Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 5

While San Diego police attempted to determine how Argus intruded on the facilitys closed-circuit sound system, what I wanted to know was where Justin Peterson spent the evening. If he wasnt 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. "Ive dealt with those Hollywood people," he said with a sideways grimace. "They arent easy to get along with."

"Bet that kid doesnt get many votes for Miss Congeniality," I agreed. "But I cant blame her for being upset."

"Maybe, but it sure sounds to me like theyre going after the wrong guy," Herald said. He handed me his report with the information Id asked for, doc.u.menting Heralds whereabouts on the evening Ca.s.sidy 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 didnt 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 wasnt anywhere near Las Vegas."

"Okay," I said. "What about last night?"

"Ill check," he said. With that Herald picked up his telephone and dialed, talked to someone briefly, then hung up. "That was Petersons 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 youre right. The Collins folks are targeting the wrong guy."

"Unless the guy can teleport," Herald said, with a rueful grin. "For what its worth, his prof says Peterson hasnt missed a work session since his hospitalization and appears to be doing well on his medication. Maybe its a California stalker Mr. Barron ought to be looking for instead of a Texas one."

"Could be," I agreed. "Id like to visit with Mr. Peterson anyway, just to be sure."

"Is that really necessary?" Herald objected. "Obviously, hes 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, Im told. We competed against dozens of other universities to get him."

You dont need much interaction with campus police to know that most want everything that happens kept hush-hush. When possible, Ive accommodated them. This wouldnt be one of those times. "Its necessary," I said. "I want him to know hes under suspicion, just in case hes playing some kind of game."

"If you say so, Lieutenant," Herald reluctantly agreed. "I guess Mr. Peterson is probably in the piano lab. If hes not there, well try his apartment."

We drove in Heralds squad through the campus, as close to an Ivy League school as Texas has to offer. The same architect whod designed Notre Dame and West Point drew up the plans for the campuss 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 gra.s.s. I followed Herald through the Shepherd School of Musics 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 didnt fit my image of a cla.s.sical pianist. Looking older than his twenty-one years, he had a coa.r.s.e, 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 didnt react.

"Mr. Peterson," I said. "Forgive us for interrupting, but Id like to introduce myself. Im 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, Petersons 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 hed 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, Im hard at work. Its wonderful to be able to concentrate on my work."

"Have we met before, Mr. Peterson?" I asked, shaking his strong hand.

"No, I didnt mean to suggest that," he said, rising. "I recognize you from last years 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. Heralds 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 protege and transported him to national and later international compet.i.tions, where Peterson ama.s.sed 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 scholars.h.i.+p.

"I see," I said. "Do you know why Im here today, to see you?"

"Id like to think its 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 Ca.s.sidy Collins," he said, matter-of-factly. "Id hoped that Id eased everyones 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 wont mind?"

"No problem," Peterson said. Rather than bothered with our inquiry, he appeared pleased, which I found rather confusing. Folks arent usually all that delighted when I knock on their doors in an official capacity. "Ask whatever youd like, Lieutenant. If I can help, Im happy to."

"Where were you last night, Mr. Peterson, around ten oclock?"

"Thats 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 wasnt 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 havent had the urge to write her since. I trust youre 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 didnt trust. Still, I had no reason to believe Peterson was Argus. In fact, unless he had not only musical but magical talents, Peterson couldnt have been the man we were looking for. The kid wasnt in Las Vegas a week earlier, and he wasnt in San Diego the previous night. That didnt 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 youre being questioned by two police officers, Id like to continue this conversation in your apartment, where its more private. Sergeant Heralds car is right outside. Why dont we drive there together?"

Peterson smiled that same unnervingly friendly grin.

"Thats nice of you to be concerned, but its not necessary," he said, softly. "Theres no one here but us. And if someone stumbles upon us talking, its not a problem. My doctoral advisor understands that I had a breakdown and that Im better now. Theres 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 youd accommodate me."

To my disappointment, Herald spoke up. "I dont think we need to do that, Lieutenant," he objected. "Mr. Petersons working, and we have enough, dont we? We know he wasnt in Las Vegas or San Diego."

I a.s.sessed the sergeant out of the corner of my eye, annoyed. "There are some things Id 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 youre working with us on this matter."

Briefly quiet, as if considering my request, before long Peterson shook his head. "No. As the sergeant said, Im working," Peterson said, holding out his hand to shake mine. "But I thank you for stopping by to meet me. Its always interesting to meet someone who has made front-page headlines. Thats quite a feat, dont 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. Hed 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 wasnt 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. Thats what all the experts tell me," Barron said.

