Capital Crimes

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.”

2

John Wallace “Jack” Jeffries, a natural Irish tenor prone to baby fat and tantrums, grew up in Beverly Hills, the only child of two doctors. Alternately doted upon and ignored, Jackie, as he was known back then, attended a slew of prep schools, each of whose rules he violated at every turn. Dropping out of high school one month short of graduation, he bought a cheap guitar, taught himself a few chords and began thumbing his way eastward. Living on handouts, petty theft, and whatever chump change landed in his guitar case as he offered renditions of classic folk songs in that high, clear voice.

In 1963, at the age of twenty-three, usually drunk or high and twice treated for syphilis, he settled in Greenwich Village and attempted to insinuate himself into the folk music scene. Sitting at the feet of Pete Seeger and Phil Ochs, Zimmerman, Baez, the Farinas was educational. He had a better shot actually jamming with some of the younger lights- Crosby, Sebastian, the heavy girl with the great pipes who’d begun calling herself Cass Elliot, John Phillips who’d do a favor for anyone.

Everyone liked California Boy’s voice but his temperament was edgy, pugilistic, his lifestyle an all-you-can-smoke-snort-swallow buffet.

In 1966, having failed to snag a record deal and watching everyone else do so, Jeffries contemplated suicide, decided instead to return to California, where at least the weather was mellow. Settling in Marin, he hooked up with two struggling folkies named Denny Ziff and Mark Bolt whom he’d seen playing for not much better than chump change in an Oakland Shakey’s Pizza.

In what subsequent armies of publicists termed a “magical moment” Jeffries claimed to be munching on a double-cheese extra-large and admiring the duo, while realizing something was missing. Rising to his feet, he hopped on stage during a spirited a capella delivery of “Sloop John B” and added high harmony. The resulting melding of voices created a whole much greater than the sum of the parts and brought down the house. Word of mouth seared through the Bay Area like wildfire and the rest was music history.

The real story was that a speed-shooting promoter named Lanny Sokolow had been trying to get Ziff and Bolt past the pizza circuit for two years when he happened across a chubby, longhaired, bearded dude crooning to a giggly bevy of porn actresses at a Wesson Oil party sponsored by the O’Leary Brothers, San Francisco’s favorite adult theater tycoons. Even if Sokolow hadn’t been racing on amphetamine, that high, clear voice would’ve tweaked his ear. The fat guy sounded like an entire angels’ chorus. Hell if this wasn’t exactly what his two borderline-intelligence baritones could use.

Jack Jeffries’s response to Sokolow’s greeting and attempted power shake was, “Fuck you, man, I’m busy.”

Lanny Sokolow smiled and bided his time, stalking the fat kid, finally getting him to sit down and listen to some demos of Ziff and Bolt. Caught at a weak moment, Jeffries agreed to take in the Shakey’s show.

Now, Sokolow figured, if three edgy temperaments could coexist…

One thing about the official version was true: word of mouth was instantaneous and super-charged, nudged along by a new electric thing called folk-rock. Lanny Sokolow got his trio amplified backup and a series of freelance drummers, and booked them as opening acts at Parrish Hall and the other free venues on the Haight. Soon, The Three, as they called themselves, were opening for midsized acts, then major headliners, actually bringing in serious money.

An Oedipus Records scout listened to them lead in for Janis on a particularly good night and phoned LA. A week later, Lanny Sokolow was out of the picture, replaced by Saul Wineman who, as head man at Oedipus, rechristened the group Jeffries, Ziff and Bolt, the sequence of names determined by a coin toss (four tosses, really; each of the three demanded a turn but none was happy until Wineman stepped in).

The trio’s first three singles made Top Ten. The fourth, “My Lady Lies Sweetly,” hit Number One With A Bullet and so did the LP, Crystal Morning. Every song on the album credited the trio as writers but the real work had been done by Brill Building hacks who sold out for a flat fee and a strict nondisclosure pact.

That exposé was among the almanac of allegations listed in Lanny Sokolow’s breach-of-contract lawsuit, a marathon feast for attorneys that dragged on for six years and ultimately settled out of court, three weeks prior to Sokolow’s death from kidney disease.

Six subsequent albums were penned with some help from Saul Wineman. Four of the five went platinum, My Dark Shadows dipped to gold, and We’re Still Alive tanked. In 1982, the group broke up due to “creative differences.” Saul Wineman had moved on to movies and each of the trio had earned more than enough to live as a rich man. Residuals, though tapering each year, added cream to the coffee.

Denny Ziff burned through his fortune by backing a series of unfortunately written and directed independent films. By 1985, he was living in Taos and painting muddy landscapes. In ’87, he was diagnosed with small-cell carcinoma of the lung that killed him in three months.

Mark Bolt moved to France, bought vineyard land and turned out some decent Bordeaux. Marrying and divorcing four times, he sired twelve children, converted to Buddhism, sold his vineyards and settled in Belize.

Jack Jeffries chased women, nearly lost his life in a helicopter flight over the Alaskan tundra, vowed never to fly again and bunked down in Malibu, overindulging in any corporeal pleasure at hand. In 1995, he donated sperm to a pair of lesbian actresses who wanted a “creative” kid. The match took and one of the actresses gave birth to a son. Jeffries was curious and asked to see the boy, but after the first few visits where Jeffries showed up toasted, the mothers termed him unfit and filed a cease-and-desist. Jack never fought for contact with his son, now a high-achieving high school senior living in Rye, New York. Rug-rats had never been his thing and there was all that music yet to be made.

He slept till three, kept a small staff that pilfered from him regularly, drank and doped and stuffed his face with no eye toward moderation. The residuals had trickled to a hundred G a year but passive income afforded him the house on the beach, cars and motorcycles, a boat docked in Newport Beach that he never used.

From time to time, he sang on other people’s records, gratis. When he performed, it was as a solo act at local benefits and venues that got smaller and smaller. Each year he put on more weight, refused to cut his hair, now white and frizzy, even though every other m.f. had sold out to Corporate Amerika.

He hadn’t been to Nashville since That Time but remembered it as a cool place, but too far to drive. So when the owner of the Songbird Café sent out a mass e-mail requesting participants in a First Amendment concert inveighing against federal snooping in public libraries, he tossed it. Then he retrieved it, read the list of those who’d agreed to attend, and felt crappy about having to say no.

Hemmed in, like maybe the cure was worse than the disease.

Then he happened to bring his guitar for repair into The Chick With the Magic Hands and started talking to her and she made a suggestion and…why not, even though he didn’t have much hope.

Give it a try, maybe it was time to show some cojones.

Two months later, would you believe it, it worked.

Ready to fly.

Good name for a song.

Jack Jeffries, lying dead in a weed-choked, garbage-flecked lot a short walk from the Cumberland River, would be a no-show at the Songbird concert.

Cleared by the M.E., Lamar Van Gundy and Baker Southerby gloved up and went to take a look at the body. The okay didn’t come from an investigator; an actual pathologist had shown up, meaning high priority.

Ditto for the appearance of Lieutenant Shirley Jones, Sergeant Brian Fondebernardi, and a host of media types kept at bay by a small army of uniformed cops. The two local homicide detectives had signed off to the Murder Squad, more than happy to be free of what was looking like the worst combo: publicity and a mystery.

Lieutenant Jones handled the press with her usual charm, promising facts as soon as they were in, and urging the newshounds to clear the scene. After some grumbling, they complied. Jones offered words of encouragement to her detectives, then left. As the morgue drivers hovered in the background, Sergeant Fondebernardi, trim, dark-haired, economical of movement, led the way to the corpse.

The kill-spot was a shadowed wicked place reeking of trash and dogshit. Not really a vacant lot, just a sliver of clumped earth shaded by the remnants of an old cement wall that probably dated to the days when riverboats unloaded their wares.

Jack Jeffries lay on the ground, just feet from the wall, vacant eyes staring up at a charcoal sky. Dawn was an hour away. Cool night, midfifties; Nashville weather could be anything, anytime, but in this range, nothing would weirdly accelerate or slow down decomposition.

Both detectives circled the scene before nearing the body. Each thinking: Dark as sin: a body could walk right by it at night and never know.

Fondebernardi sensed what was on their minds. “Anonymous tip, some guy slurring his words, sounds like a homeless.”

“The bad guy?” said Lamar.

“Anything’s possible, Stretch, but on the tape he sounded pretty shook up- surprised. You’ll listen when you’re finished here.”

Lamar got closer to the body. The man was obese. He kept that to himself.

His partner said, “Looks like he let himself go.”

Sergeant Fondebernardi said, “We’re being judgmental, tonight, Baker? Yeah, aerobics would’ve made him prettier but it wasn’t a coronary that got him.” Flashing that sad, Brooklyn smile, the sergeant leaned in with a flashlight, highlighted the gash on the left side of the victim’s neck.

Lamar studied the wound. All that music. That voice.

Baker kneeled and got right next to the corpse, his partner following suit.

Jack Jeffries wore a blousy, long-sleeved black silk shirt with a mandarin collar. His pants were lightweight black sweats with a red satin stripe running the length of the leg. Black running shoes with red dragons embroidered on the toe. Gucci insignia on the soles. Size 11, EEE.

Jeffries’s belly swelled alarmingly, a pseudo-pregnancy. His left arm was bent upward, palm out, as if caught in the act of waving good-bye. The right hung close to a spreading hip. Jeffries’s long white hair was a droopy corona, some of it floating above a high, surprisingly smooth brow, the rest tickling puffy cheeks. Muttonchops trailed three inches below fleshy ears. A fuzzy moustache as luxuriant as Lamar’s obscured the upper lip. Would have hidden both lips but for the fact that the mouth gaped in death.

Missing teeth, Baker noted. Guy really let himself go. He pulled out his own penlight and got eye to eye with the wound. Two or so inches wide, the edges parting and revealing meat and gristle and tubing. An upwardly sloping cut, ragged at the top, as if the knife had been yanked out hard and caught on something.

He pointed it out to Lamar. “Yeah I saw that. Maybe he struggled, the blade jiggled.”

Baker said, “The way it climbs is making me think the thrust was upward. Could be the stabber was shorter than the vic.” He eyeballed the corpse. “I’d put him at six even, so that doesn’t clear much.”

Fondebernardi said, “His driver’s license says six one.”

“Close enough,” said Baker.

“People lie,” said Lamar.

Baker said, “Lamar’s license says he’s five nine and likes sushi.”

Flat laughter cut through the night. When it subsided, Fondebernardi said, “You’re right about lying. Jeffries claimed his weight to be one ninety.”

“Add sixty, seventy to that,” said Baker. “All that heft, even if he wasn’t in shape, he’d be able to put up some resistance.”

“No defense wounds,” said Fondebernardi. “Check for yourself.”

Neither detective bothered: the sergeant was as thorough as they came.

“At least,” said Lamar, “we don’t have to waste time on an I.D.”

Baker said, “What else was in his pocket besides the license?”

Fondebernardi said, “Just a wallet, morgue guys have it in their van but it’s yours to go through before they book. We’re talking basics: credit cards, all platinum, nine hundred in cash, a Marquis Jet Card, so maybe he flew in privately. That’s the case, we might get a whole bunch of data. Those jet companies can book hotels, drivers, the whole itinerary.”

“No hotel key?” said Lamar.

The sergeant shook his head.

“Maybe he’s got friends in town,” said Baker.

“Or he didn’t bother with the key,” said Lamar. “Celebrity like that, people carry stuff for you.”

“If he is in a hotel, where else is it gonna be but the Hermitage?”

“You got it,” said Lamar. “Ten to one, he’s got the Alexander Jackson suite or whatever they call their hotshot penthouse.”

Sounding like he yearned for all that, thought Baker. Dreams died hard. Better not to have any.

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

Room 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.”

“But you have no idea what,” said Baker.

“With someone like Jack, could’ve been anything.”

“Someone like Jack?”

“My experience has been that creative and moody go together. Jack had a reputation for being difficult- impatient, sharp-tongued, unable to maintain relationships. I don’t doubt any of that’s true, but with me he was pretty pleasant. Though at times I felt he was working really hard to be amiable.”

“He needed you to get on and off that plane,” said Baker.

“That was probably it,” said Delaware.

“Ribs at Jack’s,” said Lamar. “Any liquid refreshment?”

“Jack had a beer, I had a Coke.”

“Only one beer?”

“Only one.”

“Pretty good self-control.”

“Since I’ve known him, he’s been temperate.”

Lamar said, “This was a guy who skydived on acid and raced motorcycles while driving blind.”

“I’ll amend the statement. Around me, he’s been temperate. He once told me he was slowing down like an old freight train. He rarely divulged his private life to me, even after we built up a rapport.”

“How long did that take- rapport?”

“Couple of weeks. No treatment’s effective unless there’s trust. I’m sure you guys know that.”

“What do you mean, Doctor?”

“Interrogating witnesses is more about developing a relationship than strong-arming.”

Baker rubbed his shaved head. “You counsel the LA po-lice on technique?”

“My friend over there, Lieutenant Sturgis, does pretty well by himself.”

“Sturgis with an i-s or an e-s?”

“With an i: like the motorcycle meet.”

“You’re also a biker?”

“I rode a bit when I was younger,” said Delaware. “Nothing big-bore.”

“Slowed down yourself?”

Delaware smiled. “Don’t we all?”

4

They stayed with the shrink for another twenty minutes, going over the same ground, asking the same questions in different ways in order to tease out discrepancies.

Delaware answered consistently, with no sense of evasiveness. That wasn’t enough for Baker to give him a pass, seeing as he was the last person, so far, to see Jack Jeffries alive and most murders boiled down to someone the vic knew. The guy being a doctor didn’t mean much, either. Then there was the hypnotist deal, which, no matter what Delaware claimed, was a form of mind-bending.

On the other side, there were no visible cuts on the guy, his demeanor was appropriate, his movements could be traced easily until ten thirty, he had no obvious motive, and hadn’t bothered to set up an alibi for the time of the murder.

“Do you know if Jack was married?” Baker asked him.

“He wasn’t.”

“Any special person in his life?”

“No one he told me about.”

“Anyone we should contact in LA about his death?”

“I suppose you could start by calling up his agent…or maybe it’s his ex-agent. I seem to recall something about Jack firing him several years ago. I’m sorry but if he told me a name, I don’t remember it.”

Baker wrote down agent on his notepad. “So no one keeping the home fires burning?”

“No one that I know about.”

Lamar said, “What are your plans now, Doctor?”

“I guess there’s no reason for me to stick around.”

“We’d appreciate it if you did.”

“You were planning to be here till after the concert,” Baker said, “so how about at least for a day or so?”

Those pale eyes aimed at them. Small nod. “Sure, but let me know when it’s okay to leave.”

They thanked him, and went up to the eighth floor. After roping the door with yellow crime scene tape, they gloved, turned on the light and proceeded to paw through Jack Jeffries’s magnificent-view suite. During the ten hours Jeffries had lived there, he’d managed to turn it into a sty.

Clothes were strewn everywhere. Empty soda cans, wrinkled bags of chips, nuts, and pork rind whose contents littered the floor. No booze empties, doobies or pills, so maybe Jeffries had told the shrink the truth about slowing down.

In a corner next to a couch, Jeffries’s guitar, a shiny jumbo Gibson with a rhinestone-studded cowboy pick-guard leaned against the wall in a precarious position.

Lamar was about to move it, but checked himself. Finish up and take Polaroids first.

On Jeffries’s nightstand was the room key they hadn’t found in his pocket- so much for that lead. Also, a snapshot, curling at the edges.

The subject was a kid: a big beefy young man, eighteen or so with cropped fair hair. He wore some kind of athletic uniform. Not football, no pads. A wine-colored shirt with a white collar, across the chest WESTCHESTER in gold letters.

Smiling like a hero.

Lamar said, “Looks just like Jack. At least what Jack used to look like, right? This is maybe the kid he had with Melinda Raven and that other actress, whatshername?”

Baker lifted the picture with a gloved hand. On the back, genteel handwriting, feminine, in deep red ink.

Dear J: This is Owen after his last big game. Thanks for the anonymous donation to the school. And for giving him space.

Love, M.

“M for Melinda,” said Lamar.

Baker said, “What kind of uniform is this?”

“ Rugby, El Bee.”

“Isn’t that British?”

“They play it at the prep schools.”

Baker regarded his partner. “You sure know a lot about it.”

“One of my many schools played it, but not all that well,” said Lamar. “Flint Hill. I lasted six whole months there. If it hadn’t been for varsity basketball, I would have been booted in two. Once I discovered guitars and stopped playing sports for the well-heeled alumni, no one had a lick of use for me.”

Baker opened a drawer. “Looky here.” Holding up a sheet of lined paper with crenellated edges that said it had been torn from a spiral notebook.

Verses in black pen filled the sheet. Block-printed lettering but with flourishes on the capitals.

Thought my songs would carry me far

Thought I’d float on my guitar

But The Man says you’re no good for us

Might as well catch that Greyhound Bus

Refrain: Music City Breakdown,

It’s a Music City Breakdown

Just a Music City Shakedown,

A real Music City Takedown

Thought they cared about Mournful Hank

Thought I’d come and break the bank

Then they made me walk the plank

Now I’m here all dark and dank

(Refrain)

“So much for creative output,” Baker said. “This is pretty juvenile.”

The tall man took the sheet, scanned. “Maybe it’s a first draft.”

Baker didn’t answer.

Lamar said, “Guess the guy didn’t figure on getting his throat cut and us archaeologizing all over his shit.” Slapping the paper down on the nightstand.

“We should take it,” said Baker.

“So take it.”

“Someone’s cranky.”

“Hey,” said Lamar, “I’m just feeling for the guy. He beats his fear, manages to fly over here on his own dime just to do some good, and ends up like we just saw him. That’s a rotten deal any way you shake it, El Bee.”

“I’m not denying that.” Baker placed the sheet in an evidence bag. The two of them continued to toss the suite. Going over every square inch and finding nothing interesting except a note on a message pad that seemed to bear out Delaware ’s story: BBQ Jacks B’Way bet 4 &5 Call AD or solo?

The note was in a completely different handwriting from the song lyrics.

“The directions have to be Jack’s handwriting,” Baker said. “So where’d the lyrics come from?”

“Maybe he had a visitor,” Lamar said. “You know, some wannabe using a ruse like room service, then dropping his bad poetry on him.”

“So why didn’t Jack throw it away?”

Lamar said, “Maybe the guy was dry and he was searching for inspiration.”

Baker stared at him. “He musta been desperate to steal from the likes of this.”

“Well, he hadn’t had a hit in a long time.”

“That’s thin, Stretch.”

“Agreed, El Bee, but it’s all I can think of. Let’s see if we can’t get prints off it anyway, run an AFIS.”

Baker jiggled the bag. “What we need to do is bring in the CSers and have ’em print the whole damn pigsty. I’ll take the pictures and then we can book.”

Lamar stood back as Baker walked around snapping Polaroids. Both of them careful not to disturb easily printable surfaces.

