Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Sergeant Fondebernardi said, “We’re being judgmental, tonight, Baker? Yeah, aerobics would’ve made him prettier but it wasn’t a coronary that got him.” Flashing that sad, Brooklyn smile, the sergeant leaned in with a flashlight, highlighted the gash on the left side of the victim’s neck.

  Lamar studied the wound. All that music. That voice.

  Baker kneeled and got right next to the corpse, his partner following suit.

  Jack Jeffries wore a blousy, long-sleeved black silk shirt with a mandarin collar. His pants were lightweight black sweats with a red satin stripe running the length of the leg. Black running shoes with red dragons embroidered on the toe. Gucci insignia on the soles. Size 11, EEE.

  Jeffries’s belly swelled alarmingly, a pseudo-pregnancy. His left arm was bent upward, palm out, as if caught in the act of waving good-bye. The right hung close to a spreading hip. Jeffries’s long white hair was a droopy corona, some of it floating above a high, surprisingly smooth brow, the rest tickling puffy cheeks. Muttonchops trailed three inches below fleshy ears. A fuzzy moustache as luxuriant as Lamar’s obscured the upper lip. Would have hidden both lips but for the fact that the mouth gaped in death.

  Missing teeth, Baker noted. Guy really let himself go. He pulled out his own penlight and got eye to eye with the wound. Two or so inches wide, the edges parting and revealing meat and gristle and tubing. An upwardly sloping cut, ragged at the top, as if the knife had been yanked out hard and caught on something.

  He pointed it out to Lamar. “Yeah I saw that. Maybe he struggled, the blade jiggled.”

  Baker said, “The way it climbs is making me think the thrust was upward. Could be the stabber was shorter than the vic.” He eyeballed the corpse. “I’d put him at six even, so that doesn’t clear much.”

  Fondebernardi said, “His driver’s license says six one.”

  “Close enough,” said Baker.

  “People lie,” said Lamar.

  Baker said, “Lamar’s license says he’s five nine and likes sushi.”

  Flat laughter cut through the night. When it subsided, Fondebernardi said, “You’re right about lying. Jeffries claimed his weight to be one ninety.”

  “Add sixty, seventy to that,” said Baker. “All that heft, even if he wasn’t in shape, he’d be able to put up some resistance.”

  “No defense wounds,” said Fondebernardi. “Check for yourself.”

  Neither detective bothered: the sergeant was as thorough as they came.

  “At least,” said Lamar, “we don’t have to waste time on an I.D.”

  Baker said, “What else was in his pocket besides the license?”

  Fondebernardi said, “Just a wallet, morgue guys have it in their van but it’s yours to go through before they book. We’re talking basics: credit cards, all platinum, nine hundred in cash, a Marquis Jet Card, so maybe he flew in privately. That’s the case, we might get a whole bunch of data. Those jet companies can book hotels, drivers, the whole itinerary.”

  “No hotel key?” said Lamar.

  The sergeant shook his head.

  “Maybe he’s got friends in town,” said Baker.

  “Or he didn’t bother with the key,” said Lamar. “Celebrity like that, people carry stuff for you.”

  “If he is in a hotel, where else is it gonna be but the Hermitage?”

  “You got it,” said Lamar. “Ten to one, he’s got the Alexander Jackson suite or whatever they call their hotshot penthouse.”

  Sounding like he yearned for all that, thought Baker. Dreams died hard. Better not to have any.

  Fondebernardi said, “Anything else?”

  Baker said, “The big question is, what was he doing in this particular spot? It’s industrial during the day, empty at night, pretty much away from the club scene, restaurants, dope dealers. Even the Adult Entertainment Overlay doesn’t reach here anymore.”

  “One exception,” said the sergeant. “There’s a dinky little club called The T House two blocks south on First. Looks like some kind of a hippie joint—hand-painted signs, organic teas. They advertise entertainment no one’s ever heard of. Place opens at seven and closes at midnight.”

  “Why would Jeffries be interested in that?” said Lamar.

  “He probably wouldn’t, but it’s the only place anywhere near here. You can check it out tomorrow.”