"If thats true, hes not Argus. But just to be sure, where is Ms. Collins playing next?"

"Why?"

"Im going to have Mr. Peterson under surveillance," I said. "Just in case he has a Lear jet parked somewhere we dont know about."

"Like we talked about, this coming Sat.u.r.day 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 youre saying about Peterson, but coming anywhere near Texas has Ca.s.sidy freaked."

Ten.

The waiting room at Dr. Senka Dorins office was small and cramped, and the door resolutely shut with a yellow in session: do not disturb sign hanging from the k.n.o.b. 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. "Youll 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. "Ill see you for your appointment next Wednesday."

The blonde grabbed Dr. Dorins hand and eagerly pumped it. "I cant tell you how wonderful it is to finally find someone who can help," she said. "Ive 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, youll 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 c.o.x 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 nuns-habit black, but half an inch of stark white roots trimmed the center part. "Are you here to make an appointment?" she asked. "I dont have anything available until the end of next week, but Im sure we can work something out then, if youd 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 b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt. 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.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, sounding decidedly less friendly.

"Im investigating the death of Elizabeth c.o.x," I said. "Her sister, Faith Roberts, tells me that Billie was coming to you for counseling."

"Ah," she said. Apparently my response eased her fears, as Dorins smile quickly returned. "Im glad to hear someone is taking Faith seriously and looking into Billies death. Ive never believed that she took her own life. Come in my office, and tell me how I can help you. I have forty-five minutes before my next patient."

"So you see, there was no reason for Billie to have fired that bullet," Dr. Dorin concluded, stirring green tea growing cold in her pink-flowered china cup. The room looked more like a quaint English parlor than a therapists office. Rather than a couch, Dorin had an overstuffed recliner for her patients, one I was cuddled up in with a similar nearly empty cup of tea balanced on the arm. On the table beside me was a half-eaten slice of poppy seed bread. It was good, but I was still thinking about that barbecue sandwich.

"Would you like more tea?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you."

For the previous half-hour, Dr. Dorin had described her sessions with Billie c.o.x, explaining what she knew about the dead woman. Yes, she said, there had been an affair with a married man, but c.o.x never revealed the mans name, only that he was married to someone close to Billie, an old friend Dorin thought, which made the liaison risky.

"The man didnt end it. Billie told her lover it was over," Dorin insisted. "Through our work here, she came to understand that in her many past lives she habitually chose the wrong mate, and that she was doing it again. This time, in this life, she said she wanted to wait for a true match."

As Dorin explained it, we all have multiple lives. Each time we die, we are reincarnated and come back to work out our failures from our previous lives. Throughout time, we are surrounded by the same souls only in different bodies. Our brother may have been our husband in another life, and our mother might have once been our son or our sister. "Were all branches on the same tree," she said. "And each of us has a single person we are meant to be joined to for eternity, a partner were intended to spend the hereafter with."

The ident.i.ty of that soul mate isnt always apparent, she said. Billie c.o.x, through hypnosis, had traveled back in time to discover that in previous lives, including one as an Indian warrior and another in the 1700s as a daughter of a wealthy Swiss s.h.i.+pbuilder, she had made bad choices. "We discovered that Billie consistently chose someone convenient rather than waiting for a mate with whom she had a real bond," said Dorin. "Through our work here, Billie made the decision not to repeat that mistake in this life. She broke off her relations.h.i.+p with the married man and, at our last meeting, sounded determined to wait to find the one person she truly loved."

Dorin, who had a doctorate in psychology from Ohio State on the wall, explained what she called "the process," a journey under hypnosis into the dark recesses of our beings, where we keep the knowledge of previous lives. In sessions, she took patients first into their childhoods, then further back, into their mothers wombs. From there, they traveled to a place of peace and solitude, where souls wait between lives. Through the wombs of their mothers, these souls were reborn again and again in new bodies.

The therapist refilled my cup and offered sugar and lemon, as she rattled on about past lives and souls traveling through time. I like to think Im pretty open-minded, but despite Dorins apparent enthusiasm for her work, all I could think of was that it made about as much sense as folks who bring snakes to church, believing if theyre holy enough G.o.d wont let the fork-tongued reptiles bite them. Heck, theyre snakes. Theyre genetically engineered to bite humans. Its even in the Bible. Reincarnation? It sounded like self-delusion, about as possible as Billie c.o.xs ghost turning on ceiling fans and computers. When you thought about it, how did c.o.x know that under hypnosis her subconscious didnt replay old movies shed watched about Indians and a Swiss s.h.i.+pbuilder? In my opinion, there could be lots of reasons folks under hypnosis saw themselves living in teepees or wearing hoop skirts.

