While San Diego police attempted to determine how Argus intruded on the facility’s closed-circuit sound system, what I wanted to know was where Justin Peterson spent the evening. If he wasn’t in Houston, was he in San Diego?
Sergeant Herald had listened to the entire exchange, and when I hung up, he gave me a sympathetic nod. “I’ve dealt with those Hollywood people,” he said with a sideways grimace. “They aren’t easy to get along with.”
“Bet that kid doesn’t get many votes for Miss Congeniality,” I agreed. “But I can’t blame her for being upset.”
“Maybe, but it sure sounds to me like they’re going after the wrong guy,” Herald said. He handed me his report with the information I’d asked for, documenting Herald’s whereabouts on the evening Cassidy performed at Caesars Palace. “On that particular day, Mr. Peterson worked most of the afternoon with his supervising professor on a musical composition, in the piano lab,” Herald said, while I paged through the file. “Mr. Peterson didn’t leave until eight that evening. He was seen later that same night taking out the garbage, at about ten-thirty, by the couple who lives in the
apartment next to his in grad-student housing. Mr. Peterson wasn’t anywhere near Las Vegas.”
“Okay,” I said. “What about last night?”
“I’ll check,” he said. With that Herald picked up his telephone and dialed, talked to someone briefly, then hung up. “That was Peterson’s professor,” he said. “She had dinner with Peterson last evening in the student center and then they worked on his composition together until nearly nine. Mr. Peterson was in the piano lab again early this morning.”
“Sounds like you’re right. The Collins folks are targeting the wrong guy.”
“Unless the guy can teleport,” Herald said, with a rueful grin. “For what it’s worth, his prof says Peterson hasn’t missed a work session since his hospitalization and appears to be doing well on his medication. Maybe it’s a California stalker Mr. Barron ought to be looking for instead of a Texas one.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “I’d like to visit with Mr. Peterson anyway, just to be sure.”
“Is that really necessary?” Herald objected. “Obviously, he’s not your guy, and he is one of our students. His professor says Peterson is pretty sensitive and stress hurts his work. Attracting the kid to Rice was a big deal, I’m told. We competed against dozens of other universities to get him.”
You don’t need much interaction with campus police to know that most want everything that happens kept hush-hush. When possible, I’ve accommodated them. This wouldn’t be one of those times. “It’s necessary,” I said. “I want him to know he’s under suspicion, just in case he’s playing some kind of game.”
“If you say so, Lieutenant,” Herald reluctantly agreed. “I guess Mr. Peterson is probably in the piano lab. If he’s not there, we’ll try his apartment.”
We drove in Herald’s squad through the campus, as close to an Ivy League school as Texas has to offer. The same architect who’d designed Notre Dame and West Point drew up the plans for the campus’s original gothic-style buildings, so Rice certainly looked the part. The live oaks that lined the road were lush, and spring green flecked the pale winter grass. I followed Herald through the Shepherd School of Music’s vast foyer, past an overflowing flower arrangement on a pedestal, and down an all-white hallway lined by lockers, toward a windowless, first-floor practice area students call “the dungeon.” There, in a square rehearsal room with sound buffers on the walls, we found a young man seated all alone at a black lacquer piano.
Solidly built, Peterson didn’t fit my image of a classical pianist. Looking older than his twenty-one years, he had a coarse, not a delicate look. His hands and fingers, although long, were strong and solid. Stubble covered his chin, and he had a scar on his right cheek, about two inches long, vertical, just above his upper lip. His disheveled almond brown hair gave him an untamed look. Head bent over the piano keys, his eyes remained closed, as if he were intent on finding inspiration. We stood next to the piano, two feet from him, but Peterson didn’t react.
“Mr. Peterson,” I said. “Forgive us for interrupting, but I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong, with the Texas Rangers.”
Justin Peterson took little or no notice, failing to respond to my words. Instead, he lightly touched the piano and hit a series of three keys, holding the last note until it gently faded. As the sound dissipated around us, Peterson’s eyes blinked open and he reached for an eraser he used to wipe away the last line of handwritten music on the paper before him. He then penciled in three new notes, perhaps those he’d just played. Apparently finished, Peterson looked straight at Sergeant Herald and me, smiling broadly.
