Capital Crimes (26 page)

“Reclaiming his biology,” said Baker. “A paternity thing?”

“The day before, all he could talk about was paternity. I should’ve made the connection.”

“And you’re thinking that’s relevant because…”

“I’m no homicide expert,” said Delaware. “But I’ve seen a few crime scenes. The paper said Jack was stabbed and a knife can be an intimate weapon. You need to get up close and personal when you use one. If you tell me Jack was robbed, I’ll change my mind. If he wasn’t, I’ll continue to wonder if he was cut by someone he knew. Given his remark about biology, how resolute he looked before we left, I’ll also wonder if he chose Nashville for his maiden voyage—chose that particular benefit, when there are so many others—because he wanted to be here for a personal reason. And ended up dying because of it.”

Neither detective spoke.

Delaware said, “If I’ve wasted your time, sorry. I wouldn’t have felt right if I didn’t tell you.”

Baker said, “We appreciate it, Doctor.” Leaning over and taking the fax. “Do you know a woman named Cathy Poulson?”

“Sorry, no.”

“No curiosity about why I asked?”

“I’ve learned to modulate my curiosity. But sure, who is she?”

“Old girlfriend of Jack’s. Hung out with him in LA, maybe thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years ago, I was a kid in Missouri.”

“The thing is,” said Lamar, “she also hooked up with him nineteen and a half years ago.”

Delaware studied them. “That’s a precise time frame. You know because it was punctuated by a specific event.”

Baker looked at Lamar. Lamar nodded.

“Blessed event,” said Baker.

“Another kid,” said the psychologist. “One of the women Jack wondered about. She lives here?”

“Yes, sir. But for now, we’re asking you to respect confidentiality. Even though dead people don’t get any.”

“Of course. Boy or girl?”

“Boy.” They showed him Tristan’s picture.

He said, “Oh, man, he looks just like a young Jack.”

“He writes songs,” said Lamar. “Or thinks he does.”

Delaware said, “Meaning a reunion could have involved an audition?”

“Maybe not a happy one.” Baker removed a folded photocopy of the song from his pad.

Delaware read the lyrics. “I see what you mean. You found this on Jack’s person?”

“In his room. How would Jack react to something like this?”

Delaware thought. “Hard to say. I guess it would depend on his state of mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I told you, Jack could be moody.”

“You’re not the only person to tell us that,” Baker answered.

“He might even have had a borderline mood disorder. He could shift from amiable to downright vicious pretty quickly. I only saw his angry side a couple of times in therapy, and it wasn’t severe. Flashes of irritation, mostly at the beginning when he was ambivalent when I probed too deeply. As I told you the first time, he was mostly amiable.”

“When he decided he really needed you to get on that plane with him, he behaved himself.”

“Could be,” said Delaware.

“So he never got violent with you?”

“No, nothing like that. My hope was that if Jack stuck around long enough to see concrete results—once he was able to imagine himself nearing an airport without getting sick to his stomach—he’d level out emotionally. And that’s exactly what happened. Except for that night he called me, what I mostly saw was the charming side.”

“But that other side didn’t disappear,” said Lamar. “He just held himself in check.”

“It’s possible.”

“So someone catches him in the wrong mood, shows him crappy music, he could’ve turned nasty.”

Delaware nodded.

Baker said, “Do that with a kid—a kid you never acknowledged and just met—and things could turn downright ugly.”

Delaware looked at Tristan’s photo. “He’s your primary suspect?”

“He’s looking good for it but we’ve got no evidence.” Lamar smiled. “Just psychology.”

Baker said, “First we have to find him, so we’d better be doing our job. Thanks for doing yours, Doc. You can head home, now. We need you, we’ll phone you.”

Delaware handed the photo back. “Hope it’s not him.”

“Why?”

“It’s tough when they’re young.”

12

B
ack in the car, Lamar said, “Smart guy.”

Baker said, “That’s what the LA Loo said.”

“What’d you think about his theory?”

“I’m getting that warm, fuzzy feeling, like when everything starts fitting together. Let’s find the kid.”

