13

Sleep was brief. At four AM, a call from headquarters informed Baker that Tristan Poulson had been spotted by a local squad car and taken to headquarters for questioning.

“ Nashville PD?”

“We got lucky, sir.”

Tristan had been walking along the river, unarmed, no resistance. The VW was parked behind a warehouse, no real intent to conceal. Baker roused Lamar and the two of them drove to work, waited in an interview room for their suspect to arrive.

Tristan was led in, uncuffed, by a female officer. No reason to restrain him, he hadn’t been arrested, and had shown no signs of violence.

Lamar thought, Lucky break his mama being out of town. No lawyer called in and, with the kid nineteen, no legal obligation to call her. The Belle Meade connection will probably end up complicating matters, but let’s just see what shakes out.

Tristan was neither clean-cut or shaggy hippie. His fair hair was long, but washed and combed, his beard trimmed to a neat goatee. He wore a black Nike T-shirt, baggy blue jeans, white running shoes. There was a small gold knob in one ear. His nails were clean. Nice-looking kid, glowing tan, all that beef looked to be solid muscle. More buff than any pictures Lamar had seen of Jack Jeffries, but the resemblance to Jack was striking.

The boy refused to make eye contact. Despite the hard body and the good grooming, the detectives could see the depression Sheralyn Carlson had talked about. Stoop in the walk, shuffle in his gait, staring at the floor, arms swinging limply as if their being attached to his body didn’t matter.

He sat down and slumped, studying the floor tiles. Clean tiles; they smelled of Lysol; one thing you could say about the Murder Squad, the maintenance crew was first-rate.

Lamar said, “Hi, Tristan. I’m Detective Van Gundy and this is Detective Southerby.”

Tristan slid down lower.

Baker said, “We know it’s rough, son.”

Something plinked onto the tiles. A tear. Then another. The kid made no effort to stop, or even wipe his face. They let him cry for a while. Tristan never made a move or a sound, just sat there like a leaky robot.

Lamar tried again. “Real tough times, Tristan.”

The boy sat up a bit. Breathed in deeply and let out the air and made abrupt eye contact with Lamar. “Is your father alive, sir?”

That threw Lamar. “Thank God, he is, Tristan.” Wondering for a split second what Baker would have said if he’d been the one asked. Then, getting back in detective mode and hoping his answer and a subsequent smile would spur some resentment, jealousy, whatever, make the boy blurt it all out and they’d be finished.

When Tristan’s attention returned to the floor, Lamar said, “My dad’s a great guy, real healthy for his age.”

Tristan looked up again. Smiled faintly, as if he’d just received good news. “I’m happy for you, sir. My dad’s dead and I’m still trying to figure that out. He loved my music. We were going to collaborate.”

“We’re talking about Jack Jeffries.” Asking one of those obvious questions you had to ask, in order to keep a clear chain of information.

“Jack was my true father,” said Tristan. “Biologically and spiritually. I loved Lloyd, too. Until a few years ago, I thought he was my true father. Even when I learned that wasn’t true, I never said anything to Lloyd because Lloyd was a good man and he’d always been good to me.”

“How’d you find out?”

Tristan patted his chest. “I guess I always knew in my heart. The way Mom always talked about Jack. More than it just being the good old days. And how she never did it around Dad. Lloyd. Then, when I got bigger, seeing Jack’s pictures, friends would show them to me. Everyone kept saying it.”

“Saying what?”

“We were clones. Not that popular opinion means anything. Sometimes, just the opposite. I didn’t really want to believe it. Lloyd was good to me. But…”

“The evidence was too strong,” said Lamar.

Tristan nodded. “Also, it…verified stuff I’d always felt.” Another pat. “Deep inside. Lloyd was a good man, but- no buts, he was a good, good man. He died, too.”

“You’ve had a lot of loss, son,” said Baker.

“It’s like everything exploded inward,” said Tristan. “I guess that’s imploded. Implosion.”

Enunciating the word, as if performing at a spelling bee.

“Implosion,” said Baker.

“It was like- everything!” Tristan looked up again. Looked at both detectives. “That’s why I considered it.”

“Considered what, son?”

“Jumping in.”

“Into the Cumberland?”

Another weak smile. “Like that old folk song.”

“Which one?”

“ ‘Goodnight Irene.’ ”

“Great song. Leadbelly,” said Baker, and Lamar almost got a stiff neck from not swiveling toward his partner.

The boy didn’t answer.

Baker said, “Yeah, that’s a great old song. The way that lyric just hits you, like it’s not really part of the rest of the song, then boom.”

Silence.

Baker said, “ ‘Sometimes I have a great notion to jump in the river and drown.’ Ol’ Leadbelly killed a man, spent time in prison, that’s where he wrote it and- ”

“ ‘Midnight Special.’ ”

“You like the old ones, son.”

“I like everything good.”

“Makes sense,” said Baker. “So there you were, imploding. I got to tell you, things go a certain way, it’s easy to see how someone could feel that way, just take a few steps…”

Tristan didn’t react.

Baker said, “Guilt can make a person feel that way.”

Tristan retorted, “Or just plain life going to shit.” He dropped his head, pressed his cheeks with his palms.

Baker said, “Son, you’re obviously a smart guy so I won’t insult your intelligence by spinning a lot of theories. But the fact is: confession can be good for the soul.”

“I know,” said Tristan. “That’s why I told you.”

“Told us what?”

“I was thinking of doing it. The river. Did Mom send you? All the way from Kentucky?”

“Send us for what?”

“To stop me.”

Baker rubbed his bare head. “You’re thinking we picked you up for attempted suicide.”

“Mom said if I ever did it again, she’d have me arrested.”

“Again,” said Lamar.

“I tried twice before,” said Tristan. “Not the river, pills. Her Prozac. I’m not sure it was really serious…the first time. It was probably one of those…a cry for help, to use a cliché.”

“Your mama’s pills.”

“She had her purse open. I needed some cash and she’s cool with me just taking whatever money I needed. She left the pills in a vial on top of her wallet. I was just hungry for sleep, you know?”

“When was this, son?”

“You keep calling me ‘son.’ ” The boy smiled. “Nashville PD’s babysitting me. Amazing what money can buy.”

“You think we’re doing this for your mama?” said Lamar.

Tristan smirked and now they could see the spoiled rich kid in him. “Everyone knows the eleventh commandment.”

“What’s that?”

“Money talks, bullshit walks.”

“Tristan,” said Baker, “let me give you some education: we are not here to babysit you or to prevent you from doing whatever you want to do to yourself. Though we think that would be pretty stupid- jumping into those muddy waters. We have not talked to your mama since we interviewed her yesterday at your house and she led us to believe you were in Rhode Island.”

Tristan stared at him. “Then, what?”

“You are being questioned regarding the murder of Jack Jeffries.”

Tristan gaped. Sat up straight. “You think- oh, man, that’s ridiculous; that is so psychotic ridiculous.”

“Why’s that?”

“I loved Jack.”

“Your new dad.”

“My always dad, we were…,” said Tristan. He shook his head. Clean blond hair billowed, fell back into place.

“You were what?”

“Reuniting. I mean, he felt it and I was starting to feel it- the bond. But we both knew it takes time. That’s why he came to Nashville.”