Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

“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?”

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.”