Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  Fade to Blue

  Fade to Blue

  An Evan Horne Mystery

  Bill Moody

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2011 by Bill Moody

  First Edition 2011

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2010942102

  ISBN-13 Print: 9781590588949 Hardcover

  ISBN-13 Print: 9781590588953 Trade Paperback

  ISBN-13 eBook: 9781615952939

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Poisoned Pen Press

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  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

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  Dedication

  For Emily, who has made all the difference.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Four Bar Intro

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Coda

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to three good friends. Captain Tom Mapes retired, Santa Monica Police for his expertise with law enforcement. Composer and arranger Reg Powell for insight into composing music for film, and Fred Caruso for an informed look behind the scenes in moviemaking. and the politics of Hollywood.

  Four Bar Intro

  I’m at Ruth Price’s Jazz Bakery in Culver City, California and this time not as a sub for Monty Alexander or anyone else. This is my own gig. Three nights, my old friends Buster Browne on bass and Gene Sherman on drums. The first night has gone all too quickly.

  I glance at my watch and turn toward them. One more tune will do it. “Pretty Eyes,” I say. Buster nods and wipes down the fret board on his bass with a cloth as Gene pulls out his brushes.

  I look down at the keyboard for a moment then lean in toward the microphone. “We’re going to close out this evening with a beautiful waltz by Horace Silver called ‘Pretty Eyes’.” I see Andie in the front row reach over and squeeze Coop’s arm and smile as I count off the tempo.

  Gene’s brushes smooth us in as Buster’s bass line sets up the vamp for the theme. We glide through the changes in the concert hall quiet of this no-drinks-served atmosphere, gradually building in intensity through four choruses. Buster takes over for two more, managing some free-like lines but never losing the feel and pulse of the tempo. We ease back into the theme that had once been used as a jingle for the soft drink Tab. That always makes me smile.

  The applause is generous as we finish the set. Ruth Price comes up and takes the mike. “Let’s hear it once again for the Evan Horne Trio. They’ll be back for two more nights.”

  The Los Angeles Times had done a short piece for our opening, which might partially account for the good crowd. But the article once again mentioned that I was not only a jazz pianist, but also a sometime-detective. I’m used to it now so I just accept it. It’s publicity and that puts more people in the seats, and that makes Ruth Price happy.

  The house lights come up as I gather my music and the guys start packing up. Ruth turns to me and hands me a business card. “This guy wants to see you,” she says.

  I glance at the card. Grant Robbins Creative Talent, it says. “He’s some kind of Hollywood agent,” Ruth says. “Maybe he’s going to make you a movie star.” She laughs. “I’ll send him back.”

  Andie and Coop make their way to the piano. Andie gives me a kiss and Coop pats my shoulder. “Nice, baby,” Andie says. “Very nice.”

  “You done good, sport,” Coop says.

  “Thanks, Coop. Some agent wants to talk to me, so I’ll meet you guys in the lobby.”

  “Don’t be long,” Coop says. “I’m hungry.”

  Ruth is waiting in the small backstage dressing room with a tall wiry man in thick, black-rimmed glasses and a suit that could probably pay for our whole three-night gig.

  “Evan, Grant Robbins,” Ruth says.

  Robbins takes my hand and pumps it with just a little too much enthusiasm. “Wonderful, just wonderful,” he says. “Lot of Bill Evans in you, isn’t there?”

  “Thanks. Well, I hope so.” I wonder if he really gets it, or is he just name-dropping. Why is it people in other fields want to impress you with their own limited knowledge? We sit down and Robbins crosses his legs, straightens the crease in his suit pants, and gives me a long appraising look.

  “Evan, what I’m about to say I hope you’ll keep in complete confidence, at least for now.”

  I look away and sigh. Here we go. “Look, Mr. Robbins. I’m a jazz pianist. I don’t know what else you’ve heard but—”

  Robbins puts up his hand and cuts me off. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and hire you as a detective, although you’re right. I’m very aware of your skills in that department. No, I’m here because of your piano playing. He leans forward and unbuttons his double breasted suit.

  “I represent Ryan Stiles.” His eyebrows rise when I don’t immediately respond. “The actor?”

  That throws me. There’s Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Will Smith, and then there’s Ryan Stiles, although “movie star” might be a better fit than “actor.” As far as I know, at the moment, he’s the hottest thing going. I’m enough of a movie buff to know who he is, and it’s hard to miss his face on the covers of those magazines at supermarket checkout counters. I’ve even seen a couple of his films, the huge box office blockbusters. The ones with car chases, explosions and Stiles saving the world from one disaster or other had made him one of Hollywood’s biggest box office draws. I’ve also seen him in a small independent film on cable television that was, to me, more impressive. He was surprisingly good, playing a down-and-out young lawyer faced with a major ethical choice in a high-profile case.

  “I know who he is,” I say, “but I really don’t understand.”

  Robbins look relieved. “Good, and I know what you’re thinking. What does a big box office star like Ryan Stiles have to do with you?”

