Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “How about an accounting of his—and your—movements from the time you arrived in Nashville?” said Baker.

  Again, the pretty boy raked his curls and threw them a look with those pale, pale eyes. “Let’s see…we got in around eleven in the morning. We flew privately, which was a first for me. A limo was waiting for us—I believe the company was CSL—we got to the hotel around noon. I checked in for Jack because he wanted to smoke a cigarette and was concerned about being conspicuous.”

  “Conspicuous, how?”

  “The whole celebrity thing,” said Delaware. “Being mobbed in the lobby.”

  “Did that happen?”

  “A few people seemed to recognize him but it never got beyond looks and whispers.”

  “Anyone scary-looking?” said Lamar.

  “Not to my eye, but I wasn’t looking for suspicious characters. I was his doctor, not his bodyguard. All I remember were tourists.”

  “How about the few people who recognized him?”

  “Middle-aged tourists.” Delaware shrugged. “It’s been a long time since he was a household name.”

  “That bother him?”

  “Who knows? When he told me he didn’t want to be noticed, my first thought was he really did and wanted to reassure himself he was still famous. I think attending the concert was all part of that…the desire to get out there and be someone. But not because of anything he said. This was just my perception.”

  “You checked in, what next?” said Baker.

  “I walked Jack up to his suite and he said he’d call me if he needed anything. I went down to my room, intending to take a twenty-minute catnap. Usually I wake up, right on the dot. This time I didn’t, and when I did get up, I felt logy. I went to the hotel gym, worked out for an hour, took a swim.” A strong exhalation. “Let’s see. I showered, I made a couple of calls, did a little reading, played a little.” Indicating the guitar case and the magazine.

  “Who’d you call?” Baker asked.

  “My service, my girlfriend.”

  “The luthier,” Baker said. “What’s her name?”

  “Robin Castagna.”

  Lamar furrowed his eyebrows. “She got a write-up in Acoustic Guitar last year, right?” When Delaware looked surprised, he said, “You’re in Nashville, Doctor. It’s the town’s business.” He pointed to the guitar case. “That one of hers?”

  “It is.” The psychologist unlatched the guitar case and took out a pretty little abalone-trimmed flattop. Like a 000-size Martin, but no decal on the headstock and the fretboard inlays were different. Delaware fingerpicked a few arpeggios, then ran some diminished chords down the board before frowning and returning the instrument to the case.

  “Nothing sounds too good this morning,” he said.

  Nimble, Baker thought, the guy could play.

  Lamar said, “You planning on doing some performance while you’re here?”

  “Hardly.” Delaware’s smile was wan. “Jack had his psychologist, the guitar is my therapy.”

  Baker said, “So you picked a little, read a little…then what?”

  “Let’s see…must’ve been six thirty, seven, by then I was hungry. The concierge recommended the Capitol Grille, right here in the hotel. But after I looked at it, I decided I didn’t want to dine alone in a place that fancy. Then Jack called and said he wanted to go out and ‘score some grub,’ could use company.”

  “How’d he sound mood-wise?”

  “Rested, relaxed,” said Delaware. “He told me the songs had been going well, no trouble remembering lyrics—which had been one of his main concerns. He made a lot of jokes about old age and hard living causing brain damage. He also told me that he was thinking of writing a new song for the benefit. Something called ‘The Censorship Rag.’”

  “But now he was hungry.”

  “For ribs, specifically. We ended up at a place on Broadway—Jack’s. He picked it out of the restaurant guide, thought it was funny—the name, some kind of karma.”

  “How’d you get there?”

  “We took a cab over.”

  “It’s walking distance,” said Baker.

  “We didn’t know that at the time.”

  “When did you get there?” said Baker.

  “Maybe a little before nine.”

  “Anyone recognize him at Jack’s?”

  Delaware shook his head. “We had a nice quiet meal. Jack ate lots of pork shoulder.”

  “Was he bothered by not being recognized more?”

  “He laughed about it, said one day he’d just be a footnote in a book. If he was lucky to live that long.” Delaware winced.

