Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

“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?”

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?”