The Old Deep and Dark (11 page)

“Let's move on,” said DePetro, still standing in his at-ease position. “First question to all of you: Did Jordan Deere have any enemies?”

Kit was the first to speak up. “Everyone loved Jordan. Everyone. I can't think of a soul who'd want to hurt him.”

Tommy grunted.

“You have something to add, Mr. Prior?” asked DePetro.

He cleared his throat. “Just that anybody who's been in the music business as long as he had makes his share of enemies.”

“The country music business?”

“Yeah.” He overenunciated each word, suggesting that, at this early hour, he was already wasted. “Artists have adversarial relationships with recording labels. With other artists. With band members. The list goes on from there.”

“Are you thinking of someone specific?”

“What? No. I'm just saying it's wrong to say Jordan was universally adored.”

Kit's gaze bore into him.

“What about girlfriends on the side? Boyfriends?”

“This may be difficult for some people to understand,” said Kit, her eyes shifting from Tommy to DePetro, “but Jordan was completely faithful to me, as I was to him. You may think I'm being naïve. I'm not. I know my husband.”

Ray turned to look at her.

“No marital problems?” asked DePetro.

“None. Our careers often separated us for months at a time, but we always stayed in touch. I won't say we never had issues. All couples do. But we worked them out.”

So this was the way she was going to play it, thought Jane. Was it an impulse, or was she really that arrogant, thinking the police would never figure it out?

“Any money problems I should know about?” asked DePetro.

“None that I know of,” said Kit. “Tommy was Jordan's manager. I'm sure he'd be more than willing to answer your questions.”

As Kit continued to talk, Jane noticed that, with the exception of Archibald and her father, nobody in the room looked at Kit. They watched DePetro with near catatonic stares, but never focused any attention on her. Jane found it unusual—and perhaps telling—body language. Under normal circumstances, Jane would have expected the family to rally around the grieving matriarch. Instead, within the limits of a room in which they were all trapped, each individual was attempting to detach, to create as much psychic distance as possible. Or—perhaps they couldn't take their eyes off the detective because they were trying to determine if he was buying Kit's story. Jane wondered if DePetro had picked up on the strange group dynamics. She was sure her father had.

“I'd like you to tell me about Jordan's recent morning routine,” said DePetro, folding his arms over his chest.

“Beverly and I have been in New Orleans for the last few months,” said Kit, dabbing a tissue at the corner of her eye. “We didn't return until late last night.”

“Chloe and I have only been here since Friday,” said Booker. “We came for a family reunion.”

DePetro arched an eyebrow. “Do you have them frequently?”

“Not as often as we'd like,” said Kit. “We're busy people. It's why we decided to carve out some time to get together this fall.”

“So nobody knows Mr. Deere's morning routine?”

Tommy raised a finger.

“Mr. Prior?”

He took a sip from the mug to steady himself. “I've been around, on and off, since the beginning of June.”

“Did Jordan have regular habits?”

“He didn't used to, but for the last few months, yeah, you could say that.”

“What was a typical Sunday morning for him?”

“Sundays were no different than any other day. I mean, he'd go to church when Kit was around, but normally he didn't. He was always up by six. He'd dress in sweats and head out the door between six thirty and seven for a morning jog.”

“Always in Bayview Park?”

“I think so, yeah. He'd tried other places, but he liked Bayview because it was quieter, and the running path was well cared for but still rustic. He was usually home by eight thirty. Sometimes he'd take a swim, but most mornings he'd come back, shower and dress, and then make himself some breakfast. He'd sit out on the terrace and read the newspaper or check his e-mail.”

“And then?”

“He worked in his office. In the afternoon, you could usually find him down in his music studio. Then, sometimes later in the day, he'd play golf, or he'd take one of the boats out.”

“Dinner? Evenings?”

“He liked to have friends over to the house. He was a passable cook. Or he'd meet someone at a restaurant. At least once a week we'd go out to a movie or a concert. He liked a good time, but lately he was always in bed by eleven.”

“Alone?”

Tommy's smile was cheerless. “My job obligations didn't include bed checks, Sergeant DePetro.”

“You seem determined to tie my husband's death to some sort of sexual escapade,” said Kit, her tone full of disgust.

“That's not my intent,” said DePetro.

“Coulda fooled me,” slurred Tommy.

One of the uniformed officers who'd arrived with DePetro and seemed to be in charge of the house search, appeared in the doorway and motioned to get DePetro's attention.

“One second,” said the detective. He moved to the rear of the room to confer with the uniform. Listening closely as the woman filled him in on what appeared to be urgent information, he finally cracked a smile. “Good, good,” he said, loud enough for Jane to hear. “Go go go,” he said, waving the woman away.

Returning to the front, DePetro had a distinct swagger to his step, looking like a man who'd just won the jackpot. “So,” he said, folding his hands together in front of him. “Did anyone notice anything strange about Jordan in the last few months? Did he seem upset? Worried? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Nobody moved.

“Nothing?”

“As I've already told you,” said Kit, placing a hand lightly on top of Ray's. “Jordan was fine. Happy. Energetic. Working on new songs for his next album.”

“Right. Did he ever use any illegal drugs?”

“Never,” said Kit.

Everyone in the family nodded their agreement.

“Relationship with siblings?”

“He was an only child,” said Kit. “Both parents are dead.”

DePetro scratched the back of his head. “Well, I guess we're done for the moment. I'll need to talk to each one of you separately, but right now, let me thank you for your time. Oh, there is one more question I need to ask. You said that Jordan usually left the house around seven, Mr. Prior. Was that when he left this morning?”

“I was asleep,” mumbled Tommy.

“Anybody?” When nobody answered, he said, “Surely someone knows what time he left the house.”

“He didn't,” said Booker, his gaze sliding to his hands.

