Capital Crimes (18 page)

Fondebernardi said, “Anything else?”

Baker said, “The big question is, what was he doing in this particular spot? It’s industrial during the day, empty at night, pretty much away from the club scene, restaurants, dope dealers. Even the Adult Entertainment Overlay doesn’t reach here anymore.”

“One exception,” said the sergeant. “There’s a dinky little club called The T House two blocks south on First. Looks like some kind of a hippie joint—hand-painted signs, organic teas. They advertise entertainment no one’s ever heard of. Place opens at seven and closes at midnight.”

“Why would Jeffries be interested in that?” said Lamar.

“He probably wouldn’t, but it’s the only place anywhere near here. You can check it out tomorrow.”

Baker said, “I’d be wondering if he found himself a hooker, she brings him down here for a shakedown. But nine hundred in the wallet…” He checked the body again. “No wristwatch or jewelry.”

“But no tan lines on either wrist,” said Fondebernardi. “Maybe he didn’t wear a timepiece.”

“Maybe time wasn’t a big deal for him,” said Lamar. “Guys like that can have people telling time for them.”

“An entourage,” said Baker. “Wonder if he private-jetted in with some people.”

“It might be a good place to start. Those service places are open twenty-four/seven. Anytime, anywhere for the rich folk.”

The sergeant left and the two of them walked around the site several times, noting lots of blood on the weeds, maybe some indentations that were foot-impressions but nothing that could be cast. At four fifty
AM,
they okayed the morgue drivers to transport, and drove dark, deserted downtown streets to the Hermitage Hotel on Sixth and Union.

On the way over, Baker had called the toll-free number on the Jet Card, dealt with resistance from the Marquis staff about relinquishing flier information, but managed to ascertain that Jack Jeffries had flown into Signature Flight Support at Nashville International at eleven
AM.
They were not forthcoming about any of his fellow passengers.

The rich and famous demanded privacy except when they wanted publicity. Baker saw it all the time in Nashville, hotshot country stars hiding behind big glasses and oversized hats. Then when no one was noticing them, they talked louder than anyone else in the restaurant.

Lamar parked illegally at the curb, right in front of the Hermitage night door. Nashville’s only “AAA Five Diamond Award Recipient” was a gorgeous heap of Italian marble, stained-glass skylights, insets of Russian walnut carved exuberantly, restored to 1910 opulence. Locked up after eleven, the way any sensible downtown hostelry should be.

Baker rang the night bell. No one responded and he tried again. It took three more tries for someone to come to the door and peek around the side windows. Young black guy in hotel livery. When the detectives flashed I.D., the young guy blinked, took awhile to process before unlocking the door. His badge said
WILLIAM.

“Yes?”

Lamar said, “Is Mr. Jack Jeffries the rock star staying here?”

William said, “We’re not allowed to give out guest—”

Baker said, “William, if Mr. Jeffries is staying here, it’s time to switch to ‘was.’”

No comprehension in the young man’s eyes.

Baker said, “William, Mr. Jeffries was found dead a couple of hours ago and we’re the guys in charge.”

The eyes brightened. A hand flew to William’s mouth. “My God.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, he’s registered here.”

“Yes…sir. Oh, my God. How did it—what happened?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Lamar. “We’ll need to see his room.”

“Sure. Of course. Come in.”

They followed as William sped across the monumental lobby with its forty-foot coffered ceiling inlaid with stained glass, arched columns, brocade furniture, and potted palms. At this hour, dead-silent and sad, the way any hotel gets when stripped of humanity.

Baker remembered more motels than he could count. He thought to himself:
Doesn’t matter what the tariff is, if it ain’t home, it’s a big fat nowhere.

William nearly flew behind the walnut reception desk and set about playing with his computer. “Mr. Jeffries is—was—in an eighth-floor suite. I’ll make you a key.”

“Was he staying alone?” said Baker.

“In the suite? Yes, he was.” The kid wrung his hands. “This is horrible—”

“Alone in the suite,” said Lamar, “but…”

“He arrived with someone. That person’s staying on the fourth floor.”

“A lady?”

“No, no, a gentleman. A doctor—I guess his doctor.”

“Mr. Jeffries was sick?” said Baker.

William said, “I didn’t see any symptoms or anything like that. The other guest is a doctor—I really couldn’t tell you what it’s all about.”

“Anyone else arrive besides this doctor?”

“No, sir.”

“A doctor,” said Lamar. “Did he and Mr. Jeffries seem to be hanging out?”

“I recall them leaving together. At the end of my first shift—I do doubles when I can. Paying for college.”

“Vanderbilt?”

William stared at him. The absurdity of the suggestion. “Tennessee State but I need to pay room and board.”

