Capital Crimes (16 page)

24

B
arnes and Amanda found Jane sitting in a teak chair on the rear deck of her rented house on Oxford Street.

The place was a smallish English cottage, beautifully designed and festooned with iceberg roses. High spot on the street; the Berkeley hills were verdant, the view across the bay picture-perfect.

Jane hadn’t bothered to notify the DA she’d moved. Nor had she told them she was planning to travel to Europe. That nugget had come to Barnes by way of an old Sacramento classmate, a woman named Lydia Mantucci, who’d never liked Jane and had forwarded the gossip with glee.

No one answered his knock on the stout, hand-carved door but a walkway on the far side of the house led to a flight of wooden steps that they climbed.

It was late afternoon and cold wind blew across the water. Jane had dressed for a warm-weather fantasy: black, short-sleeved polo shirt, khaki shorts, oversized sunglasses. Her skin was prickled by goose bumps and she hugged herself.

Intentional suffering? Amanda wondered. Jane had lost weight and with no makeup and her hair drawn into a high ponytail, she looked plain and worn.

She wasn’t surprised to see them.

“You detected me,” she said. “Drink?” Indicating a half-empty bottle of Sapphire gin and an ice bucket.

“No, thanks,” said Will. “Nice view.”

“When I pay attention it is. I got the place cheap because the previous tenant was denied tenure and left in a snit without giving notice or paying two months’ rent.”

“Angry professor.”

Jane smiled. “Angry assistant professor of ethics.”

Amanda said, “When are you leaving for Italy?”

Jane removed her sunglasses. The sclera of her eyes were pink, smudgy pouches had formed under the lower lids, and her eyebrows drooped. “You’re worried
I’ll
leave in a snit?”

“The DA’s office sent us,” said Will. “They may need you to testify that you gave us permission to be on the property.”

“I already put that in writing for the DA.”

Amanda said, “If the defense makes a big deal out of our right to search, in-person testimony will be required.”

Jane turned away and stared at gray water and milk-colored sky. “Plus, they’re hoping I’ll testify against Mother.”

“Have they asked you to do that?”

“No, but that was the clear subtext. I even received a little lecture about there being no filial privilege under the law.”

Amanda said, “So when are you planning to leave and where exactly are you going?”

Jane said, “That’s the linchpin of the defense? You people trespassed?”

Barnes said, “Probably not but we’ve got to be ready for anything.”

“
Probably
not?”

“There’s talk Parker will be pleading diminished capacity. And that your mother’s lawyer will be delaying to the max.”

Jane faced them again. “Matteras? He’s probably hoping she’ll die first, so he can avoid having to earn his retainer. Fat chance.”

“She’s healthy?”

“Only the good die prematurely.” Jane’s hands clenched. “Like Davida. God, I miss her.”

She sniffled and poured gin and drank way too much and suppressed a belch. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there if I’m needed. In the meantime, I have to try something new.”

“What’s that?” said Barnes.

“Being alone.”

“You’re sure that’ll be good—”

“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything. Look at me, Will. Pathetic.” She touched her chest, let her hand trail down to her abdomen. Her legs were prickled and white. Long, sleek legs, legendary in high school, maybe still her best feature. But for the first time, Barnes noticed encroaching signs of age: spider veins, hints of varicosity, patches of pucker and slack.

He said, “You look great, Jane.”

“I look like shit, but thanks for lying. Even though you were never really good at it…think about it, Will: have you ever seen me alone for any significant stretch of time?”

Barnes considered that. Jane laughed. Not a pleasant sound. “Exactly. It’s an addiction as much as any other.”

“What is?”

“Needing people. To hell with Streisand. Fools like me are anything but lucky. I don’t know how I ended up this way but I’m sure as hell going to try to find out.”

“In Europe,” said Amanda.

