Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

“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.”

Googling Briar Lane 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.