Shades of Blue

by Bill Moody

  Rollins shakes his head. “Nothing has changed with you either. Still the smart ass jazz musician.” He rolls his own window down and waves his hand at the nonexistent smoke.

  I first met Ted Rollins when some looney tune started knocking off smooth jazz musicians and leaving jazz related clues at the crime scenes. When the killer had struck in Santa Monica, Danny Cooper’s territory. I agreed to help, but only as an observer, and only because it was Coop asking to help the FBI. So I did.

  My involvement had gotten deeper with subsequent murders and that’s when I’d met Ted Rollins, as well as Wendell Cook and Andie Lawrence.

  Rollins felt I was a waste of time. The FBI didn’t need a musician in the mix, he’d argued, but he’d been overruled and then acted like it was my doing. I helped Andie work up a profile and we spent more time together. Then, when the killer actually contacted me, the FBI made me a conduit. It had been a terrifying experience and Rollins had made it worse with his constant harassing that increased when Andie and I hit it off so well. Rollins had a thing for her, I realized, and he saw me as both a threat and a nuisance.

  It had turned out well, all things considered, but Rollins never got over it and I can see now, he’s in the same mode, loving the control, making me ask for information, like he’s in charge.

  I think about all this and finish my cigarette, flipping it out the window on the I-880 freeway under Rollins’ disapproving gaze. “Hey, I didn’t want to get your FBI ashtray dirty,” I say. Rolling up the window, I turn slightly facing him. “What did happen?”

  Rollins is silent for a moment, gauging I suppose, how much to tell me but probably realizing Andie will tell me everything eventually. “You knew about her being on this bank detail, right?”

  “Yes, but believe it or not, she doesn’t talk much about her assignments.”

  Rollins nods. “Yeah, she’s a good agent.” He changes lanes, following the signs for San Francisco and heads for the Bay Bridge maze. “I don’t know the whole story, but the bureau has had these two guys under surveillance for some time. We knew they were getting ready to roll on one and this morning they did. We let them in the bank and started to move in when one panicked, spotted a car or something. I’m not sure.”

  “Andie was one of the first ones moving in as one of them came out of the bank with a shotgun. He opened fire immediately, hit Andie but, she caught him on the way down and the rest of us moved in.”

  “Jesus.” I watched the traffic, trying to visualize the scene.

  “She was lucky, far enough away so the blast only caught her in the leg. Lot of blood, looked worse than it was.”

  “They get both guys?”

  “Yes, we got them. The other guy just threw himself down on his stomach and yelled at us not to shoot him. Nobody in the bank was hurt either so it was a good show.”

  I look at Rollins. “A good show?” He just nods, as we snake through the maze toward the toll booth and finally get through and onto The Bay Bridge. The traffic in the city is not quite so bad and we make it to the hospital in less than the forty minutes Rollins estimated.

  At the admitting desk, Rollins flashes his badge and we’re directed up to the third floor where a nurse tells us Andie is in recovery and wants to know who I am, if I’m a relative.

  “We live together,” I tell her, noticing Rollins almost flinch.

  The nurse nods. “You can see her briefly in about an hour. I think the doctor is still around if you want to talk to him.”

  “Yes, I would. Thanks.” She picks up the phone and dials. “I’ll see if I can get him.”

  Rollins turns to me and hands me a ring of keys. “We brought her car here,” he says. “I got things to do.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” Rollins turns and heads back for the elevator. I turn to the nurse. “Where is the cafeteria?”

  “Basement. Coffee is terrible but it’s hot,” she laughs. “Doctor Muckle is already there. Dark curly hair with a white patch. Can’t miss him.”

  “Thanks.”

  I share the elevator with an orderly and patient on a gurney headed for surgery and find my way to the cafeteria. Grabbing a sandwich and large coffee, I scan the cafeteria and find Dr. Muckle at a corner table, eating soup and crackers.