“That’s the plan.”

They cruised up and down Sixteenth, then tried the neighboring streets, searching for the green Beetle, or a big hulking hippie-type with long hair and beard. Or maybe Tristan Poulson had switched back to the clean-cut version.

A couple of prospects turned out to be garden-variety homeless dudes. One of them panhandled and Lamar handed him a buck.

“Father Teresa,” said Baker.

“Got to give to get back. Where, now?”

“Drive.”

A canvass of the city core turned up nothing.

Baker said, “These are rich people, they lie with more style.”

“Meaning he could be in Kentucky, no matter what the maid said.”

“Or in that guest house, the Bug stashed in the garage. Did you notice they’ve got five of ’em? Garages.”

“Didn’t,” said Lamar. “One thing for sure, his mama lied. That big speech about how far away he was in Brown, how much she missed him. That was just one big misdirect…same thing as taking his pictures off the mantel before we showed up.”

“The mantel,” said Baker, “could’ve been something else. Maybe there never were any pictures of him up there.”

“Why not?”

“There were only two with the husband, and both were him
and
her and she’s in front. The rest were all her by herself. Lots of those.”

“Freakishly self-centered,” said Lamar. “Just like Sheralyn said.”

“Think about it, Stretch. Her kid drops out of school, changes his appearance, gets depressed. Now he’s in big-time trouble as a murder suspect. What does she do? Packs out for Horsey Land.”

“Unless she took him with her.”

“Either way, we’ve got no grounds for warrants and are wading through a swamp of lies.”

“Okeechobee Okefenokee
Everglade
of lies, El Bee. What do you think the real reason was for her meeting with Jack?”

“Maybe warning him away from the kid?”

“Like, ‘Don’t be a bad influence,’” said Lamar. “Or it was just what she said. Jack got in touch with his inner parent, wanted to see his kid and the kid’s mommy, too. Some sort of family reunion but she wasn’t going for it. Either way, if Jack didn’t cooperate, she’d have reason to be upset.”

“True, but Greta Barline didn’t see any animosity.”

“And Cathy wants us to think she’s clean because she drove off. Even if that’s true, what stopped her from circling around, following Jack as he strolled in the dark?”

“Cutting his throat?” said Baker. “You think a nice, well-bred rich lady would stoop to that?” Smiling bitterly.

“More likely it was the kid, El Bee. Big enough to get the job done.”

“We were figuring someone shorter than Jack.”

Lamar didn’t answer.

Baker rubbed his head. “Swamp of lies.”

“Don’t let your feelings get all hurt. Occupational hazard, you heard the man, even shrinks have ’em.”

Baker looked at his watch. Close to one
AM
and they were nowhere, nothing, no-how. He phoned headquarters, and made sure the alert on Tristan and his car was still in place. Clicking off, he said, “What’s the chance Belle Meade’s going to help us with surveillance on the house?”

“Heck,” said Lamar, “what’s the chance, we do it ourselves, they’re not going to ticket us for trespassing?”

Waking up Lieutenant Jones at one forty-two
AM
wasn’t a snap decision. Neither was calling her direct without going through Fondebernardi. They took a two-man vote.

“I say do it,” said Lamar. “Why have two people pissed off at us?”

Baker said, “Unanimous,” and made the call. A brief one.

“She was cool, Stretch, didn’t even sound like she’d been sleeping. She’s gonna call the Belle Meade chief. Maybe he’s a night owl, too.”

Moments later, Jones phoned back. “The chief, Bobby Joe Fortune, promised to send a uniform by the Poulson house at regular intervals. First thing in the morning, he’ll also notify his department’s single criminal investigator, guy named Wes Sims, once worked as a Nashville detective. I know Wes, a good, smart man.”

Lamar and Baker were to avoid surveillance, themselves.

“Oh, man,” said Lamar.

“Bobby Joe made a good point,” said Shirley Jones. “Quiet street like that, you’re going to stick out.”

“An officer passing at regular intervals won’t?” said Baker.

The lieutenant said, “It’s something they do anyway.”

“Meaning they’re not doing anything extra for us.”

