Obsession

“Appreciate that, Robert, but anything you can tell us would help.”

“What he likes is to look at stuff and touch himself. Like the only person that turns him on is himself. He did it that night.”

“In the bathroom?”

“Yes,” said Fisk. “Laughing about Lester being out of it, he starts touching himself.”

“Lester’s still alive at this point.”

“But out of it.”

“Blaise is getting a charge out of masturbating in front of his father.”

“Insane,” said Fisk.

“Then what happened?”

“Then Blaise says go into the kitchen and get me a Coke. I got a can and came back. By that time, Blaise put a rope around Lester’s neck and strangled him.”

“How long were you gone?”

“Long enough.”

“Could you be a bit more specific, Robert?”

“Hmm,” said Fisk. “Maybe a few minutes.”

“You come back and Lester’s dead.”

“Yup.”

“You check if he was dead?”

“He looked dead.”

“You didn’t try to revive him.”

“Blaise said he was dead, he looked dead, I didn’t want to touch him. Blaise laughed about it, we went out through the back window.”

“How’d you feel, walking into that, Robert?”

“Bad,” said Fisk without inflection. “Surprised, I guess.” Rapid eye drift. “Blaise never told me he was going to do that.”

“Why did Blaise murder Lester Jordan?”

“Because he hated him,” said Fisk. “Blaise hates everyone.”

“What did you do with the soda can?”

“Gave it to Blaise.”

“What did he do with it?”

“Drank it.”

“Then what?”

“Pardon?” said Fisk.

“Did he take the Coke with him?”

“I…no, I don’t think so.”

“We didn’t find any Coke in the apartment,” said Petra, lying smoothly. Jordan’s kitchen had been a jumble of take-out boxes, bottles, and cans.

“Then maybe he took it, I don’t remember,” said Fisk.

Petra wrote in her pad. “You go with Blaise for moral support because he’s worried about some kind of trouble with Lester. Blaise waits until Lester shoots up, nods off, tells you to get him a drink, and by the time you get back, Lester’s dead.”

“Yes.”

Petra looked at Raul. He shrugged. Fisk said, “That’s what happened.”

Petra said, “The problem is, Robert, we’re talking multiple homicides and you’re the guy who left prints at the scene of one of them.”

“Multiple?”

“Moses Grant.”

Fisk’s jaws knotted. “That was…not me.” He slumped, straightened.

“Why did Moses die, Robert?”

“Oh, man,” said Fisk. “Can I please have some juice? Apple’s best, but I’ll take orange if you’ve got it, pulp’s okay.”

“What we’ve got in the machines here is soda and Snapple, Robert.”

“Forget it, then.”

“Robert,” said Petra, “you want kickapoo-coconut-pago-pago juice, we can probably score it. But if you want to nourish your soul, you need to be totally honest.”

Fisk considered that for a while. “I never killed anyone. Please write down that I’m being fully cooperative.”

Talking softly as his wrists rotated and his fingers clawed the tabletop.

“You’re talking, Robert, but I’m not sure you’re communicating.” To Raul: “What do you think, Detective Biro?”

“I think he tells a good story.”

“Make a nice movie,” said Petra.

“With an all-star cast,” said Raul.

Robert Fisk said, “I’m telling the truth.”

No argument or assent from the detectives.

“Okay,” said Fisk, flashing sharp teeth. “Get me apple-guava juice and I’ll tell you everything. A PowerBar, too.”

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, ru

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.”