  Baker said, “So what, he had a premonition?”

  “Not about being murdered. Lifestyle issues. Jack knew he was obese, had high blood pressure, bad cholesterol. On top of all the hard living.”

  “Bad cholesterol but he ate pork shoulder.”

  Delaware’s smile was sad.

  Lamar said, “Who paid for dinner?”

  “Jack did.”

  “Credit card?”

  “Yes.

  Baker said, “What time did you leave the restaurant?”

  “I’d say ten thirty, at the latest. At that point we split up. Jack said he wanted to explore the city and it was clear he wanted to be alone.”

  Baker said, “Why?”

  “His words were, ‘I need some quiet time, Doc.’ Maybe he was on a creative jag and needed solitude.”

  “Any idea where he went?”

  “None. He waited until I caught my cab on Fifth, then started walking on Broadway…let me get my bearings—he headed east.”

  Baker said, “East on Broadway is the center of downtown, and it’s anything but quiet.”

  “Maybe he went to a club,” said Delaware. “Or a bar. Or maybe he was meeting up with some friends. He came here to perform with people in the business. Maybe he wanted to meet up with them without having his therapist around.”

  “Any idea who those friends might be?”

  “No, I’m just postulating, same as you.”

  “East on Broadway,” said Baker. “Did you hear from him after that, Doctor?”

  Delaware shook his head. “What time was he killed?”

  “We don’t know yet. Any idea who’d want to do him harm?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Delaware. “Jack was moody, I can tell you that much, but even though I’d treated him, it wasn’t in-depth psychotherapy, so I don’t have any window into his psyche. But throughout the dinner, I felt he was keeping a lot to himself.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Intuition. The only thing I can tell you that might be useful is that his mood changed toward the end of dinner. He’d been talkative for most of the meal, mostly reminiscing about the good old days, then suddenly he got quiet—really buttoned up. Stopped making eye contact. I asked if he felt okay. He said he was fine, and waved off any more questions. But something was on his mind.”

  “But you have no idea what,” said Baker.

  “With someone like Jack, could’ve been anything.”

  “Someone like Jack?”

  “My experience has been that creative and moody go together. Jack had a reputation for being difficult—impatient, sharp-tongued, unable to maintain relationships. I don’t doubt any of that’s true, but with me he was pretty pleasant. Though at times I felt he was working really hard to be amiable.”

  “He needed you to get on and off that plane,” said Baker.

  “That was probably it,” said Delaware.

  “Ribs at Jack’s,” said Lamar. “Any liquid refreshment?”

  “Jack had a beer, I had a Coke.”

  “Only one beer?”

  “Only one.”

  “Pretty good self-control.”

  “Since I’ve known him, he’s been temperate.”

  Lamar said, “This was a guy who skydived on acid and raced motorcycles while driving blind.”

  “I’ll amend the statement. Around
me, he’s been temperate. He once told me he was slowing down like an old freight train. He rarely divulged his private life to me, even after we built up a rapport.”

  “How long did that take—rapport?”

  “Couple of weeks. No treatment’s effective unless there’s trust. I’m sure you guys know that.”

  “What do you mean, Doctor?”

  “Interrogating witnesses is more about developing a relationship than strong-arming.”

  Baker rubbed his shaved head. “You counsel the LA po-lice on technique?”

  “My friend over there, Lieutenant Sturgis, does pretty well by himself.”

  “Sturgis with an i-s or an e-s?”

  “With an i: like the motorcycle meet.”

  “You’re also a biker?”

  “I rode a bit when I was younger,” said Delaware. “Nothing big-bore.”

  “Slowed down yourself?”

  Delaware smiled. “Don’t we all?”

  4

  They stayed with the shrink for another twenty minutes, going over the same ground, asking the same questions in different ways in order to tease out discrepancies.

