No reason for her to smile, but she did. The movement created a network of facial creases in random spots, as if her head was tethered to invisible strings, manipulated by an unseen puppeteer. “Myron’s family had the means to acquire culture but they lacked the motivation. Most of the objects of quality in my father-in-law’s house were purchased at my suggestion. I have a degree in Art History from Weldon College. I’ll say one thing for the old man, he was willing to listen. Obviously not a genetic trait.”
Petra said, “Anything you could tell us about Mr. Jordan’s history would be helpful.”
“What do you mean by ‘history’?”
“Who he was, his friends, his interests. How he got involved with drugs.”
Iona Bedard flexed the pink cigarette, watched the smoke wiggle upward. Lifting her glass, she glanced at the pitcher.
Milo filled her glass. She drank, ground out her cigarette, pulled out a fresh smoke. Glanced at the platinum lighter.
Milo lit her up.
Three inhalations later, she said, “Lester’s essence went beyond his illness.”
“I’m sure it did,” said Petra. “But it would still be helpful to know—”
“Lester’s history is that he was a perfectly normal young man who had the misfortune of growing up in a family where normalcy wasn’t sufficient. My father was Bertram Jordan.”
Pausing to let the fact sink in.
She said, “Senior partner in Merrill’s main San Francisco office? My mother was a Dougherty. Without her, the Palace of Fine Arts would be nothing. Lester’s older than me. He wasn’t the student that I was but his gift was music. All he wanted was to play music but that was an anathema to my parents. They meant well but their disapproval was hard for Lester.”
“What instrument did he play?” said Petra.
“Clarinet, saxophone, oboe. He dabbled in trumpet, as well.”
“We didn’t find any instruments in his apartment.”
“Lester hadn’t played for years. His dreams were crushed.”
“By your parents?”
“By life,” said Iona Bedard. “Someone with a stronger constitution might’ve endured but Lester was artistic and sensitive and artistic people often lack backbone.”
I thought back to Jordan’s surly demeanor. Maybe dope and the passage of time had changed him. Or his sister was delusional.
She said, “Lester made one last stab at defying Father. Dropped out of college and joined up with a traveling jazz band. That’s when he learned bad habits.”
Petra said, “Heroin.”
Bedard glared at her. “You seem to relish reminding me.”
“Just trying to clarify the facts, Mrs. Bedard. What college did Mr. Jordan attend?”
“San Francisco State. During the turmoil. That Oriental fellow with the hat?”
“Pardon?” said Petra.
Bedard turned to us. “You’re of that age, educate her.”
I said, “Samuel Hayakawa was the chancellor of S.F. State during the sixties. It was a politicized campus.”
Iona Bedard said, “Lester never participated in that nonsense. Nor did he become a hippie. Just the opposite, he had no use for politics.”
“Just wanted to play music,” said Petra.
“He was a clean-cut young man who fell in with the wrong crowd.”
Placing her glass atop the fashion magazines, Bedard slashed the air. “End of story.”
Petra said, “Who were his recent friends?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You own the building on Cherokee, now.”
“A crumb tossed to me by Myron’s attorneys. I rarely visit. It’s all I received except for some moribund stocks and the house in Atherton that I insisted we purchase in the first place and I decorated from scratch.”
I said, “Kyle mentioned a place in Deer Valley.”
“My cabin,” she said. “I’m the one who skis, Myron can barely handle a bunny slope, what use would he have with that? When may I retrieve Lester from wherever you people have him?”
“I’ll give you all the details, ma’am,” said Petra, “but first a few more questions. You have no knowledge of anyone your brother Jordan associated with recently?”
“Must I repeat myself?” Bedard puffed away, coughed roughly, covered her mouth with her hand belatedly.
“As the landlord—”
“I’m the landlord in title only, young lady. Checks are sent to me monthly, all of which I go over with a fine-tooth comb to make sure the management company I’ve hired doesn’t steal more than their customary amount.”