  “I hope you’re going to tell me.” I was getting annoyed with Robbins’ dramatics. “I have some friends waiting for me outside, and one is my impatient girlfriend.”

  “Yes, FBI Special Agent Andrea Lawrence and Lieutenant Dan Cooper of the Santa Monica Police,” Robbins says, taking in my surprised look. “I’ve done my research.”

  I shift in my chair and glance toward the door. “Okay, Mr. Robbins, let’s get to it.”

  Robbins nods. “This is about Ryan’s interest in jazz piano.”

  He lets that hang in the air for a long moment.

  I lean back and smile. “Don’t tell me. You want me to teach Ryan Stiles how to play piano.”

  Robbins shrugs and almost rolls his eyes. “No, there aren’t enough years for that, and as far as I know, not enough talent ei
ther. What I want is for you to teach Ryan how to look like he’s playing piano and be so convincing, even you’d believe it.”

  I stare at Robbins for nearly a minute in stunned silence. He waits for my surprise to fade.

  “There’s a script, a jazz pianist caught up in a murder case. I’m against it, but despite my misgivings, Ryan wants to do it. Not his usual thing. A small indie, low-budget kind of thing, but he holds the cards. He agreed to another big one but only if the studio agreed to let him do this one, and, well, what Ryan Stiles wants…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

  I take a breath. “Look, I understand all that, but why me? There are a hundred pianists here in L.A. who could do this.”

  Robbins smiles again. “Yes there are, but none of them is a real detective.”

  I like the sound of that even less but Robbins goes on before I can say anything.

  “There’s plenty of precedent for this. You must have seen some of the films. Shelly Manne taught Frank Sinatra to look like a drummer for Man With the Golden Arm. Sal Mineo played Gene Krupa, and Forest Whittaker never had a saxophone in his hands before he did Bird for Clint Eastwood. I think you’d have to admit, thanks to somebody, he was convincing.”

  “Yeah he was, but—”

  “Look, forget the remark about you being a real detective. Perhaps I spoke out of turn. I know that was all just stuff you got caught up in. Ryan is just fascinated by the concept.” Robbins leans back in his chair. “You’d be well compensated of course. We’re talking about a few weeks’ work, and we can work around your schedule if necessary.”

  My schedule, such as it is, would not be the problem. “I don’t know, Mr. Robbins. It’s just not something I think I’d want to do. Stiles and I don’t know each other. We might not even get along.”

  “Grant, please call me Grant. Fair enough. I know what you’re thinking. Spoiled young movie star—but Ryan is not like that. Think it over. Can I at least tell Ryan you’ll do that?”

  I find myself nodding. “Okay, but I have to tell you, I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

  “Great,” Robbins says, as if I’d agreed. “I’ll get back to you real soon.” He gets to his feet and shakes my hand again. “Great to meet you.” Then he’s gone.

  I sit for a moment, listening for that little voice in my head, but it’s not there. I get up and head for the lobby to find Andie and Coop.

  At least Robbins didn’t say “let’s do lunch” or “his people would call my people.”

  Chapter One

  “Oh my God,” Andie says. “You’re going to teach Ryan Stiles how to play piano?”

  “Settle down, girl. I said I’d think about it.”

  We’re in a late-night deli on Wilshire waiting for pastrami sandwiches and coffee. Coop is drumming his fingers on the table, scanning the room for our waitress. Andie leans back in the booth and gazes at the ceiling. “Ryan Stiles. I mean he’s just so…”

  “Dreamy?” Coop offers sarcastically, and catches my eye. “How much are they going to pay you for this, ah, service?”

  “Yes,” Andie says. “Dreamy. All that dirty-blond hair and those piercing blue eyes.”

  “We didn’t talk about money, and anyway I didn’t say I’d do it.”

  “Oh, you have to,” Andie says, gripping my arm. “I so want to meet Ryan Stiles. Could we visit the set, maybe have dinner with him?”

  I laugh. “Listen to Miss Starstruck FBI Agent. Maybe I can get Coop on as the police consultant, too.”

  “Hmm. I like that idea,” Coop says as the waitress brings our order. “My years of experience could lend a certain authenticity. They always get it wrong in these cop movies.”

  “They usually get the music wrong, too,” I say. “How many times have you watched a scene where a band is playing? The drummer is clearly playing brushes but what you hear is a stick on the cymbal.”

  Coop and Andie look at each other. “Who notices something like that?” Andie says. Coop nods in agreement.

  I shrug and give up. We wolf down the sandwiches and Andie is impatient for the check.

  ***

  “C’mon, baby, I’m in a mood now.”

  The second night at The Bakery goes just as well as the first, but there’s no sign of either Grant Robbins or Ryan Stiles, and frankly, I’m relieved. On Saturday, however, I spot Robbins in a front-row seat, next to a man with long dark hair and even darker sunglasses. I try to ignore Robbins’ presence and not think about how I’m going to tell him I’m going to pass on his proposal.