Baker said, “You wanna call Melinda Raven tomorrow morning? Find out if Owen is her kid and ask what his relationship was with his daddy.”

“I can do that. Alternatively, we can go to the library and read old People magazines. Why play our ace card?”

Baker nodded and continued to snap Polaroids. When he was done, he stowed his camera and headed for the door. Lamar, still gloved, hesitated, then placed Jeffries’s guitar on the bed before he closed the door.

5

Baker dropped Lamar off at his condo at nine AM. They’d made a short stopover at the lab to run an AFIS fingerprint check on the note. The system was down, try again later.

“I’m going to catch a couple hours of shut-eye,” said Lamar. “Okay with you?”

“Better than okay.” Baker drove off.

Sue Van Gundy was up, at the dinette table, eating her Special K with sliced banana, decaf on the side. Planning, as was her habit, to leave in twenty for the beginning of her eleven-to-seven shift.

She lit up when she saw her husband, got up, wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her cheek on his flat, hard chest.

“That,” he said, “feels nice.”

“How’d it go on Jeffries, honey?”

Lamar kissed her hair, they both sat down and he pilfered her decaf. “It went nowhere, babe. We’re starting from nothing. And Baker’s in one of those snits.”

“Because it’s music-related.” Statement, not a question.

“Three years we’ve been working together and he still won’t tell me why he hates anything to do with tone and rhythm.”

“Lamar,” said Sue, “I’m sure it’s something to do with his folks. Just like that nickname you gave him. He really was a lost little boy, growing up on the road, it couldn’t have been anything like a normal childhood. Then they up and die on him, Lamar? And he’s all alone?”

“I know,” he said. Thinking: But there’s got to be more. One time, right after he and Baker had started as a team and he’d learned of his partner’s quirk, he’d done some sniffing around, found out Baker’s parents had been a pair of singers.

Danny and Dixie, traveling the back roads doing honky-tonk, county fairs, roadhouse one-nighters. Danny on guitar, Dixie on the mandolin.

The mandolin.

A long way from stars, nothing on Google. Lamar dug some more, found the obit in an old newspaper file.

Sue was insightful, but still, there had to be more to it than longtime grief.

She said, “Let me make you some eggs.”

“No, thanks, baby. I just need to sleep.”

“Then I’ll tuck you in.”

Baker went home, stripped naked, fell into bed, was asleep before his face hit the sheet.

Much of the afternoon was spent with the two of them sitting at the center table in the pale purple Murder Squad detectives’ room, working the phone and sifting through the slew of tips that had poured in after Jack Jeffries’s murder hit the news.

TV, broadcast, radio, the final edition of The Tennessean. By evening, it would be the national entertainment shows.

Fondebernardi and Lieutenant Jones stopped in to see how everything was going. Both of them too experienced and smart to push because that would accomplish nothing other than make their detectives nervous. But they were edgy, all that media attention.

Baker and Lamar had a data flood on their hands from the blitz of phone tips. Sometimes too much information was worse than none at all. Like a room with fifty different fingerprint patterns. Every call they fielded was from a nut, a psychic or just a well-meaning citizen imagining or exaggerating. Two dozen people claiming to have seen Jeffries in two dozen unfeasible places at impossible times.

A few informants were certain he’d been accompanied by a dangerous-looking person. Half of those described a woman, the other half a man. Details as to height, weight, clothing and demeanor were cloudy to the point of uselessness, but everyone agreed on one thing: a dangerous-looking black person. And that included black informants.

The detectives had seen that before, called it The Color Kneejerk, but given a 911 caller who sounded African-American, it couldn’t be dismissed.

Then the 911 caller showed up at headquarters, a former merchant marine, now homeless, named Horace Watson, who lived in an eastside shelter and liked to take long walks by the river. The man was seventy-three, wizened and toothless. He was also as white as Al Gore; his southern Louisiana accent misconstrued as black patois.

Lamar and Baker took him into a room and started in on developing a relationship by giving him a Danish and coffee. Watson was already tipsy but outgoing, a nice drunk and eager to help. Volunteering about how he always walked by that area- that particular piece of land because sometimes you could find aluminum cans for the Redemption Center and one time he’d found a watch. Too bad it didn’t work.

This time, he’d found more than he was looking for. Freaking out when he saw the dead man, he’d hurried back to the shelter to tell someone. Found a pay phone along the way and made the call.

Now he was wondering…ahem…about maybe a ree-ward?

“Sorry, sir,” said Lamar, “no rewards for finding bodies, only murderers.”

“Oh,” said Watson. Flashing a sunken grin. “Cain’t blame a guy for trahn.”

They questioned him awhile longer, ran him through the system and got a hit with a few misdemeanors. When Baker suggested a polygraph, Watson loved the idea. “Long as it don’t hoit.”

“Painless, Mr. Watson.”

“Let’s do it, den. Always wanna try new t’ings.”

Lamar and Baker traded looks.

Stretch cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry, sir, no polygraphers on the premises. We’ll call you.”

“Oka-ay,” said Watson. “I got nuttin a do.”

Calls to Jack Jeffries’s credit card company, follow-up chats with a supervisor at Marquis Jet and the limo driver who’d taken Jeffries and Delaware to the hotel, and a brief sit-down with the staff at Jack’s Bar-B-Que confirmed every detail of Dr. Delaware ’s story.

No one at the restaurant had noticed where Jeffries had gone.

Baker and Lamar spent the next two hours canvassing neighboring merchants east of the barbecue joint, talking to passersby, anyone who hung out regularly on the numbered streets between Fifth and First.

Nothing.

With little else to go on, the two detectives started making phone calls, splitting the list of the performers for the upcoming “Evening at the Songbird Café for the Benefit and Protection of the First Amendment.”

Among the names were some of Lamar’s idols: Stretch did his police duty with gusto. Baker made the calls with reticence bordering on hostility. The sum total of twenty-two phone calls yielded the same results, which were no results. Everyone was stunned by the news, but no one had seen hide nor hair of Jack Jeffries. Some didn’t even know he had been scheduled to perform. Checking Jeffries’s outgoing cell calls verified the stories. If Jack had attempted to reach former buddies, he’d done so on a landline that the detectives were unaware of.

A seven PM call to Lieutenant Milo Sturgis in LA verified Dr. Alexander Delaware’s longtime association with the department. Sturgis termed Delaware as brilliant.

“If you can use him,” the lieutenant said, “do it.”

Baker asked him if he knew Delaware had been treating Jack Jeffries.

Sturgis said, “No, he never talks about his cases. Guy’s ethical.”

“Sounds like you like him.”

“He’s a friend,” said Sturgis. “That’s an effect of his being a good guy, not a cause.”

The AFIS report on the scrap of song lyrics from Jack Jeffries’s room came back negative for any match with an individual in the system. The crime scene people were still working at the scene and the results would start to trickle in tomorrow.

Baker called the coroner’s office and spoke to Dr. Inda Srinivasan. She said, “Obviously tox won’t be back for a few days but this was one unhealthy guy. His heart was enlarged, his coronary arteries were seriously occluded, his liver was cirrhotic and one of his kidneys was atrophied, with a cyst on the other not that long from bursting. Top of that, he’s got noticeable cerebral atrophy, more like what you’d see in an eighty-year-old than a sixty-five-year-old.”

“He was also fat and had dandruff,” said Baker. “Now tell me what killed him.”

“Severed carotid laceration, exsanguination and subsequent shock,” said the pathologist. “My point is, Baker, he probably didn’t have long, either way.”

6

At seven thirty, they returned to the kill-spot. In diminishing daylight, stripped of hubbub and artificial illumination, the site was even more depressing. Last night’s foot-indentations were almost gone, plumped by dew. But streaks of rusty brown remained on the weeds. Fresh dog dropping deposited inches from where the body had lain, the pooch disregarding the boundaries of the yellow crime scene tape.

Why should life stop?

At eight thirty they were starving and went back to Jack’s Bar-BQue, not just for the food, but also hoping someone might remember something.

Baker ordered smoked chicken.

Lamar asked for Tennessee pork shoulder and when the food arrived, said, “It’s like some primitive rite.”

Baker wiped his mouth with a Wash’n Dri. “What is?”

“I’m eating what Jack ate, like that could transfer his karma to us.”

“I don’t want his karma. You gonna eat all those onions?”

They wiped their chins and drove to The T House. The front door was open but from the street, the club looked empty.

The interior was a single dim, plywood-paneled room with a warped pine floor, mismatched chairs pulled up to small round, oilcloth-covered tables, a few pictures of bands and singers hanging askew.

Not quite empty; three patrons, all young, emaciated, sullen, drinking tea and eating some kind of anorexic biscuits.

Big and Rich on the too-loud soundtrack, asking women to ride them.

Behind a makeshift bar, a black-shirted, spiky-haired guy dried mismatched glasses. As the detectives stood in the doorway, he glanced their way briefly, then returned to his chore.

Not curious about their presence. Meaning Jeffries probably hadn’t been here.

They entered anyway, looked around. No hard liquor permit, just beer and wine and a skimpy selection of that. To the left of the bottles, a blackboard listed two dozen types of tea.

“Talk about selection,” said Lamar. “Oolong is one thing, Unfermented White sounds illegal.”

Baker said, “Look at this.” Cocking his head at the rear of the room where a stage should be. No platform, no drum kit, or any other evidence of live entertainment.

Another dude in all-black fiddled with a karaoke setup.

“They can’t hire someone live?” said Lamar. “The Large Pizza Blues just got sadder.”

Referencing the old strummer’s joke: What’s the difference between a Nashville musician and a large pizza? A large pizza can feed a family of four.

This town, getting someone to play for cheap was as easy as blinking, but whoever owned this place opted for a computer. Someone turned the volume down on Big and Rich. A young woman wearing a waitress apron over a red tank top and jeans stepped out of a door in the back, checked with all three tea-drinkers, refilled a pot, then went over to the karaoke guy. He offered her a cordless microphone. She wiped her hands on her apron, untied it and placed it on the bar. Untying a blond ponytail, she fluffed her hair, flashed teeth at the nearly empty room, finally took the mike.

The room grew silent. The blond girl wiggled, more nerves than sexiness. She said, “Here we go,” and tapped the mike. Thump thump thump. “Testing…okay, folks, how’re y’all tonight?”

Nods from two of the tea-drinkers.

“Awesome, me, too.” Mile-wide smile. Pretty girl, twenty, twenty-one. Small and curvy- five-two or -three, square jaw, big eyes.

She cleared her throat again. “Well…yeah, it is an awesome night for some music. I’m Gret. That’s short for Greta. Then again, I’m kinda short.”

Pausing for laughter that never arrived.

The karaoke guy muttered something.

Gret laughed and said, “Bart says we’d best be moving along. Okay, here’s one of my favorites. ’Cause I’m from San Antone…though I love love love Nashville.”

Silence.

A third throat clear. Gret threw back her shoulders, tried to stand taller, planted her feet as if ready to fight someone. A musical intro issued from the karaoke box and soon Gret was putting heart and soul into “God Made Texas.”

Lamar thought she started out pretty good, belting out the song in a smooth, throaty voice, just above an alto. But she was a long ways from great.

Meaning another rider on the Dead Dream Express. Nashville chewed them up and spit them out the way Hollywood did with starlets. According to what he’d heard about Hollywood; the farthest west he’d been was Vegas, five days at a homicide investigation seminar. Sue had won twenty bucks playing dime slots and he’d lost all that and forty more at the blackjack tables.

He stood there as Gret wailed on, glanced at his partner. Baker had turned his back on the stage, was staring at a blank wall and Lamar caught a glimpse of his profile as Baker winced suddenly. As if seized by a cramp.

Lamar was wondering what was wrong when a nano-second later Gret from San Antone skidded off pitch, maybe an eighth note flat. A few measures later, she did it again and by the end of the verse she was way off.

Off the beat, too, hopping in too early on several verses.

Baker looked ready to spit.

How the heck had he heard the bad note before she sang it? Lamar wondered. Maybe he was so fine-tuned that the sound waves got there sooner. Maybe that was why, even though he could pick and grin up there with Adam Steffey and Ricky Skaggs- at least according to what people said- he let that F-5 just sit in the-

He stopped himself. Jack Jeffries’s throat had been cut and he was here to work.

The song ended. Finally. Gret from San Antone bowed as a pair of hands clapped lazily.

She said, “Thanks, y’all, now we’re going to do a little traveling, down to that awesome town so devastated by that evil woman known as Katrina. This is a real oldie, I wouldn’t know it but my mama’s a big doo-wop fan and back when she was littler than me, I’m talking a real bobby-soxer- y’all know what that is?”

No answer.

Gret made the wise choice of not continuing the digression. “Anyway, back then my mama just loved a boy from New Yawk named Freddy Cannon. Palisades Park?”

Silence.

“Anyway,” she repeated, “Freddy also recorded this one back in the dinosaur age.” Gret blinked and straightened up. “Okay, here we go, folks. ‘Way Down Yonder in New Awleans.’ ”

Baker walked out of the café and stood out on the sidewalk.

Lamar listened to a few sour beats, then joined him.

“Don’t you think we should at least ask if he was in here, El Bee?”

“Yup,” said Baker. “I’m just waiting for the static to die down.”

“Yeah,” said Lamar, “she stinks, poor thing.”

“Maybe she’s the lucky one.”

“Why’s that?”

“No one’ll give her any false hope and she’ll go find a real job.”

They watched from the doorway as Gret put the microphone down and resumed her waitress duties. None of the patrons needed her and she headed over to the bar. Sipping a beer, she peered over the foam, locked eyes with the detectives and smiled.

When they approached, she said, “Po-lice, right?”

Lamar smiled back. “Today we are.”

“I figured you’d be here,” she said. “’Cause Mr. Jeffries was here. I was gonna call you but I really didn’t know who to call and I figured you’d be here, soon enough.”

“Why’s that?”

That threw her. “I dunno…I guess I figured someone would know Mr. Jeffries was here and you’d be following up.”

Baker said, “Who would know?”

“His entourage maybe?” said Gret, as if answering a question on an oral exam. “I figured someone must have drove him from wherever fancy place he was staying, a celebrity like him doesn’t just show up by himself.”

“Was he with anyone?”

Gret chewed her lip. “Nope…he wasn’t. I guess I shoulda called. Sorry. If you didn’t come by tomorrow, I was gonna call. Not that I can tell you anything else except he was here last night.”

Baker turned to the bartender who’d ignored them when they entered. Pimply-faced kid, the spiked hair was dyed black. He had a long, gaunt, chin-dominated face, didn’t look old enough to drink. Shifty eyes- real shifty eyes. “Anything you want to say, son?”

“Like what?”

“Like were you on last night?”

“Nope.”

“Did you know Jack Jeffries was here last night?”

“Gret told me.”

“Man gets murdered and he was here last night. We show up and you don’t think to mention it?”

“Gret just told me. She said she’d be talking to you.”

Gret said, “I really did, Officers. Byron doesn’t know anything.”

Lamar said, “What’s your last name, Byron?”

“Banks,” said the barkeep.

“Sounds like you don’t enjoy talking to the police, son.”

No answer.

“You have experience talking to the police, son?”

Byron Banks gazed at the ceiling. “Not really.”

“Not really, but what?”

“I did nine months.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“For what?”

“Grand theft auto.”

“You’re a car booster.”

“Just once, I was wasted. Never gonna happen again.”

“Uh-huh,” Baker said. “Do you have a substance-abuse problem?”

“I’m okay, now.”

“Tending bar?” Lamar stood up and stretched to his full height. He did that whenever he wanted to intimidate. “Don’t you think it’s a little risky for a guy like you?”

“It’s tea,” said Banks. “I don’t do nothing and I don’t know nothing. She’s the one who was here.”

Greta said, “That’s really true.”

Baker said, “Where were you last night, Byron?”

“Over on Second.”

“Doing what?”

“Walking around.”

“By yourself?”

“With friends. We went into a club.”

“Which one?”

“Fuse.”

“That’s Techno,” said Lamar. “How about the names of your friends?”

“Shawn Dailey, Kevin DiMasio, Paulette Gothain.”

“What time were you cruising Second?”

“Until about one or two. Then I went home.”

“Which is where?”

“My mother’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“ New York Avenue,” said Banks.

“The Nations,” said Lamar with a quick glance to Baker. Later, if he was in a mood, he’d have some fun. Neighbors like that and your alarm sucks…

“Yeah. I’m feeling antsy. Can I go have a smoke?”

They took his stats and let him go. The kid walked past the karaoke gear, disappeared through the rear door.

“He’s really a nice person,” said Gret. “I never knew he was in jail. How could you tell?”

Lamar turned his eyes on the waitress. “We got ways. What’s back there, through that door?”

“Just the bathroom and a little room where we put our stuff. I keep my guitar there.”

“You play?” said Lamar. “How come you used the machine?”

“House rules,” said Gret. “Some kind of union thing.”

“Who else was here last night?”

Gret said, “Our other bartender- Bobby Champlain- and me and Jose. Jose sweeps up after we close so he came in maybe ten to midnight.”

“Either of them have a criminal record?”

“I wouldn’t know for certain, sir, but I wouldn’t think so. Bobby’s around seventy, deaf in one ear, mostly deaf in the other, and a little…slow, you know? Jose’s real religious- Pentecostal. Bobby told me he’s got five kids and works two jobs. Neither of them would have recognized Mr. Jeffries, especially looking…well, different. I was the only person who did.”

“Mr. Jeffries looked older than you expected.”

Nod. “And a lot…you know, fatter. We might as well be honest.”

“But you recognized him.”

“My mama loved the trio…but her favorite was Jack. He was the star, you know. She has all the old LPs.” Sad smile. “We still got a record player.”

Baker said, “Who makes the house rules?”

“The owner. Dr. McAfee. He’s a cosmetic dentist, loves music. He worked on Byron’s mom’s teeth. That’s how Byron got the job.”

“Dr. McAfee around much?”

“Almost never,” said Greta. “Bobby Champlain told me he’s too busy doing teeth; Bobby started off working here when it opened, around a year ago. Dr. McAfee worked on his teeth, too. He lives in Brentwood. Dr. McAfee, I mean, not Bobby. Nowadays, he hardly ever makes it over. Last couple of weeks, I been opening and closing, and he’s been paying me a little extra for that.”

“What time did Mr. Jeffries show up?”

“I’d have to say around eleven fifteen, thirty. We close at midnight but the music stops at fifteen to. I was just about to start my second set.”

“Singing old favorites,” said Lamar.

The girl smiled. Those big eyes were brown and soft. “Singing’s in my blood. It’s my goal.”

“To get a record deal?”

“Well, sure, that would be great. But I just love singin’- sharing what I’ve got with other people. My goal is to one day be able to do that as my real job.” Her lips turned down. “Here I am talking about me and it’s so horrible about Jack Jeffries. When I found out, I was so shocked, I can’t tell you. He’s more from my mama’s time but she plays his records all the time and he had a beautiful voice. Just gorgeous. She always said it was a gift from God.” Small fists clenched. “How could anyone do that to him? When I found out this morning, I was horrified. And then I said ohmigod, I need to talk to them- meaning you- the police. I thought of 911 but they say if it’s not a real emergency, don’t use it ’cause it ties up the lines.”

