The Liar's Lullaby

by Meg Gardiner

  “Has the memorial service been set?” she said.

  “Tomorrow afternoon at Grace Cathedral.” He gestured at the song-in-progress. “I’m writing a tune in her honor. I’m also gonna sing ‘Amazing Grace.’ ” He set his hands on his knees and took a breath. “That song gets me every time.”

  Jo waited until he exhaled. “Can I ask about your relationship with Tasia?”

  “That’s why you’re here,” he said.

  “How long had you been seeing each other?”

  “Since February. We met to rehearse ‘Bull’s-eye.’ ” He eyed her from under the brim of the cowboy hat. His gaze was magnetic. “I really liked her. She was a terrific gal.”

  Jo couldn’t tell whether his words were sincere, or a practiced line. “At her house, I saw a pair of boots and a guitar.”

  “Both mine.”

  “You spent the night before the concert with her?”

  “Spent it at her house, but she worked all night, composing. She was buzzing like a hornet. She’d been up—gosh, by then she’d been up for five days.”

  “Can you tell me about her mood?” she said.

  “Which one?” His smile was brief. When it vanished, it left an afterimage of sadness.

  “Start from the beginning. What was she like when you met her?” she said.

  “Ball of fire. Outgoing and fun. And creative, my God, the songs just poured out of her. And the girl could sing.”

  “When did that change?” Jo said.

  He picked up the guitar. “Round . . . April. It was like she fell off a cliff. At first I thought something bad had happened, some family problem. But now I think it was a depressive episode.”

  “Can you describe the change?”

  “Storm cloud swallowed her up. One time we found her inside a closet at the studio, sitting on the floor, cradling her head in her hands.”

  “In a closet?”

  “She said that way none of them could ruin her life.”

  “Who?”

  “Them. You know. The famous them.”

  Jo laced her hands together. “Was she specific?”

  “She had a list, starting with the president. He was bringing the country down. He didn’t believe in America. Didn’t believe in the women and men who love this country and would do anything to make it work.”

  He took off the cowboy hat. His skin was sun-weathered. “She never used his name. Said ‘the president.’ Isn’t that strange? And don’t you think she was projecting?”

  “How so?”

  “Saying he rejected the country, wanted to hurt it, didn’t love it the way it deserves to be loved—don’t you think she was talking about herself?”

  Jo tried not to smile. “You ever study psychology, Mr. Lecroix?”

  “It’s Searle. I just understand human nature.” He picked out a bluesy line on the guitar. “Also I have a B.A. in Economics from Texas A & M, with a minor in Psych.”

  Jo leaned back. “Did Tasia ever threaten to harm herself?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever mention the possibility that somebody might want to harm her?”

  “The Secret Service, the White House chief of staff, and this guy who stands on Hollywood Boulevard with a religious placard, who she thought was planning to put her into a government concentration camp.”

  He paused, and read the question in Jo’s eyes: Why did he stay with Tasia?

  His face saddened. It reminded Jo of how he looked after the concert, and his blunt anguish at seeing Tasia dead.

  “Hearing paranoid talk did make me wonder if I should break up with her. But I knew about her bipolar disorder. And about a month ago, things changed.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “She got a whole lot more energy. I thought maybe she was snapping out of the blues, and getting back to her old self.”

  Jo didn’t want to tell him, but her old self was a mirage. The up-and-down mood swings were intrinsic to Tasia McFarland’s personality. The baseline was what had eluded her.

  “What happened?” Jo said.

  “Bubbly again. Just a hoot. She seemed so glad to see me. Real, real glad. That’s why I was so awful tired the other night,” he said.

  Goodness, he was either tongue-tied, or being an old- fashioned gentleman. “She wore you out physically?”

  “Day and night. Two, three times a day. At home, in the studio, on the tour bus.” He shook his head, wide-eyed, almost amazed. “And one day I came home and found a brand-new Corvette sitting on my driveway, wrapped up with a fat red bow. She’d bought it for me.”

  “What did you think?”