“Florence, to be specific,” said Jane. “I’ve been there with each of my glorious spouses. Mother took me when I was twelve, fourteen and sixteen. I figured it would be a good place to start. If I don’t fall apart, I can work my way up to some meaner places.” She laughed. “Maybe I’ll tour Beirut.”

Amanda said, “Testing yourself.”

“It’s about time,” said Jane. “I’ll probably flunk. Lord knows I’ve failed every other life lesson.”

Barnes said, “Jane—”

Jane wagged a finger. “Hush, bad liar. Right now, nothing is sure to churn my stomach more than reassurance.”

Amanda said, “Good, because this is a business call, not psychotherapy.” Using a voice so cold Barnes had to fight not to stare.

Jane’s face went white.

Amanda stepped closer, took the glass from her hand and set it down hard on the table. “If you’re serious about growing up, losing the self-pity is a good place to start. Bottom line: you need to cooperate fully. If you don’t, you’ll be subpoenaed as a material witness and we’ll confiscate your passport. We need all your flight information as well as your addresses overseas, so start dictating.”

She whipped out her pad.

Jane said, “All I know so far is my flight number and my hotel in Florence.”

“Then we’ll start with that. You need to know that if the DA’s not satisfied with what we bring back, you won’t be getting on any planes.”

Jane tried to lock eyes with her but Amanda’s stone face made her turn away. “My, but you’re a tough one.”

“More like a busy one,” said Amanda. “Let’s stop screwing around and get some facts down on paper.”

Twenty minutes later, walking back to their car, Barnes said, “Aren’t we the stern, unrelenting authority figure.”

Amanda got behind the wheel.

As she fooled with her hair and started the engine, he said, “I’m sure there was a reason.”

Amanda pulled away from the curb, driving faster than usual. She covered half a block and stopped, keeping her eyes on the street.

“No big riddle,” she said. “I felt sorry for her. So I gave her what she needed.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR
MUSIC CITY BREAKDOWN

Special thanks to Chief Ronal Serpas, Commander Andy Garrett, and Sergeant Pat Postiglione of the Metro Nashville Police Department, and to the inimitable George Gruhn.

1

A
beautifully carved mandolin in a velvet-lined case was stashed in the bedroom closet of Baker Southerby’s house.

The instrument, a 1924 Gibson F-5 with just a little pick wear below the treble f-hole, was worth more than Baker’s house, a little frame bungalow on Indiana Avenue in the west Nashville neighborhood known as The Nations. The area was solid blue-collar with some rough edges, lots of residents living paycheck to paycheck. The house was the only one Baker Southerby had ever known, but that didn’t make it more than it was. The Gibson, rare because it had been a commercial failure, was now a serious six-figure collector’s item, a fact Baker’s partner liked to obsess on.

“One just sold at Christie’s for a hundred and seventy, Lost Boy.”

“You follow auctions?”

“I was curious.”

When Lamar Van Gundy got like that—usually when the two of them were grabbing a quick meal—Baker kept chewing his burger and pretended that he’d gone deaf. Mostly that worked, but if Lamar was in a mood and persisted, Baker’s next retort was as automatic as voice mail: “And your point is?”

“I’m just saying it’s a gold mine.”

“Pass the ketchup, Stretch. Stop hoarding it in the first place.”

Lamar’s huge hands stretched across the table. “Here. Drown your grub in the stuff, El Bee. One
seventy,
what does it take to impress you?”

“I’m impressed.”

“When’s the last time you played the damn thing?”

“Something that pricey no sense risking damage.”

“What, you got epilepsy, gonna drop it?”

“You never know, Stretch.”

Lamar said, “
You
know and
I
know and
everyone
knows that they sound better when you play ’em. You open up the soundboard a bit, who knows, you could push it to one eighty.”

“And your point is?”

Lamar tugged a moustache end. “Someone didn’t take his Midol. Why do you hate the damn thing when it’s like the most important thing you own?”

