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.”

Petra nodded. “I like that.”

“From the way Jordan died-sitting there, no struggle-he was stoned or not alarmed seeing Fisk.”

Milo said, “Fisk crawls through the window and Jordan’s not alarmed?”

“Maybe someone else let Fisk in.”

“The contractor,” said Petra. “Maybe Jordan’s dealer. He supplies Jordan, Jordan fixes up, zones out heavily. Would’ve been easy enough to go to the bedroom, crack the window. Fisk is waiting by the side of the building, climbs in, sneaks behind Jordan, and slips the cord.”

No one spoke for a while.

Milo said, “Whose body did Fisk guard?”

“Gold’s notes just say he described himself as a bodyguard. And Gold is retired, traveling somewhere in Southeast Asia. Guess it’s time to start visiting gyms and yoga classes, what a drag.”

“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.”