“What did you think he meant?”
Fisk’s eyes drifted left again. “Actually, that’s not exactly what he said.”
Petra waited.
Fisk said, “It’s kind of gross.”
“I can handle it, Robert. What did Blaise say?”
“‘I could put my dick in his mouth, he wouldn’t know.’”
“Talking about his father like that?”
“I told you it’s gross. They’re not like father and son. More like…Blaise sells him dope, hates him. Blaise hates everyone. He’s insane.”
“That comment,” said Raul. “Is he gay?”
“Dunno.”
“You’ve been hanging with the guy for months.”
“I never saw him with a man,” said Fisk. “Or a woman. Mostly, he likes to look and…I don’t want to talk disgusting in front of you, Detective Connor.”
“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
“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
“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
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.”
