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.”