Читать книгу The Liar’s Lullaby - Meg Gardiner - Страница 9

TANG TURNED TO JO. “TASIA’S DEATH COULD BE AN ACCIDENT. COULD be suicide.”

“Could be murder?” Jo said. “Somebody may have just shot the president’s ex to death?”

Tang nodded.

Jo felt an electric tremor of excitement. “You want me to perform a psychological autopsy on Ms. McFarland?”

“This is going to be an alphabet soup investigation. SFPD, NTSB, DA’s office. Join the lineup. I want you to turn on your radar and cut through the clutter. Will you?”

Jo thought of reasons a fast-rising lieutenant might want the assistance of a forensic psychiatrist: ass covering, running up the score on the opposition, positioning a scapegoat to take the arrows. But Amy Tang had always played straight with her.

The cops called Jo when they could identify how a person had died—a fall, an overdose, a collision—but could not determine why. Jo investigated a victim’s state of mind, and retraced his final hours, to pinpoint whether he had tripped from the roof or jumped; overdosed on barbiturates accidentally or deliberately; stepped carelessly in front of the bus, or been pushed.

Some police officers dealt reluctantly with Jo, seeing her as a sorceress who cast bones to divine a victim’s fate. Some, like Tang, treated her as an investigative teammate who could uncover the emotional and psychological factors that led to victims’ deaths. Working with Tang was like holding a cactus-covered live grenade. But Tang cared about putting the good guys first, and bad guys behind bars. She didn’t play games.

“My sister could have been sliced in two by a helicopter blade. I will,” Jo said. “But I don’t want to end up in a meat slicer myself.”

“I want your perspective and insight. This will be a backstage role, not a star turn.”

“Did you know that when you lie, your cheek twitches?”

Tang huffed. “All right. This case has enough celebrity, politics, and carnage to feed the world. But you’ll be a consultant, not the lead investigator.”

“Great. Tell me about the case.”

“Tasia McFarland apparently bled to death when her carotid artery was severed at the jaw line by a forty-five caliber bullet.”

“Did she pull the trigger?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a hell of an admission.”

“It certainly is.” Tang’s shoulders tightened, as though somebody had turned a knob. “We need to slam the door on this case. You saw the media outside. The networks, cable, the BBC, Al Jazeera, Russia Today, and some camera crew from, I swear, the Garden Gnome Channel. And they all want to eat us for lunch.”

“Again, I refer you to the image of the meat slicer.”

“As thrill rides go, this’ll be cheaper than Disneyland.” Tang gazed at the field. “Fawn Tasia McFarland died in front of forty-one thousand witnesses. Cameras caught it from three angles. And we can’t see the shooting on any of them.”

The breeze swirled through the ballpark, blowing Jo’s curls around her face. “Who claims Tasia was murdered?”

Tang nodded at the shiny yellow tarp. “Tasia does.”

“TASIA LEFT A message,” Tang said.

“But not a suicide note. What did she say?” Jo said.

“I’ll get to that, but first let me explain how we got to this.” Tang nodded grimly at the yellow tarp on the baseball field. “She was supposed to slide down the zip line, singing the song from that action movie. Guns ‘n’ poses. All butch-and-big-hair, patriotism and sexual innuendo. She turned up with a real gun. A Colt forty-five.”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “Classic weapon. And a hell of a choice.”

“She liked big statements.”

“Was she known to carry?”

Tang shook her head. “No. I’ve spoken to her agent and manager, plus the tour manager and the concert promoter. Nobody had ever seen her with firearms. But she wasn’t the most reliable person—which we’ll also get to.”

High above the stands the American flag snapped in the wind, vivid under the stadium lights. Jo brushed her hair from her eyes.

“Ballistics?” she said.

“Don’t count on it. The shot was through and through. We haven’t found the round or the brass. We’re bringing in metal detectors, but I’m not hopeful.”

The field was churned to bits. The scene was hopelessly contaminated.

“How many cartridges were loaded?” Jo said.

“That’s part of the problem. After the fatal shot, the weapon fell into the crowd and a bunch of idiots fought for possession of it.”

Jo almost guffawed. It seemed preposterous, yet unsurprising.

“They grappled like bridesmaids fighting for the bouquet at a wedding. One guy finally got it and ran off, then had second thoughts about selling it online. He turned it over. Unloaded—says that’s the way he got it.”

“You’re sure it’s the weapon?” Jo said.

“There’s DNA on it. Of types I have no doubt will prove to come from the victim.”

Tang didn’t need to say blood, bone, brain matter. Her face said it for her.

“Tasia told the stunt coordinator the weapon was unloaded,” she said. “But he didn’t know if she was lying, teasing him, or serious. And the Colt’s capacity is seven-plus-one.”

Seven rounds in the cylinder plus one in the chamber. “You think she checked the cylinder but not the chamber—and actually believed the weapon was empty?”

“It’s possible. The gun’s twenty years old. The round that killed her could have been in there for decades. But without the bullet and the casing, we can’t tell.”

“You think it was an accident?” Jo said.

