Lamar snickered. “We know what you do at night, Wally.”
“It keeps me busy and I don’t have to brush my teeth beforehand.”
The mail between Jack Jeffries and Tristan backed up the boy’s story. There was at least a half year of correspondence transitioning from initial reserve on both their parts, to amiability to warmth to professions of father-son love.
Nothing smarmy or sexual, the letters could’ve been how-to-communicate instructional tools from Dr. Phil, or one of those other preachers with doctorates.
Jack Jeffries praised some of his son’s lyrics, but he never gushed. Criticism of weaker songs was tactful but frank, and Tristan reacted to every received comment with lamblike gratitude.
No indication Jack had ever changed his mind about “Music City Breakdown.”
They spent another hour phoning the new hi-tech penitentiary and finding out the names of the trustees who tended the old prison grounds. Two of the inmates remembered seeing the green VW atop the hill just before water break, and one recalled waving to a distant figure standing near the car.
None of which provided an airtight alibi; the murder had taken place before that, when Tristan Poulson claimed to be working on his song and sleeping and surfing the Internet. No doubt Amelia, the maid, would back him up.
Even without backup, the detectives were starting to doubt Tristan as a prime suspect. The boy had plenty of time to develop a real alibi, but hadn’t bothered. There had been an openness to Tristan’s manner, despite all he’d gone through. If either man had been able to admit it, they would have called it touching.
And as far as the detective could tell, the boy hadn’t lied.
As opposed to his mother.
Baker and Lamar agreed that Tristan’s theory about her was intriguing.
Repeated calls to Al Sus Jahara Arabian Farms were met by a recorded message so brief it bordered on unfriendly.
Lamar Googled the place. It had a thousand acres of rolling hills and big trees and gorgeous horses. Champion bloodlines, big antebellum mansion, paddocks, stables, stud service, cryogenic semen storage, the works. A place that hoo-hah, one would think there’d be a person at the other end, not voice mail.
Unless someone was in hiding.
By day’s end, and after reviewing the situation with Fondebernardi and Jones, they decided Cathy Poulson had grown to the status of “serious suspect,” but they had no easy way to get evidence on her.
Before they went about digging around in Belle Meade social circles, they decided to recontact an eyewitness- of sorts. Someone who’d seen Cathy and Jack, shortly before Jack’s throat got cut.
14
The Happy Night Motel looked no better than it had in its bordello days. Gray texture-coat stucco had flaked, leaving chicken-wire lesions. The green wood trim was bilious. A couple of big rigs were parked in the cracked asphalt motor court. One filthy pickup and a primer-patched Celica made up the rest of the vehicular mix.
The night clerk was an old, crushed-faced guy named Gary Beame- flyaway white hair, grease-stained shirt, ill-fitting dentures, rheumy eyes that jumped all over the place. Maybe a barely reformed homeless guy the owners had hired on the cheap.
He made the detectives right away, rasped through cigarette smoke. “Evening, Officers. We don’t hire out to whores. Mr. Bikram’s a clean businessman.”
It sounded like a rehearsed little speech.
“Congratulations,” said Baker. “Which room is Greta Barline’s?”
Beame’s face darkened. He yanked out his cigarette, scattering ash on the Star magazine spread atop the counter. “That little- I knew she was gonna get Mr. Bikram in trouble.” Scratching the corner of his collapsed mouth, he peered at something, flicked it away. “All that dirty whorin’ and then she stiffs Mr. Bikram for a week’s worth.”
Lamar said, “She was hooking out of here?”
“Not like you’re thinking,” said Beame. “Not waltzing out to the street in them halters and hotpants.”
“Like the good old days.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Beame lied.
“So what, she’d just be here and they’d show up?”
“Who?”
“Johns.”
“I never saw no one sneak in,” said Beame, warming to his falsehood sonata. “Not on any regular schedule, anyway. I’m all alone here, cain’t be bothering to watch all the comings and goings.”
“Then how do you know she was hooking?”
Beame puffed manically, working his jaws while constructing his answer. “Only way I found out was we had a family staying in the room next door, tourists from Missouri or someplace. Mother calls me up complaining about three different guys in one night. The noise was coming through the wall. Bad enough they had to hear it, but they had kids.”
“What’d you do about it?” said Lamar.
“What could I do?” said Beame. “My responsibility’s up here. What I done is phone Mr. Bikram. They tell me he’s back home visiting. That’s Calcutta, India. Mrs. Bikram says when he comes back in three days he’ll deal with it. Next time I see Barline coming in, I try talkin’ to her. The little whore has the nerve to ignore me. When Mr. Bikram comes home, I tell him what happens and he marches straight over there. But she’s gone with all her stuff. Then we found out she passed a bogus money order. The little whore still owes a week. You find her, you tell me. Or you can call Mr. Bikram direct. Here’s his card.”
“Your housekeeping staff never informed you about the prostitution?”
“What staff?” said Beame. “We got a couple Mexicans come during the day. They don’t even speak no English.”
They asked to see Greta Barline’s room.
Beame said, “Sorry, can’t do. I gotta a couple of people in there.”
“More respectable tourists?” said Baker.
No answer.
“Maybe one-hour tourists?” said Lamar.
“Hey,” said Beame. “They pay, I don’t ask. They might even be married. You find that little whore, you call Mr. Bikram.”
“Any idea where we can find her?”
Beame finally gave some serious thought to a question. “Well, mebbe one thing. I saw her go off with a guy once. This wasn’t no trucker. Suit and tie, drove a Lexus. Silver. It had a white coat hanging in the back. Like a doctor.”
Out in the motel parking lot, they thumbed through their notes for the name of the dentist who owned The T House.
“Here we go,” said Lamar. “ ‘Dr. McAfee. Lives in Brentwood.’ ”
Baker said, “If she was telling the truth about that.”
“About anything. Hooks, passes bad paper, real sweet kid.” Lamar looked up. “Maybe there’s something to the churchgoing lifestyle.”
“At the very least, you know where the kids are on Wednesday and Sunday.” Baker rubbed his head. “Let’s talk to the good doctor and find out what other games Gret likes to play.”
Motor Vehicle records placed Dr. Donald J. McAfee’s house six blocks away from the Drs. Carlsons’ white contempo.
“Must be a medico thing,” said Baker, as they headed there.
The house was a shingle-topped ranch with an oddly sloping roofline that suggested pagoda. A little stone fountain in front and a patch of mondo grass said someone loved the whole Asian thing.
Two vehicles were registered to McAfee, a silver Lexus sedan and a black Lexus Rx. Neither was in sight but a ten-year-old red Mustang sat in the driveway. It was dented and sagging, rust on the bumpers, a cracked rear side window.
Texas plates.
Lamar said, “So much for Gret not having any car. Why lie to make yourself poorer than you are?”