“Didn't what?”

“Didn't leave.”

“Of course he did.”

“What he meant to say,” said Chloe, examining the ring on her finger, “is that Dad didn't leave from here because he never came home last night.”

DePetro blinked. “He … didn't come home? Where was he?”

“We don't know,” said Booker. “He left in the speedboat around six thirty and never came back.”

“Does he do that a lot? Not tell anyone where he's going? Not come home at night?”

“No,” said Tommy.

If DePetro didn't see the handwriting on the wall before this, he did now. They were, as a group, stonewalling him.

“Nobody thought this was important information?” said DePetro, trying to keep a lid on his anger. “Why didn't you tell me this right away?”

Thankfully, thought Jane, nobody had the guts to quip, “Because you never asked.”

 

13

Before entering the Rhineland Grill later that afternoon, Booker paused by the reception desk to study his lunch date. Erin was seated across the room at a table by the windows, her arms wrapped tightly around her thin body. She held herself the same way she had yesterday, as if she were cold, in pain, or trying to hold something inside.

The more he saw of her, the more he realized how much less magical she was now—a faded version of the girl he'd once known. Somewhere along the way she'd figured out how to tame her wild curly hair, something he'd once thought impossible. It was shorter now. More trendy. Had the wildness in her soul been tamed, too? Because no matter how much he wanted to find the same fire in her eyes, it wasn't there. He wondered what had happened to those exciting, fierce, risky dreams she'd once talked about with such passion.

Her face had lost most of the fleshiness of youth, revealing an underlying bone structure he found even more appealing than the softness that had once driven him to distraction. More than anything, what struck him about her was her sadness. It didn't reveal itself in her expression, which she kept carefully neutral, but in the tight way she held her body. This assessment might be tinged with more than a hint of romanticism, though he didn't think he was wrong. He also figured that it might be something he wasn't supposed to notice. Something to do with her divorce.

On the drive up to King's Bay, Booker had begun to worry that she'd forgotten about their lunch date. Seeing her sitting at the table, patiently waiting for him, was what he needed to steady his nerves. Nowadays he wasn't used to being stood up, though around her, he sensed himself regressing. Remnants of the boy he'd once been were still clunking around inside him—the awkward, painfully self-conscious, depressed kid, raging at the flotilla of assholes who peopled his world, which included almost everyone he knew. The boy who was frightened to the point of inertia that he might never find a place to fit in and feel safe. A kid who hid behind bravado, but in reality had zero self-confidence, especially around the opposite sex. If you stirred all those elements together with a self-righteous, superior attitude, a reckless spirit, and a relentless libido, tossed in two bat wings and an eye of newt, you had the makings for an explosion of epic proportions. Were all boys ticking time bombs?

Booker had no desire to live in the past. He wasn't a kid anymore. Erin had once been the “unattainable.” Now she was having lunch with him. He calmed himself with such thoughts, even though he knew they were probably lies.

The police had been amenable to interviewing him before the rest of the family. Booker had pleaded his case, explaining that he had an important afternoon meeting, one he simply couldn't miss. If that made him appear cold and insufficiently distressed by his father's death, he didn't care. As expected, the interview had been an empty exercise. He played the game his mother had mandated. His lack of candor had annoyed DePetro, who'd already figured out that the family wasn't the open book they'd initially appeared to be, but with so many others to talk to, Booker's interrogation had been mercifully short. Chloe hadn't wanted him to leave, in fact had begged him to stay. Watching Erin open the menu and begin to study it, he decided that he'd made the right decision.

Pulling out a chair, Booker sat down, smiling and saying, “I wasn't sure you'd be here.”

She seemed puzzled by the comment. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Because I'm a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced jerk-off, he thought to himself. He'd taken more care with his clothes today. Gray Brooks Brothers wool suit over a black silk shirt, open at the collar. Erin was dressed more formally, too, in a slim navy-blue skirt and a kind of nautical-looking blouse—white, with navy-blue trim. He liked the retro look. It suited her.

“Anything sound good?” he asked.

“Soup, I think.”

“And bread and butter?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

He would have to tell her about his father, but not yet. Once the subject was brought up, it would become
the
focus of conversation. He was selfish. He wanted her all to himself for as long as possible. “You're different,” he said.

She blinked a couple of times, looking unsure. “We both are. I called Chloe, in case you're interested. Left her a voice message. So far, she hasn't called me back. I assumed she's either pissed at me for something I have no memory of, or you've all been busy with your family reunion. How's that going?”

“Has your family ever had a reunion?”

“My oldest sister and her husband live in South Africa. It's not likely.”

“You had a younger brother. A couple years younger than me.”

“Henry. He's a pharmacist. He's also gay, lives in Colorado with his boyfriend.”

“Your mom and dad still alive?”

“Both going strong. But we're not here to talk about our families, are we?”

“No? Why are we here?”

“Because you had this weird-ass crush on me in high school.”

Booker held her eyes. “Did I?”

“Didn't you?”

“If I denied it, would you believe me?”

That elicited a smile.

The waitress arrived to take their order.

“The beef and barley soup,” said Erin. “A bowl, not a cup.”

“I'll have the same,” said Booker. “And lots of bread and butter.”

“We have a fresh baguette,” said the waitress. “Or I can offer you our special: blueberry muffins.”

“Both,” they said, almost in unison.

“And coffee,” said Booker. “Black.”

“Same here,” said Erin.

After the waitress left, the silence between them turned awkward.

“What do we talk about now?” asked Erin.

“I suppose we can take this any direction we want.”

“And what do we want?”

He unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “Let's start with something simple. Tell me all your secrets. Don't leave anything out.”

She laughed at the absurdity.

A busboy walked up and set a bread basket between them. He placed the butter next to Booker.