“Good for you, education’s important,” said Lamar. “What time we talking about, Mr. Jeffries and his doctor leaving?”

“I want to say eight thirty, maybe nine.”

“How was Mr. Jeffries dressed?”

“All in black,” said William. “A Chinese-type shirt—you know, one of those collarless things.”

Same outfit they’d just seen.

Baker said, “So he and this doctor went out at eight thirty or thereabouts. Did either of them return?”

“I couldn’t say. We were pretty busy, and mostly I was checking a large party of guests in.”

“Anything else you can tell us about this doctor?”

“He did the checking in for Mr. Jeffries. Mr. Jeffries just kind of stood back. Over there.” Pointing to a towering palm. “He smoked a cigarette and turned his back on the lobby like he didn’t want to be noticed.”

“And let the doctor check him in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When the two of them left, what was their demeanor?”

“You mean were they in a good mood?”

“Or any other kind of mood.”

“Hmm,” said William, “I really couldn’t say. Nothing stands out in my mind one way or the other. Like I said, it was busy.”

Baker said, “But you noticed them leaving.”

“Because he’s a celebrity,” said William. “Was. I don’t know much about his music, but one of our bookkeepers is in her fifties and was really excited he was staying here.”

“Any idea why Mr. Jeffries was in Nashville?”

“Actually, I do,” said William. “I believe there’s a benefit concert at the Songbird, and he was going to sing. The performance list, according to the same bookkeeper, is quite impressive.” Deep sigh. “I know he brought his guitar with him. Bellboys were competing to carry it.”

William’s eyes rose to the glass coffers. “The doctor brought one, too. Or maybe he was just carrying Mr. Jeffries’s spare.”

“A doctor roadie,” said Baker. “What’s this person’s name?”

More fooling with the computer. “Alexander Delaware.”

“Another state of the union heard from,” said Lamar, cuffing Baker’s shoulder lightly. “Maybe he’s from The Nations.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” William was humorless. “He lists his address in Los Angeles. I can give you the zip code and his credit card information if you like.”

“Maybe later,” said Baker. “Right now, give us his room number.”

3

R
oom 413 was a short walk from the elevators, down a silent, plush hallway. The corridor was empty save for a few room-service trays left outside doors.

Nothing outside Dr. Alexander Delaware’s door.

Baker knocked lightly. Both detectives were surprised when a voice answered right away. “One second.”

Lamar checked his watch. It was close to six in the morning. “Guy’s up at this hour.”

Baker said, “Maybe he’s waiting for us so he can confess, Stretch. Wouldn’t that be nice and easy?”

Muffled footsteps sounded behind the door, then a blur washed across the peephole.

“Yes?” said the voice.

Baker said, “Police,” and placed his badge a few inches from the hole.

“Hold on.” A chain dropped. The doorknob rotated. Both detectives touched their weapons and stood clear of the door.

The man who opened was forty or so, good-looking, medium height, solidly built, with neatly cut dark curly hair and a pair of the lightest gray-blue eyes Lamar had ever seen. Wide eyes, so pale the irises were nearly invisible when they engaged you straight on. In the right light, that Orphan Annie thing. They were slightly red-rimmed. Boozing? Crying? Allergies brought on by Nashville’s high pollen count? No sleep? Pick a reason.

“Dr. Delaware?”

“Yes.”

Lamar and Baker stated their names and Delaware offered his hand. Warm, firm shake. Each detective checked for fresh cuts, any evidence of a struggle. Nothing.

Delaware said, “What’s going on?” Soft voice, low-key, kind of boyish. “Is Jack okay?” He had a square jaw, a cleft chin, a Roman nose. Dressed for lounging around, in a black T-shirt, gray sweats, bare feet.

As Lamar peered past the guy, into the room, Baker had a second look at the hands: smooth, slightly oversized, with a faint spray of dark hair across the top. The nails of the left hand had been clipped short but those on the right grew just past the fingertips and were tapered to the right. Possibly a classical guitarist or some other type of fingerpicker. So maybe the second guitar was his.

No one had answered Delaware’s question. The guy just stood there and waited.

Baker said, “Any reason Mr. Jeffries wouldn’t be okay?”

“It’s six in the morning and you’re here.”

“You’re up,” said Baker.

“Trouble sleeping,” said Delaware. “Jet lag.”

“When’d you get in, sir?”

“Jack and I got in at eleven yesterday morning and I made the mistake of taking a three-hour nap.”

“May we come in, sir?”

Delaware stepped aside. Frowning as he ushered them in.

