Cleared by the M.E., Lamar Van Gundy and Baker Southerby gloved up and went to take a look at the body. The okay didn’t come from an investigator; an actual pathologist had shown up, meaning high priority.

Ditto for the appearance of Lieutenant Shirley Jones, Sergeant Brian Fondebernardi, and a host of media types kept at bay by a small army of uniformed cops. The two local homicide detectives had signed off to the Murder Squad, more than happy to be free of what was looking like the worst combo: publicity and a mystery.

Lieutenant Jones handled the press with her usual charm, promising facts as soon as they were in, and urging the newshounds to clear the scene. After some grumbling, they complied. Jones offered words of encouragement to her detectives, then left. As the morgue drivers hovered in the background, Sergeant Fondebernardi, trim, dark-haired, economical of movement, led the way to the corpse.

The kill-spot was a shadowed wicked place reeking of trash and dogshit. Not really a vacant lot, just a sliver of clumped earth shaded by the remnants of an old cement wall that probably dated to the days when riverboats unloaded their wares.

Jack Jeffries lay on the ground, just feet from the wall, vacant eyes staring up at a charcoal sky. Dawn was an hour away. Cool night, midfifties; Nashville weather could be anything, anytime, but in this range, nothing would weirdly accelerate or slow down decomposition.

Both detectives circled the scene before nearing the body. Each thinking: Dark as sin: a body could walk right by it at night and never know.

Fondebernardi sensed what was on their minds. “Anonymous tip, some guy slurring his words, sounds like a homeless.”

“The bad guy?” said Lamar.

“Anything’s possible, Stretch, but on the tape he sounded pretty shook up- surprised. You’ll listen when you’re finished here.”

Lamar got closer to the body. The man was obese. He kept that to himself.

His partner said, “Looks like he let himself go.”

Sergeant Fondebernardi said, “We’re being judgmental, tonight, Baker? Yeah, aerobics would’ve made him prettier but it wasn’t a coronary that got him.” Flashing that sad, Brooklyn smile, the sergeant leaned in with a flashlight, highlighted the gash on the left side of the victim’s neck.

Lamar studied the wound. All that music. That voice.

Baker kneeled and got right next to the corpse, his partner following suit.

Jack Jeffries wore a blousy, long-sleeved black silk shirt with a mandarin collar. His pants were lightweight black sweats with a red satin stripe running the length of the leg. Black running shoes with red dragons embroidered on the toe. Gucci insignia on the soles. Size 11, EEE.

Jeffries’s belly swelled alarmingly, a pseudo-pregnancy. His left arm was bent upward, palm out, as if caught in the act of waving good-bye. The right hung close to a spreading hip. Jeffries’s long white hair was a droopy corona, some of it floating above a high, surprisingly smooth brow, the rest tickling puffy cheeks. Muttonchops trailed three inches below fleshy ears. A fuzzy moustache as luxuriant as Lamar’s obscured the upper lip. Would have hidden both lips but for the fact that the mouth gaped in death.

Missing teeth, Baker noted. Guy really let himself go. He pulled out his own penlight and got eye to eye with the wound. Two or so inches wide, the edges parting and revealing meat and gristle and tubing. An upwardly sloping cut, ragged at the top, as if the knife had been yanked out hard and caught on something.

He pointed it out to Lamar. “Yeah I saw that. Maybe he struggled, the blade jiggled.”

Baker said, “The way it climbs is making me think the thrust was upward. Could be the stabber was shorter than the vic.” He eyeballed the corpse. “I’d put him at six even, so that doesn’t clear much.”

Fondebernardi said, “His driver’s license says six one.”

“Close enough,” said Baker.

“People lie,” said Lamar.

Baker said, “Lamar’s license says he’s five nine and likes sushi.”

Flat laughter cut through the night. When it subsided, Fondebernardi said, “You’re right about lying. Jeffries claimed his weight to be one ninety.”

“Add sixty, seventy to that,” said Baker. “All that heft, even if he wasn’t in shape, he’d be able to put up some resistance.”

“No defense wounds,” said Fondebernardi. “Check for yourself.”

Neither detective bothered: the sergeant was as thorough as they came.

“At least,” said Lamar, “we don’t have to waste time on an I.D.”

Baker said, “What else was in his pocket besides the license?”

Fondebernardi said, “Just a wallet, morgue guys have it in their van but it’s yours to go through before they book. We’re talking basics: credit cards, all platinum, nine hundred in cash, a Marquis Jet Card, so maybe he flew in privately. That’s the case, we might get a whole bunch of data. Those jet companies can book hotels, drivers, the whole itinerary.”

“No hotel key?” said Lamar.

The sergeant shook his head.

“Maybe he’s got friends in town,” said Baker.

“Or he didn’t bother with the key,” said Lamar. “Celebrity like that, people carry stuff for you.”

“If he is in a hotel, where else is it gonna be but the Hermitage?”

“You got it,” said Lamar. “Ten to one, he’s got the Alexander Jackson suite or whatever they call their hotshot penthouse.”

Sounding like he yearned for all that, thought Baker. Dreams died hard. Better not to have any.

Fondebernardi said, “Anything else?”

Baker said, “The big question is, what was he doing in this particular spot? It’s industrial during the day, empty at night, pretty much away from the club scene, restaurants, dope dealers. Even the Adult Entertainment Overlay doesn’t reach here anymore.”

“One exception,” said the sergeant. “There’s a dinky little club called The T House two blocks south on First. Looks like some kind of a hippie joint- hand-painted signs, organic teas. They advertise entertainment no one’s ever heard of. Place opens at seven and closes at midnight.”

“Why would Jeffries be interested in that?” said Lamar.

“He probably wouldn’t, but it’s the only place anywhere near here. You can check it out tomorrow.”

Baker said, “I’d be wondering if he found himself a hooker, she brings him down here for a shakedown. But nine hundred in the wallet…” He checked the body again. “No wristwatch or jewelry.”

“But no tan lines on either wrist,” said Fondebernardi. “Maybe he didn’t wear a timepiece.”

“Maybe time wasn’t a big deal for him,” said Lamar. “Guys like that can have people telling time for them.”

“An entourage,” said Baker. “Wonder if he private-jetted in with some people.”

“It might be a good place to start. Those service places are open twenty-four/seven. Anytime, anywhere for the rich folk.”

The sergeant left and the two of them walked around the site several times, noting lots of blood on the weeds, maybe some indentations that were foot-impressions but nothing that could be cast. At four fifty AM, they okayed the morgue drivers to transport, and drove dark, deserted downtown streets to the Hermitage Hotel on Sixth and Union.

On the way over, Baker had called the toll-free number on the Jet Card, dealt with resistance from the Marquis staff about relinquishing flier information, but managed to ascertain that Jack Jeffries had flown into Signature Flight Support at Nashville International at eleven AM. They were not forthcoming about any of his fellow passengers.

The rich and famous demanded privacy except when they wanted publicity. Baker saw it all the time in Nashville, hotshot country stars hiding behind big glasses and oversized hats. Then when no one was noticing them, they talked louder than anyone else in the restaurant.