses Grant.”
“Can I have more juice?”
“First tell us about Grant.”
“The night Blaise killed Lester, Mosey drove, he was waiting on the street, in the car. Blaise had him park it around the corner.”
“The Hummer.”
Nod. “Blaise gets back in, brags to Mosey about what he just did. Mosey thinks Blaise is kidding. Blaise screams at him, I’m serious, asshole. Mosey looks at me like, No way, right? I don’t answer. Mosey’s hands start shaking, he starts driving, goes through a stop sign, we almost crash into another car. Blaise is screaming, Pay attention, asshole. Mosey makes himself calm down but he’s different after that.”
“How so?”
“Watching out the side of his eye, not eating so much, not sleeping great.”
“Despite that, he kept hanging with you and Blaise.”
“He thought Blaise was going to hook him up with Puffy, Dr. Dre, Russell Simmons.”
“Blaise has those kinds of connections?”
“Mosey believed he did.”
“Blaise was stringing Mosey along,” said Petra.
Nod. “So Mosey’d drive and do stuff for Blaise and Blaise didn’t have to pay him. Blaise liked having a big black guy being his slave, Get my shirts from the laundry, dude, buy me this, buy me that, dude. Everyone thought Moses was a bodyguard but he’s soft.”
“You were the muscle.”
“I was looking after Blaise for Mary.”
Milo said, “Did a great job, Bozo.”
Biro said, “Blaise wanted an entourage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who were the other members?”
“That’s it.”
“You and Moses.”
Nod.
“Why’d Blaise reduce his entourage by killing Mosey?”
“Mosey kept saying he was cool with it but you could tell he was lying.”
“Blaise figured he might talk about Lester,” said Petra.
“Guy was soft,” said Fisk.
“Why’d Blaise kill Lester?”
“Lester called Blaise, said you guys were looking into the girls, other old stuff Blaise did, Blaise should get out of town. Blaise said fuck that, there’s an easier way.”
I said, “He just admitted knowing Blaise intended to murder Lester.”
Milo’s grin lit up the observation room. “Thank you, Lord, for stupid criminals.”
Petra said, “So that’s Blaise’s pattern. He kills people to keep them quiet.”
“Yes.” Loud and definite.
“What about the girls?”
“That,” said Fisk, “he just hated them. I guess.”
“He never talked about it?”
“No, Mary told me.”
“Okay. Robert, this is good, we appreciate your cooperation. Let’s get back for a sec to Mosey Grant. How and where did he die?”
“Where was this building we were crashing in, used to be a car mechanics or something, then it was a club, then it got empty. How, I didn’t see. Blaise sent me out to buy food, I went to the Grand Central Market—that big place, where the Mexicans sell stuff cheap?” Quick glance at Biro.
Biro said, “You get any of those hand-folded tamales?”
“I bought junk and crap for the two of them, fresh vegetables for me,” said Fisk. “I like those edamame beans. I get back, Mosey’s lying there, Blaise is fooling with his ProTools, doing a mix like nothing happened. I say what’s up, Blaise says he slipped roofies in Moses’ milk. Moses drank a lot of milk, liked butter, cheese, anything dairy. All the high fat, that’s why he looked like that.”
Shaping a convex abdomen and frowning.
Petra said, “How’d Blaise kill Moses?”
“Shot him.”
“With what?”
“This .22 he carries around. He’s got other stuff, but he carries that.”
“What other stuff?”
“Shotgun, .44, bunch of knives. The .22 fits in his pocket.”
“What make?”
“Cheap gun, Czechoslovakian or Romanian or something. He calls it his best friend, he got it on the street when he started dealing dope at thirteen. That’s what he killed those dope guys with.”
“Those nameless guys.”
“He just called them dope-fiend dead guys.”
“So you come back from the market and find Mosey dead. That would be the second time you walked into one of Blaise’s nasty scenes, but you stuck with him.”
“I was pretty frustrated,” said Fisk. “That’s what I was doing at Mary’s tonight. Came to tell her I had enough.”
“Instead you ended up getting intimate.”
“It’s what happens with us,” said Fisk. “We’ve got chemistry.”
“So your plan was to…”
“Turn Blaise in to you. You want him, go to 13466 Hillside View up in Mount Washington, it’s this house he’s been crashing in.”
“He?”
“He found it. I was going to leave tomorrow.”
Petra copied down the address, exited the room.
Milo was already on his phone, dialing SWAT. As he called in for a raiding party, Petra returned to Fisk, stayed on her feet, looking down at him. “Mary own that house?”
“No, it belongs to some deejay, got a karaoke machine, Blaise knows him from clubs.”
“Name?”
“The mail says Perry Moore.”
“Where is he?”
“Away,” said Fisk. “Playing on some cruise ship, Blaise said.”
“Does Mr. Moore know you’ve been staying at his house?”
Eye shift. “According to Blaise.”
“Blaise h
ave a key?”
“He said he lost it.”
“How’d you gain entry?”
Fisk shifted in his chair. “He broke a window.”
“After he broke, you entered.”
“He said it was okay.” Fisk clicked his teeth together. Began rocking a leg.
“Something bothering you, Robert?”
“Still thirsty,” said Fisk. “Can I have that juice, now? Also an attorney?”
CHAPTER
41
Petra’s heavy foot and two a.m. quiet made Hollywood to Mount Washington a quick drive.
Blaise De Paine’s hideout was a little gray frame house atop a short, obscure street, just up the freeway from Chinatown where Moses Grant had been dumped. SWAT vehicles clogged the block. The altitude offered a misty, pine-interrupted view of a black damask sky.
An open garage door framed the bulk of the Hummer. Inside the house, clothing, food, and body odor clogged four slovenly rooms, but no sign of De Paine.
The second SWAT team was more subdued than the jocks who’d busted Fisk, everyone let down by big buildup, no action. A deputy commander had showed up to stage-direct, a thickset, bowlegged bald man named Lionel Harger, with meaty furrows sausaging his forehead and a multicrushed nose that sniffed the air with canine intensity.
He charged out of the house now, bounded across the porch, planted himself in front of Petra, folded his arms across a pigeon-chest. “Two in one night? We should charge you desk-folk by the hour.”
Milo said, “Be grateful you don’t get paid by the suspect.”
Harger’s chin jerked upward as if he’d been jabbed. “You’re that West L.A. so-called ace, does things…uniquely.” Corkscrew smile on the last word.
Milo said, “Beats administrative meetings and other random bullshit,” and made the most of his height.
Harger’s eyes bugged and his thorax swelled. “Concentrate on your clearance rate, Lieutenant. For comedy, stick with Robin Williams.”
He stomped away, began gathering his troops. The crime techs were swarming the property like picnic ants, examining the Hummer, flashlighting oil stains in the driveway, searching for tire tracks. The five-year-old Mazda Miata registered to Perry Moore was nowhere in sight. Petra had put an alert on it five minutes ago.
Lionel Harger strutted to an armored Ford Expedition, stopped to glare, got in, roared off.
Petra said, “Making friends and influencing people, Lieutenant Sturgis.”
Milo said, “Meathead doesn’t recall but he was one year ahead of me at the academy. Assorted sneaky individuals used to leave hostile printed matter in my locker. Ol’ Lionel could always be counted on to snicker when he just happened to pass by as I was unearthing some treasure.”
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