“What’s the name of the company?”
“Embezzlers, Incorporated.” Bedard chuckled at her own wit. “Brass Management. Arthur I. Brass. Jewish. When it comes to money, you might as well have them on your side. Now if you’ll excu—”
“Did Lester ever try to kick the habit?”
“Several times.”
“How?”
“By enrolling in so-called rehab programs.”
“Who financed that?”
“I did. Another issue with Myron. As far as he was concerned, Lester could rot.”
“Several years ago, ma’am, there was a nurse who lived in the Cherokee building—”
“The lesbian,” said Iona Bedard. “Patricia something.”
“Patricia Bigelow.”
“That’s the one.”
“You know her to be a lesbian.”
“She certainly looked like one. Hair like a man. Not that I held any prejudice against her. She did her job professionally, I’ll grant her that.”
“What was her job?”
“Looking out for Lester. That was my idea. The day Myron showed her the apartment, I was visiting Lester and came up with an inspired idea.”
“Myron showed the apartments personally?”
“Back then, he did. At the insistence of his father, kicking and screaming all the way. When the old man had his stroke, Myron hired a management company. Not Brass, some Armenians who robbed him blind.”
“But that day, when Ms. Bigelow was looking to rent—”
“Myron and I had just completed nine holes at Wilshire. I craved a light lunch but Myron said he had to show an apartment at Cherokee. I said I might as well visit Lester. Patricia showed up. Afterward, Myron said he wasn’t sure he’d rent to her, she’d just moved to town, didn’t have much in the way of credit references or ready cash. Not that the tenants he chose were exemplary. But they had cash, much of which Myron pocketed unbeknownst to his father. On the other hand, he said, it was one of the front apartments on the street, which were harder to rent. And she was a nurse, so he supposed she’d be a steady worker. Then he waffled. That was Myron, unable to make decisions unless they pertained to his personal comfort. I said a nurse could come in handy. Thinking of Lester, immediately, because Lester had just been through a rough patch.”
“Overdose?” said Petra.
Iona glared. “A kind person would have jumped at the opportunity to help a family member. But anything that smacked of helping Lester irked Myron.”
“Ms. Bigelow did move in and she stayed for years.”
“That, my dear, is because I exploited Myron’s miserly nature by pointing out that hospitals and private nurses were expensive and we could have someone in-house.”
“A barter,” said Petra.
“Inspired,” said Bedard.
“What did looking after Mr. Jordan consist of?”
“Checking in on him, making sure he had food, coffee. Patricia was mannish but she knew her job. There were at least three instances where Lester might have fallen more seriously ill but for her presence.”
“What did she do?”
“Revived him, walked him around, whatever you do in those situations. One time she did have to call an ambulance but when they arrived, Lester was already on his feet and didn’t need to be taken to the hospital. Don’t get the wrong idea, dear. It wasn’t only those kinds of problems. W
hen Lester came down with a cold or a flu, she was there.”
“Did she ever provide him with drugs?” said Milo.
“Of course not.”
“Of course not?” said Petra.
“She told me she detested drugs. At first she didn’t even want the job because of the nature of Lester’s illness. Which I thought was a bit huffy, considering her own lifestyle issues.”
“What convinced her?”
“Free rent and one thousand dollars a month in cash. Which I’m sure she didn’t declare to the IRS. Why are you asking so many questions about her?”
“Her name comes up when we ask around about your brother.”
“I don’t see why it would. But if you want evidence of Myron’s hateful nature, go ahead and talk to her. After the old man’s stroke, Myron announced that his father’s priorities outweighed Lester’s and that Patricia was moving to Hudson. Needless to say, I was furious. She was an excellent caretaker and Lester had gotten used to having her around. You’d think she might have been loyal, but there was Myron, with his forty pieces of silver.”
“He gave her a raise?”
“An additional thousand dollars a month and free use of the guest room. If you people have connections with the IRS, there’s a tip for you.”