Smallish, standard room, nothing fancy about it. A neat-freak, Lamar decided. No clothes in sight, every drawer and closet door shut. The only way you’d know the room was occupied was the guitar case near the bed, pillows propped up against the headboard and the comforter slightly mussed—indented where a body had reclined.

On the nightstand was an old-fashioned glass in which two ice cubes melted, a minibar-sized bottle of Chivas in the wastebasket. There was also a large-format magazine—
American Lutherie.

Another music wannabe? Lamar waited for Baker’s reaction. Baker was impassive.

Lamar had a closer look at the mini-bottle. Empty. Doctor mellowing out from insomnia with a drink and a read? Or calming himself down?

He and Baker pulled up chairs and Dr. Alexander Delaware perched on the bed. They gave him the bad news straight out and he placed a palm to his cheek. “My God! That’s horrible. I’m…” His voice trailed off.

Baker said, “How about filling us in?”

“About what?”

“For starters, how about why Mr. Jeffries travels with a doctor.”

A deep sigh. “This is…you’ve got to give me a few minutes.”

Delaware went to the minibar and took out a can of orange juice. He drank it quickly. “I’m a psychologist, not a medical doctor. After a helicopter mishap several years ago, Jack developed a phobia of flying. I was treating him for it. Nashville was his first actual flight after the near crash and he asked me to accompany him.”

“Leave all your other patients and go with him,” said Baker.

“I’m semi-retired,” said Delaware.

“Semi-retired?” Baker said. “That would mean you work sometimes?”

“Mostly police work for LAPD. I’ve been consulting on and off for several years.”

“Profiling?” said Lamar.

“And other things.” Delaware smiled enigmatically. “Once in a while, I’m useful. How did Jack die?”

“That’s your whole practice?” said Baker. “Consulting for LAPD?”

“I also do court consults.”

Baker said, “You don’t see patients but you were treating Jack Jeffries.”

“I don’t see many long-term patients. Jack came to me through my girlfriend. She’s a luthier, has worked on Jack’s instruments for years. Awhile back, he mentioned to her that he’d been invited to sing at the Songbird Café for the First Amendment gathering, and was frustrated that his anxiety prevented him from going. He was open to treatment and my girlfriend asked me if I would see him. I was between projects, so I agreed.”

Lamar uncrossed and crossed his legs. “What do you do for that kinda thing?”

“There are lots of approaches. I used a combination of hypnosis, deep muscle relaxation and imagery—teaching Jack to retrain his thoughts and emotional responses to flying.”

“That include drugs?” said Baker.

Delaware shook his head. “Jack had engaged in decades of self-medication. My approach was to see how far we could get without medication, get him a backup prescription for Valium, if he needed it during the flight. He didn’t. He was really doing well.” He ran a hand through his curls. Tugged and let go. “I can’t believe—this is…grotesque!”

A solemn headshake, then he strode to the minibar and retrieved another can of orange juice. This time he spiked it with a bottle of Tanqueray. “Time for me to self-medicate. I know enough not to offer you any booze, but how about soft drinks?”

Both detectives declined.

Baker said, “So you were his hypnotist.”

“I used hypnosis along with other techniques. Jack invested serious money in a Jet Card as a way of encouraging himself to keep practicing. If the flights to and from Nashville went smoothly, the plan was for him to try another trip alone. The success he’d achieved so far—mastering his fear—was good for him. He told me he hadn’t accomplished much for years, so it felt especially good.”

“Sounds like he was depressed,” said Lamar.

“Not clinically,” said Delaware. “But yes, he’d reached an age, was looking inward.” He drank. “What else can I help you with?”

“How about an accounting of his—and your—movements from the time you arrived in Nashville?” said Baker.

Again, the pretty boy raked his curls and threw them a look with those pale, pale eyes. “Let’s see…we got in around eleven in the morning. We flew privately, which was a first for me. A limo was waiting for us—I believe the company was CSL—we got to the hotel around noon. I checked in for Jack because he wanted to smoke a cigarette and was concerned about being conspicuous.”

“Conspicuous, how?”

“The whole celebrity thing,” said Delaware. “Being mobbed in the lobby.”

“Did that happen?”

“A few people seemed to recognize him but it never got beyond looks and whispers.”

“Anyone scary-looking?” said Lamar.

“Not to my eye, but I wasn’t looking for suspicious characters. I was his doctor, not his bodyguard. All I remember were tourists.”

“How about the few people who recognized him?”

“Middle-aged tourists.” Delaware shrugged. “It’s been a long time since he was a household name.”

“That bother him?”

“Who knows? When he told me he didn’t want to be noticed, my first thought was he really did and wanted to reassure himself he was still famous. I think attending the concert was all part of that…the desire to get out there and be someone. But not because of anything he said. This was just my perception.”

