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.”
You can take my cash, but if you won’t shake my hand, I’ll light a fire up your ass…
THE MUSIC RAGED THROUGH THE PARKED TRUCK. IVORY TURNED IT UP. “You tell it, Searle.”
The man sang about the hardest life around, Ivory thought—being a white American. Work yourself into the grave, while the government confiscates your wages and an ungrateful world demands handouts or tries to blow you up.
She stared across the street at the ballpark. “It’s time to launch a rocket up somebody’s crack.”
Behind the wheel, Keyes chewed on a toothpick. “Unbunch your panties.”
“Searle Lecroix’s woman just got shot down like a dog. Two choppers got