“A doctor roadie,” said Baker. “What’s this person’s name?”
More fooling with the computer. “Alexander Delaware.”
“Another state of the union heard from,” said Lamar, cuffing Baker’s shoulder lightly. “Maybe he’s from The Nations.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” William was humorless. “He lists his address in Los Angeles. I can give you the zip code and his credit card information if you like.”
“Maybe later,” said Baker. “Right now, give us his room number.”
3
Room 413 was a short walk from the elevators, down a silent, plush hallway. The corridor was empty save for a few room-service trays left outside doors.
Nothing outside Dr. Alexander Delaware’s door.
Baker knocked lightly. Both detectives were surprised when a voice answered right away. “One second.”
Lamar checked his watch. It was close to six in the morning. “Guy’s up at this hour.”
Baker said, “Maybe he’s waiting for us so he can confess, Stretch. Wouldn’t that be nice and easy?”
Muffled footsteps sounded behind the door, then a blur washed across the peephole.
“Yes?” said the voice.
Baker said, “Police,” and placed his badge a few inches from the hole.
“Hold on.” A chain dropped. The doorknob rotated. Both detectives touched their weapons and stood clear of the door.
The man who opened was forty or so, good-looking, medium height, solidly built, with neatly cut dark curly hair and a pair of the lightest gray-blue eyes Lamar had ever seen. Wide eyes, so pale the irises were nearly invisible when they engaged you straight on. In the right light, that Orphan Annie thing. They were slightly red-rimmed. Boozing? Crying? Allergies brought on by Nashville ’s high pollen count? No sleep? Pick a reason.
“Dr. Delaware?”
“Yes.”
Lamar and Baker stated their names and Delaware offered his hand. Warm, firm shake. Each detective checked for fresh cuts, any evidence of a struggle. Nothing.
Delaware said, “What’s going on?” Soft voice, low-key, kind of boyish. “Is Jack okay?” He had a square jaw, a cleft chin, a Roman nose. Dressed for lounging around, in a black T-shirt, gray sweats, bare feet.
As Lamar peered past the guy, into the room, Baker had a second look at the hands: smooth, slightly oversized, with a faint spray of dark hair across the top. The nails of the left hand had been clipped short but those on the right grew just past the fingertips and were tapered to the right. Possibly a classical guitarist or some other type of fingerpicker. So maybe the second guitar was his.
No one had answered Delaware ’s question. The guy just stood there and waited.
Baker said, “Any reason Mr. Jeffries wouldn’t be okay?”
“It’s six in the morning and you’re here.”
“You’re up,” said Baker.
“Trouble sleeping,” said Delaware. “Jet lag.”
“When’d you get in, sir?”
“Jack and I got in at eleven yesterday morning and I made the mistake of taking a three-hour nap.”
“May we come in, sir?”
Delaware stepped aside. Frowning as he ushered them in.
Smallish, standard room, nothing fancy about it. A neat-freak, Lamar decided. No clothes in sight, every drawer and closet door shut. The only way you’d know the room was occupied was the guitar case near the bed, pillows propped up against the headboard and the comforter slightly mussed- indented where a body had reclined.
On the nightstand was an old-fashioned glass in which two ice cubes melted, a minibar-sized bottle of Chivas in the wastebasket. There was also a large-format magazine- American Lutherie.
Another music wannabe? Lamar waited for Baker’s reaction. Baker was impassive.
Lamar had a closer look at the mini-bottle. Empty. Doctor mellowing out from insomnia with a drink and a read? Or calming himself down?
He and Baker pulled up chairs and Dr. Alexander Delaware perched on the bed. They gave him the bad news straight out and he placed a palm to his cheek. “My God! That’s horrible. I’m…” His voice trailed off.
Baker said, “How about filling us in?”
“About what?”
“For starters, how about why Mr. Jeffries travels with a doctor.”
A deep sigh. “This is…you’ve got to give me a few minutes.”
Delaware went to the minibar and took out a can of orange juice. He drank it quickly. “I’m a psychologist, not a medical doctor. After a helicopter mishap several years ago, Jack developed a phobia of flying. I was treating him for it. Nashville was his first actual flight after the near crash and he asked me to accompany him.”
“Leave all your other patients and go with him,” said Baker.
“I’m semi-retired,” said Delaware.
“Semi-retired?” Baker said. “That would mean you work sometimes?”
“Mostly police work for LAPD. I’ve been consulting on and off for several years.”
“Profiling?” said Lamar.
“And other things.” Delaware smiled enigmatically. “Once in a while, I’m useful. How did Jack die?”
“That’s your whole practice?” said Baker. “Consulting for LAPD?”
“I also do court consults.”
Baker said, “You don’t see patients but you were treating Jack Jeffries.”
“I don’t see many long-term patients. Jack came to me through my girlfriend. She’s a luthier, has worked on Jack’s instruments for years. Awhile back, he mentioned to her that he’d been invited to sing at the Songbird Café for the First Amendment gathering, and was frustrated that his anxiety prevented him from going. He was open to treatment and my girlfriend asked me if I would see him. I was between projects, so I agreed.”
Lamar uncrossed and crossed his legs. “What do you do for that kinda thing?”
“There are lots of approaches. I used a combination of hypnosis, deep muscle relaxation and imagery- teaching Jack to retrain his thoughts and emotional responses to flying.”
“That include drugs?” said Baker.
Delaware shook his head. “Jack had engaged in decades of self-medication. My approach was to see how far we could get without medication, get him a backup prescription for Valium, if he needed it during the flight. He didn’t. He was really doing well.” He ran a hand through his curls. Tugged and let go. “I can’t believe- this is…grotesque!”
A solemn headshake, then he strode to the minibar and retrieved another can of orange juice. This time he spiked it with a bottle of Tanqueray. “Time for me to self-medicate. I know enough not to offer you any booze, but how about soft drinks?”
Both detectives declined.
Baker said, “So you were his hypnotist.”
“I used hypnosis along with other techniques. Jack invested serious money in a Jet Card as a way of encouraging himself to keep practicing. If the flights to and from Nashville went smoothly, the plan was for him to try another trip alone. The success he’d achieved so far- mastering his fear- was good for him. He told me he hadn’t accomplished much for years, so it felt especially good.”
“Sounds like he was depressed,” said Lamar.
“Not clinically,” said Delaware. “But yes, he’d reached an age, was looking inward.” He drank. “What else can I help you with?”
“How about an accounting of his- and your- movements from the time you arrived in Nashville?” said Baker.
Again, the pretty boy raked his curls and threw them a look with those pale, pale eyes. “Let’s see…we got in around eleven in the morning. We flew privately, which was a first for me. A limo was waiting for us- I believe the company was CSL- we got to the hotel around noon. I checked in for Jack because he wanted to smoke a cigarette and was concerned about being conspicuous.”
“Conspicuous, how?”
“The whole celebrity thing,” said Delaware. “Being mobbed in the lobby.”
“Did that happen?”
“A few people seemed to recognize him but it never got beyond looks and whispers.”