Capital Crimes (25 page)

“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

D
rs. 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.”