  “Excuse me, doctor. I’m Evan Horne. You just operated on the FBI agent with the gunshot wound.”

  He looks up. “Yes.”

  “We’re not married but I guess I’m the closest thing to next of kin. We live together.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, sit down, please.”

  I sit down and unwrap my sandwich and add cream and sugar to my coffee as Dr. Muckle finishes his soup. “The wound was largely superficial,” he says, pushing the bowl aside. “Some blood loss but she’ll be fine with plenty of rest. She’s a lucky young woman. The shot wasn’t a direct hit.” He shakes his head and frowns. “In broad daylight, right in San Francisco. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

  I just nod, imagining the scene, Andie on the ground, bleeding, waiting for paramedics.

  “I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you,” he says. “Couple of prescriptions to fill for pain and see she takes it easy.”

  “I will. Thank you, doctor.” I get up and take my coffee, go up to the lobby, through the main entrance and outside. I find a space on a concrete wall in the circular driveway. There are several nurses and doctors in scrubs drinking coffee, talking and smoking. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel so bad when I light up in front of a hospital.

  I get about half the sandwich down when my cell phone rings.

  “Evan? It’s Dana.”

  “What’s up,” I say, more sharply than I intended.

  “I just wanted to make sure you got back okay. Is something wrong? You sound funny.”

  “Sorry, little chaotic here. Andie was shot this morning during a bank robbery attempt she was working on.”

  “Oh my God, is she okay?”

  A couple of the nurses turn and look at me. I walk a few feet away. “Yeah, I think so. I haven’t seen her yet. She’s in recovery now.”

  “Well that’s good. The other reason I called is that developer guy that was here, Brent Sergent, called me, wanted to know about the house. I told him it was your business, I’m just a tenant and—”

  “Are you serious? I told him I would call him. Look if he calls again or comes by just refer him to me. Don’t let him in the house. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Oh I will. Don’t worry. He’s kind of creepy. Asked me to lunch to talk about it.”

  “Don’t go. How’s Milton?”

  “He’s fine, but I think he misses you. He kind of wanders from room to room, looking. I’m sure he wonders where Cal is.”

  “He’ll get over it. Listen, I have to go but I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Sure. I hope Andie is okay.”

  “Thanks, Dana. Bye.” I press the off button and pace around for a minute thinking about Brent Sergent. Then I dial Coop’s work number and get transferred to his office.

  “Coop, it’s Evan.”

  “I was just going to call you,” he says, “maybe have dinner, tonight?”

  “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I got a standby flight. I’m already back in San Francisco.”

  “Ah, quick getaway.”

  “Yeah, well I walked into it here.” I tell him about Andie and the bank robbery.

  “Hmm, sounds like she was lucky,” he says with typical cop coolness.

  “I haven’t seen her but it sounds that way. But that’s not why I called. Dana just called me. A developer came by yesterday, making an outrageous offer on Cal’s house. I told him no and not to call or come by again, but he called Dana, hit on her about it.”

  “Uh huh. And?”

  “He’s from a company called, Erwin, McCullough, and Bowers. Know anything about them? Brent Sergent is this guy’s name?”

  “I’ve seen their billb
oards around town. They have offices in Santa Monica too.” He pauses a moment. “There was something about them in the paper fairly recently, but I can’t remember now what it was.”

  “Can you run it down for me? I’d like to put some heat on this guy.”

  “Well begging you to take money and calling Dana isn’t exactly a crime.”

  “I know. I’d just like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up. My best to Andie.”

  “Thanks, Coop.”

  ***

  Leaning over Andie’s bed, I kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes flutter for a moment then she focuses on me. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.” She manages a weak smile. “I’m so sleepy.”

  “Got you drugged up huh?”

  “Yeah but I’m not complaining.” She smiles again. “Did somebody pick you up?”

  “Yes, my old buddy Ted Rollins.”

  “Oh God, I bet you enjoyed that.” She shifts in the bed and pulls the covers back. Her left thigh is swathed in bandages. “Nice huh?”

