Obsession (14 page)

She said, “Hey, Alex. Looks like everything converges, after all. This is Raul Biro.”

Biro was compact and broad-shouldered in a beige suit, brown shirt, and yellow tie. He smiled and nodded.

Petra said, “Love to chat, guys, but our job’s done here for the time being. We’ll talk tomorrow, Milo?”

“Count on it.”

“First new case in thirteen months,” she said. “I thought I missed the rush but now I’m not so sure. Raul doesn’t mind, right?”

Biro said, “Need the experience.”

The two of them left and Milo motioned me into the bathroom.

Lester Jordan sat hunched on his toilet wearing a periwinkle-blue terry robe that hung open on a pasty, ravaged body. His head hung low. The robe’s lapel swathed his neck. A rubber-tubing tourniquet around his left arm popped veins as kinked as an old garden hose. A syringe flashed silver on the filthy tile floor to his right. Not some homemade spike; this was a medical-quality disposable syringe, bright and shiny and empty. On the back of the commode sat the spoon-lighter kit and an empty Baggie.

“All these years and now he O.D.’s?” I said.

Milo gloved up. Carefully, almost tenderly, he took hold of Jordan’s chin and lifted the dead man’s head.

Around Jordan’s neck was another tourniquet. A white, braided cord, pulled so tight it nearly vanished in cold flesh. Triple-knotted in back, the hue blending in with Jordan’s pallor. Jordan’s eyes were half open, dry, alive as shirt buttons. His tongue drooped, black and distended, a Japanese eggplant.

Milo lowered the head just as gingerly. “I came here at ten thirty to talk to him about Leland Armbruster, found flashers and roadblocks, the full circus. Inside the apartment, Petra’s on her cell punching numbers. My phone rings. It’s me she’s calling. She says, ‘Beamed yourself up, Scotty?’”

“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.”

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?”

She shook her head.

“He was living there when you were. First-floor apartment, left side of the corridor, toward the back.”

“I’ve never heard of him, Dr. Delaware. Mommy never let me go inside the building alone. Who killed him?”

“We don’t know, yet.”

“You think
Kyle
knows?”

“Lester Jordan was Kyle’s mom’s brother.”

“And now he’s—oh, my God, you’re saying it’s because of what I
started
?”

“No, there’s no evidence of that, Tanya.”

“But you think it’s
possible
.” She grabbed a handful of hair and twisted. “Oh, my
God
, I couldn’t let go of it and now that man’s dead.”

“You are
not
to blame,” I said. “
Zero
responsibility.”

“This is horrible.”

“Tanya, Lester Jordan was a heroin addict who led a high-risk lifestyle, it’s a miracle he’s survived this long. Unless your mother and he had some kind of relationship when he was alive, there’s no reason to believe she’s connected to his death.”

“Of course they had no relationship, why would she hang out with someone like that?”

“It didn’t need to be a social connection,” I said. “An addict could require medical care from time to time.”

“You’re saying she helped him with overdoses?”

“Or with kicking his habit.”

Or feeding it.

“I never saw or heard of anything like that,” she said. “But I was so young.”

“Even if your mother did help Jordan, it doesn’t mean that had anything to do with his death. This was a man with an extensive criminal record. He associated with bad people. Lieutenant Sturgis is looking into Jordan’s background. He needs to talk to Kyle’s parents but they’re both out of town. Kyle was the next best thing.”

Letting go of her hair, she played with the yogurt cup. “I really can’t see Mommy
knowing
someone like that. Her big thing was
protecting
me from bad influences.”

“What about those drunks who knocked on the door?” I said. “That could’ve been an addict going through withdrawal.”

“I guess. I never saw her open the door. That was the whole point, keeping that world outside.”

“Sketchy neighborhood,” I said. “But she lived there for six years.”

“What are you saying?”

“Maybe she stayed that long because she was earning extra income caring for Lester Jordan. When Colonel Bedard needed nursing, his family remembered how effective she’d been and asked her to live in.”

“She never told me anything like that.”

“There’d be no reason to tell a seven-year-old.”

A clapping sound drew our attention. Milo’s hand landing on Kyle Bedard’s shoulder. Kyle flinched, made eye contact with Tanya.

She stared past him and he turned back to Milo.

Milo spoke a bit longer, gave Kyle a half salute and a wolf-grin. Kyle chanced another glance at Tanya, headed for the physics building. Fooling with his glasses and hitching his pants, he stepped inside.

Tanya said, “He left his lunch.”

Milo said, “His appetite may have waned.”

A big padded hand shot out. “Milo Sturgis.”

“Tanya.”

He sat down next to her. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Lieutenant, I’ve never heard of that man, Jordan.”

“Didn’t expect you would, Tanya.”

“Kyle’s uncle,” she said. “How’d Kyle take the news?”

“He’s a little shaken,” said Milo.

“Do
you
think this happened because of me?”

Milo eyed the murals. Promethean figures lofting test tubes, holding calipers, watching sparks fly. “That would be a quantum leap, Tanya. Jordan’s lifestyle was what we call high-risk.”

“Dr. Delaware told me all that, but how can you be sure it’s
not
related?”

“We can’t, that’s why we’re here. You told Dr. Delaware you thought your mother brought up the ‘terrible thing’ because she was trying to protect you.”

“It was more a feeling than a rational thought, Lieutenant. I
sensed
it.”

“Nothing she actually said led you to that?”

“No, just her intensity. As if it was really
important
for me to have the knowledge. She used to say ‘Knowledge is power.’ It just felt like this was another example—pointing me in a certain way. That’s why I contacted Dr. Delaware.” Looking down. “So he could direct me to you.”

Milo scratched his nose. A pigeon swooped into the fountain’s plume. Drank, showered, shook its feathers dry, and departed. “Are you pretty aware of personal safety issues?”

“Am I in danger, Lieutenant Sturgis?”

“I’m not ready to put you in the witness protection program but I would like you to be careful.”

“About?”

“The basics. Keep your doors and windows locked, turn on your alarm when you get home, look around before you get out of your car, don’t talk to strangers. Stuff you should be doing anyway.”