  Delaware answered consistently, with no sense of evasiveness. That wasn’t enough for Baker to give him a pass, seeing as he was the last person, so far, to see Jack Jeffries alive and most murders boiled down to someone the vic knew. The guy being a doctor didn’t mean much, either. Then there was the hypnotist deal, which, no matter what Delaware claimed, was a form of mind-bending.

  On the other side, there were no visible cuts on the guy, his demeanor was appropriate, his movements could be traced easily until ten thirty, he had no obvious motive, and hadn’t bothered to set up an alibi for the time of the murder.

  “Do you know if Jack was married?” Baker asked him.

  “He wasn’t.”

  “Any special person in his life?”

  “No one he told me about.”

  “Anyone we should contact in LA about his death?”

  “I suppose you could start by calling up his agent…or maybe it’s his ex-agent. I seem to recall something about Jack firing him several years ago. I’m sorry but if he told me a name, I don’t remember it.”

  Baker wrote down agent on his notepad. “So no one keeping the home fires burning?”

  “No one that I know about.”

  Lamar said, “What are your plans now, Doctor?”

  “I guess there’s no reason for me to stick around.”

  “We’d appreciate it if you did.”

  “You were planning to be here till after the concert,” Baker said, “so how about at least for a day or so?”

  Those pale eyes aimed at them. Small nod. “Sure, but let me know when it’s okay to leave.”

  They thanked him, and went up to the eighth floor. After roping the door with yellow crime scene tape, they gloved, turned on the light and proceeded to paw through Jack Jeffries’s magnificent-view suite. During the ten hours Jeffries had lived there, he’d managed to turn it into a sty.

  Clothes were strewn everywhere. Empty soda cans, wrinkled bags of chips, nuts, and pork rind whose contents littered the floor. No booze empties, doobies or pills, so maybe Jeffries had told the shrink the truth about slowing down.

  In a corner next to a couch, Jeffries’s guitar, a shiny jumbo Gibson with a rhinestone-studded cowboy pick-guard leaned against the wall in a precarious position.

  Lamar was about to move it, but checked himself. Finish up and take Polaroids first.

  On Jeffries’s nightstand was the room key they hadn’t found in his pocket—so much for that lead. Also, a snapshot, curling at the edges.

  The subject was a kid: a big beefy young man, eighteen or so with cropped fair hair. He wore some kind of athletic uniform. Not football, no pads. A wine-colored shirt with a white collar, across the chest WESTCHESTER in gold letters.

  Smiling like a hero.

  Lamar said, “Looks just like Jack. At least what Jack used to look like, right? This is maybe the kid he had with Melinda Raven and that other actress, whatshername?”

  Baker lifted the picture with a gloved hand. On the back, genteel handwriting, feminine, in deep red ink.

  Dear J: This is Owen after his last big game. Thanks for the anonymous donation to the school. And for giving him space. Love, M.

  “M for Melinda,” said Lamar.

  Baker said, “What kind of uniform is this?”

  “Rugby, El Bee.”

  “Isn’t that British?”

  “They play it at the prep schools.”

  Baker regarded his partner. “You sure know a lot about it.”

  “One of my many schools played it, but not all that well,” said Lamar. “Flint Hill. I lasted six whole months there. If it hadn’t been for varsity basketball, I would have been booted in two. Once I discovered guitars and stopped playing sports for the well-heeled alumni, no one had a lick of use for me.”

  Baker opened a drawer. “Looky here.” Holding up a sheet of lined paper with crenellated edges that said it had been torn from a spiral notebook.

  Verses in black pen filled the sheet. Block-printed lettering but with flourishes on the capitals.

  Thought my songs would carry me far

  Thought I’d float on my guitar

  But The Man says you’re no good for us

  Might as well catch that Greyhound Bus

  Refrain: Music City Breakdown,

  It’s a Music City Breakdown

  Just a Music City Shakedown,

  A real Music City Takedown

  Thought they cared about Mournful Hank

  Thought I’d come and break the bank

  Then they made me walk the plank

  Now I’m here all dark and dank

  (Refrain)

  “So much for creative output,” Baker said. “This is pretty juvenile.”