“Why exactly,” said Baker, “did you think you needed to talk to us?”

Confusion clouded the brown eyes.

Lamar added, “Is there something specific you want to tell us?”

“No, but he was here,” said Gret. “Sat right in that chair and drank two pots of chamomile and ate yellow-raisin scones with oodles of butter and listened to me sing. I couldn’t believe it, Jack Jeffries sitting there listening to me! I was so nervous I thought I’d fall down. Usually when I sing I make eye contact- connect with the audience, you know? Last night, I just stared at the floor like a stupid little kid. When I realized it, I looked up and wouldn’t you know, he was looking back at me and paying attention. Afterward, he applauded. I nearly ran off to the bathroom, but finally I built up my courage and went back out and got him more tea and told him how much I admired his music and that singing was my goal. He told me to follow my dreams…that’s what he did when he was my age. For a long time everyone discouraged him but he stuck it out and stuck with it.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“To hear those words from a superstar like that. I can’t tell you what it meant. Then he shook my hand and wished me luck. Left a nice tip, too. I ran out to thank him, but he was already talking to that lady and I didn’t want to disturb his privacy.”

She reached for a bar napkin, and wiped her eyes.

Lamar said, “What lady, Gret?”

“Some older lady. They were talking a little ways up, but not too far from the T. Then he walked her to her car…which was parked even farther up.”

“How long did they talk?”

“Don’t know, sir. I didn’t want to stare- didn’t want to be rude- so I went back inside.”

“But you definitely saw Jeffries talking to this lady.”

“Yeah, she just walked up to him out of nowhere. Like she’d been waiting for him.”

“Did Jeffries appear startled?”

She thought. “No- no, he didn’t look surprised.”

“Like he knew her.”

“I guess.”

“Would you say it was a long conversation or a short one?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir.”

“Did either of them look upset?”

“No one was laughing but it was too far away to see.”

Baker said, “Why don’t you show us exactly where they were standing.”

Lamar watched from where Gret said she’d been standing and Baker accompanied the girl as she paced off five yards, stopped and said, “Right around here. I think.”

East of the café. Direct route to the kill-site.

Baker had her point out where the woman’s car had been parked. Another three, four feet east. He brought her back to the café and the three of them stood out on the sidewalk.

“So you can’t say how long were they talking,” said Lamar.

“I really wasn’t staring the whole time.” She blushed. “I mean it’s natural, I’m not going to run away. Big-time superstar just walks in- just walks in by himself and sits down and listens? We never get anyone important, never ever. Not like on Second or Fifth or over at the Songbird. Those places, you hear all kinds of stories about celebrities dropping in at the popular clubs. But we’re away from all that.”

“Yeah, it is kind of a different location,” said Lamar.

“Dr. McAfee bought the building cheap. He’s a big real estate investor. I think he’s planning to tear it down eventually and build something else. Meanwhile, we’re doing music and I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

Big brown eyes. Lamar wondered what they’d look like, chilled by failure.

Baker said, “Talk to us about this lady, Gret. What did she look like?”

“That’s a tricky one.”

The detectives exchanged glances. That’s a tricky one is often code for “I’m lying through my teeth.” Baker said, “Do the best you can.”

“Well, she was older but not as old as Mr. Jeffries. Maybe forty or fifty. Shoulder-length dark hair…not so tall. Maybe…I dunno. Five four or five five.” She shrugged.

“What about clothing?”

“A dark pantsuit…maybe dark blue? But it could’ve been gray. Or black. That’s about all I could tell you. It was dark and like I said, I didn’t want to stare. Now ask me about the car.”

“What about the car?”

“Real nice Mercedes-Benz sports car and bright red like a fire truck.”

“You didn’t happen to catch the license plate?”

“No, sir, sorry.”

“Convertible?”

“No, a coupe. No canvas top.”

“Red.”

“Bright red, even at night you could see that. Looked like it had custom shiny wheels. Real shiny. You think she had something to do with it?”

“It’s too early to think anything, Gret. Anything else you can remember that might help us would sure be appreciated.”

“Hmm.” She took hold of her hair, bunched it back in a ponytail, let it drop. “That’s really about it.”

They asked for her full name, address and phone number.

She said “Greta Lynne Barline.” The brown eyes shot to the sidewalk. “I’m in between phones- looking for a better carrier, you know? I’m staying temporarily at the Happy Night Motel. Just a ways down on Gay Street, so I can walk.”

The detectives knew the place. One-star joint, not far from their office. It had once been a hotbed of naughtiness before the big vice crackdown. Now the place was trying to grab the tourist trade and an AAA rating. Mostly, it drew truckers and transients.

Greta added. “I had an apartment with a roommate but she left and the rent was too much. I was thinking the eastside, but it’s still pretty black. Maybe I’ll get a car and live near Opryland.” A big smile. “That way I can visit all the time, watch those tropical fish in that restaurant they have.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” Baker said. “One last question, Greta, and then I think we’re done for now.”

“Sure…shoot.” Another wide smile. She was enjoying the attention.

“Mr. Jeffries was here for about a half hour, maybe an hour?”

“More like a half hour. He left after I stopped singing.”

“What was Mr. Jeffries’s state of mind when he was here?”

“You mean his mood?” She brightened. “He was happy, really enjoying the music.”

7

The red Mercedes was a good lead. How many of those could there be?

The major dealer was Mercedes-Benz of Nashville, out in Franklin, but it was way too late to reach anyone.

“What now, El Bee?” Lamar asked. “Time to pack it in?”

“Actually, I was thinking of heading out to the Songbird. I hear they’re doing a tribute to Jeffries that’s gonna last pretty late. As long as I’m out, I thought I’d pay my respects.”

“And check out the crowd while you’re there?”

“Reckon so. You know I’m a big one for multi-tasking. Why don’t you come with me, Stretch?” A hint of a genuine smile. “Or do I have to twist your arm?”

Big grin from Lamar. “Buddy, I am so there.”

The café and dinner club was located in a strip mall, sharing a common wall with Taylor ’s Insurance. It had expanded recently, taking over McNulty’s Travel, which had gone south courtesy of Internet booking. Bad luck for Aaron McNulty, but a bit of good fortune for Jill and Scott Denunzio, the owners. The club was bursting at the seams and even with the extra room, on specialty nights there wasn’t a chair to be had.

The place was dimly lit with a beer and wine bar opposite the front stage. Large fir planks made up the floor and a half dozen ceiling fans were going full blast. About twenty tables were crammed with teary-eyed fans paying tribute to Jack Jeffries. The crowd looked to be well beyond the club’s 140 capacity, but neither detective was counting. When they walked in, the stage overflowed with some of music’s finest, all of them lifting their voices in unison for a soul-wrenching edition of one of Jeffries, Ziff and Bolt’s signature tunes, “Just Another Heartbreak.”

Once inside, the detectives leaned against the wall and listened, catching most of the song. Lamar had to remember to blink. Totally entranced by the music. Then thinking yet again about the differences between good, great, and a shot at the gold.

Each individual up there had righteous pipes worthy of several platinum records, but there was something to that saying about the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe it was the time and the place, maybe it was the emotion, but even Baker seemed under the spell. When they were done, the room remained silent for a few beats, then erupted into heartfelt applause that lasted a good five minutes. The stage cleared and Jeremy Train took the mike.

Mega-popular in the seventies, a chick magnet with his laid-back manner and boyish good looks, Jeremy had preserved amazingly well. He was around five ten, trim and muscled, with the famous stick-straight, shoulder-length hair. The locks were still dark, with a few sparkles of gray that twinkled every time Train moved his head. A couple of wrinkles were carved into his face but they made him look manly. He wore jeans, a black tee, boating shoes without socks. Like Greta Barline had done yesterday evening, he tapped the mike several times. Unnecessary, a singer’s tic; he’d just used it for the group number.

“Yeah, I guess it’s still hot…” A few titters of laughter. “Uh, I want to thank everyone for showing up at this…uh, impromptu gathering that was supposed to be for the First Amendment…” Applause. “Yeah, right on. Instead, we gather for a much sadder reason and…well…You know, Jack’s music really speaks for what he was…more than uh, I can say, you know?”

Applause from the audience.

“But someone should say a few words about Jack and I guess I was elected since I knew him well in our…uh, craaazy days.” A smile. “Oh man, Jack was…well, let’s not bullshit around. Jack was one crazy motherfucker.”

Applause and laughter.

“Yeah, one crazy motherfucker…but a very sensitive human being underneath all that craziness. He could be a mean son-of-a-bitch and then he could turn around and be the nicest guy in the universe. You know, throwing beer bottles out of the car at a hundred miles an hour, sticking his head out, cussing at the top of his lungs. Streaking naked down Sunset…man, he loved to get attention and that sure got attention.”

Jeremy Train laughed nervously.

“Then Jack would turn around and, shit…like once I was admiring a painting he had on his wall and he just took it off the wall and fucking gave it to me. I tried to hey, man, but Jack’s mind was made up and y’all know how stubborn that crazy motherfucker could be.”

Nods among the performers.

“Yeah, he was just…no one could outdrink him. Certainly no one could outeat him.”

Subdued laughter.

“Yeah, it didn’t end well for Jack and that’s really…” Jeremy’s eyes got moist. “And you know, that’s really a shame because lately he was really getting his act together. A new CD was in the works…he’d got his bad habits under control…except maybe his eating and you know, c’mon, give the guy a break. Things were going better for him personally…so maybe Jack ended on a high note after all.”

A hard swallow.

“So thank y’all for comin’ out here for Jack…and let’s not forget Denny and Mark. So this is for the trio…we love you guys. Keep the faith. And I think we’re gonna end on a piece that, hey, Jack, we love you, bro. We’re really gonna miss you.”

The performers shuffled back on stage, took up their positions and ended with “My Lady Lies Sweetly.” When they had finished, the standing ovation was thunderous and long. Lamar had to shout over the bravos and encores. “Talk to Train?”

“Reckon he’d be the one.”

They wound their way through the crowd until they found Jeremy talking earnestly to a bevy of nubile teenage girls, each one looking profoundly sad as Jeremy dispensed his words of wisdom.

“Yeah, that was Jack. Just a crazy guy.”

Baker stepped toward him, badge in hand. “Mr. Train, I’m Detective Southerby and this is Detective Van Gundy. Could we have a word with you in private?”

Jeremy’s eyes darted from side to side. The dilated pupils could have been from the dark, or from something that would make him nervous to be around the police. Baker interjected, “It’s about Jack Jeffries.”

Looking a little relieved, Jeremy Train nodded. “Sure…uh, wanna step outside so I can take a smoke?”

“That would work,” Baker said.

Once outside, Jeremy lit up and offered the detectives a Marlboro. Both declined with a shake of the head. “Bad habit,” he said.

“Just think of it as helping the southern economy,” Baker said. “I liked what you had to say about Jack.”

“It sucked, man…” He shook his head in disgust. “I can’t talk in public. It’s weird, I can write good songs- ”

“Great songs,” Lamar interrupted.

“Yeah?” A smile. “Thanks. I can sing…I dunno, I’m kinda shy in public.”

“Not like Jack from what I hear,” Lamar said.

“No, Jack wasn’t shy about anything. He was just…you know, out there. Damn shame.” He looked up from his smoke. “You’re the detectives who’re investigating his murder?”

“We are,” Baker said. “Anything about him you can tell us would be helpful.”

“The truth is that Jack and I hadn’t been in touch like for…sheez…ten years. You could call him one day and he’d be like real cheerful, then ten minutes later, he’d be cussing you out and hanging up on you…the guy was as unpredictable as the weather.”

“Yeah, that was his rep,” Lamar said. “In your talk on stage, you mentioned that there was a new CD and some personal relationships. What can you tell me about that?”

“The CD was going real well. Actually, he e-mailed me and asked me if I wanted to participate.”

“What’d you tell him?” Baker asked.

“I said hell yeah, if the timing works out. He e-mailed me back telling me we’d talk about it at the benefit in Nashville. I was pretty surprised he was comin’ out. We all knew he had a fear of flying.”

“I’m interested in the personal relationships,” Lamar said. “What about those?”

“I think I meant more like his personal life. From what I understand, he was getting his addictions under control…alcohol in particular. He was a mean drunk, so that was good.”

Baker said, “What about that kid he fathered with that lesbian couple?”

“Melinda Raven…yeah, I met her, I think…yeah, gay…been a lot of women in my life.” Jeremy said that without braggadocio, just a statement of fact. “We all thought Jack was a little weird for volunteering, but in retrospect, who knows? For as much as I see my oldest daughter, she could have been put up for adoption. Her old lady likes me to keep my distance except when it comes to child support. If the checks aren’t there by the first of the month, she sure doesn’t mind calling me up. So maybe Jack had the right idea. Have fun and let someone else take care of the kid.” Talking about his ex had hardened his face. “I really don’t know if Jack had contact with the kid or not. Like I told you, we’ve basically been out of contact for ten years. I was surprised by his e-mail, his contacting me after all these years.”

Lamar said, “And you told him you’d work with him on his CD?”

“Not work with him…just participate, like cut a background track, I coulda used Pro Tools, e-mailed it to him. I was happy he called me, but there was this part of me that was a little…uh, hesitant. I mean the guy was a real asshole even though he was blessed with the voice of an angel.” A chuckle. “We’re in the Bible Belt so I guess I can say that God really does work in funny ways.”

8

The next morning, Lamar was on the phone with the Mercedes dealer’s sales manager, a voluble guy named Ralph Siemens. Siemens gave up a name instantaneously.

“That’s got to be Mrs. Poulson. She bought a fire-engine SLK350 two months ago. I only sold two red ones in a long while, everyone wants white or black. The other was to Butch Smiley but he got an SUV.”

Defensive tackle for the Titans. Three-hundred-pound black man.

“Is Mrs. Poulson around forty-five with shoulder-length dark hair?” said Lamar.

“That would be her,” said Siemens. “You know who I’m talking about, right?”

“Who?”

“Poulson. As in Lloyd Poulson? Banking, electronics, shopping centers, whatever else makes money. Real nice gentleman, bought a new sedan every two years. He died last year, cancer. Mrs. Poulson stayed in the house but she also breeds horses in Kentucky. There was talk she was going to move there full-time.”

“Where does she live?”

“Where else?” said Siemens. “Belle Meade. Do me a favor and don’t tell her I’m the one who told you, but I might as well give you the address ’cause you’re going to find out anyway.”

Belle Meade is seven miles southwest of downtown Nashville and a whole different planet. Quiet meandering streets wind past Greek Revival, Colonial and Italianate mansions perched on multi-acre lots. Sweeping lawns are shaded by monumental oaks, pines, maples and dogwoods. The town’s an old-money bastion with plenty of new-money infiltration, but who-lived-here-before still affects real estate values. Driving through the wide lanes of asphalt, it wasn’t unusual to spot trim young women riding beautiful horses around private corrals. The street signs said it all: a racing horse with a colt behind a low-slung fence. Equestrian sports ranked right up there with golf and family football games as Sunday pastimes.

The town’s two thousand residents had been absorbed into the Metro Nashville utility grid years ago while managing to keep their high-priced real estate officially independent, with its own police force. Autonomy, and some believed psychological segregation from Nashville as a status symbol, was so important to the landowners of Belle Meade that they agreed to pay taxes to both cities.

No big strain; average family income nudged two hundred thousand, highest in the state. The locals were ninety-nine percent white, one percent everything else. Kids who wanted to go to Vanderbilt could, for the most part. Not much reason, in the past, for Lamar and Baker to drive through. Over the last three years, Belle Meade had registered no homicides, one rape, no robberies, four assaults, most of them minor, and a quartet of stolen cars, two of them joyrides by local teens.

That kind of peace and quiet left the twenty-officer Belle Meade police force time to do what had made it famous: mercilessly enforce the traffic rules. Including no special treatment for cops; Lamar drove down Belle Meade Boulevard slowly and carefully.

Making a quick turn, passing Al and Tipper’s place, he found the address easily enough. Pinkish cream, flat-topped thing about ten times the size of a normal house, set behind iron fencing but with a nice clear view of a three-acre swath of bluegrass. In the center of a circular driveway, a one-story fountain burbled. The red Benz was parked right in front, along with a Volvo station wagon. Pines so dark they almost looked black had been barbered to cones and were positioned at the front of the mansion, like sentries. Toward the front of the property, hanging over the fence, were some of the biggest oaks the detectives had ever seen.

As they parked and walked to the gate, Lamar saw how theatrical the landscaping was. The trees and foliage had been manipulated for uneven sun exposure so that the three-story expanse got maximum dappling. There was no lock on the gate. They walked through, made the hike to the front door, rang the bell.

Expecting a maid in full uniform, or maybe even a butler to answer their call: instead, a nice-looking, middle-aged woman in a pink cashmere cowl-neck sweater, tailored white slacks and pink sandals came to the door. Polish on her toenails, but not pink, just natural. Same for her nails, which were clipped surprisingly short. No jewelry except for a platinum wedding band.

She had dark hair, shoulder-length and flipped at the ends, soft-looking skin and blue eyes- true blue, not like the shrink’s. Her face was the perfect oval, a bit too tight around the edges but still pretty.

“Mrs. Poulson?”

“I’m Cathy.” Soft, thin voice.

The detectives introduced themselves.

“ Nashville detectives? Is this for fund-raising? Chief Fortune didn’t mention anything.”

Letting them know she was connected, that she saw them as beggars.

Baker said, “We’re here about an incident that took place in the city, ma’am.”

Lamar said, “A murder, I’m afraid. Jack Jeffries.”

No shock on Cathy Poulson’s smooth face. She nodded. Slumped.

“Oh, Jack,” she said. “Please come in.”

She led them across an entry hall bigger than their residences, into a sunlit room that looked out to manicured acres of hillocks, streams, stone waterfalls, and tree girdle at the rear. A royal blue Olympic-sized pool was edged with golden tiles and dressed at the corners with more statuary- naked nymphs. A patch of color sparkled off to the left where a rose garden thrived. Green tarpaulin fencings in the distance shouted Tennis, Anyone?

A maid in full uniform- young, black, slim- dusted antique furniture.

A rich lady who answered her own door, thought Lamar. Nervous about something?

Cathy Poulson went up to the woman and rested her hand on a shoulder. “Amelia, I need to talk to these gentlemen a bit. Would you please bring us some of that amazing lemonade, then see if the kitchen needs freshening?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Amelia left, Cathy said, “Please sit. I hope you like lemonade.”

Sinking into enormous silk-upholstered chairs, Baker and Lamar drank the best lemonade they’d ever tasted and took in the room. Fifty feet long by half as much wide, with high coved ceilings not much simpler than those in the Hermitage lobby. Stiff arrangements of gleaming, curvy-legged wood tables, delicate chairs and high-back French provincial couches shared space with realistic, soft seating. The walls were pale green silk hung with gilt-framed paintings of still lifes and country scenes. The stone fireplace at the far end was big enough to walk into. A few color photos rested on the carved mantel.