“You checked in, what next?” said Baker.

“I walked Jack up to his suite and he said he’d call me if he needed anything. I went down to my room, intending to take a twenty-minute catnap. Usually I wake up, right on the dot. This time I didn’t, and when I did get up, I felt logy. I went to the hotel gym, worked out for an hour, took a swim.” A strong exhalation. “Let’s see. I showered, I made a couple of calls, did a little reading, played a little.” Indicating the guitar case and the magazine.

“Who’d you call?” Baker asked.

“My service, my girlfriend.”

“The luthier,” Baker said. “What’s her name?”

“Robin Castagna.”

Lamar furrowed his eyebrows. “She got a write-up in
Acoustic Guitar
last year, right?” When Delaware looked surprised, he said, “You’re in Nashville, Doctor. It’s the town’s business.” He pointed to the guitar case. “That one of hers?”

“It is.” The psychologist unlatched the guitar case and took out a pretty little abalone-trimmed flattop. Like a 000-size Martin, but no decal on the headstock and the fretboard inlays were different. Delaware fingerpicked a few arpeggios, then ran some diminished chords down the board before frowning and returning the instrument to the case.

“Nothing sounds too good this morning,” he said.

Nimble, Baker thought, the guy could play.

Lamar said, “You planning on doing some performance while you’re here?”

“Hardly.” Delaware’s smile was wan. “Jack had his psychologist, the guitar is my therapy.”

Baker said, “So you picked a little, read a little…then what?”

“Let’s see…must’ve been six thirty, seven, by then I was hungry. The concierge recommended the Capitol Grille, right here in the hotel. But after I looked at it, I decided I didn’t want to dine alone in a place that fancy. Then Jack called and said he wanted to go out and ‘score some grub,’ could use company.”

“How’d he sound mood-wise?”

“Rested, relaxed,” said Delaware. “He told me the songs had been going well, no trouble remembering lyrics—which had been one of his main concerns. He made a lot of jokes about old age and hard living causing brain damage. He also told me that he was thinking of writing a new song for the benefit. Something called ‘The Censorship Rag.’”

“But now he was hungry.”

“For ribs, specifically. We ended up at a place on Broadway—Jack’s. He picked it out of the restaurant guide, thought it was funny—the name, some kind of karma.”

“How’d you get there?”

“We took a cab over.”

“It’s walking distance,” said Baker.

“We didn’t know that at the time.”

“When did you get there?” said Baker.

“Maybe a little before nine.”

“Anyone recognize him at Jack’s?”

Delaware shook his head. “We had a nice quiet meal. Jack ate lots of pork shoulder.”

“Was he bothered by not being recognized more?”

“He laughed about it, said one day he’d just be a footnote in a book. If he was lucky to live that long.” Delaware winced.

Baker said, “So what, he had a premonition?”

“Not about being murdered. Lifestyle issues. Jack knew he was obese, had high blood pressure, bad cholesterol. On top of all the hard living.”

“Bad cholesterol but he ate pork shoulder.”

Delaware’s smile was sad.

Lamar said, “Who paid for dinner?”

“Jack did.”

“Credit card?”

“Yes.

Baker said, “What time did you leave the restaurant?”

“I’d say ten thirty, at the latest. At that point we split up. Jack said he wanted to explore the city and it was clear he wanted to be alone.”

Baker said, “Why?”

“His words were, ‘I need some quiet time, Doc.’ Maybe he was on a creative jag and needed solitude.”

“Any idea where he went?”

“None. He waited until I caught my cab on Fifth, then started walking on Broadway…let me get my bearings—he headed east.”

Baker said, “East on Broadway is the center of downtown, and it’s anything but quiet.”

“Maybe he went to a club,” said Delaware. “Or a bar. Or maybe he was meeting up with some friends. He came here to perform with people in the business. Maybe he wanted to meet up with them without having his therapist around.”

“Any idea who those friends might be?”

“No, I’m just postulating, same as you.”

“East on Broadway,” said Baker. “Did you hear from him after that, Doctor?”

Delaware shook his head. “What time was he killed?”

“We don’t know yet. Any idea who’d want to do him harm?”

“None whatsoever,” said Delaware. “Jack was moody, I can tell you that much, but even though I’d treated him, it wasn’t in-depth psychotherapy, so I don’t have any window into his psyche. But throughout the dinner, I felt he was keeping a lot to himself.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Intuition. The only thing I can tell you that might be useful is that his mood changed toward the end of dinner. He’d been talkative for most of the meal, mostly reminiscing about the good old days, then suddenly he got quiet—really buttoned up. Stopped making eye contact. I asked if he felt okay. He said he was fine, and waved off any more questions. But something was on his mind.”