Jonathan Kellerman - Obsession

“Probably,” I said. “All that gravitas you project. What did you learn from Kyle?”

“Uncle Lester was persona non grata, no one in the family had much contact with him. Last time Kyle remembers seeing him was after his parents divorced-shortly after the old man died. His mom and dad had been separated for a while and Kyle flew down from Atherton with her so she could get some art objects she considered hers. While she was scrounging, Jordan dropped by and Kyle answered the door. Jordan tried to make conversation, Mom saw who it was and told Kyle to go inside.”

“Kyle have any idea why Jordan dropped by?”

“Nope. But seeing as Jordan was an addict and she was supporting him, my bet would be he was hitting on her for extra cash. What did you lie to Tanya about?”

“I suggested Patty might have been helping Jordan with his addiction but said nothing about her feeding his habit.”

“All that medical-quality dope within reach and a junkie with a rich family. Yeah, it fits nicely, doesn’t it?”

I said, “Patty stayed there six years, got paid by the family to keep the black sheep out of their lives. The old man turned ill and his needs took priority over Jordan’s. When the colonel died, it was time for her to move on.”

“Moving her around like a chess piece.”

“Kyle’s mother has definite ideas about social class.” I told him about the daily purse inspection.

He said, “The wretched refuse. Still, if we’re right about Patty being helpful with Jordan, why not send her back to Cherokee after the old man was gone?”

“Jordan was Mrs. Bedard’s kin. I can see Mister not being thrilled about letting him live rent-free. Once he split from his wife, no more indulgence.”

“Good riddance to you and your loser brother,” he said. “Who just happened to be a pal of Lowball Leland Armbruster who just happened to get shot by a.22 while Patty was living a few blocks from the murder scene and just happened to own a.22. We handed Tanya a whole load of emotionally supportive bullshit, Alex. She was right to make the connection. Jordan survives twenty years shooting dope, we chat with him about Patty, and all of a sudden he’s sitting dead on his toilet. If ballistics matches Patty’s gun to the slug in Armbruster, we’re talking major-league complications. The kind that could lead to eliminating witnesses.”

“Jordan saw Patty shoot Armbruster? Who’d be threatened by that?”

“I’m saying Jordan knew something about the shooting that was worth killing for.” His cell chirped some kind of Hawaiian music. “Sturgis…hey, how’s it going… did you?” Big spreading smile. “Restores my faith in technology, kid. Yeah, let’s do that, say half an hour? The doctor’ll be there, too, maybe we’ll gain some deep intrapsychic insights.”

He hung up, still grinning.

I said, “Sean?”

“Petra. Jordan’s john was wiped clean and so was the inner sill of the open window. But the techies got a partial palm print from the ledge outside. Palms are finally being cataloged on AFIS and there’s a hit. Some naughty boy busted for assault last year. Ain’t it nice when the bad guys don’t learn?”

We sat with Petra in an empty interview room at Hollywood Division. Raul Biro was out recanvassing Lester Jordan’s building and its neighbors on Cherokee.

The room was windowless and hot and smelled of witch hazel. Petra had removed her black jacket. Underneath was a sleeveless gray silk shell. Her arms were white, smooth, sinewy, her nail polish a deep brown that fell just short of black. Lipstick of the same hue, a half tone lighter. She slid an arrest form across the table. Clipped to the top were full-face and profile mug shots.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “meet Robert Bertram Fisk.”

Fisk’s picture screamed the virtues of cliché: bony off-center countenance, head shaved clean, close-set eyes devoid of feeling and dark with menace. A skimpy mouth was further reduced by a heavy black mustache, right-angled down to his chin like a croquet wicket.

Basic Bad Guy.

The taut, corded, tattoo-brocaded neck substantially wider than Fisk’s jaws was overkill. But this was L.A., where subtlety could be a shuttle to obscurity.

Milo said, “You gotta be kidding. I’d take him for a social worker feeding the homeless.” He ran his finger down to the stats.

Male Caucasian, twenty-eight, five seven, one forty. A gallery of skin art.

“Little guy,” said Milo.

Petra said, “Didn’t stop him from taking on a big guy-the assault victim was six one, two ninety. It happened last year, in a downtown club. Fisk was working as some kind of bodyguard, got into an argument with another hunk of hired muscle named Bassett Bowland.”

She clawed her fingers. “First Fisk whipped off a few martial arts moves, then he pulled a one-handed move, got Bowland by the Adam’s apple and started squeezing. He came pretty close to crushing the guy’s neck before people pulled him off. Bowland lived but he suffered permanent vocal damage.”

“Fisk does this a year ago and he’s out?”

“It got pled down to misdemeanor battery, time served. The two weeks Fisk spent at County waiting to be arraigned was his entire sentence. According to the case file, Bowland didn’t want to cooperate and witnesses disappeared.”

“Any pressure for them to disappear?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, but the main obstacle was Bowland. Humiliated by having his butt kicked by a guy half his weight, he absolutely refused to talk.”

“Fisk have any buddies?”

“No gang affiliation or felonious K.A.’s,” said Petra. “He seems to be more of a freelance, hangs around the club scene, sometimes he gets up on stage and thinks he’s dancing.”

I studied the scowling face. “Bet he doesn’t get too many bad reviews.”

Petra laughed. “The only other thing I can tell you about him is he fought in some of those tough-guy contests-barbarians in a wire cage, testosterone running amok.”

“You don’t like competitive sports?” said Milo.

She stuck out her tongue. “Five brothers meant I had to fake liking competitive sports. Now I’m a big girl and can admit they suck.”

I said, “Fisk uses a bare hand on a huge guy but slips a ligature around Jordan’s neck.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to leave a handprint on Jordan’s skin. Or a ligature was what he was instructed to use.”

“Hired hit,” said Milo.

“Fisk didn’t do it for dope. He’s got no narcotics history, just the opposite, and there was about a thousand bucks of heroin in Jordan’s bedroom drawer. But no cash in evidence, so maybe he went for the money.”

Milo flicked a corner of the arrest report. “What do you mean ‘just the opposite’?”

“Fisk seems to be one of those health nuts. Irwin Gold-the Central D who handled the assault-listed three different gyms Fisk frequented, wrote down he was into martial arts, yoga, meditation. We went to get him this morning at three. Unfortunately, Fisk hasn’t lived at his last known address for six months. Vacated soon after he got out of jail, no forwarding.”

“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.”