Lamar said he loved the lemonade.

Cathy Poulson said, “It’s amazing, isn’t it? The key is to use Meyer lemons along with the regular kind. Gives it a bit more sweetness. My husband taught me that. He was originally from California. Fallbrook, that’s down near San Diego. His family grew citrus and avocado. A drought and some bad investments wiped them out completely. Lloyd had to start all over by himself and he was successful beyond belief. He died six months ago. He was a wonderful man.”

She got up, walked to the mantel, fetched one of the photos and brought it back.

It looked like some sort of charity ball shot, where rich folk pose for photographers as they enter a fancy room. Cathy Poulson stood next to a short, thick, balding man with curly white hair fringing his ears. Red designer gown for her- same color as her car- tux for him. Lloyd Poulson’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. His pudgy fingertips were visible around his wife’s wasp waist.

He wore thick-lensed, black-framed glasses and had a gut that swelled his cummerbund, appeared to be at least seventy. Cathy Poulson looked like a movie star in the photo. Plenty of jewelry that night- diamonds at every strategic location. The bodice of her red gown was low-cut enough to expose a big, soft expanse of swelling breast. Perfect cleavage, thought Lamar. You’d never know to look at her in the sweater.

“Such a vital man,” she said with a sigh. “Prostate cancer. There was pain but he never complained.”

“Sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Cathy Poulson picked invisible lint from her sweater, reached for the photo, placed it faceup on her lap. “Sorry to bore you with my personal problems. You’ve got important work to do and you want to know why I was talking to Jack the night before last.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“First off,” she said, “it’s pretty obvious that I wasn’t trying to hide anything. You don’t go into that neighborhood with a car like mine, park right out in front, if you’re worried about being seen.” She tapped the photo. “Who saw me, that girl?”

“Which girl?”

“A little blond girl, I assumed she was a waitress or something like that. She and a Mexican were the only ones left in the place. I saw her watching Jack and me from the doorway.”

“Spying?” said Baker.

“Probably, but trying hard not to show it,” said Cathy Poulson. “Unable to resist, I suppose. Which is understandable, given how famous Jack is. Was.”

She bit her lip.

“I found out about it this morning. Like everyone else. Drinking my morning coffee and reading the paper and there it was.” Her eyelids quivered. “I went into the bathroom and was completely sick.”

“You knew about the murder but you acted surprised when we showed up,” said Baker.

Cathy Poulson blinked. “Pardon?”

“That remark about fund-raising?”

The woman blushed. “That was stupid and snobbish, Detective. Please forgive me. I guess I- I don’t know why I said that. I certainly wasn’t surprised that you showed up. I knew that girl had seen me and if she told you, you’d probably trace me through my car. And of course you’d want to talk to me. I might have been the last person to see Jack before he- was I?”

“So far, that’s the case, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s horrible. Repugnant and horrible.”

Neither detective spoke.

Cathy Poulson said, “Did the girl tell you that Jack and I didn’t leave together? That I drove off and that he stayed behind?”

“No, ma’am,” Lamar answered.

“Well, that’s what happened. So it’s obvious I’m not your culprit.” Smiling and aiming for levity, but one hand clawed a white-trousered knee.

Baker said, “Why’d you go down to The T House to talk to Mr. Jeffries?”

“He chose it, said it was off the beaten path…how right he was. I knew it was a dump, but Jack could get insistent.” She shook her head. “The original plan was for me to be there earlier. I got held up and didn’t make it until closing. Jack understood. He could be quite…pleasant. When he wanted to be.”

“Sounds like you two go back a ways.”

Cathy Poulson smiled and sat back and swept dark hair from her face. Light from the rear of the room caught on her platinum ring.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Would you be so kind as to fill us in?” said Lamar.

“About my relationship with Jack?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is that really necessary? Seeing as I’m not your culprit.”

“The more information we have, the easier our job is, ma’am.”

“Believe me,” said Cathy Poulson, “I’m not going to be able to make your job any easier because all I can tell you is Jack and I spoke briefly and then I left.” A manicured hand graced her left breast. “Please, guys, given all I’ve gone through this past year, I really can’t handle any more stress.”

Shifting from “gentlemen” to “guys.” This one parceled out the charm. Lamar wondered how much she’d rehearsed, and knew Baker was thinking the same thing.

Baker put on his nice voice and leaned forward. “We have no intention of causing you stress, ma’am. But we do need to compile data.”

She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Shifted back to Lamar. “College basketball?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sorry, that was inappropriate. It’s just that my son’s into sports- basketball, football, baseball, you name it. He just started at college. I’m here all alone. Feeling really alone.”

“Vanderbilt?”

“Oh, no,” she said, with some fervor. “Vanderbilt would’ve been great, he could’ve stayed in a dorm room, he knows I’d never meddle, but he’d still have the opportunity to come home on weekends to dump laundry, maybe grant me a few ‘Hi, Moms.’ No, Tristan’s at Brown in Rhode Island. Smallest state in the union and there’s where he picks.”

“Supposed to be a good school,” said Lamar. “Ivy League, right?”

“Right, but so what? My husband went to Chico State College and he was the most successful man I’ve ever met. Granted, Tristan’s an excellent student, his SATs were terrific, and all his varsity letters were impressive. His guidance counselor said he was Ivy League material from the git-go. But Vanderbilt’s just as good. Now he’s never here. Never.”

Raising her volume so by the last word it was like hearing someone else’s voice- shrill, angry. A deeper flush took hold of her face and wrinkles started to show around the edges of her makeup, like fault lines.

One of those mood-disorder things? Lamar wondered. Or is she trying to tell us something? Because this one sets things up like a stage director. From the way she plants her trees and arranges her expensive furniture to bringing us lemonade we don’t ask for.

Staying in control.

But if there was a message beyond the fact that she missed her kid, he wasn’t picking it up. And for a new widow, he supposed that was a normal reaction.

Still, there was something about her…He said, “Must be tough, alone in a big house.”

“Alone,” said Cathy Poulson, “is tough, anywhere.”

Baker smiled. “Could I use your restroom, please, ma’am?”

He glanced at the mantel as he left, and was gone for a while. Lamar digressed by commenting on Cathy Poulson’s paintings. She jumped at the opportunity to walk him around the room, announcing titles and artists and describing how and where and when her deceased husband had acquired each picture. When they got to the mantel, he saw mostly pictures of her with a token nod to a few snapshots with the husband. Nothing of the kid.

Baker came back, looking sharp-eyed and ready to say something.

Cathy Poulson got there first, saying, “Okay, I’ll be open and tell you everything. If you pledge that you’ll do your best not to violate my privacy.”

Baker said, “We’ll do our utmost best, ma’am.” Looking relaxed- too loose, Lamar could tell there was something on his partner’s mind.

The three of them sat back down.

Cathy Poulson said, “Jack and I had a relationship- ancient history, before I met Lloyd. I’m from California, too. LA. That’s where I met Jack.”

Another West Coast connection, like the shrink. Lamar wondered if Delaware knew her, then told himself he was being stupid. Ginormous city like LA, what were the chances…

Cathy Poulson said, “That’s it.”

Baker said, “A relationship.”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you decide to meet last night?”

“Jack called me to let me know he was in town. Out of the blue, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. He said he’d heard about Lloyd’s passing and was real sweet about it- Jack could be like that. He said he’d had some rough patches himself but of course nothing comparable to what I was going through…which I thought was extremely empathic. I’d heard a bit about what Jack had gone through- from the media, not personally. The lifestyle issues, the career ups and downs. For him to put all that aside and consider my pain, I thought that was…kind.”

Baker said, “So he called to say hi.”

“We talked a bit. He said he’d had a terrible fear of flying after that helicopter thing- I read about that, too. He said he’d lived with his fear for years, finally decided to conquer it and get some therapy. The flight to Nashville was a big accomplishment. He sounded so incredibly proud. As if he’d just had a number one hit. I told him that was wonderful. Then we talked some more about Lloyd. Then he asked if I wanted to get together. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it caught me off guard. I didn’t know how I felt about that.”

“Not sure you wanted to see him.”

“To tell the truth,” she said, “we didn’t part on great terms. Back in the old days, Jack could be tough.”

“How so?” said Baker.

“Mercurial- moody. Drugs made it worse. Then there were all those women. Groupies- do they still call them that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Lamar. Thinking: All those gigs I played, never saw a single one.

“All those groupies,” said Cathy Poulson, “you can’t really expect a man to be faithful…anyway, it was jarring, hearing from him so many years later. Maybe my grief was what led me to say okay, I’m still not sure. He told me there was a club he was going to, over on First, could we meet there. I agreed. But right after I hung up, I regretted it. What in the world was it going to accomplish? I considered calling him back and canceling, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Especially with his conquering his fear- I didn’t want to set him back. Can you understand that?”

“Sure,” said Baker.

“I mean that would make me feel guilty, stressing him to the point where he backslid.” She glanced to the side. “Back in the good old days, I had plenty of experience with backsliding.”

“Drugs,” said Baker.

“The whole crazy scene,” she said. “Funny thing was, no one really saw it as crazy except me. I never indulged. Not once, never. I respect myself way too much for that. Jack, of course, was another story. I spent many a night walking him around. When a doctor needed to be called, I was usually the one who did it.”

“You had a close relationship,” said Lamar.

“Such as it was. But ancient, ancient history, gentlemen. That’s why I wasn’t sure I wanted to play the reminiscence game with him. Still, I didn’t want to upset Jack, so I didn’t cancel. Instead, I showed up late.” A glassy smile, almost intoxicated. “I thought that was the perfect solution.”

“Showing up late?”

“Of course. That way, we’d have minimal contact but I’d have fulfilled my obligation.”

Once again Lamar thought of Cathy as a master director. Baker said, “You’d say hi, nice to see you, then you’d go your separate ways.”

“Exactly,” said Cathy Poulson. “Frankly, when I saw Jack I was shocked and that made it easier. My image of him was stuck back in the time when we were together. He had been a handsome man. Now…”

She shrugged.

“Not too well preserved,” said Lamar.

“That makes him sound like a lab specimen but I’m afraid you’re right.” She sighed. “Poor Jack. Time hadn’t been kind to him. I drove there expecting a good-looking man- which was foolish after all those years had passed. What I saw was a heavy old bald man.”

Not unlike her late husband, thought Lamar.

She picked up her glass of lemonade. “We had a little hug, chatted briefly, then parted ways. I will tell you this: Jack wasn’t upset, the entire encounter was friendly. I got a clear sense that he felt the same way I did.”

“Which was?”

“Don’t fix it if it ain’t broken,” said Cathy Poulson. “Whoever wrote that famous book was right. You really can’t go home. Psychologically, I mean.”

Lamar still had a feeling about the woman and would’ve stuck around to see if he could tease anything more out of her. But he could tell Baker was antsy. A few more of Lamar’s questions made his partner downright restless, perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to spring up like a frog at a fly.

Lamar said, “Thank you, ma’am. If you think of anything else, here’s our number.” He handed her a card and Cathy Poulson placed it on a table in an absent way that let him know he’d never hear from her again.

She said, “Of course. Would you like me to put some lemonade in a little bottle?”

9

Back in the car, Lamar said, “Okay, what?”

“Okay, what what?”

“The way you were itching to book, El Bee. Sportin’ a rash?”

Baker grinned huge- an unusual sight. “Drive.”

Lamar made his way back to Belle Meade Boulevard, passed more mansions. Engine roar sounded at their rear end. A couple of rich kids in a BMW convertible testing the speed limit. They got inches from his rear bumper. He let them pass, heard laughter.

Baker said, “Did you notice that there’s no pictures of her kid in the living room?”

“Sure did. Not too many of her late great husband Lloyd, either. I figure her for one of those narcissists, it’s all about me.”

“Or maybe something else,” said Baker. “When I go to use the facilities, I notice an alcove up a ways. She’s got alcoves, niches, whatever, all over the place. Has these little prissy figurines, glass globes, that kind of stuff. But the one near the john has a picture. In a nice frame, just like the ones on the mantel, and it shows her kid. Big old blond bubba, could be a twin of the one in the picture we found in Jeffries’s hotel room.”

“Owen the rugby player,” said Lamar. “By the way, that one is definitely Melinda’s kid. I found a picture in an old copy of People magazine.”

“Good for you,” said Baker. “Now just let me stay on track here for a second, Stretch. This other kid- Poulson’s kid- is wearing a uniform, too- real football, with the pads and the black stuff under the eyes. And I’m telling you, he could’ve had the same papa as Owen. Same coloring, beefy, big jaw. To my eye, an even stronger resemblance to Mr. Jack Jeffries. That makes me curious so I turn over the photo and on the back there’s an inscription. ‘Happy Em’s Day, Mom, You Rock, Love Tristan.’ The really interesting part is the handwriting. Block letters with little flourishes on the caps. I’m no graphologist but to my eye, a dead match in handwriting for those silly lyrics we found in the hotel room.”

“ ‘Music City Breakdown.’ ”

“What it’s looking like,” said Baker, “is a whole bunch of stuff broke down.”

They drove back to the city, grabbed fast-food burgers and Cokes, took them to the purple room where Brian Fondebernardi joined them around the center table. The sergeant’s shirt matched the walls. His charcoal slacks were razor-pressed, his black hair was clipped, his eyes sharp and searching. Dealing with the press all morning hadn’t dented him but he wanted a progress report.

Lamar said, “Matter of fact, we have something to report.”

When they finished filling him in, Fondebernardi said, “He was a rock star, had beaucoup girlfriends, she was one of them and got knocked up. So?”

“So,” said Baker, “the kid’s a college freshman, meaning eighteen, nineteen tops. Let’s even say twenty if he’s dumb, which he ain’t because he got into Brown. She was married to her husband for twenty-six years.”

“Oops,” said Fondebernardi.

“Oops, indeed,” said Lamar. “There’s a secret worth keeping in Belle Meade.”

“Plus,” said Baker, “we know the kid- Tristan’s his name- had contact with Jeffries.”

“Via the handwriting of the song,” said Fondebernardi. “Kid could’ve mailed that in.”

“Maybe, Sarge, but Jeffries held on to it. Meaning maybe there was some kind of relationship.”

“Or he thought the lyrics were good.”

Baker rocked an open palm with splayed fingers back and forth. “Not unless he lost his ear completely.”

“Lyrics needed something, that’s for sure,” said Lamar, “but they were full of frustration- like Nashville screwed him over. Doesn’t sound like a pampered rich kid, so maybe there’s a side of ol’ Tristan we don’t know about.”

“Someone that age,” said Fondebernardi. “He hasn’t had time to get frustrated.”

“Rich kids,” said Baker. “They’re used to having their way, get their panties in a sling real easily. Maybe this one wanted approval from Jeffries, didn’t get it, and freaked out.”

“He’s in Rhode Island, Baker.”

“We haven’t verified that yet.”

“Why not?” said Fondebernardi, then he checked himself. “You want my okay before you call.”

Baker said, “It’s Belle Meade, Sarge.”

End of discussion.

The registrar clerk at Brown University was squirrelly about giving out student information.

Lamar said, “You got Facebook, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then nothing’s secret, so why don’t you make my life easy?”

“I don’t know…”

“I don’t want his grade point average, only to know if he’s on campus.”

“And this is because…”

“Police investigation,” said Lamar. “You don’t cooperate and something bad happens, it’s not going to reflect well on Brown. And I know what a great school Brown is. My sister went there.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ellen Grant,” he said, picking a nice Waspy name out of thin air.

“She loved it.”

“Well,” said the clerk.

“On campus or not, we’ll do the rest.”

“Hold on, Captain.” Another little fib.

Less than a minute later: “No, Captain, Tristan Poulson took a leave of absence for the second semester.”

“He did the fall semester, then he left.”

“Yes,” said the clerk. “The freshman year can be stressful.”

They called Fondebernardi back to the purple room and told him.

He said, “Rich kid who thinks he’s a songwriter, drops out to follow his dream?”

“That, plus maybe Lloyd Poulson’s dying got him delusional,” said Lamar. “It’s possible somehow Tristan figured out Jack was his bio dad. And maybe he found out more than that. The M.E. said Jack’s internal organs were a mess, he didn’t have long. Maybe Tristan read about Jack’s health issues in some fan magazine, worried about that and it tipped him over- get in touch with my bio dad before he kicks, too. Use music to bond. And where else would he go to do that but back home, because here’s where the music is. Not to mention Mommy’s money and connections.”

“Or,” said Baker, “Tristan didn’t figure out who his real daddy was but he wanted to meet Jack, anyway. Mommy’s old boyfriend, who just happens to be a onetime superstar and Tristan’s into writing songs. Jeffries might not be able to motivate hits anymore but to a needy kid he could’ve seemed larger than life.”

“Especially,” said Lamar, “if Mommy told him detailed stories about the good old days. She’s a genteel rich lady now, but likes attention. I can see her basking in old glory.”

Fondebernardi didn’t answer.

“Fame,” said Lamar. “It’s the hardest drug of all, right, Sarge? Tristan gets in touch with his songwriting self, writes a plaintive ditty that he sends to Jack.”

“Who just happens to be his real daddy,” said Baker.

Lamar said, “I haven’t seen the kid’s picture yet, but Baker says the resemblance is real strong.”

Baker nodded. “Strong enough for Mommy to take Junior’s pictures off the mantel in case we showed up. Unfortunately for her, she forgot about the alcove.”

“Thank God for Baker’s bladder,” said Lamar.

Fondebernardi said, “Find out everything you can about the kid.”

They started where everyone does: Google. Came up with twenty hits, all scores from football games and field hockey matches Tristan Poulson had played in.

Varsity star at Madison Prep, a fancy-pants place out in Brentwood they’d both heard of because Lieutenant Shirley Jones’s son had been accepted there on a basketball scholarship. One of two black kids admitted three years ago.

They asked her if they could talk to Tim and told her why.

She said, “You bet. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Tim Jones came to the station after school, all six six of him, carelessly good-looking, still wearing his blazer and khakis, white shirt and rep tie. He hugged and kissed his mother, followed her into the purple room, sat down and attacked the Quiznos Black Angus on rosemary parmesan bread smothered with mozzarella, mushrooms and sautéed onions she’d bought for him.

Baker and Lamar watched in admiration as the kid polished off the full-sized sub in what seemed like a few bites, washed it down with a jumbo root beer, not a crumb or stain on his preppy duds.

“Excellent,” he told the lieutenant. “Usually you get me the Italian.”

“Special occasion,” said Shirley Jones, touching the top of her son’s head briefly, then heading for the door. “Talk to my ace detectives. Tell them everything you know and then forget it ever happened. When will you be home?”

“Right after, I guess,” said Tim. “Massive homework.”

“You guess?”

“Right after.”

“I’ll pick up some Dreyer’s on the way.”

“Excellent. Rocky road.”

“Ahem.”

“Please.”

“I knew him,” said Tim, “but we didn’t hang out. He seemed okay.”

