Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Silence.

  Sheralyn Carlson smiled. “So-called adults shudder at the notion of so-called adolescent sexuality but when the s.c. adolescent eschews sexuality, the s.c. adults think it’s bizarre.”

  “I reckon that’s not too foreign a concept in these parts,” Baker said. “Churchgoing people every Wednesday and Sunday like clockwork.”

  She frowned. “The point is that Tristan and I have opted for a more internal life. Since his senior year.”

  “Art and music,” said Lamar.

  “The internal life,” the girl repeated.

  “Well, that’s fine, Sheralyn. And now he’s living at home. You see each other much?”

  “At home and about.”

  “About where?”

  “He tends to gravitate toward Sixteenth Street.”

  “Looking for a record deal on Music Row?”

  “Tristan is close to tone deaf, but he loves to write. The obvious choice is lyrics. For the last month, he’s been attempting to sell his lyrics to the philistines on Music Row. I warned him he’d encounter nothing but crass commercialism, but Tristan can be quite determined.”

  “From jock to songwriter,” said Baker. “How’d his mom take that?”

  “She would have to care to take.”

  “Apathetic.”

  “She would have to believe that others exist in order to fit into any sort of category such as ‘apathetic.’”

  Lamar said, “Mrs. Poulson lives in her own little world.”

  “Little,” said Sheralyn Carlson, “being the operative word. She did break out of it long enough to tell Tristan that he was too good for me.” Crooked smile. “Because of this.” Touching the side of one eye. “The epicanthic fold trumps all.”

  “She’s a racist,” said Baker.

  “Well,” said the girl, “that has been known to exist in various civilizations over a host of millennia.”

  Aiming for breezy, but recalling the slight had tightened her voice.

  One of those high-IQ types who hid behind words, thought Lamar. That rarely worked for any length of time.

  He said, “Tristan couldn’t have been happy with that.”

  “Tristan laughed,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “I laughed. We shared the mirth.”

  The detectives didn’t answer.

  “She,” said the girl. Letting the word hang there for a few seconds. “She—okay, let me fill in the picture with an anecdote. When Tristan started at Brown, he was the epitome of Mega Jock with his shaved head and fresh-faced optimism. By the end of his first semester, his hair had reached his shoulders and his beard was full and woolly; he grew a lovely, masculine beard. That’s when he began suspecting, but she denied everything.”

  “Suspected what?” said Baker.

  “His true paternity.”

  “He doubted that Mr. Poulson was his—”

  “Detective Southerby,” said the girl, “why not be honest? You’re here because of Jack Jeffries’s murder.”

  Baker had mentioned his own surname once, when first meeting the family. Most people never bothered to register it. This kid missed nothing.

  He said, “Go on.”

  “Throughout Tristan’s childhood, she had always talked about Jack. Rather incessantly, at times. Tristan knew that her relationship with Lloyd was sexless and he noted the sparkle in her eye when Jack’s name came up. He wondered as anyone with a brain would wonder. Then, when the inner world began exerting its pull and he began to write, wonder turned to fantasy.”

  “About Jack Jeffries being his real dad,” said Baker.

  “Every adolescent has them,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “Escape fantasies, the certainty that one has to have been adopted because these aliens one finds oneself living with can’t be linked to one, biologically. In Jack’s case, a rather dramatic physical resemblance kept the fantasy alive.” Another crooked smile. “And wouldn’t you know.”

  She crossed the other leg, exposed some thigh, tucked down her dress and ran a finger under the top of a boot.

  Lamar said, “Tristan felt he looked like Jack Jeffries.”

  “He did, I did. Anyone who saw pictures of Jack Jeffries when he was young did. Two things happened that further fed his fantasy before it became reality. Before Tristan left for Brown, I came across a picture of a boy in a magazine. In People magazine, an article about sperm donors.”

  “Melinda Raven’s son by Jack Jeffries.”

  “Owen,” said Sheralyn, as if recalling an old friend. “He could’ve been Tristan’s twin. The similarity in age made the resemblance undeniable. That’s why the first thing Tristan did when he got to Brown was grow his hair and beard. To compare himself to pictures of Jack taken back in the Hairy Days. The result was beyond debate. Tristan experienced a crisis of sorts. We spent long hours on the phone and decided he needed a paradigm shift. He took a leave of absence, came home, moved into the guest house of Mommy’s manse and prepared to confront her. We had strategy meetings beforehand, devising how to approach her, finally settled on simplicity: tell her you know and request verification. Tristan took some time to build up his courage, finally did it, when she was on her way to her country club. We expected initial denial, then confession, then some sort of emotion. She didn’t bat an eyelash. Told him he was crazy and that he’d better clean up if he intended to ever have lunch with her at the club.”

  “What did Tristan do?” said Lamar.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Ergo, depression.”

  “Did he try to contact Jack Jeffries?”

  “He did more than try. He succeeded.”

  “They met?”

  “In cyberspace.”