“Baker,” said Jones, “we live on earth, not Mars. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re so hot on this rich boy?”

He complied. When he finished, the lieutenant said, “I’m with you, good work. I’ll make sure the uniforms really chase
our
streets for him. Now let’s all get some sleep, be fresh as daisies for another day of public service.”

13

S
leep was brief. At four
AM,
a call from headquarters informed Baker that Tristan Poulson had been spotted by a local squad car and taken to headquarters for questioning.

“Nashville PD?”

“We got lucky, sir.”

Tristan had been walking along the river, unarmed, no resistance. The VW was parked behind a warehouse, no real intent to conceal. Baker roused Lamar and the two of them drove to work, waited in an interview room for their suspect to arrive.

Tristan was led in, uncuffed, by a female officer. No reason to restrain him, he hadn’t been arrested, and had shown no signs of violence.

Lamar thought,
Lucky break his mama being out of town. No lawyer called in and, with the kid nineteen, no legal obligation to call her. The Belle Meade connection will probably end up complicating matters, but let’s just see what shakes out.

Tristan was neither clean-cut or shaggy hippie. His fair hair was long, but washed and combed, his beard trimmed to a neat goatee. He wore a black Nike T-shirt, baggy blue jeans, white running shoes. There was a small gold knob in one ear. His nails were clean. Nice-looking kid, glowing tan, all that beef looked to be solid muscle. More buff than any pictures Lamar had seen of Jack Jeffries, but the resemblance to Jack was striking.

The boy refused to make eye contact. Despite the hard body and the good grooming, the detectives could see the depression Sheralyn Carlson had talked about. Stoop in the walk, shuffle in his gait, staring at the floor, arms swinging limply as if their being attached to his body didn’t matter.

He sat down and slumped, studying the floor tiles. Clean tiles; they smelled of Lysol; one thing you could say about the Murder Squad, the maintenance crew was first-rate.

Lamar said, “Hi, Tristan. I’m Detective Van Gundy and this is Detective Southerby.”

Tristan slid down lower.

Baker said, “We know it’s rough, son.”

Something plinked onto the tiles. A tear. Then another. The kid made no effort to stop, or even wipe his face. They let him cry for a while. Tristan never made a move or a sound, just sat there like a leaky robot.

Lamar tried again. “Real tough times, Tristan.”

The boy sat up a bit. Breathed in deeply and let out the air and made abrupt eye contact with Lamar. “Is your father alive, sir?”

That threw Lamar. “Thank God, he is, Tristan.” Wondering for a split second what Baker would have said if he’d been the one asked. Then, getting back in detective mode and hoping his answer and a subsequent smile would spur some resentment, jealousy, whatever, make the boy blurt it all out and they’d be finished.

When Tristan’s attention returned to the floor, Lamar said, “My dad’s a great guy, real healthy for his age.”

Tristan looked up again. Smiled faintly, as if he’d just received good news. “I’m happy for you, sir. My dad’s dead and I’m still trying to figure that out. He loved my music. We were going to collaborate.”

“We’re talking about Jack Jeffries.” Asking one of those obvious questions you had to ask, in order to keep a clear chain of information.

“Jack was my true father,” said Tristan. “Biologically and spiritually. I loved Lloyd, too. Until a few years ago, I thought
he
was my true father. Even when I learned that wasn’t true, I never said anything to Lloyd because Lloyd was a good man and he’d always been good to me.”

“How’d you find out?”

Tristan patted his chest. “I guess I always knew in my heart. The way Mom always talked about Jack. More than it just being the good old days. And how she never did it around Dad. Lloyd. Then, when I got bigger, seeing Jack’s pictures, friends would show them to me. Everyone kept saying it.”

“Saying what?”

“We were clones. Not that popular opinion means anything. Sometimes, just the opposite. I didn’t really want to believe it. Lloyd was good to me. But…”

“The evidence was too strong,” said Lamar.

Tristan nodded. “Also, it…verified stuff I’d always felt.” Another pat. “Deep inside. Lloyd was a good man, but—no buts, he was a good, good man. He died, too.”