  “That maybe her contract with the label was a whole lot better than I’d imagined. Or she was thanking me for working as her”—he blushed—“stud horse.”

  Jo checked off two symptoms of uncontrolled mania: hyper-sexuality and extravagant spending.

  “Did you ever see her take drugs? I mean both prescription and illegal drugs.”

  “She used to take a lot of pills but she quit them. She wanted to live clean.”

  And Jo knew that all her fears about Tasia’s mental instability were true. “Did she explain which drugs she quit taking, and why?”

  “Said she’d been prescribed medications to deal with a chemical imbalance. But they made her feel flat.”

  “Flat in what way?”

  “Emotionally. They sucked away all her joy and energy and creativity,” he said. “She’d decided to live holistically, focus on positive thinking. And she had a new doctor, got rid of the others who’d been doping her.”

  Jo wasn’t surprised. Tasia had stopped taking her medication because she craved the buzz and sense of invincibility that came with being manic—and then she’d lurched into depression. But instead of talking to her psychiatrist, she had gone to Dr. Gerald Rhee Park and persuaded him to prescribe Prozac. The antidepressant had induced a mixed episode, making her agitated and depressed, and increasing the risk of a suicide attempt.

  “Can we talk about the twenty-four hours before her death?” Jo said.

  Lecroix ran his fingers up the neck of the guitar. “We ordered dinner in. She was too busy composing to go out.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “About nine P.M. her writing collaborator came by. The ghostwriter—Ace.” He glanced up. “She had me shoo him off.”

  “She wouldn’t see him?”

  “She said, no interruptions. And believe you me, Ace didn’t like that.”

  “I imagine not.”

  “She’d been ignoring him for the previous week. Ace was going crazy. He was on a deadline to produce the first draft of the memoir.”

  “Why wouldn’t she talk to him?”

  “I think Tasia had serious second thoughts about the whole project. Dredging up her past turned out to upset her in a major way.”

  “Her past, meaning her marriage?” Jo said.

  “She never talked to me directly about those years.” He twanged the strings of the guitar. “You think that’s strange? Rhinoceros in the room and all?”

  “I don’t know. Did you know she met with Robert McFarland in Virginia—”

  “No. Heard it on the news, like everybody else.” He stopped playing. “I got no idea what they talked about. Tasia didn’t take me into her confidence.”

  His face flushed a deeper red.

  “What were her most recent opinions on President McFarland?” Jo said.

  Lecroix’s voice rose. “You heard that song she wrote about him. ‘The Liar’s Lullaby.’ And she left that for me. What am I supposed to make of that?”

  Jo let him cool off for a moment. “At her house I saw a copy of Case Closed. Was she interested in the Kennedy assassination?”

  “Ace gave that to her.”

  “Why?”

  Lecroix practically snorted. “To ‘educate’ her out of believing in conspiracy theories. Tasia read the book, but didn’t really care about JFK—she cared about Jackie. Talked about what i
t must have been like being First Lady, living in a bubble, struggling with a marriage and young children.” He paused. “Most of all, she talked about the babies Jackie lost, and how terrible that was.”

  “Babies?”

  “Jackie had a miscarriage and a stillborn baby, and a preemie who died just a couple months before Dallas. Tasia identified with her.” His shoulders sagged. “Tasia had lost more than one pregnancy herself. Even mentioning pregnancy made her sad and angry.” He sighed. “She never elaborated on it. And I let it lay.”

  Jo parsed the expression on Lecroix’s face, and tried to fit this information into her understanding of Tasia. Lecroix looked down and continued to pick out a melody on the guitar.

  “Did she ever talk about contributing to discussions at an extremist Web site—Tree of Liberty?” Jo said.

  “No. I’m no right-winger, and I didn’t think she was, either.” His face turned wry. “I perform with the flag hanging behind me onstage, but patriotism didn’t draw her to me, or do it for her. In the long run, I don’t think Tasia would ever have settled down with a singer. She’d kept much more important men than me in love with her, and that was her biggest buzz of all. Power.”

