They drove back to the city, grabbed fast-food burgers and Cokes, took them to the purple room where Brian Fondebernardi joined them around the center table. The sergeant’s shirt matched the walls. His charcoal slacks were razor-pressed, his black hair was clipped, his eyes sharp and searching. Dealing with the press all morning hadn’t dented him but he wanted a progress report.

Lamar said, “Matter of fact, we have something to report.”

When they finished filling him in, Fondebernardi said, “He was a rock star, had beaucoup girlfriends, she was one of them and got knocked up. So?”

“So,” said Baker, “the kid’s a college freshman, meaning eighteen, nineteen tops. Let’s even say twenty if he’s dumb, which he ain’t because he got into Brown. She was married to her husband for twenty-six years.”

“Oops,” said Fondebernardi.

“Oops, indeed,” said Lamar. “There’s a secret worth keeping in Belle Meade.”

“Plus,” said Baker, “we know the kid- Tristan’s his name- had contact with Jeffries.”

“Via the handwriting of the song,” said Fondebernardi. “Kid could’ve mailed that in.”

“Maybe, Sarge, but Jeffries held on to it. Meaning maybe there was some kind of relationship.”

“Or he thought the lyrics were good.”

Baker rocked an open palm with splayed fingers back and forth. “Not unless he lost his ear completely.”

“Lyrics needed something, that’s for sure,” said Lamar, “but they were full of frustration- like Nashville screwed him over. Doesn’t sound like a pampered rich kid, so maybe there’s a side of ol’ Tristan we don’t know about.”

“Someone that age,” said Fondebernardi. “He hasn’t had time to get frustrated.”

“Rich kids,” said Baker. “They’re used to having their way, get their panties in a sling real easily. Maybe this one wanted approval from Jeffries, didn’t get it, and freaked out.”

“He’s in Rhode Island, Baker.”

“We haven’t verified that yet.”

“Why not?” said Fondebernardi, then he checked himself. “You want my okay before you call.”

Baker said, “It’s Belle Meade, Sarge.”

End of discussion.

The registrar clerk at Brown University was squirrelly about giving out student information.

Lamar said, “You got Facebook, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then nothing’s secret, so why don’t you make my life easy?”

“I don’t know…”

“I don’t want his grade point average, only to know if he’s on campus.”

“And this is because…”

“Police investigation,” said Lamar. “You don’t cooperate and something bad happens, it’s not going to reflect well on Brown. And I know what a great school Brown is. My sister went there.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ellen Grant,” he said, picking a nice Waspy name out of thin air.

“She loved it.”

“Well,” said the clerk.

“On campus or not, we’ll do the rest.”

“Hold on, Captain.” Another little fib.

Less than a minute later: “No, Captain, Tristan Poulson took a leave of absence for the second semester.”

“He did the fall semester, then he left.”

“Yes,” said the clerk. “The freshman year can be stressful.”

They called Fondebernardi back to the purple room and told him.

He said, “Rich kid who thinks he’s a songwriter, drops out to follow his dream?”

“That, plus maybe Lloyd Poulson’s dying got him delusional,” said Lamar. “It’s possible somehow Tristan figured out Jack was his bio dad. And maybe he found out more than that. The M.E. said Jack’s internal organs were a mess, he didn’t have long. Maybe Tristan read about Jack’s health issues in some fan magazine, worried about that and it tipped him over- get in touch with my bio dad before he kicks, too. Use music to bond. And where else would he go to do that but back home, because here’s where the music is. Not to mention Mommy’s money and connections.”

“Or,” said Baker, “Tristan didn’t figure out who his real daddy was but he wanted to meet Jack, anyway. Mommy’s old boyfriend, who just happens to be a onetime superstar and Tristan’s into writing songs. Jeffries might not be able to motivate hits anymore but to a needy kid he could’ve seemed larger than life.”

“Especially,” said Lamar, “if Mommy told him detailed stories about the good old days. She’s a genteel rich lady now, but likes attention. I can see her basking in old glory.”

Fondebernardi didn’t answer.

“Fame,” said Lamar. “It’s the hardest drug of all, right, Sarge? Tristan gets in touch with his songwriting self, writes a plaintive ditty that he sends to Jack.”

“Who just happens to be his real daddy,” said Baker.

Lamar said, “I haven’t seen the kid’s picture yet, but Baker says the resemblance is real strong.”

Baker nodded. “Strong enough for Mommy to take Junior’s pictures off the mantel in case we showed up. Unfortunately for her, she forgot about the alcove.”

“Thank God for Baker’s bladder,” said Lamar.

Fondebernardi said, “Find out everything you can about the kid.”

They started where everyone does: Google. Came up with twenty hits, all scores from football games and field hockey matches Tristan Poulson had played in.

Varsity star at Madison Prep, a fancy-pants place out in Brentwood they’d both heard of because Lieutenant Shirley Jones’s son had been accepted there on a basketball scholarship. One of two black kids admitted three years ago.

They asked her if they could talk to Tim and told her why.

She said, “You bet. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Tim Jones came to the station after school, all six six of him, carelessly good-looking, still wearing his blazer and khakis, white shirt and rep tie. He hugged and kissed his mother, followed her into the purple room, sat down and attacked the Quiznos Black Angus on rosemary parmesan bread smothered with mozzarella, mushrooms and sautéed onions she’d bought for him.

Baker and Lamar watched in admiration as the kid polished off the full-sized sub in what seemed like a few bites, washed it down with a jumbo root beer, not a crumb or stain on his preppy duds.

“Excellent,” he told the lieutenant. “Usually you get me the Italian.”

“Special occasion,” said Shirley Jones, touching the top of her son’s head briefly, then heading for the door. “Talk to my ace detectives. Tell them everything you know and then forget it ever happened. When will you be home?”

“Right after, I guess,” said Tim. “Massive homework.”

“You guess?”

“Right after.”

“I’ll pick up some Dreyer’s on the way.”

“Excellent. Rocky road.”

“Ahem.”

“Please.”

“I knew him,” said Tim, “but we didn’t hang out. He seemed okay.”

“You play on a team together?” said Baker.

“Nope. He did some hoops but just jayvee. Football’s his thing. He’s built for it.”

“Big guy.”

“Like a refrigerator.”

“An okay guy, huh?” said Lamar.

Tim nodded. “Seemed mellow. He’d play aggressive on the field but he wasn’t like that the rest of the time. I went to a few parties with him- jock stuff, after games- but we didn’t hang out.”

“Who’d he hang with?”

“Other football dudes, I guess. He had a girlfriend. From Briar Lane.”

“Remember her name?”

“Sheralyn,” said Tim. “Don’t know her last name.”

“Cheerleader?”

“No, she was more of a brainiac.”