“You play on a team together?” said Baker.

“Nope. He did some hoops but just jayvee. Football’s his thing. He’s built for it.”

“Big guy.”

“Like a refrigerator.”

“An okay guy, huh?” said Lamar.

Tim nodded. “Seemed mellow. He’d play aggressive on the field but he wasn’t like that the rest of the time. I went to a few parties with him- jock stuff, after games- but we didn’t hang out.”

“Who’d he hang with?”

“Other football dudes, I guess. He had a girlfriend. From Briar Lane.”

“Remember her name?”

“Sheralyn,” said Tim. “Don’t know her last name.”

“Cheerleader?”

“No, she was more of a brainiac.”

“Good student.”

“Don’t know about her grades,” said Tim. “Brainiac’s more than good grades, it’s a category, you know? Concentrating on books, art, music, all that good stuff.”

“Music,” said Baker.

“She played piano. I saw her at a party. Tristan was standing with her, singing along with her.”

“Good voice?”

“He sounded okay.”

“What kind of music?”

Tim frowned. “Something like old jazz, maybe Sinatra, which was kind of weird; everyone thought it was funny they were playing old-people music but they were serious. My mom plays Sinatra. Sammy Davis Junior, Tony Bennett. Has those vinyls, you know?”

“Antiques,” said Baker.

Tim said, “She has a typewriter, too. Likes me to know how things used to be.”

“What do you know about Tristan’s music?”

“His what?”

“We’ve heard that he wrote songs.”

“That’s a new one for me,” said Tim. “I never heard rumors he and Sheralyn broke up, but maybe he was looking to get another girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That’s mostly why guys write songs.”

10

Googling BriarLane Academy Sheralyn pulled up a review in the girl school’s campus paper, The Siren Call. Last October, the Thespian Club had presented a “post-modern version of As You Like It.” The reviewer had loved the show, singling out Sheralyn Carlson’s portrayal of Rosalind as “mercilessly relevant and psychologically deep.”

They traced the girl to an address in Brentwood- Nashville ’s other high-priced spread. Five miles south of Belle Meade, Brentwood had a higher concentration of new money than its cousin, with rolling hills and open land a magnet for music types who’d cashed in. Faith and Tim and Dolly had Brentwood spreads. So did Alan Jackson and George Jones. Homes ranged from horse estates to sleek ranch houses. Ninety-four percent white, six percent everything else.

Sheralyn Carlson might’ve posed a problem for the census taker, with a Chinese radiologist mother and a hulking, blond radiologist father who would’ve looked fine in Viking duds. The girl was gorgeous, tall and lithe with long, shiny, honey-colored hair, almond-shaped amber eyes, and a soft-spoken disposition of the type that tended to reassure adults.

Drs. Elaine and Andrew Carlson seemed like quiet, inoffensive types, themselves. They briefed the detectives on the fact that their only child had never earned a grade lower than A, had never given them a lick of problem, had been offered a spot in the Johns Hopkins gifted writer program but had turned it down because, as Dr. Elaine phrased it, “Sheralyn eschews divisive stratification.”

“Our view as well,” added Dr. Andrew.

“We try to maintain family cohesiveness,” said Dr. Elaine. “Without sacrificing free expression.” Stroking her daughter’s shoulder. Sheralyn took her mother’s hand. Dr. Elaine squeezed her daughter’s fingers.

“My daughter- our daughter,” said Dr. Andrew, “is a fabulous young woman.”

“That’s obvious,” said Baker. “We’d like to talk to her alone.”

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Andrew.

“I don’t know, either,” said Dr. Elaine.

“Know,” said Sheralyn. “Please.” Flashing a brief, tight smile at her parents.

The Drs. Carlson looked at each other. “Very well,” said Dr. Andrew. He and his wife left the stark, white contempo living room of their stark, white contempo house as if embarking on a trek across Siberia. Glancing back and catching Sheralyn’s merry wave.

When they were gone, the girl turned grave. “Finally! A chance to express what’s been on my mind for some time. I’m extremely concerned about Tristan.”

“Why?” said Baker.

“He’s depressed. Not clinically, at this point, but dangerously close.”

“Depressed about his father?”

“His father,” she said. Blinking. “Yes, that, of course.”

“What else?”

“The usual post-adolescent issues.” Sheralyn turned her fingers like darning needles. “Life.”

Lamar said, “Sounds like you’re interested in psychology.”

Sheralyn nodded. “The ultimate questions always revolve around human behavior.”

“And Tristan’s behavior concerns you.”

“More like lack of behavior,” she said. “He’s depressed.”

“Going through rough times.”

“Tristan’s not what he seems,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard. She had the refined good looks of a beauty queen, but aimed for edgy. Floral minidress, combat boots, henna patterns banding the tops of her hands, four pierces in one ear, three in the other. There was a tiny little dot above her right nostril where a stud had once rested.

“What do you mean?”

“At first glance,” she said, “Tristan comes across as Mega Jock From Planet Testosterone. But he’s preternaturally sensitive.”

“Preternaturally,” said Baker.

“We all have our masks,” the teen remarked. “A less honest person might have no trouble donning his. Tristan’s soul is honest. He suffers.”

Neither detective was really sure what she meant. Lamar said, “Is he going through an identity crisis of some kind?”

She looked at him as if he needed tutoring. “Sure, why not.”

“Changing his ways,” said Baker.

Silence.

Lamar said, “We know he took a leave from Brown. Where is he?”

“At home.”

“Living with his mother?”

“Only in a physical sense.”

“They don’t get along?”

“Tristan’s home is not a nurturing place.”

“Conflict with his mother?”

“No-o,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “For conflict, there needs to be involvement.”

“Mrs. Poulson’s not involved.”

“Oh, she is.” The girl frowned. “With herself. Such a cozy relationship.”

“You don’t like her,” said Baker.

“I don’t think about her enough to dislike her.” A second later: “She represents much that repels me.”

“How so?”

“Have you met her?”

“Sure have.”

“Yet you ask,” said Sheralyn Carlson, working at looking amused.

Baker said, “What’s her problem, besides being a distant mom?”

The girl took several moments to answer. Twisting those fingers. Playing with her hair and the hem of her dress. “I love Tristan. Not as a sexual lover, there’s no longer that spark between us.” She crossed her legs. “Words don’t do it justice but if I had to encapsulate, I’d say brotherly love. But don’t take that as a Freudian hint. Tristan and I are quite proud that we’ve managed to transition our relationship from the realm of the physical to idealistic companionship.” Another long pause. “Tristan and I have both taken on the mantle of celibacy.”

Silence.

Sheralyn Carlson smiled. “So-called adults shudder at the notion of so-called adolescent sexuality but when the s.c. adolescent eschews sexuality, the s.c. adults think it’s bizarre.”

“I reckon that’s not too foreign a concept in these parts,” Baker said. “Churchgoing people every Wednesday and Sunday like clockwork.”

She frowned. “The point is that Tristan and I have opted for a more internal life. Since his senior year.”

“Art and music,” said Lamar.

“The internal life,” the girl repeated.

“Well, that’s fine, Sheralyn. And now he’s living at home. You see each other much?”

“At home and about.”

“About where?”

“He tends to gravitate toward Sixteenth Street.”

“Looking for a record deal on Music Row?”

“Tristan is close to tone deaf, but he loves to write. The obvious choice is lyrics. For the last month, he’s been attempting to sell his lyrics to the philistines on Music Row. I warned him he’d encounter nothing but crass commercialism, but Tristan can be quite determined.”

“From jock to songwriter,” said Baker. “How’d his mom take that?”

“She would have to care to take.”

“Apathetic.”

“She would have to believe that others exist in order to fit into any sort of category such as ‘apathetic.’ ”

Lamar said, “Mrs. Poulson lives in her own little world.”

“Little,” said Sheralyn Carlson, “being the operative word. She did break out of it long enough to tell Tristan that he was too good for me.” Crooked smile. “Because of this.” Touching the side of one eye. “The epicanthic fold trumps all.”

“She’s a racist,” said Baker.

“Well,” said the girl, “that has been known to exist in various civilizations over a host of millennia.”

Aiming for breezy, but recalling the slight had tightened her voice.

One of those high-IQ types who hid behind words, thought Lamar. That rarely worked for any length of time.

He said, “Tristan couldn’t have been happy with that.”

“Tristan laughed,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “I laughed. We shared the mirth.”

The detectives didn’t answer.

“She,” said the girl. Letting the word hang there for a few seconds. “She- okay, let me fill in the picture with an anecdote. When Tristan started at Brown, he was the epitome of Mega Jock with his shaved head and fresh-faced optimism. By the end of his first semester, his hair had reached his shoulders and his beard was full and woolly; he grew a lovely, masculine beard. That’s when he began suspecting, but she denied everything.”

“Suspected what?” said Baker.

“His true paternity.”

“He doubted that Mr. Poulson was his- ”

“Detective Southerby,” said the girl, “why not be honest? You’re here because of Jack Jeffries’s murder.”

Baker had mentioned his own surname once, when first meeting the family. Most people never bothered to register it. This kid missed nothing.

He said, “Go on.”

“Throughout Tristan’s childhood, she had always talked about Jack. Rather incessantly, at times. Tristan knew that her relationship with Lloyd was sexless and he noted the sparkle in her eye when Jack’s name came up. He wondered as anyone with a brain would wonder. Then, when the inner world began exerting its pull and he began to write, wonder turned to fantasy.”

“About Jack Jeffries being his real dad,” said Baker.

“Every adolescent has them,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “Escape fantasies, the certainty that one has to have been adopted because these aliens one finds oneself living with can’t be linked to one, biologically. In Jack’s case, a rather dramatic physical resemblance kept the fantasy alive.” Another crooked smile. “And wouldn’t you know.”

She crossed the other leg, exposed some thigh, tucked down her dress and ran a finger under the top of a boot.

Lamar said, “Tristan felt he looked like Jack Jeffries.”

“He did, I did. Anyone who saw pictures of Jack Jeffries when he was young did. Two things happened that further fed his fantasy before it became reality. Before Tristan left for Brown, I came across a picture of a boy in a magazine. In People magazine, an article about sperm donors.”

“Melinda Raven’s son by Jack Jeffries.”

“Owen,” said Sheralyn, as if recalling an old friend. “He could’ve been Tristan’s twin. The similarity in age made the resemblance undeniable. That’s why the first thing Tristan did when he got to Brown was grow his hair and beard. To compare himself to pictures of Jack taken back in the Hairy Days. The result was beyond debate. Tristan experienced a crisis of sorts. We spent long hours on the phone and decided he needed a paradigm shift. He took a leave of absence, came home, moved into the guest house of Mommy’s manse and prepared to confront her. We had strategy meetings beforehand, devising how to approach her, finally settled on simplicity: tell her you know and request verification. Tristan took some time to build up his courage, finally did it, when she was on her way to her country club. We expected initial denial, then confession, then some sort of emotion. She didn’t bat an eyelash. Told him he was crazy and that he’d better clean up if he intended to ever have lunch with her at the club.”

“What did Tristan do?” said Lamar.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Ergo, depression.”

“Did he try to contact Jack Jeffries?”

“He did more than try. He succeeded.”

“They met?”

“In cyberspace.”

“E-mail,” said Baker.

“Tristan contacted Jack Jeffries’s website, introduced himself, sent a j-peg of his senior photo, as well as a later, hirsute version, and some lyrics. He expected nothing, but Jack answered, said he was happy to hear from Tristan. Said Tristan’s lyrics were ‘awesome.’ ”

“How’d Tristan react to that?”

The girl turned away. Placed her hand on a small, white abstract carving resting on a glass and chrome table.

This place is like an igloo, thought Baker. “How did Tristan take that?”

The girl gnawed her lip.

“Sheralyn?” said Baker.

“He cried,” she said. “Tears of joy. I held him.”

Ten minutes later, Drs. Andrew and Elaine peeked in.

Sheralyn said, “I’m fine,” and waved them away and they disappeared.

During that time, she’d verified that the lyrics Tristan had sent were “Music City Breakdown.” But she denied knowing about any face-to-face meeting between Tristan Poulson and Jeffries. Nor was she willing to pinpoint Tristan’s whereabouts beyond the guest house on his mother’s property.

“He’s still there,” said Baker.

“I believe so.”

“You believe?”

“Tristan and I haven’t been in contact for several days. That’s why I’m concerned. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“What did you think when you heard Jack Jeffries had been murdered?”

“What did I think?” she said. “I thought nothing. I felt sad.”

“Did you consider that maybe Tristan had done it?”

“Never.”

“Does Tristan carry a weapon?”

“Never.”

“Has he ever shown a violent side?”

“Never. Never never never to any incriminating questions you’re going to ask about him. If I thought he was guilty, I’d never have talked to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d never do anything to incriminate Tristan.”

“Even if he murdered someone?”

Sheralyn rubbed the space to the side of one eye. Same spot she’d touched when discussing Cathy Poulson’s racist comment. Then she sat up straight and stared Baker down- something few people tried.

“I,” she pronounced, “am neither judge nor jury.”

“Just for the record,” said Baker, “where were you the night before last, say between twelve and two AM?”

“That’s not night, it’s morning.”

“Correction duly noted, young lady. Where were you?”

“Here. In my bedroom. Sleeping. I make an effort to sleep soundly.”

“Good habits,” said Lamar.

“I have obligations- school, SATs, theater club, Model UN. Et cetera.”

Sounding bitter.

“Headed for Brown?”

“Not hardly. I’m going to Yale.”

“Sleeping,” said Baker. “First time you heard about Jack Jeffries was…”

“When my father brought it up. He’s our own personal town crier. He reads the morning paper, and comments extensively on every article.”

“You didn’t think anything of it, just sad.”

“Over the loss of life,” said the girl. “Any life.”

“Just that,” said Baker. “Even though you knew this was Tristan’s real dad and Tristan had recently contacted him.”

“I was saddest for Tristan. Am. I’ve called his cell twenty-eight times, but he doesn’t answer. You should find him. He needs comfort.”

“Why do you think he’s not answering?”

“I’ve already explained that. He’s depressed. Tristan gets like that. Turns off the phone, goes inward. That’s when he writes.”

“No chance he’s run away?”

“From what?”

“Guilt.”

“That’s absurd,” she said. “Tristan didn’t kill him.”

“Because…”

“He loved him.”

As if that explained it, thought Lamar. Smart kid, but utterly clueless. “Tristan loved Jack even though he’d never met him.”

“Irrelevant,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “One never falls in love with a person. One falls in love with an idea.”

11

Drs. Andrew and Elaine Carlson verified that Sheralyn had been home the night/morning of the murder from five PM until eight thirty AM, at which time Dr. Andrew drove her to Briar Lane Academy in his Porsche Cayenne.

“Not that they’d say anything else,” muttered Baker, as they got back in the car. “She’s got them wrapped around her little intellectual finger, could’ve climbed through a window and met up with Tristan and they’d never know.”

“Think she was involved?” said Lamar.

“I think she’d do and say anything to cover for Tristan.”

“Her celibate lover. You believe that?”

“Kids, nowadays? I believe anything. So let’s find this tortured soul and shake him up.”

“Back to Mommy’s mansion.”

“It’s a short drive.”

When they got to the Poulson estate, a lowering sun had grayed the house and a padlock had been fixed to the main gate. The red Benz was in the same place. The Volvo was gone.

No call box, just a bell. Baker jabbed it. The front door opened and someone looked at them.

Black uniform with white trim, dark face. The maid who’d fetched the lemonade- Amelia.

Baker waved.

Amelia didn’t budge.

He shouted her name. Loud.

The sound was a slap across the genteel, silent face of Belle Meade.

She approached them.

“Not here,” she said, through iron gate slats. “Please.”

Her eyes were wide with fear. Sweat trickled from her hairline to an eyebrow but she made no attempt to dry her face.

“Where did the missus go?” said Baker.

Silence.

“Tell us, right now.”

“ Kentucky, sir.”

“Her horse farm.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did she leave?”

“Two hours ago.”

“She take Tristan with her?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We could sit here and watch the house for days,” said Lamar. “We could come back with a warrant and go through every room of this place and make a godawful mess.”

No answer.

Baker said, “So you’re sticking with that story. She didn’t take Tristan.”

“No, sir.”

“No, you’re not sticking with it, or no she didn’t take him?” Baker’s ears were red.

“She didn’t take him, sir.”

“He in the house, right now?”

“No, sir.”

“Where, then?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“When you were here, sir.”

“When we were talking to Mrs. Poulson, Tristan was here?”

“In the guest house.”

“When did he leave?”

“After you did.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Did he take a car?”

“His car,” said Amelia.

“Make and model,” said Lamar, whipping out his pad.

“A Beetle. Green.”

“Did he take anything with him?”

“I didn’t see, sir.”

“You cleaned his room, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any clothes missing?”

“I haven’t been in there today, sir.”

“What we’re getting at,” said Baker, “is did he just take a drive into town or do you think he left town?”

“I don’t know, sir. It’s a big house. I start at one end, takes me two days to get to the other.”

“And your point is?”

“There are many things I don’t hear.”

“Or choose not to hear.”

Amelia’s face remained impassive.

Lamar said, “Tristan left right after we did. Did he and his mother have a discussion?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Why’d Mrs. Poulson decide all of a sudden to fly to Kentucky?”

“It wasn’t all of a sudden,” said the maid. “She flies there all the time. To see her horses.”

“Loves her horses, does she?”

“Apparently, sir.”

“You’re saying the trip was planned.”

“Yes, sir. I heard her calling the charter service five days ago.”

“So you do hear some things.”

“Depends which room I’m working, sir. I was freshening outside the study and she was using the study phone.”

“Remember the name of the charter service?”

“Don’t have to,” said Amelia. “She uses the same one all the time. New Flight.”

“Thank you,” said Lamar. “Now where can we find Tristan?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Sure about that?”

“More than sure, sir.”

Back in the car, they got the registration stats on Tristan Poulson’s VW and put an alert out on the car. They called New Flight Charter, were told in no uncertain terms that the company maintained strict client confidentiality and that nothing short of a warrant would change that.

“That so…well, good for you,” said Baker, hanging up with a scowl.

“What?” said Lamar.

“They fly big shots like President Clinton and Tom Brokaw, everything hush-hush.”

“Hush-hush but they tell you they fly Clinton.”

“Guess he’s beyond mere mortality. Drive, Stretch.”

On the way back to town, they got a call from Trish, the receptionist at headquarters. A Dr. Alex Delaware had phoned this morning, and then again at two. No message.

Baker said, “Guy’s probably itching to get back home.”

“Guy works with the police,” said Lamar, “you’d think he’d know he’s free to go, we can’t keep him here legally.”

“You’d think.”

“Hmm…maybe you should call him back. Or better yet, let’s drop in on him at the hotel. See if he knew Cathy Poulson in her LA days. While we’re there, we can also show Tristan’s picture around to the staff.”

“Two bad we don’t have two pictures,” said Baker. “Another with all that hair.”

“Like father, like son,” said Lamar. “It always comes down to family, doesn’t it?”