  I’d spent Friday browsing through some movies on the hotel’s VCR while Andie was out visiting old friends from the L.A. Bureau. Robbins was right, I thought, as I watched Martin Milner look pretty convincing as a guitarist in Sweet Smell of Success, Steve Allen as Benny Goodman, Jimmy Stewart as Glen Miller, and Richard Gere as a trumpet player in Cotton Club. Sal Mineo playing Gene Krupa looked good, but then, he actually played drums, so he had all the moves down, and it was Krupa playing on the score.

  I was disappointed in Spike Lee’s Mo Better Blues. Denzel Washington looked like he knew his away around a trumpet, but after being beaten up, he turns up at a jazz club a year later and discovers he can’t play. Wouldn’t he have tried at home first? Maybe I’m just too picky.

  I had to admit Forrest Whittaker was the most impressive as Charlie Parker in Bird. Who tutored him, I wondered? Probably saxophonist Lennie Neihaus, who scored most of Clint Eastwood’s films.

  But now, I lose myself in “My Foolish Heart” as we finish our last set at the Jazz Bakery. When I look up from the keyboard, Robbins is gone. I thank the audience once again, sorry to have the gig over. Nothing until a few days at Yoshi’s in San Francisco next month.

  I head back to the dressing room and find Grant Robbins and the man I’d seen next to him waiting for me. The long dark hair and the sunglasses are gone. He jumps to his feet and grabs my hand, and I’m shaking hands with Ryan Stiles.

  “Oh man, that was so cool,” Stiles says. “You’re even better in person than on record.” He turns to Robbins. “Isn’t he?”

  Robbins smiles. “I told you, didn’t I?”

  “Man, I can’t wait to get started. Whatta you say, Evan? You going to do this for me?”

  I sit down and look at them both. Up close and personal, Stiles is even more impressive. The unruly blond hair, the glimmering blue eyes, the persuasive voice are all part of the package. He’s shorter than I thought, but has a compact athlete’s body. I imagine few people ever refuse to do anything Ryan Stiles wants. He’s like a young Robert Redford, exuding charm—and now he’s turning it all on me.

  Robbins considers for a moment, taking in my expression, deciding, I think, how best to handle me. “Well, Evan. Have you given our proposal some thought?

  I light a cigarette and sit down. “Yeah, I have,” I feel Stiles’ eyes on me. “Look, I’m very flattered, but I think I’m going to pass on this.” I see Stiles slump down in his chair and clasp his hands as he looks at the floor. “There’s a couple of great players who’ve done movie work I can recommend.”

  “Is it me?” he says quietly. “You don’t like me?”

  “I don’t even know you,” I tell Stiles. “I just, I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel like something I want to do.”

  “Tell him,” Stiles says to Robbins. I look at Robbins.

  He nods and takes a slip of paper out of his suit jacket and hands it to me. “I told you you’d be well compensated.”

  I look at the number. “You’ve got to be kidding. Five hundred dollars an hour?”

  Robbins smiles. “Less than a good attorney gets these days.”

  “I’m sure, but—”

  “Tell him the rest,” Stiles says, cutting me off.

  “Ryan has optioned this script. We have full control over casting and more importantly, the music.” He pauses again for one more look at Stiles. “We—Ryan, wants you to score the
movie, and for fun, you’d have a cameo role. You could stay at Ryan’s beach house in Malibu while you work with him. Scoring the film would be a separate deal of course, with very generous compensation.”

  They both watch me as my mind reels. I probably look like I’ve just been told I won the lottery. Always, somewhere in the back of my mind, has been the desire to score a film and here it is, dropped in my lap. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Stiles looks at me, his megawatt smile on full charge. “Just say yes, man. Do this for me.”

  “I took the liberty of drawing up a preliminary contract,” Robbins says. “I can have it to you first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, we’ve reserved a suite for you at the Beverly Hills Hotel, while you consider further.” Robbins pauses. “If that’s necessary,” he adds.

  I lean back and put my hands up. “Whoa, slow down,” I say. “This is all coming too fast.”

  “Hey, no pressure,” Stiles says. “We want you to be comfortable is all. Bring your lady of course.”

  No pressure? Teaching a major movie star how to look like he’s playing piano for five bills an hour, scoring his film, a Beverly Hills Hotel suite while I decide? “I just need a little time to think, and I’d like to talk this over with Andie, my girlfriend.”

  “Absolutely,” Robbins says. “I understand. Take your time.” He gets to his feet. Stiles stands and takes my hand, those piercing blue eyes boring into me with all the sincerity he can muster.

  “Do this for me, Evan. Your playing is awesome. If I can just look enough like you, I’ll show these Hollywood assholes I can act.” He nudges my shoulder. “Is there a back door out of here?” He dons the dark wig and sunglasses. “Paparazzi.” He shrugs, even manages to look a little sheepish.

  Robbins shakes my hand. “Thanks for listening, Evan. I’ll make arrangements for your hotel. You can check in tomorrow and we’ll have a car pick you up.”

  For several minutes, I sit there in the spartan Jazz Bakery dressing room, wondering what it’s going to be like to work with Hollywood royalty.