Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

“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.”

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…”