Delaware wasn’t in his room. The concierge was sure of that, the doctor had stopped by around noon to ask directions to Opryland and hadn’t returned.

No one at the Hermitage remembered ever seeing Tristan Poulson, the clean-cut, high school senior photo version. Asking people to imagine long hair and a beard produced nothing but quizzical looks.

Just as they were about to leave for a drive-through of Music Row, Delaware walked in. Spruced up, LA style: blue blazer, white polo shirt, blue jeans, brown loafers. Taking shades off his eyes, he nodded at the concierge.

“Doctor,” said Baker.

“Good, you got my message. C’mon up, I’ve got something to show you.”

As the elevator rose, Lamar said, “How was Opryland?”

Delaware said, “Tracing me, huh? It was more Disneyland than down-home but with a name like Opryland I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had lunch in that restaurant with the giant aquariums, which wasn’t bad.”

“Have a hearty seafood dinner?”

The psychologist laughed. “Steak. Any luck on Jack’s murder?”

“We’re working on it.”

Delaware worked at hiding his sympathy.

His room was the same pin-neat setup. The guitar case rested on the bed.

He opened a closet drawer, drew out some papers. Hotel fax cover sheet, over a couple of others.

“After you left, I started thinking about my sessions with Jack. Something he told me as the trip approached. Dead people don’t get confidentiality. I had my girlfriend, Robin, go through the chart and fax the relevant pages. Here you go.”

Two lined pages filled with dense, sharply slanted handwriting. Not the clearest fax. Hard to make out.

Delaware saw them squinting. “Sorry, my penmanship stinks. Would you like a summary?”

Lamar said, “That would be great, Doctor.”

“As the date got closer, Jack’s anxiety rose. That was understandable and expected. We redoubled our efforts to work on deep muscle relaxation, pinpointed the stimuli that really set off his anxiety- basically we gave it the full-court press. I thought we were doing fine but about a week ago, Jack called me in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, agitated. I told him to come over but he said he’d wait until morning. I asked if he was sure, he said he was and promised to show up at nine AM. He arrived at eleven, looking haggard. I assumed it was pre-flight jitters but he said there were other things on his mind. I encouraged him to talk about anything that bothered him. He made a joke about it- something along the lines of ‘That’s allowed? Good old-fashioned head-shrinking instead of cognitive hoochy-coo mojo mind-bending?’ ”

He sat down on the bed, touched the guitar case. “That had been an issue right from the beginning. Jack did not want psychotherapy. Said he’d had plenty of that during his various rehab stints and that the sound of his own voice bitching made him want to puke.”

“Afraid of something?” said Baker.

“Aren’t we all?” Delaware slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly, placed it on the bed. Changed his mind, got up and hung it in the closet.

He sat back down. “There’s always that possibility. What people in my business call baloney afraid of the slicer. But I take people at their word until proven otherwise and I went along with Jack not wanting to get into topics other than flying. We had a deadline approaching and I knew if Jack didn’t get on that plane, I’d never see him again. But now, he’d changed his mind and wanted to talk. I’m not saying what he told me about is profoundly relevant to your case, but I thought you should know.”

“Appreciate it,” said Baker, holding out an expectant palm.

“What Jack wanted to talk about was family,” said Delaware. “That surprised even me because Jack had always been an extremely focused and goal-oriented patient. I’m sure the stress of the upcoming flight released a barrage of unpleasant memories. He started with a brutal upbringing. Abusive father, negligent mother, both of them doctors- respectable on the outside but severe alcoholics who turned his childhood into a nightmare. He was the only child, bore the brunt of it. His memories were so traumatic that he’d seriously considered sterilization when he was in his twenties, but never followed through because he was too damn lazy and stoned and didn’t want anyone ‘cutting down there before I had enough fun.’ But I’m not sure that was it. I think a part of him did yearn for that parent-child connection. Because when he talked about not having his own family, he got extremely morose. Then he brought up something he’d done that made him smile: fathering a child with an actress who was gay and sought him out because she admired his music.”

“Melinda Raven,” said Lamar.

“So you know.”

“That’s all we know. Her name.”

“The story she put out for the media was sperm donation,” said Delaware. “The truth was, Jack and she made love. Several times until she conceived. She had a boy. Jack was not involved in his life.”

“Why not?”

“He claimed it was fear,” said Delaware. “That he’d mess the boy up. I know Jack’s image was that of a rock ’n’ roll bad boy, afraid of nothing. And he had taken some outrageous risks during the early days, but those had been fueled by drugs. At the core, he was a highly fearful man. Ruled by fear. When he brought up Owen, he looked proud. But then when he got into Owen not being a part of his life, he broke down. Then he started on a long jag about all the other children he might’ve sired. All those groupies, one-night stands, decades of random promiscuity. He made a joke about it. ‘I’m a bachelor, meaning no kids. To speak of.’ Then he broke down again. Wondering what might have been. Visualizing himself old and alone at the end of his life.”

“With his money,” said Lamar, “if he sired kids, you’d think at least some of the women would’ve filed paternity suits.”

“I told him exactly that. He said a few had tried but they’d all turned out to be liars. What concerned him were the honest women too kind to exploit him. Or women who simply didn’t know. His phrasing was ‘I rained sperm on the world, it had to sprout somewhere.’ ”

“Why wouldn’t women know?”

Delaware ran his fingers through his curls. “At the height of Jack’s career, he spent a lot of time in a haze that included group sex, orgies, just about anything you can imagine.”

“He partied hearty and now he’s worrying about unknown kids?” said Baker.

“He was an old man,” said the psychologist. “Getting closer to mortality can turn you inward.”

Same phrase Sheralyn had used about Tristan.

Father and son…

Delaware said, “What I’m saying is that the issue of family- not having a family- was on Jack’s mind as the trip approached. And something else he told me- something I really didn’t appreciate at the time- makes me wonder if the trip was really about family.”

Lamar hid his enthusiasm. “The story was he was coming out here for the Songbird benefit.”

“Yes, it was, but you know guys like me.” Small smile. “Always looking for hidden meaning.”

“What’s the thing he told you?”

“The day after he poured out his heart, he came in looking great. Standing straighter, walking taller, clear-eyed. I said he seemed like a man with a mission. He laughed and said I was right on. He was ready to fly, ready for anything God or Odin or Allah or whoever was in charge was going to toss his way. ‘Gonna sing my guts out, Doc. Gonna reclaim my biology.’ That’s the part I overlooked when I first talked to you. ‘Biology.’ I thought he was relating it to ‘guts.’ Joking around, that was Jack’s style. He made light of things that frightened him until they got to a level where they overwhelmed him.”

“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

Back 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

Sleep 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 imploded. 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.”

“How’d you end up at the river?”

“I went there after I found out what happened.” Tristan’s eyelids swelled as if allergic to remembering. “It was like a big hand entered here and ripped me.” Knuckling his solar plexus.

“What time?”

“Seven, nine, in the afternoon, I don’t know. I just drove like I was in a dream.”

“Where?”

“Up and down the highway, all over.”

“Which highway?”

“The I-Forty.”

“Anyone see you?”

“No, it was just trees- I drove to the old prison, down west, where they film movies? There were these- with the white-striped blue pants? I guess they’re minimum-security prisoners, they’re always walking around, cleaning up.”

“Sounds like you go there a lot.”

“It’s quiet,” said Tristan. “Helps me think. I was there that morning. Parked on top of the hill and looked down at all those dirty gray walls and one of them saw me. He had a rake, was raking leaves. He saw me and waved, I waved back. I sat there a little more, drove back to the city, parked near the river, sat in an empty building and…that’s what I was doing when the cops found me.”

“Thinking about killing yourself.”

“I probably wouldn’t do it.”

“Probably?”

“It would be selfish, right? Like her.”

“Your mama.”

“She hated Jack,” said the boy. “Told me so, when she was screaming no way I was going to meet him, she’d make a scene.”

“Why’d she hate him?”

“For leaving her in the first place, then for coming back when she didn’t want him to.”

“She was married to Lloyd when she conceived you.”

“But things weren’t going so well,” said the boy. “Least that’s what she told me. She was bored and thinking of leaving Lloyd. My mom used to be Jack’s main groupie, she made like it was more, but that’s what it sounded like to me. Then he dumped her and they didn’t see each other for a long time. Then, she was visiting a friend in LA, looked him up. They hooked up for a couple of days. After she found out she was pregnant, she called him about it but he didn’t answer. So she went back to Lloyd and forgot about Jack.”

“And now he was coming back,” said Baker. “And being a bad influence on you. You really think she’d have killed him over that?”

“You don’t know her, sir. She sets her mind to something, she’s not going to be convinced otherwise. She’s got all sorts of people working the farm. Lots of trash.” Some animation had spread across Tristan’s face. “You don’t believe me because she’s rich and cultured.”

“Well,” said Baker, “if we had some evidence.”

“If she didn’t do it, who did?”

Baker sat back, placed his hands behind his head. “As a matter of fact, son, we’ve been thinking about you.”

The boy shot to his feet. Big boy, all those muscles. His jaw was tight and his hands were clenched. “I told you! That’s fucking insane! Meeting Jack was the coolest thing in my life, I was going to go to LA!”

“Your plan, not his.”

“He would’ve been into it!”

The detectives remained in their seats. Tristan glared down at them.

Lamar said, “Sit back down, son.”

“Stop calling me that!”

Lamar rose to his full height. Tristan was unused to looking up at anyone. He flinched.

“Please sit down, Tristan.”

The boy obeyed. “I’m really a suspect?”

“You’re what we call a person of interest.”

“That’s crazy. Fucking crazy. Why would I kill someone I loved?”

Baker said, “Maybe he changed his mind about singing your song.”

“He didn’t,” said Tristan. “But even if he did, that’s no reason to kill someone.”

“People get killed for all sorts of reasons.”

“Not by sane people- anyway, it never happened, he loved my songs. Read my e-mails, everything’s positive, everything’s cool- my laptop’s in the back of my car, it’s out of power but you can recharge it. My passwords DDPOET. Short for Dead Poet.”

“We’ll do that,” said Baker. “But no matter what your e-mail says, it doesn’t mean that Jack didn’t change his mind and decide not to sing your song.”

Lamar said, “People change their mind all the time. And Jack was real moody.”

“He wasn’t moody with me,” said Tristan. “I was important to him. Not like the others.”

“What others?”

“All those loser trailer trash women claiming they had his kids, sending him pictures of their loser kids. And stuff- songs, CDs he never listened to. I was the only one he was sure of. Because he liked my songs and because he remembered the exact day it happened.”

“The day you were conceived?” Baker asked.

“He told you about it?” Lamar questioned.

“It’s in one of the e-mails- if you ever get around to reading the computer. He even forwarded an e-mail she wrote him five years ago, when he was thinking of coming out to see me. She told him that she didn’t want to risk losing Lloyd and that I would never accept him because I was close to Lloyd. That unless he wanted to destroy her and me and everything she’d built with Lloyd, he needed to stay away. And he agreed. For my sake. It’s all in there. And he saved it for years.”

Lamar said, “Mom didn’t want to risk losing Lloyd.”

The kid smirked again. “Didn’t want to risk what Lloyd gave her. Eleventh commandment.”

“Jack had money, too,” said Baker.

“Not as much as Lloyd. Money has always been her first and only love.”

“You have strong feelings about your mama.”

“I love her,” said Tristan, “but I know what she is. You need to talk to her. I’ll give you her number in Kentucky. I know she’s there, even though she didn’t tell me she was headed there.”

“How would you know?”

“She always goes to the horses when she’s disgusted with me. Horses don’t talk back and if you put the time into them, you can eventually break ’em.”

They retrieved an IBM ThinkPad from the backseat of the VW, booted it up, spent an hour with Tristan’s old mail and sent mail. A tech ran a basic scan of the boy’s Internet history.

“Weird,” said the tech.

“What is?”

“Just music stuff- downloads, articles, tons of it. No porn at all. This must be the first teenage boy in the history of the cyber-age who doesn’t use his laptop as a stroke-book.”

Lamar snickered. “We know what you do at night, Wally.”

“It keeps me busy and I don’t have to brush my teeth beforehand.”

The mail between Jack Jeffries and Tristan backed up the boy’s story. There was at least a half year of correspondence transitioning from initial reserve on both their parts, to amiability to warmth to professions of father-son love.

Nothing smarmy or sexual, the letters could’ve been how-to-communicate instructional tools from Dr. Phil, or one of those other preachers with doctorates.

Jack Jeffries praised some of his son’s lyrics, but he never gushed. Criticism of weaker songs was tactful but frank, and Tristan reacted to every received comment with lamblike gratitude.

No indication Jack had ever changed his mind about “Music City Breakdown.”

They spent another hour phoning the new hi-tech penitentiary and finding out the names of the trustees who tended the old prison grounds. Two of the inmates remembered seeing the green VW atop the hill just before water break, and one recalled waving to a distant figure standing near the car.

None of which provided an airtight alibi; the murder had taken place before that, when Tristan Poulson claimed to be working on his song and sleeping and surfing the Internet. No doubt Amelia, the maid, would back him up.

Even without backup, the detectives were starting to doubt Tristan as a prime suspect. The boy had plenty of time to develop a real alibi, but hadn’t bothered. There had been an openness to Tristan’s manner, despite all he’d gone through. If either man had been able to admit it, they would have called it touching.

And as far as the detective could tell, the boy hadn’t lied.

As opposed to his mother.

Baker and Lamar agreed that Tristan’s theory about her was intriguing.

Repeated calls to Al Sus Jahara Arabian Farms were met by a recorded message so brief it bordered on unfriendly.

Lamar Googled the place. It had a thousand acres of rolling hills and big trees and gorgeous horses. Champion bloodlines, big antebellum mansion, paddocks, stables, stud service, cryogenic semen storage, the works. A place that hoo-hah, one would think there’d be a person at the other end, not voice mail.

Unless someone was in hiding.

By day’s end, and after reviewing the situation with Fondebernardi and Jones, they decided Cathy Poulson had grown to the status of “serious suspect,” but they had no easy way to get evidence on her.

Before they went about digging around in Belle Meade social circles, they decided to recontact an eyewitness- of sorts. Someone who’d seen Cathy and Jack, shortly before Jack’s throat got cut.

14

The Happy Night Motel looked no better than it had in its bordello days. Gray texture-coat stucco had flaked, leaving chicken-wire lesions. The green wood trim was bilious. A couple of big rigs were parked in the cracked asphalt motor court. One filthy pickup and a primer-patched Celica made up the rest of the vehicular mix.

The night clerk was an old, crushed-faced guy named Gary Beame- flyaway white hair, grease-stained shirt, ill-fitting dentures, rheumy eyes that jumped all over the place. Maybe a barely reformed homeless guy the owners had hired on the cheap.

He made the detectives right away, rasped through cigarette smoke. “Evening, Officers. We don’t hire out to whores. Mr. Bikram’s a clean businessman.”

It sounded like a rehearsed little speech.

“Congratulations,” said Baker. “Which room is Greta Barline’s?”

Beame’s face darkened. He yanked out his cigarette, scattering ash on the Star magazine spread atop the counter. “That little- I knew she was gonna get Mr. Bikram in trouble.” Scratching the corner of his collapsed mouth, he peered at something, flicked it away. “All that dirty whorin’ and then she stiffs Mr. Bikram for a week’s worth.”

Lamar said, “She was hooking out of here?”

“Not like you’re thinking,” said Beame. “Not waltzing out to the street in them halters and hotpants.”

“Like the good old days.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Beame lied.

“So what, she’d just be here and they’d show up?”

“Who?”

“Johns.”

“I never saw no one sneak in,” said Beame, warming to his falsehood sonata. “Not on any regular schedule, anyway. I’m all alone here, cain’t be bothering to watch all the comings and goings.”

“Then how do you know she was hooking?”

Beame puffed manically, working his jaws while constructing his answer. “Only way I found out was we had a family staying in the room next door, tourists from Missouri or someplace. Mother calls me up complaining about three different guys in one night. The noise was coming through the wall. Bad enough they had to hear it, but they had kids.”

“What’d you do about it?” said Lamar.

“What could I do?” said Beame. “My responsibility’s up here. What I done is phone Mr. Bikram. They tell me he’s back home visiting. That’s Calcutta, India. Mrs. Bikram says when he comes back in three days he’ll deal with it. Next time I see Barline coming in, I try talkin’ to her. The little whore has the nerve to ignore me. When Mr. Bikram comes home, I tell him what happens and he marches straight over there. But she’s gone with all her stuff. Then we found out she passed a bogus money order. The little whore still owes a week. You find her, you tell me. Or you can call Mr. Bikram direct. Here’s his card.”

“Your housekeeping staff never informed you about the prostitution?”

“What staff?” said Beame. “We got a couple Mexicans come during the day. They don’t even speak no English.”

They asked to see Greta Barline’s room.

Beame said, “Sorry, can’t do. I gotta a couple of people in there.”

“More respectable tourists?” said Baker.

No answer.

“Maybe one-hour tourists?” said Lamar.

“Hey,” said Beame. “They pay, I don’t ask. They might even be married. You find that little whore, you call Mr. Bikram.”

“Any idea where we can find her?”

Beame finally gave some serious thought to a question. “Well, mebbe one thing. I saw her go off with a guy once. This wasn’t no trucker. Suit and tie, drove a Lexus. Silver. It had a white coat hanging in the back. Like a doctor.”

Out in the motel parking lot, they thumbed through their notes for the name of the dentist who owned The T House.

“Here we go,” said Lamar. “ ‘Dr. McAfee. Lives in Brentwood.’ ”

Baker said, “If she was telling the truth about that.”

“About anything. Hooks, passes bad paper, real sweet kid.” Lamar looked up. “Maybe there’s something to the churchgoing lifestyle.”

“At the very least, you know where the kids are on Wednesday and Sunday.” Baker rubbed his head. “Let’s talk to the good doctor and find out what other games Gret likes to play.”

Motor Vehicle records placed Dr. Donald J. McAfee’s house six blocks away from the Drs. Carlsons’ white contempo.

“Must be a medico thing,” said Baker, as they headed there.

The house was a shingle-topped ranch with an oddly sloping roofline that suggested pagoda. A little stone fountain in front and a patch of mondo grass said someone loved the whole Asian thing.

Two vehicles were registered to McAfee, a silver Lexus sedan and a black Lexus Rx. Neither was in sight but a ten-year-old red Mustang sat in the driveway. It was dented and sagging, rust on the bumpers, a cracked rear side window.

Texas plates.

Lamar said, “So much for Gret not having any car. Why lie to make yourself poorer than you are?”

“Tugging at our heartstrings,” said Baker.

“For what reason?”

“The little gal thinks she can sing. Maybe she’s into acting, too.”

Not much light over the red door. They knocked.

A gonglike chime sounded and Greta Barline’s voiced trilled, “One second.”

When the door swung open, she was standing there with her blond hair all long and combed out, wearing a tiny little lace apron, spike heels and nothing else. Flour whisk in one hand, round-tipped frosting knife in the other.

