“Karma,” I said.
“Who did I offend in some former life?”
“When was Jordan killed?”
“The estimate is eight to fifteen hours ago. No one spotted any visitors and that’s consistent with the scene. A window on the north side of the building was open and there’s some disturbance of the dirt but no clear footprints. Jordan got discovered because he left his music running-loud, the way it was when we were here. Next-door neighbors say that was his usual thing, there were tons of complaints but the landlord ignored them. The routine was someone pounds Jordan’s door long enough, he eventually stops. This time nothing worked and they called the cops.”
“Who are the next-door neighbors?”
“Two girls,” he said. “Dancers in a show at the Pantages.”
He took a long look at Jordan’s corpse. “Patrol officers show up half an hour later, bang the door, get no answer. They go around to the other side, see the open window, call for backup. Thank God they were smart enough not to touch anything, maybe we’ll get some physical evidence.”
Two crypt drivers arrived with a folded gurney. We slipped out of the bathroom, exited the building, walked to Milo’s car. No unmarked tonight; he was driving Rick’s white Porsche 928.
I said, “Jordan survives this long as an addict. We visit him to talk about Patty and a couple days later he’s dead.”
“High-risk lifestyle, anything can happen, but it does raise one’s eyebrows.” He demonstrated with his own shaggy hyphens. “No one remotely ominous knew we talked to Jordan-just that screenwriter, Bergman, and Chatty Mary Whitbread.”
“Saturday I went over to Hudson and spoke to Colonel Bedard’s grandson but Jordan’s name never came up.”
“Ominous fellow?”
“Hardly.” I summarized my impression of Kyle Bedard.
He said, “But if it is related to Patty, Jordan told someone we’d been around and got hushed for his troubles.”
“If someone cared that much about keeping the past buried, Tanya’s safety could be an issue.”
“If Patty hadn’t brought the whole thing up, we’d never have talked to Jordan and there might be no safety issue.”
“Maybe Patty knew something was going down whether or not she talked. In any event, I’m going to drive by Tanya’s.”
“Do that,” he said. “I’ll get some sleep and be bright and fresh for tomorrow’s challenges.”
But when I started up the Seville, the Porsche hummed behind me. I stuck my head out the driver’s window and he pulled alongside.
“What the hell,” he said, “let’s do a convoy. Don’t even think about saying ‘Ten-four.’”
Canfield Avenue at one thirty-five a.m. was silent and peaceful. Milo and I parked and got out.
He eyed the alarm company sign on the lawn. “Good start. I’ll sneak ’round back, make sure nothing’s out of order.”
“Tanya’s got a gun.”
“That so.”
I told him about Patty’s.22.
He said, “Same caliber as the one that did Lowball Armbruster.” He slipped a penlight out of a pocket. “If she shoots me, you can have my Official Detective pencil box.”
He returned three minutes later, gave a thumbs-up. “No sign of disturbance, she’s got a security light at the back door and bars on all the rear windows. Toss in the alarm and I certify it as safe. Let’s go home. Tomorrow I’ll follow up with Petra.”
I said, “We were wondering how Jordan managed to stay in the building so long. Now we find out the landlord never responded to the complaints about his music, even though that meant other tenants vacating.”
“Connections,” he said. “A family thing, like you said.”
“I’d like to know who’s got the deed to the building and if they owned it back in Patty’s day.”
“Petra got the landlord’s name from the dancing girls, hold on.” He pulled out his pad, used the penlight, flipped pages. “Deer Valley Properties in Utah, but it’s managed by a downtown firm.”
“Kyle Bedard’s mother lives in Deer Valley.”
He frowned, stared up the dark street. “My oh my.”
The following morning at ten, we were standing on the front steps of the mansion on Hudson Avenue, listening to the chimes of the doorbell. An hour ago, Milo had talked to the company that managed the building on Cherokee, verified that Lester Jordan was Mrs. Iona Bedard’s brother. Jordan was on their payroll as an “on-site inspector” but his duties were ambiguous and his three-hundred-dollar weekly paycheck traced back to Deer Valley.
“Company goes along with it in order to keep the building on their management list.” He eyed the Bentley and the Mercedes. “What do these people do for cash?”
“Born into the Lucky Sperm Club.”
The woman named America opened one of the double doors.
I smiled at her. She clutched her broom handle.
“Is Kyle here?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea where-”
“School.”
My thank-you was cut short by the whoosh of solid walnut gliding into place.
Milo said, “Ah, the warmth of hearth and home.”
The physics building at the U. is a sixties-era assemblage of glass, white brick, and mosaic murals that portray great moments in fusion. Across an inverted fountain looms the psych building, where I’d gotten my union card. I’d never paid much attention to the less ambiguous goings-on yards away.
Milo and I had come prepared to wrestle with department secretaries but Kyle Bedard was in plain view, sitting on the rim of the fountain eating a sandwich and drinking orange juice from a plastic carton. Talking, in between bites, to a young woman.
She was small, blond, preppy in pink and khaki. Kyle wore a gray sweatshirt, baggy jeans, antiquarian sneakers. He’d traded his contacts for black-framed eyeglasses.
As we approached, he righted the specs, as if trying to refocus.
The girl turned.
I said, “Hi, Tanya.”
CHAPTER 16
Milo took Kyle by the elbow and ushered him halfway around the fountain. Tanya pressed a hand to her cheek and gaped. I sat down next to her. “What’s going on, Dr. Delaware?”
“That’s Lieutenat Sturgis. He needs to talk to Kyle.”
“About what?”
“How’d you meet him, Tanya?”
The hand on her face pressed harder, created white spots. She turned to me. “Is he-are you going to tell me something creepy about him?”
Not yet. “No. How did-”
“He contacted me through Facebook, we had lunch yesterday, decided to do it again today. It wasn’t some stranger-stalk, Dr. Delaware. He said a police psychologist had been by to talk to him about my mother and that reminded him of when we were kids and he used to visit. I told him I knew you and that I remembered him, too. Always reading a book. He seems like a good person and he’s brilliant.”
“I’m sure he is,” I said.
“There is a problem?”
“Not with Kyle.”
“Then why are you here?”
“A man living in the building on Cherokee was murdered yesterday. The building’s owned by Kyle’s mother. She got it as part of a divorce settlement but back when you lived there it was owned by Colonel Bedard.”
“It’s all…connected?”
“It’s possible your mother got the job at the mansion because someone from Cherokee recommended her.”
“Who would do that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
She reached for a half-empty yogurt container and squeezed. “I still don’t see why you’re talking to Kyle. He was a kid back then.”
“The man who was murdered was named Lester Jordan. Sound familiar?”