Baker shrugged and smiled and tried not to think about a little boy’s voice cracking, honky-tonk smoke, loose laughter. Curled on the backseat as the old van bumped over country roads. The greasy way headlights could wash over rural asphalt.

Lamar saw Baker’s smile as consistent with his partner’s quiet manner and sometimes that would be End of Topic. Three years they’d been working together, but the big man had no clue Baker’s show of teeth was forced. For the most part, Lamar could read people real well, but he had his blind spots.

Times when Lamar wouldn’t let go, his next comment was so predictable it could be from a script. “You own a treasure and your alarm system sucks.”

“I’m well-armed, Stretch.”

“Like someone couldn’t break in when you’re on the job.” Deep sigh. “One seventy, oh Lord, that’s
serious
money.”

“Who knows I own it other than you, Stretch?”

“Don’t give me ideas. Hell, George Gruhn could probably unload it for you in like five seconds.”

“Is it dropping in value as we speak?”

This time, it was Lamar who was hard of hearing. “I consigned my ’62 Precision with George last year. Got twenty times what I paid for it, bought a three-year-old Hamer that sounds just as cool and I can take it to gigs without worrying about a scratch being tragic. George has the contacts. I had enough left over to buy Sue flowers plus a necklace for our anniversary. The rest we used to pay off a little of the condo.”

“Look at you,” said Baker, “a regular Warren Buffett.” Having enough, he rose to his feet before Lamar had time to reply, went to the men’s room and washed his hands and face and checked the lie of his buttondown collar. He ran a sandpaper tongue over the surface of his teeth. Returning to find all the food gone and Lamar tapping a rhythm on the table, he crooked a thumb at the door. “Unless you’re planning on eating the plate, Stretch, let’s go look at some blood.”

The two of them were a Mutt-and-Jeff Murder Squad detective team operating out of the spiffy brick Metro Police Headquarters on James Robertson Parkway. Lamar was six-five, thirty-two, skinny as a shoestring potato with wispy brown hair and a walrus moustache like an old-time gunslinger. Born in New Haven, but he learned southern ways quickly.

Baker Southerby was two years older, compact and ruddy with skin that always looked razor-burned, bulky muscles with a tendency to go soft, thin lips and a shaved head. Despite Lamar’s tendency to digress, he’d never had a better partner.

Nashville homicides had dropped to sixty-three last year, most of them open-and-shuts worked by district detectives. The routine killings tended to be gang shootings, random domestics, and dope dealers cruising into town on the I-40 and getting into trouble.

The three, two-man Murder Squad teams were called out on whodunits and the occasional high-profile case.

The last new murder Southerby and Van Gundy had worked was a month ago, the shooting of a foulmouthed, substance-abusing Music Row promoter named Darren Chenoweth. Chenoweth had been found slumped in his Mercedes behind the crappy-looking warehouse that served as his Sixteenth Avenue office. An unindicted co-conspirator in the Cashbox payola scandal, his death was a head-scratcher with serious financial overtones, possibly a revenge hit. But it closed four days later as just another domestic gone bad, Mrs. Chenoweth coming in with her lawyer and confessing. A quick plea down to involuntary manslaughter, because fifteen witnesses were willing to testify Darren had been beating the crap out of her regularly. Since then Baker and Lamar had been working cold cases and closing a nice number of the green folders.

Lamar was happily married to a Vanderbilt Med Center pediatric nurse with whom he’d just bought a fifth-floor two-plus-two condo in the Veridian Tower on Church Street. Stretch and Sue used overtime to pay off the mortgage and they treasured their meager free time, so Baker, living alone, volunteered to take all the late-night and early-morning calls. Do wake-up duty in a nice, quiet voice.

He’d been up watching old NFL reruns on ESPN Classic when the phone rang at three twenty
AM
on a cool April night. Not Dispatch, Brian Fondebernardi calling direct. The squad sergeant’s voice was low and even, the way it got when things were serious. Baker heard voices in the background and immediately thought,
Complications.

“What’s up?”