“You’ve had a lot of loss, son,” said Baker.

“It’s like everything exploded inward,” said Tristan. “I guess that’s
im
ploded. Implosion.”

Enunciating the word, as if performing at a spelling bee.

“Implosion,” said Baker.

“It was like—everything!” Tristan looked up again. Looked at both detectives. “That’s why I considered it.”

“Considered what, son?”

“Jumping in.”

“Into the Cumberland?”

Another weak smile. “Like that old folk song.”

“Which one?”

“‘Goodnight Irene.’”

“Great song. Leadbelly,” said Baker, and Lamar almost got a stiff neck from not swiveling toward his partner.

The boy didn’t answer.

Baker said, “Yeah, that’s a great old song. The way that lyric just hits you, like it’s not really part of the rest of the song, then boom.”

Silence.

Baker said, “‘Sometimes I have a great notion to jump in the river and drown.’ Ol’ Leadbelly killed a man, spent time in prison, that’s where he wrote it and—”

“‘Midnight Special.’”

“You like the old ones, son.”

“I like everything good.”

“Makes sense,” said Baker. “So there you were, imploding. I got to tell you, things go a certain way, it’s easy to see how someone could feel that way, just take a few steps…”

Tristan didn’t react.

Baker said, “Guilt can make a person feel that way.”

Tristan retorted, “Or just plain life going to shit.” He dropped his head, pressed his cheeks with his palms.

Baker said, “Son, you’re obviously a smart guy so I won’t insult your intelligence by spinning a lot of theories. But the fact is: confession can be good for the soul.”

“I know,” said Tristan. “That’s why I told you.”

“Told us what?”

“I was thinking of doing it. The river. Did Mom send you? All the way from Kentucky?”

“Send us for what?”

“To stop me.”

Baker rubbed his bare head. “You’re thinking we picked you up for attempted suicide.”

“Mom said if I ever did it again, she’d have me arrested.”

“Again,” said Lamar.

“I tried twice before,” said Tristan. “Not the river, pills. Her Prozac. I’m not sure it was really serious…the first time. It was probably one of those…a cry for help, to use a cliché.”

“Your mama’s pills.”

“She had her purse open. I needed some cash and she’s cool with me just taking whatever money I needed. She left the pills in a vial on top of her wallet. I was just hungry for sleep, you know?”

“When was this, son?”

“You keep calling me ‘son.’” The boy smiled. “Nashville PD’s babysitting me. Amazing what money can buy.”

“You think we’re doing this for your mama?” said Lamar.

Tristan smirked and now they could see the spoiled rich kid in him. “Everyone knows the eleventh commandment.”

“What’s that?”

“Money talks, bullshit walks.”

“Tristan,” said Baker, “let me give you some education: we are not here to babysit you or to prevent you from doing whatever you want to do to yourself. Though we think that would be pretty stupid—jumping into those muddy waters. We have not talked to your mama since we interviewed her yesterday at your house and she led us to believe you were in Rhode Island.”

Tristan stared at him. “Then, what?”

“You are being questioned regarding the murder of Jack Jeffries.”

Tristan gaped. Sat up straight. “You think—oh, man, that’s ridiculous; that is so psychotic
ridiculous.
”

“Why’s that?”

“I loved Jack.”

“Your new dad.”

“My always dad, we were…,” said Tristan. He shook his head. Clean blond hair billowed, fell back into place.

“You were what?”

“Reuniting. I mean, he felt it and I was starting to feel it—the bond. But we both knew it takes time. That’s why he came to Nashville.”

“To bond.”

“To meet me.”

“First time?” said Lamar.

Nod.

“You get together?”

“Not yet.”

“So when’d you give him your song—‘Music City Breakdown’?”

“I mailed it to him. Five Oh Two Beverly Crest Ridge, Beverly Hills 90210.”

“How long ago?”

“A month. I mailed him a bunch of lyrics.”

“Before that, did you exchange letters?”

“We e-mailed. We’ve been doing it for six months; you can check my computer, I’ve saved everything between us.”