  Baker said, “I’d be wondering if he found himself a hooker, she brings him down here for a shakedown. But nine hundred in the wallet…” He checked the body again. “No wristwatch or jewelry.”

  “But no tan lines on either wrist,” said Fondebernardi. “Maybe he didn’t wear a timepiece.”

  “Maybe time wasn’t a big deal for him,” said Lamar. “Guys like that can have people telling time for them.”

  “An entourage,” said Baker. “Wonder if he private-jetted in with some people.”

  “It might be a good place to start. Those service places are open twenty-four/seven. Anytime, anywhere for the rich folk.”

  The sergeant left and the two of them walked around the site several times, noting lots of blood on the weeds, maybe some indentations that were foot-impressions but nothing that could be cast. At four fifty AM, they okayed the morgue drivers to transport, and drove dark, deserted downtown streets to the Hermitage Hotel on Sixth and Union.

  On the way over, Baker had called the toll-free number on the Jet Card, dealt with resistance from the Marquis staff about relinquishing flier information, but managed to ascertain that Jack Jeffries had flown into Signature Flight Support at Nashville International at eleven AM. They were not forthcoming about any of his fellow passengers.

  The rich and famous demanded privacy except when they wanted publicity. Baker saw it all the time in Nashville, hotshot country stars hiding behind big glasses and oversized hats. Then when no one was noticing them, they talked louder than anyone else in the restaurant.

  Lamar parked illegally at the curb, right in front of the Hermitage night door. Nashville’s only “AAA Five Diamond Award Recipient” was a gorgeous heap of Italian marble, stained-glass skylights, insets of Russian walnut carved exuberantly, restored to 1910 opulence. Locked up after eleven, the way any sensible downtown hostelry should be.

  Baker rang the night bell. No one responded and he tried again. It took three more tries for someone to come to the door and peek around the side windows. Young black guy in hotel livery. When the detectives flashed I.D., the young guy blinked, took awhile to process before unlocking the door. His badge said WILLIAM.

  “Yes?”

  Lamar said, “Is Mr. Jack Jeffries the rock star staying here?”

  William said, “We’re not allowed to give out guest—”

  Baker said, “William, if Mr. Jeffries is staying here, it’s time to switch to ‘was.’”

  No comprehension in the young man’s eyes.

  Baker said, “William, Mr. Jeffries was found dead a couple of hours ago and we’re the guys in charge.”

  The eyes brightened. A hand flew to William’s mouth. “My God.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, he’s registered here.”

  “Yes…sir. Oh, my God. How did it—what happened?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Lamar. “We’ll need to see his room.”

  “Sure. Of course. Come in.”

  They followed as William sped across the monumental lobby with its forty-foot coffered ceiling inlaid with stained glass, arched columns, brocade furniture, and potted palms. At this hour, dead-silent and sad, the way any hotel gets when stripped of humanity.

  Baker remembered more motels than he could count. He thought to himself: Doesn’t matter what the tariff is, if it ain’t home, it’s a big fat nowhere.

  William nearly flew behind the walnut reception desk and set about playing with his computer. “Mr. Jeffries is—was—in an eighth-floor suite. I’ll make you a key.”

  “Was he staying alone?” said Baker.

  “In the suite? Yes, he was.” The k
id wrung his hands. “This is horrible—”

  “Alone in the suite,” said Lamar, “but…”

  “He arrived with someone. That person’s staying on the fourth floor.”

  “A lady?”

  “No, no, a gentleman. A doctor—I guess his doctor.”

  “Mr. Jeffries was sick?” said Baker.

  William said, “I didn’t see any symptoms or anything like that. The other guest is a doctor—I really couldn’t tell you what it’s all about.”

  “Anyone else arrive besides this doctor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A doctor,” said Lamar. “Did he and Mr. Jeffries seem to be hanging out?”

  “I recall them leaving together. At the end of my first shift—I do doubles when I can. Paying for college.”

  “Vanderbilt?”

  William stared at him. The absurdity of the suggestion. “Tennessee State but I need to pay room and board.”

  “Good for you, education’s important,” said Lamar. “What time we talking about, Mr. Jeffries and his doctor leaving?”

