Obsession

CHAPTER 20

The next morning I introduced Blanche to a lightweight leash.

Twenty minutes of exercise was enough for her: When I carried her back to the house, she tucked her head under my chin.

The phone rang as I set out her water bowl.

Milo said, “The bad news is no sign yet of Robert Fisk, the other bad news is no one in any of the divisions has heard of Blazer Pain or Rosie.”

“That’s ’cause it’s Blaise De Paine.” I gave him the details.

“Music cheat, I’ll pass it along to Petra. The final bad news is the evidence room is still having trouble locating the bullets used on Leland Armbruster. In the theoretically positive category, Iona Bedard-Kyle’s mom-is in town to talk to Petra about Brother Lester. She’s staying at the Beverly Hilton, we’re invited to co-attend at ten a.m. If you’re interested, meet me in front at five to. Dress nice. Class consciousness, and all that.”

The lobby of the Beverly Hilton was a bright, vast amalgam of original fifties construction and postmodern, earth-toned upgrades.

Tourists waited to check in. Sharp-eyed executives and frightened minions wearing Hi I’m… badges hurried to meetings. Milo sat off to the side on a chocolate-brown sofa designed for someone thin, drinking coffee and watching people with the suspiciousness that never leaves him.

“Dressing nice” was a broad-shouldered suit one shade lighter than the couch. Some miracle fabric with a coarse weave that resembled shredded wheat. His shirt was barley yellow, his tie peacock blue. No desert boots; glossy brown oxfords I’d never seen before.

I said, “Nice spit shine.”

“These are older than Tanya. Can’t wear ’ em anymore. Bunions.”

He rubbed the offending bulge.

I said, “Nevertheless…”

“Protect and serve and suffer. Once a Catholic…”

A voice said, “Hey, guys.”

Petra Connor strode toward us wearing a brown pantsuit one shade darker than the couch and carrying a big beige purse.

“Oh, boy,” she said, eyeing Milo. “The Mud City twins.”

“Except for Dr. Nonconformist,” said Milo.

She touched the sleeve of my gray flannel jacket. “Thanks for rescuing us from gag-me, Alex. Thanks also for the Blaise De Paine info but if he owns a house in the hills, we can’t find it, and there’s no auto reg under that name. I’m not sure if I want to put too much time into him, the key is Robert Fisk. Lester Jordan’s autopsy is scheduled in three days but the initial screen came through. Massive amounts of opiates plus three cocktails’ worth of alcohol, no big surprise there, we found a nearly empty gin bottle in Jordan’s fridge. And that’s the longest speech I’ve delivered in a long time.”

We shared an elevator with a stunned-looking Swedish family. Iona Bedard’s suite was at the south end of the sixth floor. A black-haired woman shoved the door open, said, “You’re on time,” turned her back on us, and marched to an easy chair. Propping her feet on an ottoman, she reclaimed a smoldering pink cigarette from an ashtray.

The living room was bright, wide, and cold, with a long gray view of Century City. Furnished with the same ecru-to-topsoil formula as the lobby. Petra muttered, “Now I’ll be invisible,” and shut the door.

We stood around as Iona Bedard puffed and gazed at a chalky sky. An end table was piled with fashion magazines and glossy monthlies that pushed high-priced toys. Atop the stack was a sleek platinum lighter. A tray near her feet held a pitcher of iced tea and an empty glass. Iona Bedard didn’t invite us to sit and we stayed on our feet.

Petra said, “Thanks for meeting with us, ma’am.”

Bedard sucked in smoke and let it trail out of her nose. Midfifties, tall and leggy, she had wide, dark, heavily lined eyes that matched her ebony bouffant. Her black-and-pink houndstooth jacket and gray jeans were tailored to a bony frame that shouted self-denial. Her skin boasted of nicotine and sun exposure. The exception was a flat, glossy brow. That and the odd paralytic tilt along the outer edges of her eyelids screamed Botox.

She said, “I’m going to help you people. If you want to solve my brother’s murder, take a good hard look into my ex-husband. Do you have something to write on?”

Petra produced her pad.

Iona Bedard said, “Myron. Grant. Bedard. Fifty-seven years old, six feet tall, two forty, though he lies and claims to be lighter. His addresses are-write this down: 752 Park Avenue, Apartment 13A, New York 10021, Crookback Ranch, Aspen Valley, Colorado 81611, and an apartment in London that he calls a flat because he’s pretentious. Nine Carlos Place, Mayfair, W1, I don’t recall the crazy English postal code but it should be easy enough to find. Do you have all that down?”

“I do, ma’am,” said Petra. “Why should we be looking at Mr. Bedard?”

“Because he’s always despised Lester.”

“Personality conflict?”

“Baseless hatred,” said Bedard, as if explaining to an idiot. “Lester wasn’t the strongest person. Myron has no tolerance for weakness.”

Petra wrote something down. “Could you be more specific as to a motive for murder, ma’am?”

“Hatred isn’t sufficient?”

“Did Mr. Bedard and Mr. Jordan have any recent conflict?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“But you don’t know of any specific-”

“I’m trying to help you, dear. If I knew more, I’d tell you.”

“Where is Mr. Bedard at present?”

“I have no idea.”

Milo said, “Your son said he was in Europe.”

“If that’s what Kyle said, then I’m sure it was true. At the time Kyle said it.”

“Meaning?”

“Myron moves around. Locate a bevy of sluts and he won’t be far.”

Petra said, “He moves between his three residences?”

“And resorts and rented yachts and private jets and whatever whim of the moment seizes him.”

“Who owns the house on Hudson Avenue?”

Iona Bedard’s eyelids lowered. Her eye shadow was smoke-colored and glossy. She shifted her attention to Milo, then me, as if Petra had worn out the welcome mat. “That monstrosity is Myron’s as well.” Back to Petra: “I didn’t mention it because I assumed you knew about it. And because you’ll never find him there. He hates Los Angle-is. Fancies himself a waahrld traahvelar.”

“Anyone live there besides Kyle?”

“Kyle would prefer a small apartment appropriate for someone of his age. Myron refuses to pay for one.”

“Not a generous man.”

“When it comes to his own needs, he’s lavish.”

“Are you saying Mr. Bedard murdered Mr. Jordan and flew off to Europe?”

Bedard’s sigh was long, theatrical, world-weary. “People like Myron don’t do for themselves.”

“So we’re talking a contract killing.”

“I’m offering you insight, dear. Connect the dots.”

“Any idea who Mr. Bedard would hire for something like that?”

“I don’t consort with people like that.”

“Mr. Bedard’s motive would be resentment.”

“Myron despised Lester. Throughout our marriage, Lester was an issue for Myron.”

“In what way?”

“My helping Lester ate at Myron. What was I asking? Basic lodging for a family member who’d encountered more than his share of misfortune.”

“The apartment on Cherokee,” said Milo. “Lester lived there for free?”

Iona waved her cigarette. “Only one small apartment in a twenty-unit building. You’d have thought I was seeking to lease the Taj Mahal.”

“Mr. Bedard objected but he gave in.”

“It’s not as if Myron ever earned a dime. What reason did he have to object? And Lester earned his keep. He managed the building.”

“Mr. Bedard inherited his wealth,” said Petra.

“My family was by no means middle-class, dear, but we know the value of work. My father was a top financial advisor for Merrill Lynch and my mother was a world-class beauty and gifted painter who never went out in the sun without a parasol. Culture was an enormous component of my upbringing.”

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. When 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.”