I thought I had on my best poker face, but Dr. Dorin shook her head, frowned, and said, "You dont believe a word of this, do you?"

"No," I said. "But thats not important. Whats important was whether or not Billie c.o.x believed it."

"She did," Dr. Dorin said. "Absolutely."

"And you cant tell me anything about this man, the one she had the affair with?"

"Just that hes married to someone close to Billie, and that he was furious over the breakup."

When I left Dorins offices, a pale-skinned, balding man in his forties wearing a business suit was seated on the waiting room couch. As I pushed the elevator b.u.t.ton, I wondered what hed been in previous lives. My guess was that most folks opted for something glamorous, not a fishmonger but Henry VIII or Cochise. I figured if I got to pick, it would probably be Sherlock Holmes. Rangers dont get to have partners. Most of the time, we work alone. Ive always thought it would be comforting to have a Dr. Watson.

As I walked through the parking lot to my car, my cell phone rang, and it appeared I might be getting my wish.

"Lieutenant Armstrong," Janet said. "Weve had a hitch in the subpoenas for the Collins case, the ones I wrote to get records on the e-mail accounts Argus uses."

"What kind of a hitch?" I asked.

"Jurisdictional," she said. "Unless we can prove Argus is operating out of Texas, the district attorneys office tells me that we dont have jurisdiction to subpoena the Internet information."

"Now, that complicates matters," I said. "Have you talked to the captain? Did he have a suggestion?"

"I did, and I think hes already solved it," Janet said. I wondered why she hadnt said that up front, but then I knew. I wasnt sure how I felt about the news when Janet said, "The captain decided to get the FBI involved, figuring they have methods of getting at the information. He called the Houston office, and Agent David Garrity is on his way over. h.e.l.l meet you here, at the office, to discuss the situation at two oclock."

Eleven.

Id left my hairbrush somewhere, probably at home or the office. It wasnt in the Tahoe or my purse. Squinting into the visor mirror, I ran my fingers through my frizzy mane a couple dozen times. My only tube of lipstick was used flat down, but I sc.r.a.ped it over my lips and turned them a faint but somewhat alluring Sunset Mauve. Then, driving to the office, I felt ridiculous for fussing for David Garrity. After all, where had he been? I hadnt seen him since the end of the Lucas case. That wasnt totally true. Hed called a couple of times, wanted to get together, but at that point things were still rocky at home, especially with Maggie. I thought David would hang in there, give us a little time to repair. I thought he and I had something, maybe it was too early to define what exactly, but something. Instead he just stopped calling. It was disappointing. I hadnt pegged David for a quitter.

So instead of rus.h.i.+ng back to the office, I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint where the ceiling was cured black from decades of grease and smoke. The tables were battered, the chairs rocky, and the only napkins torn from paper towel rolls. Famished, I ordered a chopped beef sandwich smothered in barbecue sauce, and when it came on a sheet of butcher paper, I lovingly cradled it in my hands to the self-serve counter, where I ladled on pickles and chopped onions.

Why not? I thought.

Seated at the table, I wished Id taken the sliced onions. They would have been easier to ditch, once I reconsidered greeting David with dragon breath. After inhaling lunch, I thought about stopping at a drugstore for more lipstick. But by then I was running late, so I took a clean paper towel to the womens room. In front of the chipped mirror, I used the paper towel to scoop out the remains from the base of the tube, dabbed the little I scored on my chapped lips, and rubbed it on with my finger. My reflection stared back at me unimpressed. It wasnt great, but I looked pa.s.sable. Considering the potential benefits of base and mascara, I thought, Tomorrow, Im buying real makeup, along with new shampoo and conditioner.

A little while later, at ten minutes after two, I walked into the captains office, where the walls and bookshelves were covered with ranger memorabilia, old badges, patches, books, and vintage photos from the Wild West days. Leaning back in his oak desk chair, Captain Williams was talking to David. As soon as the captain saw me, he grinned, I thought perhaps a bit mischievously. "Sarah, look whos riding to your rescue again," he said. "I made one call, and Agent Garrity came right over."