“Why’d you send him ‘Breakdown’ using snail mail?”

“I wanted him to have something…something he could touch. It was part of a whole notebook I sent him, all my lyrics. Jack liked four of them, the rest he said were too shapeless—that was the way he put it. But those four had potential to be songs if they ‘grew up.’ He said he’d help me grow them up. He said we should concentrate on ‘Breakdown’ because even though it needed work, it was the best. Then, if it…I was thinking about moving to LA, maybe getting into a creative writing program at UCLA or something.”

“You and Jack making plans.”

Long silence. Then Tristan shook his head. “Jack didn’t know about that. We were concentrating on ‘Breakdown.’”

“To grow it up.”

“We were supposed to do it before the concert—he was playing a concert at the Songbird. If it came together, he was going to sing it and then call me up on stage and introduce me as the writer. And maybe more.”

“His son.”

Slow, tortured nod. “Now she ruined it.”

“Who?” said Baker.

Silence.

“No theories, son?”

“No offense,” said the boy, “but that makes me feel worse, not better, sir. Hearing you call me ‘son.’”

“Apologies,” said Baker. “Who ruined things for you?”

No answer.

Baker said, “She as in…”

“Mom.”

“You think she killed Jack?”

“I don’t see her actually stabbing someone, too messy.”

“What, then?”

“She’d hire someone. Maybe some Lexington bad dude; she’s got all sorts of people working on the farm. I hate that place.”

“Don’t like horses?”

“Don’t like horseshit and all the racism that’s part of the whole scene.”

“Some Lexington bad dude,” said Baker. “What reason would your mama have to kill Jack?”

“To prevent me from entering his world. That’s what she called it—
his
world, like it was some Hades thing, some nether-hell of deep, dark iniquity. All those years, she’s been bragging about knowing Jack, how she used to hang with all those rock stars.”

“Not in front of Lloyd, though.”

“Sometimes, if she was drinking.”

“Did it bother him?”

“He’d smile and go back to his paper.”

“Easygoing sort,” said Lamar.

“That,” said Tristan, “and he had all his girlfriends.”

His smile was weary. “It was what you might call a free environment, sir. Until I wanted to invent
my
own brand of freedom. Mom wasn’t pleased.”

“The music scene,” said Lamar.

“She calls it the lowest of the low.”

Lamar quelled another urge to look at Baker. “You really think she’d murder a man to stop him from being a bad influence on you?”

“She went to warn him off,” said Tristan.

“When?”

“The night he flew into Nashville. At least, that’s what she told me she was going to do. Drove straight to where I was supposed to meet him. Told me to forget about going there, you stay away unless you want an ugly scene you’ll never forget.”

“Go where?”

“The place Jack was gonna be. Someplace on First, where there’s no other clubs.”

“The T House.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were supposed to meet up with Jack there.”

“Yes, sir. He called me that night, said he was going there, I should bring the extra verses I was working on—for ‘Breakdown’—and he was going to check them out. Then I was going to drive him back to the hotel and we were going to pull an all-nighter so the song would be in shape to sing at the concert.”

“But Mom warned you off and you didn’t go.”

“I called Jack and asked what to do about it. He told me to be cool, he’d calm her down, and we would meet up.”

“How’d you feel about all that?”

“Angry as hell, but Jack promised me we’d get together with enough time before the concert.”

“The concert was important.”

“He was going to bring me up on stage.”

“Where’d you go instead of to the T House?”

“Nowhere,” said the boy. “I stayed home and worked on ‘Breakdown.’ I fell asleep, maybe at three, four, I don’t know, it was at my desk. Then I got up and worked some more. Check my computer logs, when I write something, I record the time.”

“Why?”

“To preserve it. Preserve everything about the process. You can have my computer, if you want to prove it. It’s on the backseat of my car.”

“You seem real anxious for us to get hold of your computer.”

“Anything about me is going to be on my hard drive.”

Lamar said, “We find your computer was used at a certain time, doesn’t tell us who used it.”

The boy scowled. “Well, it was me—ask Amelia, our maid. I was in all night and never left.”