  “Doc says you were lucky.” Her eyes close briefly then open again.

  “What? I’m sorry I can’t stay awake.”

  “That’s okay, you need the rest. Look I’m going to run down to Monte Rio, pick up some things and I’ll be back this evening okay? You need anything? They say they’re going to keep you for a couple of days.”

  “Yes, I—” Her eyes close again.

  On the way out, I pass the nurse and tell her when Andie wakes to tell her I’ll be back later this evening and write down my cell phone for her.

  “She’ll be out awhile,” the nurse says. “You go do something.”

  I find Andie’s car in the parking lot after a lengthy search, having forgotten to ask Rollins where it was parked. It’s another tan Ford Taurus sedan. I gas it up and head for the Golden Gate Bridge and the long haul up 101 to River Road, thinking more about Andie, Brent Sergent, and everything I’d covered in L.A.

  By the time I make the River Road turnoff for Guerneville, it’s dark, but at least there’s no traffic as I cruise through Guerneville and continue another four miles to Monte Rio. The post office is already closed so no chance to pick up any mail. I cross the little bridge to Bohemian Avenue and turn into my place.

  Inside it’s stuffy from being closed up for a week, so I go around opening windows and airing it out. I put on some music, Keith Jarrett’s Kolon Concert, and rummage around in the fridge for something to eat, but decide in the end to get some Chinese takeout from a place a couple of blocks away.

  I eat and watch the news, smiling as I pick the peas out of the fried rice. It makes me think of Dana and I decide to call her later.

  I get up, stretch, and go out on the deck for some air before I call the hospital. The nurse on Andie’s floor tells me she’s been given more sedatives. “She said to tell you not to bother tonight,” the nurse says. “She’s had enough visitors today already.”

  “Oh, who was there?”

  “Mr. big shot FBI man. Rollins, I think he said his name was. He’s a bit annoying.”

  I laugh. “I know what you mean. Please tell her I called and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Will do.”

  I make some coffee and take the phone out on the deck to call Dana.

  “Hey, it’s Evan,” I say when she answers.

  “Hi. What a nice surprise. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I saw Andie. She’s knocked out with drugs now.” I sketch in what Rollins told me about the shooting, the bank robbery attempt, and Andie’s scheduled recuperation.

  “Wow, your girlfriend leads a dangerous life.”

  “Yeah, I guess she does. So what are you up to?”

  “Trying to make some headway on the thesis. I’ve been looking at this computer screen for twenty minutes and only typed two words. It’s not going well.”

  “No, how come?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just…distracted I guess.”

  “How so?”

  “Well this has been quite week for me. Getting my own place, getting a dog now, and,” she pauses a moment, “meeting you.”

  “Dana–”

  “No, don’t say anything. Just let me, I don’t know, absorb things, okay?”

  I laugh. “Okay. I’ll let you get back to your thesis.”

  “Evan, can we just talk awhile?”

  “Sure.” I hear some clicking sound.

  “There,” she says. “That’s better. I just shut down my laptop.”

  We talk about everything. Music, grad school, her thesis, old boyfriends and girlfriends, and of course, Cal. But I realize she knows much more about me than I do about her. Forty minutes goes by before I hang up the phone.

  I sit in the darkness a long time, smoking, thinking, drinking coffee, listening to the sounds of the night, wishing I could just stay here. I’ve gone from Venice Beach to Amsterdam and now to a redwood forest on the Russian River.

  What’s next?

  ***

  When I check my box at the little post office just off the Northwood golf course, there’s nothing much in the way of mail. I get back home, pack a bag for the stay at Andie’s. I’m almost out the door when Coop calls.

  “Hey, Sport, I got little info on your developer friends.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Erwin, McCullough, and Bowers are a big high pressure outfit. Shopping malls, condos, planned communities, that kind of thing. They’re not exactly paragons of virtue though. There was an incident a few months back where some construction workers and a couple of unions picketed one of their job sites, claiming unfair practices, cutting corners on building materials, that kind of thing. They were even taken to court but nothing was ever proven.”

