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.”