  “I want to say eight thirty, maybe nine.”

  “How was Mr. Jeffries dressed?”

  “All in black,” said William. “A Chinese-type shirt—you know, one of those collarless things.”

  Same outfit they’d just seen.

  Baker said, “So he and this doctor went out at eight thirty or thereabouts. Did either of them return?”

  “I couldn’t say. We were pretty busy, and mostly I was checking a large party of guests in.”

  “Anything else you can tell us about this doctor?”

  “He did the checking in for Mr. Jeffries. Mr. Jeffries just kind of stood back. Over there.” Pointing to a towering palm. “He smoked a cigarette and turned his back on the lobby like he didn’t want to be noticed.”

  “And let the doctor check him in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When the two of them left, what was their demeanor?”

  “You mean were they in a good mood?”

  “Or any other kind of mood.”

  “Hmm,” said William, “I really couldn’t say. Nothing stands out in my mind one way or the other. Like I said, it was busy.”

  Baker said, “But you noticed them leaving.”

  “Because he’s a celebrity,” said William. “Was. I don’t know much about his music, but one of our bookkeepers is in her fifties and was really excited he was staying here.”

  “Any idea why Mr. Jeffries was in Nashville?”

  “Actually, I do,” said William. “I believe there’s a benefit concert at the Songbird, and he was going to sing. The performance list, according to the same bookkeeper, is quite impressive.” Deep sigh. “I know he brought his guitar with him. Bellboys were competing to carry it.”

  William’s eyes rose to the glass coffers. “The doctor brought one, too. Or maybe he was just carrying Mr. Jeffries’s spare.”

  “A doctor roadie,” said Baker. “What’s this person’s name?”

  More fooling with the computer. “Alexander Delaware.”

  “Another state of the union heard from,” said Lamar, cuffing Baker’s shoulder lightly. “Maybe he’s from The Nations.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” William was humorless. “He lists his address in Los Angeles. I can give you the zip code and his credit card information if you like.”

  “Maybe later,” said Baker. “Right now, give us his room number.”

  3

  Room 413 was a short walk from the elevators, down a silent, plush hallway. The corridor was empty save for a few room-service trays left outside doors.

  Nothing outside Dr. Alexander Delaware’s door.

  Baker knocked lightly. Both detectives were surprised when a voice answered right away. “One second.”

  Lamar checked his watch. It was close to six in the morning. “Guy’s up at this hour.”

  Baker said, “Maybe he’s waiting for us so he can confess, Stretch. Wouldn’t that be nice and easy?”

  Muffled footsteps sounded behind the door, then a blur washed across the peephole.

  “Yes?” said the voice.

  Baker said, “Police,” and placed his badge a few inches from the hole.

  “Hold on.” A chain dropped. The doorknob rotated. Both detectives touched their weapons and stood clear of the door.

  The man who opened was forty or so, good-looking, medium height, solidly built, with neatly cut dark curly hair and a pair of the lightest gray-blue eyes Lamar had ever seen. Wide eyes, so pale the irises were nearly invisible when they engaged you straight on. In the right light, that Orphan Annie thing. They were slightly red-rimmed. Boozing? Crying? Allergies brought on by Nashville’s high pollen count? No sleep? Pick a reason.

  “Dr. Delaware?”

  “Yes.”

  Lamar and Baker stated their names and Delaware offered his hand. Warm, firm shake. Each detective checked for fresh cuts, any evidence of a struggle. Nothing.

  Delaware said, “What’s going on?” Soft voice, low-key, kind of boyish. “Is Jack okay?” He had a square jaw, a cleft chin, a Roman nose. Dressed for lounging around, in a black T-shirt, gray sweats, bare feet.

  As Lamar peered past the guy, into the room, Baker had a second look at the hands: smooth, slightly oversized, with a faint spray of dark hair across the top. The nails of the left hand had been clipped short but those on the right grew just past the fingertips and were tapered to the right. Possibly a classical guitarist or some other type of fingerpicker. So maybe the second guitar was his.

  No one had answered Delaware’s question. The guy just stood there and waited.

