Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She shrugged.

  “Not too well preserved,” said Lamar.

  “That makes him sound like a lab specimen but I’m afraid you’re right.” She sighed. “Poor Jack. Time hadn’t been kind to him. I drove there expecting a good-looking man—which was foolish after all those years had passed. What I saw was a heavy old bald man.”

  Not unlike her late husband, thought Lamar.

  She picked up her glass of lemonade. “We had a little hug, chatted briefly, then parted ways. I will tell you this: Jack wasn’t upset, the entire encounter was friendly. I got a clear sense that he felt the same way I did.”

  “Which was?”

  “Don’t fix it if it ain’t broken,” said Cathy Poulson. “Whoever wrote that famous book was right. You really can’t go home. Psychologically, I mean.”

  Lamar still had a feeling about the woman and would’ve stuck around to see if he could tease anything more out of her. But he could tell Baker was antsy. A few more of Lamar’s questions made his partner downright restless, perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to spring up like a frog at a fly.

  Lamar said, “Thank you, ma’am. If you think of anything else, here’s our number.” He handed her a card and Cathy Poulson placed it on a table in an absent way that let him know he’d never hear from her again.

  She said, “Of course. Would you like me to put some lemonade in a little bottle?”

  9

  Back in the car, Lamar said, “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, what what?”

  “The way you were itching to book, El Bee. Sportin’ a rash?”

  Baker grinned huge—an unusual sight. “Drive.”

  Lamar made his way back to Belle Meade Boulevard, passed more mansions. Engine roar sounded at their rear end. A couple of rich kids in a BMW convertible testing the speed limit. They got inches from his rear bumper. He let them pass, heard laughter.

  Baker said, “Did you notice that there’s no pictures of her kid in the living room?”

  “Sure did. Not too many of her late great husband Lloyd, either. I figure her for one of those narcissists, it’s all about me.”

  “Or maybe something else,” said Baker. “When I go to use the facilities, I notice an alcove up a ways. She’s got alcoves, niches, whatever, all over the place. Has these little prissy figurines, glass globes, that kind of stuff. But the one near the john has a picture. In a nice frame, just like the ones on the mantel, and it shows her kid. Big old blond bubba, could be a twin of the one in the picture we found in Jeffries’s hotel room.”

  “Owen the rugby player,” said Lamar. “By the way, that one is definitely Melinda’s kid. I found a picture in an old copy of People magazine.”

  “Good for you,” said Baker. “Now just let me stay on track here for a second, Stretch. This other kid—Poulson’s kid—is wearing a uniform, too—real football, with the pads and the black stuff under the eyes. And I’m telling you, he could’ve had the same papa as Owen. Same coloring, beefy, big jaw. To my eye, an even stronger resemblance to Mr. Jack Jeffries. That makes me curious so I turn over the photo and on the back there’s an inscription. ‘Happy Em’s Day, Mom, You Rock, Love Tristan.’ The really interesting part is the handwriting. Block letters with little flourishes on the caps. I’m no graphologist but to my eye, a dead match in handwriting for those silly lyrics we found in the hotel room.”

  “‘Music City Breakdown.’”

  “What it’s looking like,” said Baker, “is a whole bunch of stuff broke down.”

  They drove back to the city, grabbed fast-food burgers and Cokes, took them to the purple room where Brian Fondebernardi joined them around the center table. The sergeant’s shirt matched the walls. His charcoal slacks were razor-pressed, his black hair was clipped, his eyes sharp and searching. Dealing with the press all morning hadn’t dented him but he wanted a progress report.

  Lamar said, “Matter of fact, we have something to report.”

  When they finished filling him in, Fondebernardi said, “He was a rock star, had beaucoup girlfriends, she was one of them and got knocked up. So?”

  “So,” said Baker, “the kid’s a college freshman, meaning eighteen, nineteen tops. Let’s even say twenty if he’s dumb, which he ain’t because he got into Brown. She was married to her husband for twenty-six years.”

  “Oops,” said Fondebernardi.

  “Oops, indeed,” said Lamar. “There’s a secret worth keeping in Belle Meade.”

  “Plus,” said Baker, “we know the kid—Tristan’s his name—had contact with Jeffries.”

  “Via the handwriting of the song,” said Fondebernardi. “Kid could’ve mailed that in.”

  “Maybe, Sarge, but Jeffries held on to it. Meaning maybe there was some kind of relationship.”

  “Or he thought the lyrics were good.”

  Baker rocked an open palm with splayed fingers back and forth. “Not unless he lost his ear completely.”

  “Lyrics needed something, that’s for sure,” said Lamar, “but they were full of frustration—like Nashville screwed him over. Doesn’t sound like a pampered rich kid, so maybe there’s a side of ol’ Tristan we don’t know about.”