“You think it wasn’t?”

Jo stated it as clearly as she could. “Self-inflicted, contact gunshot wounds to the head are presumptive evidence of suicide.”

Tang grumbled. It was as close as she came to sighing.

But Jo knew the statistics. The majority of gunshot deaths in the United States were suicide. Almost as many were homicide. Only a small percentage were accidental.

“If a victim has a history of depression, the presumption of suicide is even stronger,” she said. “Did Tasia?”

“Yes.”

“But you think it was a prank? Stupidity?”

“It’s been known to happen. Brandon Lee died filming The Crow.”

“That was an accident. Unequivocally. Fatal error on the movie set. Nobody noticed that a bullet had jammed in the barrel of the gun. When the weapon was reloaded with blanks and fired again, the jammed round discharged and hit Lee in the chest.”

“That actor on a Hollywood TV set shot himself with blanks.”

“Jon-Erik Hexum. Also unequivocally an accident. Hexum didn’t realize that blanks can discharge with enough force to kill. He put a stunt gun to his temple, apparently as a joke, and pulled the trigger.” Jo stuck her hands in her pockets. “On the other hand, there’ve been televised suicides. A reporter in Florida sat down at the news desk, made a crack about bringing viewers blood and guts in living color, put a revolver to her head, and fired.”

Tang’s mouth pursed. “Never challenge a forensic shrink on death trivia.”

“I’ll take Onstage Fatalities for two thousand, Alex.”

Tang looked like she had a burr under her shirt. “We’re checking whether Tasia purchased ammunition recently.”

“What’s gnawing at you?”

“The wing nuts are out there, the political banshees, and you can bet they’re getting ready to fly. I need to shut down any talk that dark forces are at work here.”

My superiors want me to shut it down was the undertone.

“You’re talking about murder,” Jo said.

“If somebody killed Tasia, I need to know it. And to know if her death is a fuse that’s been lit.”

Jo’s hair blew across her face. “You’d better tell me about the message she left.”

“It’s a recording. It’s her playing two songs she wrote last night. Plus a rambling statement, saying, ‘Publish this in the event of my assassination.’”

“She used that word?”

“Hear for yourself.”

Tang took an audio player from her pocket. “The tracks are called ‘After Me’ and ‘The Liar’s Lullaby.’ She left it for her boyfriend.”

They each put in an earbud and Tang pushed Play. Jo heard a piano, spare and melancholy, and Tasia McFarland’s shimmering soprano.

“After me, what’ll you do?”

The melody was mournful, Tasia’s voice bright and riven with cracks. She hit a hard minor chord and let it fade. Then she spoke.

“I’m in danger of being silenced. If that happens, I won’t be the last.”

Her speaking voice was bold, ringing, and rushed. “Searle, my love, my baby boy, Mister Blue Eyes with the silver tongue, listen close. Turn your ear, turn your heart, turn your head. Because I might not make it.”

Jo glanced at Tang. “Lecroix?”

Tang nodded.

“Things have gone haywire,” Tasia said. “I can’t tell you more than that. Telling you more would kill me. But if I die, it means the countdown’s on.”

A chill inched up Jo’s neck. She glanced at the tarp on the field.

“It means time’s running out like a train headed for a wreck. My death will be the evidence.” Tasia inhaled, like a swimmer coming up for air before plowing on. “I was confused, but not anymore. I thought I got away without being followed. But they’re after me. Robert McFarland makes that inevitable.” She paused. “Publish this in the event of my assassination.”

She played a heavy chord on the piano, and began to sing.

You say you love our land, you liar Who dreams its end in blood and fire Said you wanted me to be your choir Help you build the funeral pyre.

The chill crept across Jo’s shoulders.

But Robby T is not the One

All that’s needed is the gun

Load the weapon, call his name

Unlock the door, he dies in shame.

The melody changed up and went into the refrain.

Look and see the way it ends

Who’s the liar, where’s the game

Love and death, it’s all the same

Liar’s words all end in pain.

Tang stopped the playback. “There’s another verse, but you get the gist.”

“That’s the creepiest song I’ve ever heard.”

They stood above the field, silent under the harsh lights and the wind.

“ ‘They,’” Jo said.

“Unfortunately. And no, I don’t know whether it was just a paranoid rant.”

“Did she have a psych history?”

“Manic-depression. But that’s not my point.”

“She was bipolar? That’s huge. It’s—”

Tang raised a hand. “It’s not my point.”

Jo thought about it. “If she genuinely feared for her life and brought the gun for self-protection, it argues against an intent to commit suicide.”

“The stuntman claims she said, ‘He’s out there,’ and ‘It’s life or death.’ Maybe she was acting. Maybe she was delusional. But maybe not.”

“Are you suggesting somebody really wanted her dead? Why—because she was once married to Robert McFarland?”

Tang turned to her. “Will you perform the psychological autopsy? Are you in?”

“You bet I’m in.”

“Good. I need you to find out why Tasia McFarland was carrying a pistol that, according to California firearms records, is registered to the commander in chief of the United States.”