“Lieutenant Armstrong,” he said. “This is an honor. And Sergeant Herald, how good of you to drop in again. As you can see, I’m hard at work. It’s wonderful to be able to concentrate on my work.”
“Have we met before, Mr. Peterson?” I asked, shaking his strong hand.
“No, I didn’t mean to suggest that,” he said, rising. “I recognize you from last year’s headlines. I followed the Lucas investigation in the newspapers.”
“I thought you composed your music on a computer,” I said, motioning at the piano.
“At times,” he said. “But for the most part I prefer the feel of the keys.”
As he talked, I sized up the young man. Herald’s file explained that Peterson grew up in Chicago, in a small house in the suburbs, the only child of a factory worker and a nurse. He began playing the piano at six, and quickly displayed a remarkable ability. By thirteen, the word “genius” was bandied about, and he gained the attention of a renowned teacher, who took him on as his protégé and transported him to national and later international competitions, where Peterson amassed a collection of first-place trophies. As Herald had said, college music programs across the country put on dog-and-pony shows to attract Peterson. To win, Rice offered him a full scholarship.
“I see,” I said. “Do you know why I’m here today, to see you?”
“I’d like to think it’s to hear my music, but since Sergeant Herald is with you, my guess is that this has something to do with that ridiculous fascination I once had with Cassidy Collins,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’d hoped that I’d eased everyone’s concerns in that regard last time we talked, Sergeant Herald.”
“You convinced me, Mr. Peterson,” Herald said, obviously uncomfortable at being questioned. “But the ranger wants to ask a few questions. I hope you won’t mind?”
“No problem,” Peterson said. Rather than bothered with our inquiry, he appeared pleased, which I found rather confusing. Folks aren’t usually all that delighted when I knock on their doors in an official capacity. “Ask whatever you’d like, Lieutenant. If I can help, I’m happy to.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Peterson, around ten o’clock?”
“That’s easy,” he said. “I worked here, had an early dinner with my professor in the student center, we worked a bit more, I guess until about eight or nine. I stopped and bought a latte at Starbucks, and then went home to do a little reading until sometime around eleven. Then to bed. It was, actually, a rather typical night for me. I gather it wasn’t for Ms. Collins?”
“Why would you gather that?” I asked.
“Why else would you be here inquiring about my whereabouts?” he asked, his voice restrained but with just a hint of pleasure. No doubt about it, this guy was enjoying the heck out of our visit.
“When was your last attempt to communicate with Ms. Collins?” I asked.
“That unfortunate letter that brought Sergeant Herald here,” Peterson said, with a slight laugh. “Right after that, I was hospitalized and prescribed my new medications. I haven’t had the urge to write her since. I trust you’re not here because she misses my letters?”
“Nothing since then? No letters? No e-mails? No text messages?”
“Nothing,” he said.
Something about the man I didn’t trust. Still, I had no reason to believe Peterson was Argus. In fact, unless he had not only musical but magical talents, Peterson couldn’t have been the man we were looking for. The kid wasn’t in Las Vegas a week earlier, and he wasn’t in San Diego the previous night. That didn’t prevent me, of course, from wanting to know more about him.
“Mr. Peterson,” I said. “Rather than talk here, where anyone can see us and wonder why you’re being questioned by two police officers, I’d like to continue this conversation in your apartment, where it’s more private. Sergeant Herald’s car is right outside. Why don’t we drive there together?”
Peterson smiled that same unnervingly friendly grin.
“That’s nice of you to be concerned, but it’s not necessary,” he said, softly. “There’s no one here but us. And if someone stumbles upon us talking, it’s not a problem. My doctoral advisor understands that I had a breakdown and that I’m better now. There’s no one to hide from.”
“I would prefer going to your apartment to talk,” I said again, more forcefully. “I would consider it a sign of your cooperation on this matter if you’d accommodate me.”
To my disappointment, Herald spoke up. “I don’t think we need to do that, Lieutenant,” he objected. “Mr. Peterson’s working, and we have enough, don’t we? We know he wasn’t in Las Vegas or San Diego.”