  “E-mail,” said Baker.

  “Tristan contacted Jack Jeffries’s website, introduced himself, sent a j-peg of his senior photo, as well as a later, hirsute version, and some lyrics. He expected nothing, but Jack answered, said he was happy to hear from Tristan. Said Tristan’s lyrics were ‘awesome.’”

  “How’d Tristan react to that?”

  The girl turned away. Placed her hand on a small, white abstract carving resting on a glass and chrome table.

  This place is like an igloo, thought Baker. “How did Tristan take that?”

  The girl gnawed her lip.

  “Sheralyn?” said Baker.

  “He cried,” she said. “Tears of joy. I held him.”

  Ten minutes later, Drs. Andrew and Elaine peeked in.

  Sheralyn said, “I’m fine,” and waved them away and they disappeared.

  During that time, she’d verified that the lyrics Tristan had sent were “Music City Breakdown.” But she denied knowing about any face-to-face meeting between Tristan Poulson and Jeffries. Nor was she willing to pinpoint Tristan’s whereabouts beyond the guest house on his mother’s property.

  “He’s still there,” said Baker.

  “I believe so.”

  “You believe?”

  “Tristan and I haven’t been in contact for several days. That’s why I’m concerned. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

  “What did you think when you heard Jack Jeffries had been murdered?”

  “What did I think?” she said. “I thought nothing. I felt sad.”

  “Did you consider that maybe Tristan had done it?”

  “Never.”

  “Does Tristan carry a weapon?”

  “Never.”

  “Has he ever shown a violent side?”

  “Never. Never never never to any incriminating questions you’re going to ask about him. If I thought he was guilty, I’d never have talked to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d never do anything to incriminate Tristan.”

  “Even if he murdered someone?”

  Sheralyn rubbed the space to the side of one eye. Same spot she’d touched when discussing Cathy Poulson’s racist comment. Then she sat up straight and stared Baker down—something few people tried.

 
“I,” she pronounced, “am neither judge nor jury.”

  “Just for the record,” said Baker, “where were you the night before last, say between twelve and two AM?”

  “That’s not night, it’s morning.”

  “Correction duly noted, young lady. Where were you?”

  “Here. In my bedroom. Sleeping. I make an effort to sleep soundly.”

  “Good habits,” said Lamar.

  “I have obligations—school, SATs, theater club, Model UN. Et cetera.”

  Sounding bitter.

  “Headed for Brown?”

  “Not hardly. I’m going to Yale.”

  “Sleeping,” said Baker. “First time you heard about Jack Jeffries was…”

  “When my father brought it up. He’s our own personal town crier. He reads the morning paper, and comments extensively on every article.”

  “You didn’t think anything of it, just sad.”

  “Over the loss of life,” said the girl. “Any life.”

  “Just that,” said Baker. “Even though you knew this was Tristan’s real dad and Tristan had recently contacted him.”

  “I was saddest for Tristan. Am. I’ve called his cell twenty-eight times, but he doesn’t answer. You should find him. He needs comfort.”

  “Why do you think he’s not answering?”

  “I’ve already explained that. He’s depressed. Tristan gets like that. Turns off the phone, goes inward. That’s when he writes.”

  “No chance he’s run away?”

  “From what?”

  “Guilt.”

  “That’s absurd,” she said. “Tristan didn’t kill him.”

  “Because…”

  “He loved him.”

  As if that explained it, thought Lamar. Smart kid, but utterly clueless. “Tristan loved Jack even though he’d never met him.”

  “Irrelevant,” said Sheralyn Carlson. “One never falls in love with a person. One falls in love with an idea.”

  11

  Drs. Andrew and Elaine Carlson verified that Sheralyn had been home the night/morning of the murder from five PM until eight thirty AM, at which time Dr. Andrew drove her to Briar Lane Academy in his Porsche Cayenne.

  “Not that they’d say anything else,” muttered Baker, as they got back in the car. “She’s got them wrapped around her little intellectual finger, could’ve climbed through a window and met up with Tristan and they’d never know.”

  “Think she was involved?” said Lamar.

  “I think she’d do and say anything to cover for Tristan.”

  “Her celibate lover. You believe that?”

  “Kids, nowadays? I believe anything. So let’s find this tortured soul and shake him up.”

  “Back to Mommy’s mansion.”

  “It’s a short drive.”

  When they got to the Poulson estate, a lowering sun had grayed the house and a padlock had been fixed to the main gate. The red Benz was in the same place. The Volvo was gone.

  No call box, just a bell. Baker jabbed it. The front door opened and someone looked at them.

  Black uniform with white trim, dark face. The maid who’d fetched the lemonade—Amelia.

  Baker waved.

  Amelia didn’t budge.

  He shouted her name. Loud.

  The sound was a slap across the genteel, silent face of Belle Meade.

  She approached them.

  “Not here,” she said, through iron gate slats. “Please.”