  “Someone that age,” said Fondebernardi. “He hasn’t had time to get frustrated.”

  “Rich kids,” said Baker. “They’re used to having their way, get their panties in a sling real easily. Maybe this one wanted approval from Jeffries, didn’t get it, and freaked out.”

  “He’s in Rhode Island, Baker.”

  “We haven’t verified that yet.”

  “Why not?” said Fondebernardi, then he checked himself. “You want my okay before you call.”

  Baker said, “It’s Belle Meade, Sarge.”

  End of discussion.

  The registrar clerk at Brown University was squirrelly about giving out student information.

  Lamar said, “You got Facebook, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then nothing’s secret, so why don’t you make my life easy?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I don’t want his grade point average, only to know if he’s on campus.”

  “And this is because…”

  “Police investigation,” said Lamar. “You don’t cooperate and something bad happens, it’s not going to reflect well on Brown. And I know what a great school Brown is. My sister went there.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ellen Grant,” he said, picking a nice Waspy name out of thin air.

  “She loved it.”

  “Well,” said the clerk.

  “On campus or not, we’ll do the rest.”

  “Hold on, Captain.” Another little fib.

  Less than a minute later: “No, Captain, Tristan Poulson took a leave of absence for the second semester.”

  “He did the fall semester, then he left.”

  “Yes,” said the clerk. “The freshman year can be stressful.”

  They called Fondebernardi back to the purple room and told him.

  He said, “Rich kid who thinks he’s a songwriter, drops out to follow his dream?”

  “That, plus maybe Lloyd Poulson’s dying got him delusional,” said Lamar. “It’s possible somehow Tristan figured out Jack was his bio dad. And maybe he found out more than that. The M.E. said Jack’s internal organs were a mess, he didn’t have long. Maybe Tristan read about Jack’s health issues in some fan magazine, worried about that and it tipped him over—get in touch with my bio dad before he kicks, too. Use music to bond. And where else would he go to do that but back home, because here’s where the music is. Not to mention Mommy’s money and connections.”

  “Or,” said Baker, “Tristan didn’t figure out who his real daddy was but he wanted to meet Jack, anyway. Mommy’s old boyfriend, who just happens to be a onetime superstar and Tristan’s into writing songs. Jeffries might not be able to motivate hits anymore but to a needy kid he could’ve seemed larger than life.”

  “Especially,” said Lamar,
“if Mommy told him detailed stories about the good old days. She’s a genteel rich lady now, but likes attention. I can see her basking in old glory.”

  Fondebernardi didn’t answer.

  “Fame,” said Lamar. “It’s the hardest drug of all, right, Sarge? Tristan gets in touch with his songwriting self, writes a plaintive ditty that he sends to Jack.”

  “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.”

  10

  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 q
ueen, 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.

  “What do you mean?”

  “At first glance,” she said, “Tristan comes across as Mega Jock From Planet Testosterone. But he’s preternaturally sensitive.”

  “Preternaturally,” said Baker.

  “We all have our masks,” the teen remarked. “A less honest person might have no trouble donning his. Tristan’s soul is honest. He suffers.”

  Neither detective was really sure what she meant. Lamar said, “Is he going through an identity crisis of some kind?”

  She looked at him as if he needed tutoring. “Sure, why not.”

  “Changing his ways,” said Baker.

  Silence.

  Lamar said, “We know he took a leave from Brown. Where is he?”

  “At home.”

  “Living with his mother?”

  “Only in a physical sense.”

  “They don’t get along?”

  “Tristan’s home is not a nurturing place.”

  “Conflict with his mother?”

  “No-o,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “For conflict, there needs to be involvement.”

  “Mrs. Poulson’s not involved.”

  “Oh, she is.” The girl frowned. “With herself. Such a cozy relationship.”

  “You don’t like her,” said Baker.

  “I don’t think about her enough to dislike her.” A second later: “She represents much that repels me.”

  “How so?”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Sure have.”

  “Yet you ask,” said Sheralyn Carlson, working at looking amused.

  Baker said, “What’s her problem, besides being a distant mom?”

  The girl took several moments to answer. Twisting those fingers. Playing with her hair and the hem of her dress. “I love Tristan. Not as a sexual lover, there’s no longer that spark between us.” She crossed her legs. “Words don’t do it justice but if I had to encapsulate, I’d say brotherly love. But don’t take that as a Freudian hint. Tristan and I are quite proud that we’ve managed to transition our relationship from the realm of the physical to idealistic companionship.” Another long pause. “Tristan and I have both taken on the mantle of celibacy.”