I assessed the sergeant out of the corner of my eye, annoyed. “There are some things I’d like to discuss further,” I said. Turning my gaze back on the kid, I said, again, “Mr. Peterson, I would appreciate your cooperation. It would go a long way toward convincing me that you’re working with us on this matter.”
Briefly quiet, as if considering my request, before long Peterson shook his head. “No. As the sergeant said, I’m working,” Peterson said, holding out his hand to shake mine. “But I thank you for stopping by to meet me. It’s always interesting to meet someone who has made front-page headlines. That’s quite a feat, don’t you think? So few people ever accomplish it.”
“I can think of loftier goals,” I said, sizing him up and still feeling uneasy. “Perhaps writing a musical composition that brings joy to others?”
“Of course,” he said. “But then, there is something to be said for fame.”
Peterson never stopped smiling, never raised his voice. He’d remained composed and friendly throughout, even when he turned his back to return to his piano. As Sergeant Herald and I walked from the piano lab, I heard those same three notes the young pianist played when we first arrived, and then one more, a fourth, lower and richer than those preceding it. His alibis were airtight, yet as my visit with Justin Peterson ended, I felt more wary of him than when I arrived.
Once Herald took off for his office, I called Rick Barron in Los Angeles from the Tahoe. “Justin Peterson wasn’t in Las Vegas or San Diego on the nights of the concerts. We have witnesses placing him in Houston both nights,” I told him. “Are you positive he had to be on location to break into the sound systems?”
“Yes. That’s what all the experts tell me,” Barron said.
“If that’s true, he’s not Argus. But just to be sure, where is Ms. Collins playing next?”
“Why?”
“I’m going to have Mr. Peterson under surveillance,” I said. “Just in case he has a Lear jet parked somewhere we don’t know about.”
“Like we talked about, this coming Saturday night in Dallas, then the following Monday evening at the Houston rodeo,” Barron said. “But both concerts may have to be cancelled. I know what you’re saying about Peterson, but coming anywhere near Texas has Cassidy freaked.”
T
he waiting room at Dr. Senka Dorin’s office was small and cramped, and the door resolutely shut with a yellow in session: do not disturb sign hanging from the knob. I thumbed through a two-year-old
Ladies’ Home Journal
looking at recipes for low-cal pasta salads while I considered stopping for a barbecue sandwich for lunch, when the door finally opened, and two women walked out.
“That was amazing,” said the first woman, tall, with big blond hair. Wearing a burgundy suit with a brightly colored scarf around the neck, she appeared flushed and happy, relaxed.
“Getting in touch with your past lives relieves stress,” the other woman, the one I took to be Dorin, said, as if it were something she repeated often. “You’ll find this type of therapy opens you up to enjoy your life, raising awareness that we are all visitors here, and that what we do wrong in this life we have the opportunity to rectify in the next.”
“Yes,” the patient said. “I can see that now.”
“You should sleep well tonight,” the doctor said, patting the
woman on the arm. “I’ll see you for your appointment next Wednesday.”
The blonde grabbed Dr. Dorin’s hand and eagerly pumped it. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to finally find someone who can help,” she said. “I’ve suffered for so long. Now, I understand.”
“Understanding our past lives allows us to drop our burdens,” the doctor said, again sounding as if she said those same words to patient after patient. “As we progress, you’ll experience how past life therapy can improve this life, allowing you to forgive yourself for past transgressions and move on.”
Clearly enthused about whatever happened during her session, the blonde nodded in agreement. I had to stop myself from guffawing. This promised to be one interesting interview.
What was a bright, successful woman like Billie Cox doing coming to this charlatan?
I wondered.
The big-haired blonde bustled out the door into the hallway, and Dr. Dorin turned to me. A short, heavyset woman wearing a flowing, flowered skirt and a black knit top, she had startling brown eyes, playful beneath heavy brows. Her hair was dyed a severe nun’s-habit black, but half an inch of stark white roots trimmed the center part. “Are you here to make an appointment?” she asked. “I don’t have anything available until the end of next week, but I’m sure we can work something out then, if you’d like.”
“My name is Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong,” I said, pulling back my gray blazer to reveal my badge with the lone star in the center pinned on my white button-down shirt. Dorin must have also caught a glimpse of my rig with my Colt .45 in the holster riding low on my black Wranglers. She gulped.