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.”