“I disturb your beauty sleep, Baker?”

“Nope. Where’s the body?”

“East Bay,” said Fondebernardi. “First, below Taylor, in a vacant lot full of trash and other nasty stuff. Almost a river view. But you asked the wrong question, Baker.”

“Who’s the body?”

“There you go. Jack Jeffries.”

Baker didn’t answer.

Fondebernardi said, “As in Jeffries, Bolt, and Ziff—”

“I got it.”

“Mr. Even Keel,” said the sergeant. A Brooklyn native, he worked at a whole different pace, had taken awhile to understand Baker’s slogo style. “Central Detectives buttoned down the scene, M.E. investigator’s down there now, but that won’t take long. We got a single stab wound in the neck, looks to be right in the carotid. Lots of blood all around so it happened here. Lieutenant’s on her way, you don’t want to miss the party. Call the midget and get the heck down here.”

“Hi, Baker,” Sue Van Gundy answered in her throaty, Alabama voice. Too fatigued to be sexy at this hour, but that was the exception and though Baker thought of her as a sister, he wondered if maybe he should’ve agreed to date her cousin the teacher who’d visited last summer from Chicago. Lamar had shown him her picture, a pretty brunette, just like Sue. Baker thinking
Cute,
then
Who am I to be picky?
Then figuring it would never work, why start.

Now, he said, “Sorry to wake you, Sue. Jack Jeffries got himself stabbed.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Jack Jeffries,” she said. “Wow, Baker. Lamar
loves
his music.”

Baker restrained himself from saying what he knew:
Lamar loves everyone’s music. Maybe that’s the problem.

He said, “Millions of people agree with Lamar.”

“Jack Jeffries, unbelievable,” said Sue. “Lamar’s out like a light but I’ll nudge him—oh, look, he’s waking up by himself, got that cute look—honey, it’s Baker. You’ve got to work—he’s comin’ round, I’ll make some coffee. For you, too, Baker?”

“No, thanks, had some,” Baker lied. “I’ll be by in a jif.”

Sue said, “He’s so tired—up doing our taxes. I’ll make sure his socks match.”

Baker drove his department Caprice to Lamar’s high-rise and waited on the dark street until Lamar’s whooping-crane form lurched out the front door, a paper bag dangling from one gangly arm. Lamar’s walrus moustache flared to the periphery of his bony face. His hair was flying and his eyes were half-shut.

Baker wore the unofficial Murder Squad uniform: crisp buttondown shirt, pressed chinos, shiny shoes, and a holstered semi-auto. The shirt was Oxford blue, the shoes and the gun-sack, black. His sore feet craved running shoes but he settled for crepe-soled brown Payless loafers to look professional. His Kmart preppy special shirt was broadcloth laundered spotless, the collar starched up high the way his mother had done it when he was little and they all went to church.

Lamar got in the car, groaned, pulled two bagels out of the bag, handed one to Baker, got to work on the other, filling his stash with crumbs.

Baker sped to the scene and munched, his mouth still fuzzy, not tasting much. Maybe Lamar was thinking about that when he swallowed hard and dropped the mostly uneaten bagel into the bag.

“Jack Jeffries. He’s pure LA, right? Think he came here to record?”

“Who knows?”
Or cares.
Baker filled his partner in on the little he knew.

Lamar said, “Guy’s not married, right?”

“I don’t follow the celebrity world, Stretch.”

“My point,” said Lamar, “is that if there’s no wife involved, maybe it won’t dud out to a stupid domestic like Chenoweth.”

“A four-day close bothers you.”

“We didn’t close squat, we took dictation.”

“You were happy at the time,” said Baker.

“It was my anniversary. I owed Sue a nice dinner. But looking back…” He shook his head. “Total dud. Like a solo that dies.”

“You prefer a sleep-destroying WhoDun,” said Baker. Thinking:
I sound like a shrink.

Lamar took a long time to answer. “I don’t know what I like.”