  The tall man took the sheet, scanned. “Maybe it’s a first draft.”

  Baker didn’t answer.

  Lamar said, “Guess the guy didn’t figure on getting his throat cut and us archaeologizing all over his shit.” Slapping the paper down on the nightstand.

  “We should take it,” said Baker.

  “So take it.”

  “Someone’s cranky.”

  “Hey,” said Lamar, “I’m just feeling for the guy. He beats his fear, manages to fly over here on his own dime just to do some good, and ends up like we just saw him. That’s a rotten deal any way you shake it, El Bee.”

  “I’m not denying that.” Baker placed the sheet in an evidence bag. The two of them continued to toss the suite. Going over every square inch and finding nothing interesting except a note on a message pad that seemed to bear out Delaware’s story: BBQ Jacks B’Way bet 4 &5 Call AD or solo?

  The note was in a completely different handwriting from the song lyrics.

  “The directions have to be Jack’s handwriting,” Baker said. “So where’d the lyrics come from?”

  “Maybe he had a visitor,” Lamar said. “You know, some wannabe using a ruse like room service, then dropping his bad poetry on him.”

  “So why didn’t Jack throw it away?”

  Lamar said, “Maybe the guy was dry and he was searching for inspiration.”

  Baker stared at him. “He musta been desperate to steal from the likes of this.”

  “Well, he hadn’t had a hit in a long time.”

  “That’s thin, Stretch.”

  “Agreed, El Bee, but it’s all I can think of. Let’s see if we can’t get prints off it anyway, run an AFIS.”

  Baker jiggled the bag. “What we need to do is bring in the CSers and have ’em print the whole damn pigsty. I’ll take the pictures and then we can book.”

  Lamar stood back as Baker walked around snapping Polaroids. Both of them careful not to disturb easily printable surfaces.

  Baker said, “You wanna call Melinda Raven tomorrow morning? Find out if Owen is her kid and ask what his relationship was with his daddy.”

 
“I can do that. Alternatively, we can go to the library and read old People magazines. Why play our ace card?”

  Baker nodded and continued to snap Polaroids. When he was done, he stowed his camera and headed for the door. Lamar, still gloved, hesitated, then placed Jeffries’s guitar on the bed before he closed the door.

  5

  Baker dropped Lamar off at his condo at nine AM. They’d made a short stopover at the lab to run an AFIS fingerprint check on the note. The system was down, try again later.

  “I’m going to catch a couple hours of shut-eye,” said Lamar. “Okay with you?”

  “Better than okay.” Baker drove off.

  Sue Van Gundy was up, at the dinette table, eating her Special K with sliced banana, decaf on the side. Planning, as was her habit, to leave in twenty for the beginning of her eleven-to-seven shift.

  She lit up when she saw her husband, got up, wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her cheek on his flat, hard chest.

  “That,” he said, “feels nice.”

  “How’d it go on Jeffries, honey?”

  Lamar kissed her hair, they both sat down and he pilfered her decaf. “It went nowhere, babe. We’re starting from nothing. And Baker’s in one of those snits.”

  “Because it’s music-related.” Statement, not a question.

  “Three years we’ve been working together and he still won’t tell me why he hates anything to do with tone and rhythm.”

  “Lamar,” said Sue, “I’m sure it’s something to do with his folks. Just like that nickname you gave him. He really was a lost little boy, growing up on the road, it couldn’t have been anything like a normal childhood. Then they up and die on him, Lamar? And he’s all alone?”

  “I know,” he said. Thinking: But there’s got to be more. One time, right after he and Baker had started as a team and he’d learned of his partner’s quirk, he’d done some sniffing around, found out Baker’s parents had been a pair of singers.

  Danny and Dixie, traveling the back roads doing honky-tonk, county fairs, roadhouse one-nighters. Danny on guitar, Dixie on the mandolin.

  The mandolin.

  A long way from stars, nothing on Google. Lamar dug some more, found the obit in an old newspaper file.