  Her eyes were wide with fear. Sweat trickled from her hairline to an eyebrow but she made no attempt to dry her face.

  “Where did the missus go?” said Baker.

  Silence.

  “Tell us, right now.”

  “Kentucky, sir.”

  “Her horse farm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Two hours ago.”

  “She take Tristan with her?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We could sit here and watch the house for days,” said Lamar. “We could come back with a warrant and go through every room of this place and make a godawful mess.”

  No answer.

  Baker said, “So you’re sticking with that story. She didn’t take Tristan.”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, you’re not sticking with it, or no she didn’t take him?” Baker’s ears were red.

  “She didn’t take him, sir.”

  “He in the house, right now?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where, then?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “When you were here, sir.”

  “When we were talking to Mrs. Poulson, Tristan was here?”

  “In the guest house.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “After you did.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Did he take a car?”

  “His car,” said Amelia.

  “Make and model,” said Lamar, whipping out his pad.

  “A Beetle. Green.”

  “Did he take anything with him?”

  “I didn’t see, sir.”

  “You cleaned his room, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any clothes missing?”

  “I haven’t been in there today, sir.”

  “What we’re getting at,” said Baker, “is did he just take a drive into town or do you think he left town?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s a big house. I start at one end, takes me two days to get to the other.”

  “And your point is?”

  “There are many things I don’t hear.”

  “Or choose not to hear.”

  Amelia’s face remained impassive.

  Lamar said, “Tristan left right after we did. Did he and his mother have a discussion?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Why’d Mrs. Poulson decide all of a sudden to fly to Kentucky?”

  “It wasn’t all of a sudden,” said the maid. “She flies there all the time. To see her horses.”

  “Loves her horses, does she?”

  “Apparently, sir.”

  “You’re saying the trip was planned.”

  “Yes, sir. I heard her calling the charter service five days ago.”

  “So you do hear some things.”

  “Depends which room I’m working, sir. I was freshening outside the study and she was using the study phone.”

  “Remember the name of the charter service?”

  “Don’t have to,” said Amelia. “She uses the same one all the time. New Flight.”

  “Thank you,” said Lamar. “Now where can we find Tristan?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “More than sure, sir.”

  Back in the car, they got the registration stats on Tristan Poulson’s VW and put an alert out on the car. They called New Flight Charter, were told in no uncertain terms that the company maintained strict client confidentiality and that nothing short of a warrant would change that.

  “That so…well, good for you,” said Baker, hanging up with a scowl.

  “What?” said Lamar.

  “They fly big shots like President Clinton and Tom Brokaw, everything hush-hush.”

  “Hush-hush but they tell you they fly Clinton.”

  “Guess he’s beyond mere mortality. Drive, Stretch.”

  On the way back to town, they got a call from Trish, the receptionist at headquarters. A Dr. Alex Delaware had phoned this morning, and then again at two. No message.

  Baker said, “Guy’s probably itching to get back home.”

  “Guy works with the police,” said Lamar, “you’d think he’d know he’s free to go, we can’t keep him here legally.”

  “You’d think.”

  “Hmm…maybe you sho
uld call him back. Or better yet, let’s drop in on him at the hotel. See if he knew Cathy Poulson in her LA days. While we’re there, we can also show Tristan’s picture around to the staff.”

  “Two bad we don’t have two pictures,” said Baker. “Another with all that hair.”

  “Like father, like son,” said Lamar. “It always comes down to family, doesn’t it?”

  Delaware wasn’t in his room. The concierge was sure of that, the doctor had stopped by around noon to ask directions to Opryland and hadn’t returned.

  No one at the Hermitage remembered ever seeing Tristan Poulson, the clean-cut, high school senior photo version. Asking people to imagine long hair and a beard produced nothing but quizzical looks.

  Just as they were about to leave for a drive-through of Music Row, Delaware walked in. Spruced up, LA style: blue blazer, white polo shirt, blue jeans, brown loafers. Taking shades off his eyes, he nodded at the concierge.

  “Doctor,” said Baker.

  “Good, you got my message. C’mon up, I’ve got something to show you.”

  As the elevator rose, Lamar said, “How was Opryland?”

  Delaware said, “Tracing me, huh? It was more Disneyland than down-home but with a name like Opryland I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had lunch in that restaurant with the giant aquariums, which wasn’t bad.”

  “Have a hearty seafood dinner?”

  The psychologist laughed. “Steak. Any luck on Jack’s murder?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  Delaware worked at hiding his sympathy.

  His room was the same pin-neat setup. The guitar case rested on the bed.

  He opened a closet drawer, drew out some papers. Hotel fax cover sheet, over a couple of others.

  “After you left, I started thinking about my sessions with Jack. Something he told me as the trip approached. Dead people don’t get confidentiality. I had my girlfriend, Robin, go through the chart and fax the relevant pages. Here you go.”

  Two lined pages filled with dense, sharply slanted handwriting. Not the clearest fax. Hard to make out.