  Baker said, “Any reason Mr. Jeffries wouldn’t be okay?”

  “It’s six in the morning and you’re here.”

  “You’re up,” said Baker.

  “Trouble sleeping,” said Delaware. “Jet lag.”

  “When’d you get in, sir?”

  “Jack and I got in at eleven yesterday morning and I made the mistake of taking a three-hour nap.”

  “May we come in, sir?”

  Delaware stepped aside. Frowning as he ushered them in.

  Smallish, standard room, nothing fancy about it. A neat-freak, Lamar decided. No clothes in sight, every drawer and closet door shut. The only way you’d know the room was occupied was the guitar case near the bed, pillows propped up against the headboard and the comforter slightly mussed—indented where a body had reclined.

  On the nightstand was an old-fashioned glass in which two ice cubes melted, a minibar-sized bottle of Chivas in the wastebasket. There was also a large-format magazine—American Lutherie.

  Another music wannabe? Lamar waited for Baker’s reaction. Baker was impassive.

  Lamar had a closer look at the mini-bottle. Empty. Doctor mellowing out from insomnia with a drink and a read? Or calming himself down?

  He and Baker pulled up chairs and Dr. Alexander Delaware perched on the bed. They gave him the bad news straight out and he placed a palm to his cheek. “My God! That’s horrible. I’m…” His voice trailed off.

  Baker said, “How about filling us in?”

  “About what?”

  “For starters, how about why Mr. Jeffries travels with a doctor.”

  A deep sigh. “This is…you’ve got to give me a few minutes.”

  Delaware went to the minibar and took out a can of orange juice. He drank it quickly. “I’m a psychologist, not a medical doctor. After a helicopter mishap several years ago, Jack developed a phobia of flying. I was treating him for it. Nashville was his first actual flight after the near crash and he asked me to accompany him.”

  “Leave all your other patients and go with him,” said Baker.

  “I’m semi-retired,” said Delaware.

  “Semi-retired?” Baker said. “That would mean you work sometimes?”

  “Mostly police work for LAPD. I’ve been consulting on and off for several years.”

  “Profiling?” said Lamar.
r />   “And other things.” Delaware smiled enigmatically. “Once in a while, I’m useful. How did Jack die?”

  “That’s your whole practice?” said Baker. “Consulting for LAPD?”

  “I also do court consults.”

  Baker said, “You don’t see patients but you were treating Jack Jeffries.”

  “I don’t see many long-term patients. Jack came to me through my girlfriend. She’s a luthier, has worked on Jack’s instruments for years. Awhile back, he mentioned to her that he’d been invited to sing at the Songbird Café for the First Amendment gathering, and was frustrated that his anxiety prevented him from going. He was open to treatment and my girlfriend asked me if I would see him. I was between projects, so I agreed.”

  Lamar uncrossed and crossed his legs. “What do you do for that kinda thing?”

  “There are lots of approaches. I used a combination of hypnosis, deep muscle relaxation and imagery—teaching Jack to retrain his thoughts and emotional responses to flying.”

  “That include drugs?” said Baker.

  Delaware shook his head. “Jack had engaged in decades of self-medication. My approach was to see how far we could get without medication, get him a backup prescription for Valium, if he needed it during the flight. He didn’t. He was really doing well.” He ran a hand through his curls. Tugged and let go. “I can’t believe—this is…grotesque!”

  A solemn headshake, then he strode to the minibar and retrieved another can of orange juice. This time he spiked it with a bottle of Tanqueray. “Time for me to self-medicate. I know enough not to offer you any booze, but how about soft drinks?”

  Both detectives declined.

  Baker said, “So you were his hypnotist.”

  “I used hypnosis along with other techniques. Jack invested serious money in a Jet Card as a way of encouraging himself to keep practicing. If the flights to and from Nashville went smoothly, the plan was for him to try another trip alone. The success he’d achieved so far—mastering his fear—was good for him. He told me he hadn’t accomplished much for years, so it felt especially good.”

  “Sounds like he was depressed,” said Lamar.

  “Not clinically,” said Delaware. “But yes, he’d reached an age, was looking inward.” He drank. “What else can I help you with?”