  “How about this guy Sergent? Anything on him.”

  “No, no record, seems to be clean but probably caught up in the business. You’re best bet is to forget them,” Coop says.

  “I plan to, but I don’t want him harassing Dana anymore.”

  “Let me know and then we can pay him a little visit. If it gets out of hand, she could file against him. Just curious, but how much did he offer?”

  When I tell Coop, he just whistles. “They must want it bad. You know best. Well I gotta scoot. How’s Andie?”

  “She’s doing okay. Bringing her home today. Thanks for the help, Coop.”

  I lock up and head for the car and throw my bag in the back seat. I have to push a box of files aside and wonder if they have to do with the bank case. I’m too curious not to look, but when I do, I see there’s nothing about bank robbers.

  The whole box is about what the FBI called the “Bird Lives!” killer.

  One of the folders has my name on it.

  ***

  I get to the hospital a little after noon. In Andie’s room, I find her already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, impatient to leave.

  “Thank God,” she says. “I hate hospitals, especially when I’m the patient.”

  “All signed out?”

  “Yes, just have to let them know I’m ready to leave.” She reaches for the call button and the nurse arrives shortly. She fusses over Andie for a minute then turns to me.

  “If you’d like to bring your car around, I’ll arrange the wheel chair to bring her downstairs.”

  “Okay. See you in a minute,” I say to Andie, and take off for the elevator. I pull the car around to the entrance and Andie is already there with an orderly, his hands on the chair handles. I have to lift her in the front seat. She settles in and I stow the crutch she’s been given in the back.

  She glances over her shoulder, sees the box of files. “I forgot I had those. I have to get them back to the office sometime.” Her eyes meet mine for a moment then she looks away. “Maybe you better put them in the trunk.”

  I nod, take the box out and open the trunk, then I get in and start the car. “Well, don’t worry abou
t it now. Something you were working on? We can stop and I can drop them for you.”

  “No,” she says quickly. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Secret stuff huh?” I pull out of the drive.

  “No, but you can’t just drop off FBI files at the bureau for me.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Andie leans her head back on the seat and closes her eyes, doesn’t say anything for several minutes as we slug through the traffic heading to 19th Avenue.

  “Andie.”

  “Yes.”

  “I looked.”

  She doesn’t open her eyes but says, “Is that why you were late?”

  “Yes.” I turn on to 19th Ave and seem to catch every red light till we get to I-280.

  She sighs, opens her eyes and sits up. “I was going to tell you.”

  “When?”

  Most of my file had to do with the background check the FBI did on me. There were two short reports on Natalie Beamer, Gene Sherman, and Jeff Powell, my drummer and bass player at the time of the case. There was nothing on Calvin Hughes.

  “I thought you ran a check on Calvin too. I remember a couple of his friends calling, telling him they’d been questioned.” Andie says nothing, just stares through the window.

  “C’mon, Andie. What gives?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. She turns her head and looks at me. “Really, I don’t know, Evan. Ted Rollins did the follow up on Hughes.”

  “Shouldn’t the file be in that box with everything else?”

  “Yes it should,” she says. “That’s why I brought the box home. I was hoping to find out before you got back.” She sighs and shifts in the seat. “I didn’t plan on getting shot, you know.”

  We crawl past San Francisco State University, crossing the BART tracks, and finally break though to the 280 south toward San Jose.

  “Did you ask Rollins last night? The nurse said he had been there again when I called.”

  “No, it was just more questions about the robbery attempt and the shooting.”

  I nod and move into the center lane, merging with the faster traffic. “If you don’t ask Rollins, I will, Andie. I mean it.”

  She waves her hand in the air. “No, no, I’ll do it but I told you there wasn’t anything much anyway. At least not the kind of thing you’re looking for.”