Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

“The evidence was too strong,” said Lamar.

Tristan nodded. “Also, it…verified stuff I’d always felt.” Another pat. “Deep inside. Lloyd was a good man, but- no buts, he was a good, good man. He died, too.”

“You’ve had a lot of loss, son,” said Baker.

“It’s like everything exploded inward,” said Tristan. “I guess that’s im ploded. Implosion.”

Enunciating the word, as if performing at a spelling bee.

“Implosion,” said Baker.

“It was like- everything!” Tristan looked up again. Looked at both detectives. “That’s why I considered it.”

“Considered what, son?”

“Jumping in.”

“Into the Cumberland?”

Another weak smile. “Like that old folk song.”

“Which one?”

“ ‘Goodnight Irene.’ ”

“Great song. Leadbelly,” said Baker, and Lamar almost got a stiff neck from not swiveling toward his partner.

The boy didn’t answer.

Baker said, “Yeah, that’s a great old song. The way that lyric just hits you, like it’s not really part of the rest of the song, then boom.”

Silence.

Baker said, “ ‘Sometimes I have a great notion to jump in the river and drown.’ Ol’ Leadbelly killed a man, spent time in prison, that’s where he wrote it and- ”

“ ‘Midnight Special.’ ”

“You like the old ones, son.”

“I like everything good.”

“Makes sense,” said Baker. “So there you were, imploding. I got to tell you, things go a certain way, it’s easy to see how someone could feel that way, just take a few steps…”

Tristan didn’t react.

Baker said, “Guilt can make a person feel that way.”

Tristan retorted, “Or just plain life going to shit.” He dropped his head, pressed his cheeks with his palms.

Baker said, “Son, you’re obviously a smart guy so I won’t insult your intelligence by spinning a lot of theories. But the fact is: confession can be good for the soul.”

“I know,” said Tristan. “That’s why I told you.”

“Told us what?”

“I was thinking of doing it. The river. Did Mom send you? All the way from Kentucky?”

“Send us for what?”

“To stop me.”

Baker rubbed his bare head. “You’re thinking we picked you up for attempted suicide.”

“Mom said if I ever did it again, she’d have me arrested.”

“Again,” said Lamar.

“I tried twice before,” said Tristan. “Not the river, pills. Her Prozac. I’m not sure it was really serious…the first time. It was probably one of those…a cry for help, to use a cliché.”

“Your mama’s pills.”

“She had her purse open. I needed some cash and she’s cool with me just taking whatever money I needed. She left the pills in a vial on top of her wallet. I was just hungry for sleep, you know?”

“When was this, son?”

“You keep calling me ‘son.’ ” The boy smiled. “Nashville PD’s babysitting me. Amazing what money can buy.”

“You think we’re doing this for your mama?” said Lamar.

Tristan smirked and now they could see the spoiled rich kid in him. “Everyone knows the eleventh commandment.”

“What’s that?”

“Money talks, bullshit walks.”

“Tristan,” said Baker, “let me give you some education: we are not here to babysit you or to prevent you from doing whatever you want to do to yourself. Though we think that would be pretty stupid- jumping into those muddy waters. We have not talked to your mama since we interviewed her yesterday at your house and she led us to believe you were in Rhode Island.”

Tristan stared at him. “Then, what?”

“You are being questioned regarding the murder of Jack Jeffries.”

Tristan gaped. Sat up straight. “You think- oh, man, that’s ridiculous; that is so psychotic ridiculous. ”

“Why’s that?”

“I loved Jack.”

“Your new dad.”

“My always dad, we were…,” said Tristan. He shook his head. Clean blond hair billowed, fell back into place.

“You were what?”

“Reuniting. I mean, he felt it and I was starting to feel it- the bond. But we both knew it takes time. That’s why he came to Nashville.”

“To bond.”

“To meet me.”

“First time?” said Lamar.

Nod.

“You get together?”

“Not yet.”

“So when’d you give him your song- ‘Music City Breakdown’?”

“I mailed it to him. Five Oh Two Beverly Crest Ridge, Beverly Hills 90210.”

“How long ago?”

“A month. I mailed him a bunch of lyrics.”

“Before that, did you exchange letters?”

“We e-mailed. We’ve been doing it for six months; you can check my computer, I’ve saved everything between us.”

“Why’d you send him ‘Breakdown’ using snail mail?”

“I wanted him to have something…something he could touch. It was part of a whole notebook I sent him, all my lyrics. Jack liked four of them, the rest he said were too shapeless- that was the way he put it. But those four had potential to be songs if they ‘grew up.’ He said he’d help me grow them up. He said we should concentrate on ‘Breakdown’ because even though it needed work, it was the best. Then, if it…I was thinking about moving to LA, maybe getting into a creative writing program at UCLA or something.”

“You and Jack making plans.”

Long silence. Then Tristan shook his head. “Jack didn’t know about that. We were concentrating on ‘Breakdown.’ ”

“To grow it up.”

“We were supposed to do it before the concert- he was playing a concert at the Songbird. If it came together, he was going to sing it and then call me up on stage and introduce me as the writer. And maybe more.”

“His son.”

Slow, tortured nod. “Now she ruined it.”

“Who?” said Baker.

Silence.

“No theories, son?”

“No offense,” said the boy, “but that makes me feel worse, not better, sir. Hearing you call me ‘son.’ ”

“Apologies,” said Baker. “Who ruined things for you?”

No answer.

Baker said, “She as in…”

“Mom.”

“You think she killed Jack?”

“I don’t see her actually stabbing someone, too messy.”

“What, then?”

“She’d hire someone. Maybe some Lexington bad dude; she’s got all sorts of people working on the farm. I hate that place.”

“Don’t like horses?”

“Don’t like horseshit and all the racism that’s part of the whole scene.”

“Some Lexington bad dude,” said Baker. “What reason would your mama have to kill Jack?”

“To prevent me from entering his world. That’s what she called it- his world, like it was some Hades thing, some nether-hell of deep, dark iniquity. All those years, she’s been bragging about knowing Jack, how she used to hang with all those rock stars.”

“Not in front of Lloyd, though.”

“Sometimes, if she was drinking.”

“Did it bother him?”

“He’d smile and go back to his paper.”

“Easygoing sort,” said Lamar.

“That,” said Tristan, “and he had all his girlfriends.”

His smile was weary. “It was what you might call a free environment, sir. Until I wanted to invent my own brand of freedom. Mom wasn’t pleased.”

“The music scene,” said Lamar.

“She calls it the lowest of the low.”

Lamar quelled another urge to look at Baker. “You really think she’d murder a man to stop him from being a bad influence on you?”

“She went to warn him off,” said Tristan.

“When?”

“The night he flew into Nashville. At least, that’s what she told me she was going to do. Drove straight to where I was supposed to meet him. Told me to forget about going there, you stay away unless you want an ugly scene you’ll never forget.”