“Was he bothered by not being recognized more?”

“He laughed about it, said one day he’d just be a footnote in a book. If he was lucky to live that long.” Delaware winced.

Baker said, “So what, he had a premonition?”

“Not about being murdered. Lifestyle issues. Jack knew he was obese, had high blood pressure, bad cholesterol. On top of all the hard living.”

“Bad cholesterol but he ate pork shoulder.”

Delaware ’s smile was sad.

Lamar said, “Who paid for dinner?”

“Jack did.”

“Credit card?”

“Yes.

Baker said, “What time did you leave the restaurant?”

“I’d say ten thirty, at the latest. At that point we split up. Jack said he wanted to explore the city and it was clear he wanted to be alone.”

Baker said, “Why?”

“His words were, ‘I need some quiet time, Doc.’ Maybe he was on a creative jag and needed solitude.”

“Any idea where he went?”

“None. He waited until I caught my cab on Fifth, then started walking on Broadway…let me get my bearings- he headed east.”

Baker said, “East on Broadway is the center of downtown, and it’s anything but quiet.”

“Maybe he went to a club,” said Delaware. “Or a bar. Or maybe he was meeting up with some friends. He came here to perform with people in the business. Maybe he wanted to meet up with them without having his therapist around.”

“Any idea who those friends might be?”

“No, I’m just postulating, same as you.”

“East on Broadway,” said Baker. “Did you hear from him after that, Doctor?”

Delaware shook his head. “What time was he killed?”

“We don’t know yet. Any idea who’d want to do him harm?”

“None whatsoever,” said Delaware. “Jack was moody, I can tell you that much, but even though I’d treated him, it wasn’t in-depth psychotherapy, so I don’t have any window into his psyche. But throughout the dinner, I felt he was keeping a lot to himself.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Intuition. The only thing I can tell you that might be useful is that his mood changed toward the end of dinner. He’d been talkative for most of the meal, mostly reminiscing about the good old days, then suddenly he got quiet- really buttoned up. Stopped making eye contact. I asked if he felt okay. He said he was fine, and waved off any more questions. But something was on his mind.”

“But you have no idea what,” said Baker.

“With someone like Jack, could’ve been anything.”

“Someone like Jack?”

“My experience has been that creative and moody go together. Jack had a reputation for being difficult- impatient, sharp-tongued, unable to maintain relationships. I don’t doubt any of that’s true, but with me he was pretty pleasant. Though at times I felt he was working really hard to be amiable.”

“He needed you to get on and off that plane,” said Baker.

“That was probably it,” said Delaware.

“Ribs at Jack’s,” said Lamar. “Any liquid refreshment?”

“Jack had a beer, I had a Coke.”

“Only one beer?”

“Only one.”

“Pretty good self-control.”

“Since I’ve known him, he’s been temperate.”

Lamar said, “This was a guy who skydived on acid and raced motorcycles while driving blind.”

“I’ll amend the statement. Around me, he’s been temperate. He once told me he was slowing down like an old freight train. He rarely divulged his private life to me, even after we built up a rapport.”

“How long did that take- rapport?”

“Couple of weeks. No treatment’s effective unless there’s trust. I’m sure you guys know that.”

“What do you mean, Doctor?”

“Interrogating witnesses is more about developing a relationship than strong-arming.”

Baker rubbed his shaved head. “You counsel the LA po-lice on technique?”

“My friend over there, Lieutenant Sturgis, does pretty well by himself.”

“Sturgis with an i-s or an e-s?”

“With an i: like the motorcycle meet.”

“You’re also a biker?”

“I rode a bit when I was younger,” said Delaware. “Nothing big-bore.”

“Slowed down yourself?”

Delaware smiled. “Don’t we all?”

4

They stayed with the shrink for another twenty minutes, going over the same ground, asking the same questions in different ways in order to tease out discrepancies.

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.”