Petra said, “You mentioned Mr. Bedard renting to disreputable types who paid cash. Anyone in particular?”
“Minorities,” said Iona Bedard. “That kind of thing.”
“Your brother didn’t associate with any other tenants?”
Bedard ground out her second cigarette and placed her glass on the floor with exaggerated care. “You really don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what, ma’am?”
“Lester was ill. That doesn’t make him one of them.”
“How did he fare after Ms. Bigelow left?”
“Not well,” said Iona Bedard. “Myron refused to pay for another nurse or for any additional treatment. One time, Lester had to be taken to the county hospital, which I understand is a snake pit. Myron relished the I-told-you-so. The names he’d call Lester I won’t repeat.”
“Lester had some legal problems, as well.”
“All due to his illness.” Iona Bedard flicked ashes in the general vicinity of the tray. Most of them landed on the carpet. “Shortly after the old man died, my marriage finally accomplished what it should have accomplished years ago. Disintegrated. Circumstances forced me to beg Myron to allow Lester to stay at Cherokee and I don’t take well to begging. After the divorce I insisted on—and got—the building and that was that. Lester never beat his problem but his need for drugs did seem to be winding down a bit.”
“That can happen with addicts, if they live long enough,” said Petra. “Where did Lester’s financial support come from?”
Iona Bedard poked her chest. Waved dismissively. “Go on, you people, I’ve done your work for you. All you have to do is find the bastard.”
We didn’t move.
“Please,” said Bedard, making it sound like an order.
Petra said, “Does the name Robert Fisk mean anything to you?”
“There was a Bobby Fisk in my class at Atherton Prep. Flight surgeon in the navy.”
“What about Rosie?”
“The Riveter?”
“Blaise De Paine?”
Iona Bedard patted her coiffure. Laughed.
Petra said, “Something funny, ma’am?”
“That, young lady, is not a real name. Now go on, do your job.”
CHAPTER
21
On the ride down, we had the elevator to ourselves. Petra fanned herself and laughed. “That must’ve been one lousy prenup.”
Milo said, “If voodoo worked, ol’ Myron would be frying in oil.”
“She gives us no evidence he has anything to do with Lester, but on her say-so we’re supposed to track him down in Europe.”
“Hatred’s a great motivator.”
“I’m sure he adores her, too. After fifteen minutes, I’m ready to strangle her. But so what? For ten years Jordan’s been out of his life.”
I said, “As opposed to all those disreputable ‘minority’ types who shared Jordan’s lifestyle but were nothing like him.”
“Talk about denial,” said Petra. “One thing she’s probably right about. ‘De Paine’ is a moniker.”
We crossed the lobby in silence. Milo and I had parked in the hotel lot but Petra had left her Acura on Walden Drive across Wilshire, and we walked her over.
She unlocked the car and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. “Any parting thoughts, guys?”
“It was me, I’d keep it basic,” said Milo.
“Concentrate on Fisk, anything else is a distraction. In terms of your Ms. Bigelow, I’m not seeing any stunning link. Even if she did channel hospital dope Jordan’s way, that’s also ancient history.”
“Seems to be,” said Milo.
“You have doubts?”
“The only sticking point is one day we’re talking to Jordan about Patty and soon after he gets dead.”
“The only possible connection would be he tipped someone off about some secret so big and bad he had to be silenced. Like what?”
Neither of us had an answer.
“Either way,” she said, “the key is finding Fisk.”
Milo said, “Dancing hit man. There’s a network show for you.”
I said, “Jordan was an ex–horn player. It keeps coming back to music.”
Petra said, “Jordan hadn’t played for years. The only music connection I can see is dope.”
“Or an anti-dope thing. As in Jordan pushing product on the wrong person.”
“Who’s the wrong person?”
“How about a music-biz honcho’s kid.”