  Jo thought for a moment. “Was there any difference in her attitude before she saw McFarland in Virginia, and after?”

  Lecroix’s voice sank. “You asking if she went there to try and get him back?”

  He seemed sad, confused, and proud, all at once.

  “Is that what you think?” Jo said.

  “I got no idea. How am I supposed to handle this news? My girlfriend goes to a hotel for a one-on-one with the president, and I have to hear about it on TV?”

  He began picking at another blues line. The steel-stringed melody filled the room, bright and aching.

  “The night before the concert, at Tasia’s house,” Jo prompted.

  “Ace finally gave up and left. Tasia was racing a hundred miles an hour. I thought making love might calm her down, but she kept up a running commentary the whole time. Like she was announcing the Daytona Five Hundred, live and in High Definition.”

  Jo tried not to smile at the image.

  “She seemed . . . you ever seen a horse with a burr under its saddle? It can’t settle down. That was her. But overnight, the invincibility came back. When I got up in the morning she seemed like steel.” He stopped playing. “I wish to hell I knew what was bothering her.”

  “Did she ever mention a stalker?” Jo said.

  He frowned. “No. Was somebody following her?”

  “Maybe. Did she ever talk about messages from fans?”

  “She was warm and generous with the fans. Made a point of replying to every person who wrote to her. But she never mentioned a stalker, and I think she would have. She felt surrounded by threats. If somebody was after her, she would have been screaming about it. What’s going on?”

  “It may only have been cyberstalking, but it’s possible that somebody followed her to San Francisco.”

  “You think a stalker shot her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Goddamn.” He shook his head. “There’s crazies out there. Are there ever. I have a security system at home, and on the road I carry all kinds of protection.”

  “Sounds wise.”

  He grew pensive. “You think some stalker was after Tasia for herself? Or because of who she used to be married to?”

  “That’s an excellent question.”

  Lecroix’s sad eyes grew serious. “Who’s more likely to have stalkers?”

  “The president, no question. But I don’t know whether somebody who’s obsessed with him might also want to harm his former wife.”

  But she knew something Lecroix most likely did not. Stalkers fit no definable personality profile. But she’d met one in San Quentin, a man who had killed his estranged wife. He had a peculiar historical obsession that, Jo learned afterward, he shared with a strikingly large number of violent stalkers: He was fascinated with presidential assassins.

  “Anything else you can tell me?” she said.

  He hesitated. “Yeah. At the concert, I thought for a second Tasia was aiming the gun at me. That tells you everything. I didn’t know her at all.”

  Jo nodded, and stood up. “Thanks.”

  “You going to go call the Secret Service now?”

  “Among others.”

  “Best make it quick. The president’s coming to the funeral. He’s gonna be here tomorrow.”

  26

  AS SHE TROOPED DOWN THE STAIRS AT THE ST. FRANCIS, JO CALLED and left a message for Amy Tang.

  “I just interviewed Searle Lecroix, and I’m worried. Tasia may have been only part of the stalker’s focus. I think the SFPD should alert the Secret Service.” She explained, adding, “It’s a stretch. But better safe than sorry.”

  Next she phoned Vienna Hicks. “Is what I’m hearing about the memorial service for your sister accurate?”

  “Grace Cathedral, tomorrow afternoon. Searle’s going to sing. Bless the guy, he’s actually kind of sweet and awkward,” Vienna said. “And it’s true—he is coming.”

  “Robert McFarland.”

  “I spoke to him. I got it from the horse’s mouth.” Vienna sounded both snarky and amazed. “I’m sure his people vetted it. The idea of the president attending his ex-wife’s funeral must have polled well.”

  “So he’ll be in San Francisco tomorrow?” Jo said.

  “What’s that tone I hear in your voice?”

  Jo reached the ground floor, opened the fire door, and headed for the lobby. “I need to talk to him.”

  Vienna guffawed, an honest-to-God barking laugh. “And I want to grow wings and fly like Tinkerbell, sprinkling pixie dust on the city.”

  “Do you have a direct number for him?”