Few people look better naked than clothed. This girl was the exception. Every visible inch of her was smooth and golden and nubile and voluptuous and all sorts of other good adjectives. She’d come to the door licking her lips and grinning. But that died fast.

Baker said, “Sorry to interrupt the production, Gret.”

The girl’s eyes widened and then, darn if her little pink nipples didn’t get hard and all puckery around the rosellas or whatever you called them.

Lamar said, “Dressed for business?”

He’d never admit it but he’d been distracted by those nipples when she went after him with the frosting knife.

They subdued her, but it took surprising effort. Even cuffed and facedown on a red silk Asian print sofa, she kept up the kicking and screaming- lot of nonsense about rape.

The interior of the house looked like someone had raided every tourist trap in Bangkok. Lamar found Greta Barline’s clothing in the master bedroom- a wide, shag-carpeted space dominated by a huge plaster Buddha spray-painted gold. In a teak dresser, one drawer was reserved for bikinis, thongs, and crotch-less panties. A section of the walk-in closet held negligees, wife-beaters and T-shirts and three pairs of size-4 Diesel jeans. Tons of makeup and other female products in the bathroom. She’d made a real mess of the place, leaving wet towels on the floor, along with crumpled-up National Enquirers.

Living here, on and off, when she wasn’t bedding johns and belting out karaoke.

Lamar selected the most modest clothes he could find- a yellow tee, along with a pair of jeans- and brought them back to the living room. Maybe calling for a female officer would’ve been the smart thing but they didn’t want to wait around with this foulmouthed naked girl screaming rape.

The detectives managed to wrestle her into the duds, but it made them sweat.

Then Lamar remembered: no underwear. Like she’d care.

They sat her up, and had just gotten her something to drink, when a big, florid middle-aged guy wearing a Domino Pizza delivery uniform showed up. The duds were a size too small and downright stupid-looking on a paunchy, gray-haired idiot with steel-rimmed eyeglasses.

Trembling hands clutched a pizza box.

“Dr. McAfee?”

The dentist’s eyes got wild, as if he were contemplating escape.

Baker said, “Bad idea, sit over there.” He took the box and inspected it, finding a packet of ribbed condoms, an aerosol can of whipped cream and some creepy-looking big old plastic beads on a string.

“Talk about nutrition,” said Lamar.

The dentist clutched his chest and when that didn’t work, flashed a nice set of white teeth and looked over at Greta. “Don’t know her, just met her, Officers. She insisted on coming over. It was just going to be some old-fashioned fun in the privacy of my own domicile.”

“Fuck you!” screamed the girl. “You said I was the best!”

McAfee’s look was ripe with pity.

Greta Barline squinted. “I’ll kill you, you bastard. I’ll cut you like I cut him.”

McAfee blanched. “Guess I’d better be more careful who I allow to pick me up.”

Baker and Lamar hauled the girl out of there. When they reached the door, McAfee was still standing there in his ludicrous delivery duds.

“May I change?”

Baker said, “You better.”

15

“He deserved it.”

Same interview room, same chairs, a different kid.

Lamar said, “He deserved it because…”

“He wouldn’t stand up,” said Gret Barline.

“For what?”

“His responsibilities.”

“To who?”

“All that sperm he shot around, like it was drain water.” The cuffs had been removed from the girl’s slender wrists. The heavy theatrical makeup she’d worn for her role-play with the dentist glowed salmon-orange in the bright light.

“A fertile guy,” said Baker.

He and Lamar were proceeding cautiously. The girl had made what could be construed as a spontaneous confession during her tirade against McAfee: if one construed “him” to mean Jack. But who knew what a judge would make of that? They hadn’t Mirandized Greta Barline out of fear that she would lawyer up.

And because they had no grounds, just the certainty that came from years of dealing with the messes that people made of their God-given lives.

Baker sensed the girl was a sociopath. But he wasn’t totally without sympathy. In the end human beings were frail beings.

Now she said, “Fertile turtle,” and laughed at her own wit. Her brown eyes were hot and a little scary, maybe to the point of craziness. When they traced her NCIC records, they found out she was twenty-eight, not the twenty, twenty-one they’d assumed.

Pushing thirty and old beyond even those years.

Ten-year history of bad checks, trespassing, soliciting, forgery, petty larceny. She’d served maybe a total of half a year, all of it in county lockups. There were muscles in those smooth little arms. A butterfly tattoo in the small of her back. Lamar remembered how much effort it had taken for both of them to restrain her. When they booked her, she came in at a hundred and eight, fully clothed.

He said, “So what was he supposed to stand up for?”

“Not what, freak-a-leak, who!” she said. “He was supposed to stand up for me- his flesh and blood.”

“You know for a fact that you’re kin?”

“My mama told me and she don’t lie about things like that.”

“When did she tell you?”

“As long as I can remember. I never had a live-in dad, just foster assholes and assholes who’d come in and out to see Mama.” Another laugh. “Plenty of in-and-out. Mama was always talking about him: Jack this, Jack that.” Wicked smile. “Jack had a nice little beanstalk on him.”

“How’d she meet him?”

“He and Denny and Mark did a concert in San Antone.”

Talking about the other two members of the trio like they were favorite uncles.

“And?” said Baker.

“And she had a friend who was working security and he got her a backstage pass and she got to meet all of them. They all liked her, but Jack liked her the most. She used to be real sexy before she put on a hundred extra pounds.”

Pantomiming a watermelon paunch and sticking her tongue out in disgust.

“So Jack and your mama started hanging out,” said Lamar.

“They fucked all night is what they did,” said Gret. “And the result is moi.” She pointed to her chest.

Nipples poking through the yellow tee, darn, he should’ve thought of a bra. Lamar said, “You’ve known your whole life.”

“I followed his career when I’d see a computer, like in an Internet café, I’d Google him. There wasn’t much happening in the last…ten years, but I still did it. Trying to figure out if I should try.”

“Try what?”

“Try to meet him. Maybe he’d see me and…” Nervous laugh. “People meet me, they like me.”

“I can see that.”

She batted her lashes. Arched her back.

Lamar said, “So you finally decided to…”

“I moved to Nashville about six months ago. For my singing career, you know. So it seemed like fate when I found out he was coming here.”

“Were you living in the Happy Night right from the beginning?”

“A couple other places before that. Happy Night was the best of ’em.”

“Then you got yourself a job at The T House.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d that happen?”

Gret drank from the Starbucks they’d brought her and rattled off the chronology. The horn-dog dentist had been one of many who’d showed up at the motel. Since he was richer, she extended herself to him and his little stage productions. Being long-divorced with no one else in the house, McAfee decided to move the show to Brentwood for occasional fantasy games. When the tourist family complained, she figured it was time to relocate permanently.

“When did you find out he owned a club?”

“Soon after,” she said. “I saw the bill for the karaoke machine, he told me what it was for. I said that’s bogus cheap shit, you should get a band. He said no way, I’m losing money as is.”

“Then you started working at the T.”

“It was the perfect match,” she said. “I got my stage and he got me. I need to sing.”

“Creative drive,” said Lamar.

The term puzzled the girl but she smiled and nodded.

He said, “So when did you intend to meet up with Mr. Jeffries?”

“Mister Jeffries,” she said, shaking her hair and taking a long time to fluff the yellow strands. “He don’t deserve the title. He’s a dog, just like Mama said.”

“Why’d she say that?”

“He left her knocked up and never returned her letters.”

“Why didn’t she file a paternity suit?”

“She tried, got a stupid San Antone lawyer. He wrote a letter and got a call from a big-time Beverly Hills lawyer who told her the choice was take some cash now and shut your face forever, or go to court and go broke because they had the money to drag it out for years. She took the money.”

“Your mama told you all this,” said Baker.

“All the time,” said Gret. “All the all the all the time. It was like her favorite bedtime story.”

“When you were a kid?”

“Even after. What I’m saying is she told it so many times it put her to sleep.” Laughing. “She snores like a pig.”

“What happened to the money?” Lamar asked.

“Well, let’s see. Hmm- oh, yeah, she drank away half of it. The leftover…uh, let’s see. Oh, yeah, she smoked that away. I figure there had to be more where that came from. I’m owed.”

“So how’d you know where to find Jack Jeffries?”

“A week before he was supposed to come, I called the hotel and said I had a flower delivery for when he arrived. They told me when to deliver.”

“How’d you know which hotel?”

“I tried them and the Loews Vanderbilt. Where else is he gonna stay?”

Baker said, “Did you try to see him personally?”

Gret grinned. “I didn’t just try, I saw him.”

“How?”

“Went there. Got all dressed up pretty and waited in the lobby. I had an iced tea…paid ten bucks out of my own pocket to drink and sit there and watch rich folk. Finally, he came out. Then he remembered something and started walking back to the elevators. I rode up with him. Pushed a button on the same floor and pretended to be staying there. We had a nice conversation.”

“About what?”

“First,” she said, “I sweet-talked him…things like ‘I recognized you right away, you look just like you do on the CDs.’ Which is bogus bullshit, he put on like a hundred pounds and he’s old. But he liked hearing those lies, everyone has their own favorite lies. That’s when I told him I was going to the Songbird concert…singing backup for Johnny Blackthorn. He said, No kidding, Johnny’s an old bud, and we started talking music. I know all about music, it’s my life.”

“All this is in the hall?” Lamar asked.

“At his door. I knew I could have gotten inside, but I didn’t want to. He’d try to fuck me and that would be gross.”

“Gross because he’s your father.”

“That for sure. But also, he was gross.” She stuck her tongue out.

“So how’d you get him over to The T House?”

“I told him I’d be singing and also helping out with the serving ’cause my daddy owned the place. I told him he should stop by, hear some good music if he wasn’t too tired. Then I told him I was thinking about giving up music because the lifestyle was tough. I told him I got into Vanderbilt dental school, maybe I’d do that.”

“Why dental school?”

“’Cause it sounded educated. Jack was impressed, and said that sounded cool. Then he said, ‘But if you really love to sing, don’t give up your dream.’ ”

“You were getting him on your side,” said Baker.

“I wanted him to hear me sing ’cause I’m worth listening to,” Gret said. “But I knew I had to be casual. That’s the way you got to do it with them.”

“Them being…”

“Men. They’re like fish. You cast the line, wiggle the bait a little, move it around real casual. I figured he’d show up. And he did.”

“What time?”

“Toward the end of my last set. A quarter to.”

“Quarter to midnight.”

“Yeah.”

She’d told them around eleven fifteen, eleven thirty the first time. Lying for the sake of it.

“What happened then?”

“I greeted him like a long-lost friend and sat him right in front. I even gave him free tea and yellow-raisin scones. Then I sang. Did a KT Oslin and a Rosanne Cash. Finished with ‘Piece of My Heart’- the Janis way, not what Faith Hill did to it. He was listening. Then…” Her blue eyes clouded over. “He just up and left. I gave the bastard free tea and he didn’t even have the courtesy to say good-bye.”

Just like he did to Mama, Lamar thought. “So you went to the door and saw…”

“The rich bitch with the red Mercedes. My car’s red, too, it’s my favorite color. I could never get it to shine like that…” Tossing her hair. “They talked like they knew each other, didn’t look so friendly. Then she drove away and he started walking.”

Reaching for her coffee, she sipped. “Um, this is good and creamy! Thank you, sirs!”

Baker said, “Then what?”

“Pardon?”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing.”

“Gret,” said Lamar, “we found that knife in your purse. It matches perfectly to the wound on Jack’s neck. We also got your fingerprints on his clothes and his neck.”

Blatant lies. They were days from processing all the evidence.

Silence.

Baker said, “I reckon you carry that knife because johns can get rough, right?”

“Right.”

“We can understand that,” Lamar added. “A girl needs to take care of herself.”

“Right.”

“So why don’t you tell us exactly what happened between you and Jack Jeffries?”

“Hmm,” she said, finishing her coffee. “Can I have another creamy latte? They’re so expensive. I can’t afford to buy more than one a week.”

They got her the coffee and a croissant. She finished both and asked to go to the bathroom.

“Sure,” said Lamar, “but first I’ve got to bring a senior CSI technologist in to scrape under your fingernails.”

“Why?” said Gret.

“To match it to Jack’s skin.”

“I washed my hands,” she said.

“When?”

“Right after I…” Looking at the ceiling and toying with her hair and letting one hand wander to her right breast.

Lamar said, “You need to finish the story, Gret. We need to hear the whole thing.”

“I need to use the little girls’ room.”

Fondebernardi came in, pretended to be a crime scene tech and did the scrape. Greta Barline was accompanied by a female officer to the restroom and returned looking refreshed.

“That was good,” she said, focusing on Lamar.

Baker said, “Please finish the story.”

“It’s not much of a story.”

“Do us a favor and tell it anyway.”

She shrugged. “I saw him walking and I went after him…to ask him why he left without saying good-bye. Asshole gave me a funny look and kept going…ignoring me. He was all pissed off…probably because of that woman. Ain’t my fault, but he took it out on me, you know? A whole different Jack from the Jack in the elevator. I kept walking with him. It was real dark, but I could see the hostility in his…manner. The way he had his arms folded in front of him, looking straight ahead. Like I didn’t exist. That made me super pissed off.”

“Because he wouldn’t talk.”

“Because he was being rude. Being rich doesn’t give you any right to be rude. Uh-uh, no sirree, Mr. Jeffries. The world don’t work like that.”

Her second delusion. The first was thinking she could sing.

Baker said, “It sure isn’t fair.”

She looked at Lamar. He said, “Downright rude.”

“I mean who is he thinking he is? A big fat ugly gross disgusting person who used to be famous but now no one gives a shit about him? Who’s he to go all silent and pissed and leave without saying good-bye? Still, I minded my manners. I said, ‘What’s wrong? Did the tea taste bad?’ ”

Lamar said, “He was being rude but you held on to your dignity.”

“Exactly! Dignity’s what it’s all about. Everyone deserves a little dignity, right?”

“Darn right,” Baker said. “So then what happened?”

“He just kept ignoring me and I just kept walking alongside him. We keep walking and walking and walking and then he stops again and makes a sharp turn…like that’s gonna confuse me.” She let out a laugh. “Except now he has no idea where he’s going and he ends up in this empty lot. I stick right with him. He turns around, not looking where he’s going, and his foot hits a wall. He starts cussing and swearing and then…and then, he starts screaming at me. That I should stop stalking him, can you believe that?”

The detectives shook their heads.

She touched her hair, licked a finger and ran it over her eyelids. “He sounded crazy, I was scared. I tell you, Detectives, that old boy was on drugs or something.”

“Did you try to leave?”

“Too scared.” Gret made her eyes go wide. “It’s all dark and he’s going crazy on me. He starts calling me horrible names- a lyin’ no-talent little bitch, if you must know.”

She sniffed, grimaced, and rubbed her eyes, trying to dredge up some tears. The floor had been dried since Tristan Poulson’s sob-fest. It stayed that way.

“It was horrible,” she said. “No one ever, ever, ever talked to me like that. That’s what I said to him- trying to stop him from being so rude. Then I looked him straight up in the eye and said ‘Shut your mouth for a second and hear the truth. I’m your daughter and you know what, I don’t even care about that, it means nothing to me! And you know what else? I’m lucky you weren’t never in my life, you don’t deserve to ever be in my life, you sorry-ass, has-been motherfucker!’ ”

The room fell silent.

“You told him off good,” Lamar said.

“Wait, wait, it gets better. Then he gets this wild look, this really wild crazy look gets in his eyes, and he says, ‘You’re lying, it’s just another lie, you been a lying little bitch since the moment I laid eyes on you.’ And I say, ‘I’m the daughter of Ernestine Barline. You knew her as Kiki. Remember that night you fucked her all night? The result is me.’ ”

She stopped. Panting, sucking in breath.

Finally, the tears came…a constricted trickle that ended with a gasp.

Lamar said, “What did Jack say to that?”

“His voice got real quiet and he gave me this look. Not the wild-eyed one, but a different one. Scarier. Cold, real, real cold. Like I was nothing…but…dirt. He smiled, but not a nice smile, an ugly smile. Then he said, ‘I don’t remember her and I don’t give a shit about you. And even if I did fuck her, no way you were the result. Know how I know?’ ”

She gasped, covered her eyes. Lamar thought of patting her shoulder, but hesitated. Baker reached over and did it for the both of them.

“I didn’t answer him,” she said. “But he told me, anyway.” She shivered.

Neither detective spoke.

Gret’s hand dropped from her face. For a second, she looked young, untouched, vulnerable. Then the brown eyes sparked with fury.

“The bastard touched me here.” Gret fingered the bottom of her chin. “Chucked it, you know? Like I was some baby, some stupid little baby thing.” Another shiver. If she was faking her emotion, she was Oscar-quality. “Then he said, ‘I know you didn’t come from me because you got no talent. You sing like shit and I’d rather listen to nails on a chalkboard than to hear you screech like a crow. I knew Janis and she’s the lucky one, being dead so she didn’t have to be subjected to that sorry-ass, ultra-fucked-up abortion you did of her classic. Girl, your voice should never be used except for talking, and not much of that, either.’ ”

She took awhile to catch her breath. Stared at both detectives as if she’d seen the afterlife and it wasn’t pretty.

“Oh, man, that’s cold,” said Lamar.

Baker said, “God, what a bastard.” Sounding as if he meant it.

Greta Barline said, “He’s saying those things…those horrible things…cutting me…cutting my singing…cutting my life…I can’t even speak, it’s like I’m bleeding inside.”

She gnashed her teeth, clawed her hands.

“Then he starts pushing at me, pushing- like to get away. Honestly, I don’t know what happened. He was so big and I’m so little and he’s pushing at me, pushing at me. I was so scared. I don’t know how the knife got into my hand, I promise. All I remember is him holding his neck and looking at me and making this gurgly noise. Then, he fell down and made this thud noise. And then he gurgled some more.”

A strange, distant smile skittered across her lips. “I’m just standing there and I’m thinking about that gurgly noise and I say out loud, ‘You don’t sound so good, yourself, Jack Jeffries.’ After that, he got quiet.”

The room felt as if all the air had been sucked out of it.

Lamar waited for Baker to speak, but El Bee had a funny look on his face, kind of glassy-eyed.

Lamar said, “Thanks for telling us, Gret. Now I’m gonna have to read you your rights.”

“Just like on TV,” she said. Then she perked up. “So what do you think, it’s self-defense, right?”

16

Lamar got home at four thirty AM. Sue was sleeping but she woke up, brewed some decaf and sat with him while he ate cold pasta, a couple of hastily fried breakfast sausages, and five pieces of toast.

The usual case-closed munchies.

“Another one bites the dust,” she said. “Congrats, honey.”

After he told her the details, Sue said, “The girl’s obviously disturbed but you can see her point.”

“About what? She cut the poor man’s throat for insulting her singing.”

“If what she said is true, he was brutal, honey, just dumped on her dreams. Of course, it doesn’t justify what she did. But still, to be rejected like that.” She touched his face. “Maybe I’m being a bleeding heart, but I guess I understand her a little.”