“Daddy puts the hit on Lester for supplying his prodge? Great, I’d love to haul in more suspects, maybe Fisk will fink once we have him in custody. I got DMV on his wheels, from the lapsed files. ’Ninety-nine Mustang, red at the time, registration fees six months overdue. I also put in a rush subpoena on his phone records, let’s see what comes up. If I’m lucky maybe I can haul him in before Cruella phones the brass and trash-talks about us middle-class peons not following her cultivated instructions.”
Milo said, “Gonna cover your butt and look for her ex?”
She swung her purse. “I’ll sic Raul on it, give him some training in long-distance sleuthing.”
“Smart guy?” said Milo.
“Smart but real new. Quiet, though. I like that. See you, guys.”
We returned to the Hilton parking lot.
I said, “One thing meeting Iona was good for. Now we understand Patty’s housing choices.”
Milo said, “A thousand a month in cash for three years makes thirty-six K she didn’t have to declare. Then ol’ Myron moves her to Hudson and she’s raised to two grand. How long did she stay there?”
“Around two years.”
“Another forty-eight, for a grand total of eighty-four thou. Toss in her salary at the hospital, plus five years of free rent, and it’s a nice six-figure haul. Talk about a sweet deal, Alex. The downside was no job security. The old man dies, sayonara.”
“She moved to Fourth Street,” I said. “Nicest place yet, but she stayed less than a year. Maybe paying full rent was jarring. Or she was determined to save her cash now that she had some. Eighty-four thousand even at a conservative rate of interest could double in ten years. If she participated in the stock-market boom, she could’ve done significantly better. Downshifting to Culver Boulevard meant living in a dump but it got her to homeownership. Without the windfall from Myron Bedard, she might never have pulled it off. Her portfolio’s what started me wondering about dope, but maybe it’ll boil down to savvy investing.”
“Helped along by a little tax evasion.”
“That, too.”
Isaac Gomez’s e-mail read:
Hi, Dr. D. We’re in Bangkok and I’m writing this from an Internet café but the conn
ection’s tenuous and we’re moving on so don’t bother responding. I woke up thinking about that crime trace and realized I’d made a methodological error by limiting myself to cases classified as homicides, as opposed to manslaughter, aggravated assault, or anything else that could’ve developed into murder but wasn’t reclassified. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it right now but when I get back in a few weeks, I’ll dig around the data a bit more and see what I can come up with. Hopefully, I haven’t missed anything crucial. Heather says hi. Best, IG
I thought about that, decided Isaac was parsing too meticulously. Patty had said she’d killed a man. Everyone was dancing around that, but I couldn’t forget it.
I was sitting on the couch, contemplating a warming shot of Chivas, when Blanche waddled into the office and nuzzled my shin. When I stood, she danced around a bit, then raced out the door.
I followed her down the hall, across the kitchen, to the back door. She sped with surprising agility down the stairs to the pond. Zeroed in on the locked bin that held the koi chow and began butting it with her flat nose.
“You’re into seafood now?” I scooped out a few pellets and offered them to her. She turned her head in disdain.
Head-butted the bin some more. Stared up at me.
When I tossed food to the fish, she swiveled and watched. Panted.
Gave a hoarse bark until I threw more pellets.
“Altruism?” I said.
I know the experts will label it anthropomorphism but she smiled with pure joy, I’ll swear to it.
Robin found the two of us by the water. Blanche jumped off my lap and greeted her. The fish swarmed, as they do when footsteps sound on the stone pathway.
“They’re starving,” she said. “I’ll go feed them.”
I said, “They’ve already dined. Extensively, because Blanche has appointed herself Official Caterer.”
“I know,” she said. “She did it yesterday, too. Any progress finding Fisk?”
“Not yet.”
“I networked some more on Blaise De Paine. The only thing I can add is that maybe possibly could be his house in the hills is on one of the bird streets. But don’t put much faith in it, hon. The person who told me wasn’t sure where he’d heard it or even if it was De Paine and not some other crook and he had no idea which bird. No one’s heard of Fisk or Rosie, though there is a black guy named Mosey, does some deejay work.”
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