  “No.” She laughed again, but let it fade. “I do have the direct number for his chief of staff.” She paused. “Who sent me a condolence card, believe it or not.”

  Jo got out a pen. “K. T. Lewicki has a heart?”

  “We know each other from the old days. He had a soft spot for Tasia. I think he understood, even before Rob did, how mentally fragile she was. After the divorce we stayed in touch, and he’d always check with me that she was doing all right.” Her tone turned cautious. “What would you talk to Rob about?”

  “His meeting with Tasia in Virginia. Why he lied about it. Tasia’s mental state at the beginning, middle, and end of their marriage. Whether he knew of any threats to her.”

  “Did you get hit on the head when you were a kid, or are you just unaware that asking those kinds of questions can have consequences?”

  “My sister says I’m an adrenaline junkie. Could you give me the number?”

  Vienna gave her several numbers.

  “Thanks,” Jo said.

  She walked into the lobby. The information she’d gathered was giving her the heebie-jeebies.

  Tasia had received fourteen hundred e-mails from Archangel X. They indicated a pattern of increasing intensity, obsession, and threat—though never explicit. Yet Tasia had never responded to, or even opened, most of those e- mails. As far as Jo could discern, she’d never mentioned them to her agent, manager, family, or boyfriend. She may not have been aware of the most recent spate.

  The vandalism was highly disturbing, and a warning sign of a personality headed toward violence. And Tasia, according to Searle Lecroix, had been afraid. According to the stunt coordinator, Rez Shirazi, she had believed that an assassin lurked among the crowd at the concert. She had talked of sacrifice and martyrdom.

  It may have been the ramblings of a woman gripped by grandiose paranoia. But there were too many pieces of information, rolling around like marbles, for Jo to dismiss it.

  Her gaze fell on a newspaper. The front-page photo showed President McFarland and his staff huddled in conversation in the Oval Office.

  She walked to a quiet corner, as far from the echoing noise of the lobby as she could get, and she phoned the White
House.

  The phone was answered briskly. “Sylvia Obote.”

  “Jo Beckett.”

  After a pause, Obote said, “Yes, Dr. Beckett. I’ve forwarded your questions. I’m sure the president will respond in due course.”

  Obote didn’t sound impatient, but her smooth efficiency had an edge to it.

  “Thank you. I hear that the president is coming to California for Tasia McFarland’s memorial service. I—”

  “The president is attending the memorial as a private citizen and friend of the family. I’m afraid he’ll have no time in his schedule to speak to you.”

  “That’s not what I was going to ask.” Not anymore, at least. “I’ve received some disturbing information. Someone may have been stalking Ms. McFarland. I think the Secret Service should be aware of the situation.”

  This time Obote’s pause was briefer. “Give me the information. And I’ll put you through to the presidential protection detail.”

  Jo heard Obote typing notes as they talked, though she presumed their conversation was being recorded, and perhaps relayed to NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland, and from there to a polar-orbiting spy satellite that was even now turning its mirrored eyes toward Union Square in San Francisco.

  “Thank you for the information, Doctor,” Obote said. “I’ll transfer you.”

  There was a series of clicks and silences and eventually the phone was picked up again. A brisk, southern male voice answered and took down all the information as Jo repeated it.

  “This may be nothing, but I didn’t want to let it lie,” Jo said.

  “And you were right to do so.”

  “Good. I presume you’re part of the president’s detail, Special Agent . . .”

  “Zuniga. Yes, ma’am. And we appreciate the information.”

  She thanked him and said good-bye. And she looked again at the newspaper. Noise echoed in the vaulting lobby. She dialed a new number. She stared at the photo: a bullet-headed man conferring with President McFarland, leaning close, eyes intense.

  “K. T. Lewicki’s office.”

  If she couldn’t talk to the president, she’d talk to his chief of staff.

  KELVIN TYCHO LEWICKI was known as the Point Man. Gatekeeper and guard dog, he was tied to Robert McFarland by long-standing friendship. He controlled the president’s schedule and controlled access to the Oval Office and the man himself.