“If it’s even true,” said Lamar. “She lies about everything.” But he knew he was denying the obvious. For all Greta Barline’s lies, he was certain she’d spoken the truth about that final encounter.

Jack Jeffries had paid for it. Now Greta Barline was going to ante up.

They’d closed the case, a high-profile whodunit, they’d get their names in the paper. Maybe even be there at the press conference.

He should’ve felt more satisfaction.

Sue said, “How’d Baker react?”

“To what?”

“The way it ended.”

“He seemed okay.” Lamar immediately regretted the lie. He was always honest with Sue, no reason to change that, now. “Actually, he didn’t react at all, hon. Once she signed the confession and he made sure the tape had recorded he just left. Fondie called Jones and Jones called in to congratulate us and Baker wasn’t there to hear it.”

“Maybe he’s got a point, Lamar.”

“About what?”

“The business, all those dreams, a thousand people come to town, nine hundred ninety-nine get stepped on and shattered and the one who gets a chance doesn’t last long either.”

Lamar didn’t answer. Thinking about his own arrival in Nashville, fifteen years ago, from New Haven. Good solid bass player, he had the moves, extra-long nimble fingers able to span eight, nine frets. A darn good ear, too. After a couple of listens to something, he could often play it back note-perfect.

He couldn’t invent, but still, an ear like that counted for something. Everyone back home telling him he was great.

In Nashville, he was good. Maybe even real good.

Meaning not even close to good enough.

He felt cool hands on the back of his neck. Sue had gotten up and was massaging him. She wore that old Med Center 10K commemorative T-shirt and nothing else. Her smell…her firmness and her softness, pushing against him.

He said, “Let’s hit the hay. Thanks for the grub, Nurse Van Gundy.”

“Anything for you, Favorite Patient.”

“Let’s hear it for Marvin Gaye.”

She laughed, for the thousandth time, at the in-joke. Time for Sexual Healing. Lamar wondered if he should find some phrases that weren’t music-connected.

Sue didn’t seem to mind. She took him by the hand and laughed again.

By the time they reached the bedroom, they were kissing deeply.

17

Baker went home to an empty silent house, popped a beer, and sat in the kitchen with his feet propped up on the Formica dinette table.

Fifty-year-old table, everything in this place was older than he was; since inheriting the house, he’d bought virtually nothing.

Hanging on to all the discount-outlet crap his parents had bought when they moved in.

Danny and Dixie.

When he thought of them that way, they were strangers.

When he used their real names, it was different.

Danville Southerby and Dorothea Baker had met when he was sixteen and she was fourteen, singing in the choir of the First Baptist Church of Newport, Tennessee.

The town, nestled on the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains, was rich in music and folk art and memory, poor in everything else. Danny’s father barely broke even farming tobacco and Dixie ’s daddy didn’t do much better with corn.

Singing hymns threw the teenagers together. Blinding love soon followed and within two months, Dixie was pregnant. The child, a small, squalling, pink-faced boy they named Baker, was born three weeks premature, one half year after a hastily arranged church wedding. Dixie bled a lot and the doctor told her she’d never conceive again. She cried, as much from relief as regret.

Like a lot of people in the church, the teens were highly musical. Danny had a clear tenor voice, played piano and organ and guitar without ever taking a lesson. Dixie was on a whole other level, a mandolin prodigy with an astounding vibrato and, some said, technique better than Bill Monroe’s. Top of that, her soprano, always nice, smoothed out and stretched following the delivery of her baby. Maybe singing to the cranky little red-faced tot helped, or it could’ve been one of those strange hormonal twists. Either way, listening to her was a privilege.

The young couple lived on the corn farm with her family, doing scut work and sinking low emotionally. In their spare time, when someone else would take the baby, they sat and played and sang- softly, so as not to share the precious thing they had with anyone else. It was the only private time they had. In those moments, each of them wondered if life wasn’t slipping away, but they never shared the thought with each other.

One night, after Dixie’s daddy scolded Danny for indolence, he got up in the middle of the night, woke Dixie and told her to get dressed. She watched him pack a bag, carry it out of the house, then return for his guitar and her mandolin.

“What- ”

He shushed her with a finger. She got dressed, followed him out to the old Dodge his daddy had given him last year but which he never got to drive, being stuck on the corn farm, working like a mutt.

They pushed the car away from the house so as not to wake anyone. When he got far enough, he started up and hit the road.

Dixie said, “What about the baby?”

Danny said, “They all love him. Maybe even better than we do.”

For the next two years, all their families got were postcards. Gaudy souvenir cards from tourists spots all over the South- places Danny and Dixie never visited because instead of seeing the sights, they were doing the roadhouse circuit, playing one-nighters. Mostly the new stuff called Rockabilly, but also bluegrass standards, and gospel hymns when the audience was open to that, which was almost never.

Making petty cash but it was more than Dixie ’s dad had paid them for working the cornfields, which was nothing because they were supposed to be content with room and board. Top of that, they were doing what they loved and getting paid for it. Meeting people, all kinds of people, having all kinds of eye-opening experiences that no way would’ve happened back in Newport.

Christmas, they sent store-bought toys to Baker, along with sweet notes in Dixie ’s hand. The baby became a quiet, determined toddler, unlikely to give up whatever he was working at, unless forced to.

When he was three, his parents showed up at the corn farm, wearing fancy clothes and driving a five-year-old Ford van full of instruments and music and costume changes and talking about meeting Carl Perkins and Ralph Stanley, all those other famous people in “our world.” Talking about colored singers doing that rhythm and blues, sometimes you could be safe in those colored clubs and it was worth listening.

Dixie ’s father scowling at that. Spooning his soup and saying, “I won’t hold it against you, running off like that, and leaving your problem with us.” Meaning the little boy, sitting right there. Talking about him like he didn’t understand. “Be up tomorrow at five to atone. We got a whole edge of the north field to do by hand.”

Danny fingered his leather string tie with the piece of quartz up near the collar, then smiled and stood and laid down a fat wad of bills on the table.

“What’s that?” said his father-in-law.

“Payment.”

“For what?”

“Babysitting, back rent, whatever.” Winking at his wife.

She hesitated, avoided her family’s eyes. Then quaking so hard she thought she’d fall apart, she scooped up Baker and followed her husband out to the van.

As the Ford drove off, Dixie ’s mother said, “Figures. They never took their gear out the back.”

Baker Southerby grew up on the roadhouse circuit, learning to read and write and do arithmetic from his mother. He picked things up quickly, making her job easy. She hugged and kissed him a lot and he seemed to like that. No one ever talked about the time that she and Danny had gone and left him.

She told him to call her Dixie because everyone did and, “Sweetie, you and me both know I’m your mama.”

Years later, Baker figured it out. She’d been all of seventeen, wanted to see herself as that pretty girl with the lightning fingers up on stage, not some housewife.

When he was five, he asked to play her Gibson F-5 mandolin.

“Honey, that’s a real precious thing.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Dixie hesitated. Baker stared at her, with those serious eyes.

She ran her hand over his blond crew cut. He kept staring.

“All right, then, but I’m sitting right next to you. Want me to show you some chords?”

Grave nod.

An hour after he started, he was playing C, G and F. By the end of the day, he was coaxing forth a respectable version of “Blackberry Blossom.” Not at full speed, but his tone was clear, his right hand nice and smooth.

“Dan, come listen to this.” Listening to him, watching how careful he was, Dixie was comfortable letting him play the mandolin without her hovering.

Danny came in from the porch of the motel, where he’d been smoking and strumming and writing songs.

“What?”

“Just listen- go ahead, sweetie-pie little man.”

Baker played.

“Huh…,” Danny said. Then: “I got an idea.”

They bought him his own mandolin. Nothing high-priced, a forties A-50 they picked up in a Savannah pawnshop, but it had decent tone. By age six, Baker had a trunk full of stage-duds and a thirties F-4 almost as shiny as Dixie ’s F-5 and he was a full-time headliner. The new act was officially The Southerby Family Band: Danny, Dixie and Little Baker the Amazing Smoky Mountain Kid.

Mostly there wasn’t room for all that on any marquee so it was just The Southerbys.

Baker’s chord repertoire ran all the way down the fretboard, encompassed the majors, minors, sevenths, sixths, ninths, elevenths, and thirteenths, along with diminished, augmented, and a whole bunch of interesting extensions he came upon himself that could be called jazz, even though the closest they got to jazz was a few Texas swing songs that always ended up sounding bluegrassy.

By the time he was nine, he played cleaner and faster than his mother and to her credit, she reacted with nothing but pride.

Homeschooling- though that concept hadn’t been invented- continued and Baker was smart enough to get a year ahead of his age group. At least according to the intelligence test Dixie had clipped out of Parents magazine.

Baker grew up on fast food, tobacco smoke and applause. Nothing seemed to alter his quiet personality. When he was twelve, a smooth-talking man who’d heard them play at a honky-tonk outside of Natchez told Danny he’d give all three of them a recording contract, make them the new Carter Family.

They went into the studio, laid down five old standards, never heard back from the guy, tried calling a few times, then gave up and went back on the road.

When Baker was twelve, he announced that he wanted to go to a real school.

Danny said, “Just like that? You give it all up?”

Baker didn’t answer.

“Wish you’d talk more, son. Kind of hard to know what’s going on behind those eyes.”

“I just told you.”

“Giving it all up.”

Silence.

Dixie said, “That’s what he wants, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

Danny looked over her. “Yeah, I been feeling that’s coming.”

“What has?”

“Itching to settle down.”

“Could’ve done it years ago,” said Dixie. “I was waiting.”

“For what?”

She shrugged. “Something.”

They moved to Nashville, because it was in Tennessee and, theoretically, not a big deal to visit their families. The real reason was: Music City.

Danny was still a young man, though sometimes he felt like he’d lived three lifetimes. The mirror told him he looked sharp, and his pipes were good; guys a lot less talented than he were making it big-time, why not give it a shot?

He used some of the cash he’d saved from years on the road and bought a little frame house in The Nations. Nice white neighborhood, full of hardworking people. Dixie wanted to play house that was fine; he’d be over on Sixteenth Street.

Baker went to junior high and met other kids. He stayed quiet but managed to make a few friends and, except for math where he needed some catch-up, classes were pretty easy.

Dixie stayed home and played her mandolin and sang “Just for the sake of it, Baker, which is music at the purest, right?”

Sometimes she asked Baker to jam with her. Mostly, he did.

Danny was out most of the time, trying to scare up a career on Music Row. He got a few gigs playing rhythm guitar at the Ryman when regulars were sick, did some club dates, paid his own money to cut demos that never went anywhere.

When the money ran low, he took a job teaching choir at a Baptist church.

After a year and a half of that, over dinner he announced it was time to hit the road again.

Baker said, “Not me.”

Danny said, “I didn’t mean you.” Glancing at his wife. She screwed up her mouth. “I put on weight, nothing’s gonna fit.”

“That’s why God invented tailors,” said her husband. “Or do it yourself, you used to know how to sew.”

“I still do,” she said, defensively.

“There you go. We’re leaving on Monday.”

Today was Thursday.

Dixie said, “Leaving for where?”

“ Atlanta. I got us a gig opening for the Culpeppers at a new bluegrass club. Nothing fancy, all they want is S.O.S.”

Family talk for the Same Old Shit.

Meaning the standards. Danny, seeing himself as a modern man, had come to despise them.

“Just like that,” said Dixie. “You made all the plans.”

“Don’t I always? You might want to get some new strings for your plink-box. I overheard you yesterday. The G and D are dead.”

“What about Baker?”

“He can take care of himself, right, son?”

“He’s not even fourteen.”

“How old were you when you had him?”

Talking about him as if he wasn’t there.

Baker wiped his mouth, carried his plate to the sink, and began washing it.

“So?” said Danny.

Dixie sighed. “I’ll try to sew it myself.”

From then on, they were gone more than they were home. Doing a month on the road, returning for a week or ten days, during which Dixie doted on Baker with obvious guilt and Danny sat by himself and smoked and wrote songs no one else would ever hear.

The summer of Baker’s fifteenth birthday, Danny announced they were sending him to Bible camp in Memphis for six weeks. “Time to get some faith and spirituality, son.”

By sheer coincidence, Danny and Dixie had been booked for a six-week gig exactly during that period. Aboard a cruise boat leaving from Biloxi.

“Hard to get phone contact from there,” said Dixie. “This way we know you’ll be safe.”

During the last week of camp, Baker ate something off and came down with horrible food poisoning. Three days later, the bug was gone but he’d lost seven pounds and was listless. The camp doctor had left early on a family emergency and the Reverend Hartshorne, the camp director, didn’t want to risk any legal liability; just last summer some rich girl’s family had sued because she’d gotten a bladder infection that developed into sepsis. Luckily that kid had survived, probably her fault in the first place, she had a reputation for fooling with the boys but tell that to those fancy-pants lawyers…

Hartshorne found Baker in his bunk room and drew him outside. “Call your parents, son, so they can pick you up. Then start packing.”

“Can’t,” said a wan, weak Baker. “They’re on a ship, no phone contact.”

“When were they figuring on picking you up?”

“I’m taking the bus.”

“All the way to Nashville?”

“I’m okay.”

Lord, thought Hartshorne. These new families.

“Well, son, can’t have you being here, all sick. Got a key to your house?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t mind Nashville. I’ll drive you in.”

They started out in Hartshorne’s white Sedan Deville at three PM, made a single stop for lunch, and pulled into Nashville at nine fifteen.

Lights out in the little frame house.

“You okay going in by yourself?”

Baker was eager to get away from Hartshorne’s Bible speeches and the odors the reverend gave off: bubble gum and body odor and for some reason, an overlay of Wheatena cereal.

“Sure.”

“Okay, then. Walk with the Lord, son.”

“Yessir.”

Baker got his duffel and his pillow from the back and fished out his door key. The Cadillac was gone before he reached the door.

He walked into the empty house.

Heard something.

Not empty- a burglar?

Laying his duffel and pillow on the floor, he tiptoed into the kitchen, snuck all the way back to the laundry room where Danny kept his pistol.

Ancient Colt, Danny called it protection for the road though the only time he’d had to use it was when some Klan-type guys loitering near their motel in Pulaski made remarks about seeing them going into a nigger juke-joint.

One flash of the Colt and the idiots dispersed.

Remembering that now- recalling the power that came from a couple pounds of honed steel- Baker hefted the pistol and advanced toward the noise in the back.

His parents’ bedroom. Some kind of commotion behind the closed door.

No, not completely closed; the thin paneled slab was cracked an inch.

Baker nudged it with his finger, got a couple more inches of view space and aimed the pistol through the opening.

Dim light. One lamp on a nightstand, his mother’s nightstand giving off a pinkish light.

Because of some silky material that had been tossed over the shade.

His mother on the bed, naked, astride his father.

No, not his father, his father was off to the side on a chair and another woman, blond and skinny, was astride him.

The man under his mother, heavier in the legs than his father. Hairier, too.

Two couples, panting, heaving, bucking.

His gun arm froze.

He forced himself to lower it.

Backed away.

Took his duffel and left his pillow and walked out of the house. Made his way to a bus stop and rode downtown and got himself a room at a motel on Fourth.

Found the marine recruitment office the next morning, lied about his age, and enlisted. Two days later, he was on a bus to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.

It took another week for a panicky Dixie Southerby to locate him.

The marines told him to come back in two years and sent him home.

Dixie said, “What’d you do that for?”

Baker said, “I got restless. Can I go to military school?”

“You don’t want to live at home?”

“I’m big enough to go away.”

Danny said, “That’s a mature decision, son. It’s time for your mother and me to hit the road, anyway.”

Military academies turned out to be too expensive but Fall River Bible School and Seminary in Arlington, Virginia was flexible about tuition for “students with spiritual leanings.”

Baker settled in, met some nice people, and was starting to think he might even fit in somewhere. A month into the first semester, Mrs. Calloway, the head counselor, called him into her office, with tears in her eyes.

When he got here, she hugged him. Not customary for Mrs. Calloway. Not much touching went on at Fall River, period.

“Oh, you poor boy, you poor lamb.”

Baker said, “What?”

It took a long time for her to tell him and when she did, she looked scared, as if she’d be punished for doing it.

The van had been hit head-on, by a drunk on I-40.

Danny and Dixie returning to Nashville from a gig in Columbia. Grand opening of a car dealership, two-hundred-dollar fee, not bad when you figured it was only a one-hour drive.

All those years on the road without a mishap. Fifteen minutes out of town, the van was turned into scrap.

Both of them dead on impact, their stage clothes strewn all over the interstate.

Danny’s guitar had sustained irreparable damage, sliding around the rear of the van, its soundboard crushed, its neck severed and splintered.

Dixie ’s mandolin, its hard-shell case covered by a newer Mark Leaf space-age plastic supplementary case and swathed in three packing blankets, the way she always wrapped it, came out unharmed.

Baker went and retrieved the instrument from the closet, same way he’d done so many times before.

Stared at it, touched the taut strings, the ebony bridge, the mother-of-pearl tuners with their gold-plated gears.

Not too many F-5s were gold-plated or triple-bound. This one was and everyone who’d seen it opined that even though it was dated 1924, not ’23, it was from the same batch as Bill Monroe’s. Monroe ’s had gotten damaged years ago; the story that circulated was some jealous husband had caught the bluegrass king in bed with his wife and taken out his anger on the instrument.

Stupid, thought Baker. It was people who deserved punishment, not things.

Staring at the F-5 and realizing what he’d just told himself.

Maybe he should smash this thing. What did music bring other than sin and misery?

That poor girl.

That rich boy, was he any better off?

Maybe he’d call that shrink, Delaware, ask if he had any ideas about helping Tristan.

Nah, the guy was long gone back to LA, by now. And what the hell was it his business if the boy had emotional issues, that mother of his…

He’d done his job.

So why was it gnawing at him?

Like the girl, like the boy, like everyone else in this goddamn world, they were just people. With their talents and their weaknesses and their heartbreaks and their egos.

People. If there was a God, he had one hell of a sense of humor.

Or maybe there was wisdom behind it.

People, able to change. Able to better themselves, even though so many failed.

The people he and Lamar met day after day…

Maybe there was more…

Hands- must’ve been his, but it felt like they were someone else’s- lifted the mandolin out of its case. The back all shiny, those silky, sculptural contours where some Michigan craftsman had carved and tapped and carved some more under the watchful eye of the chief acoustical engineer, a genius named Lloyd Loar.

Loar had signed the instrument on March 21, 1924. Anything with his name on it was worth a bundle to collectors.

Baker’s fingers grazed the strings. EADG. Perfect tune, after all these years.

He knew because he had perfect pitch.

His left hand formed a G chord. He told his right hand not to move but it did.

A resonant, sweet sound rang out, bounced against cold walls devoid of art or family mementos, ricocheted against discount-outlet furniture and linoleum floors. Ended its flight and burrowed into Baker’s skull.

His head hurt.

His hands moved some more and that helped a bit.

An hour later, he was still at it.