Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  “Grant Robbins checking in. He says they have a revised script and they want me to come down to meet the director and the writer.”

  Andie pulls the robe tighter around her as she feels the cool air. “When?”

  “A few days. Probably next week.” I can see from her expression she’s not happy.

  She takes my hand and pulls me up. “Come on you, we have things to do.” She leads me to the bedroom and falls back on the bed, letting the robe slip open.

  “Agent Lawrence, you are a naughty girl.” I stand and look at her for a moment, then her phone rings. We both stare at it. “Don’t,” I say, but I know better.

  She picks it up and looks at the screen then sits up and pulls the robe around her. Her eyes go to mine. “It’s Wendell Cook.”

  I nod and watch her open the phone. “Agent Lawrence.” She listens, her eyes focused on me. “When? Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll get out tonight as soon as I can get a flight. Yes, I’ll tell him.” She closes the phone and sets it on the nightstand. “They’ve had a sighting of Gillian. I have to fly out right away.”

  “Where in L.A.?”

  “No, Las Vegas. Can you believe it? She went into a pharmacy to fill a prescription. Wendell is putting together a task force and he wants me down there. The pharmacist recognized her, he thinks.” She shrugs. I look at Andie for more. “I can’t tell you anymore. That’s all he said.” She scoots across the bed and throws her arms around me. “This is good news, Evan. We’re going to get her.”

  “Do it fast.”

  Grant Robbins looks around the conference table. “Well, let’s get started shall we?”

  Robbins sits at the head of the table. Across from me are Dennis Mills, the writer, director Sandy Simmons, and of course, Ryan Stiles.

  Robbins had sent a car to pick me up at LAX, and I was whisked to the studio lot in Culver City. After a flurry of checks that rival airport security, I was admitted to the offices and finally to this wood-paneled conference room, mostly bare except for framed posters of movies that had been produced here. Hallowed ground for movie people, I gather, but so far we’ve just been chatting. I’ve seen no script.

  “Where are the fucking copies?” the always impatient Ryan wants to know. Our reunion had been brief, but he’d seemed glad to see me, and there’d been no talk about Darryl McElroy.

  “They’re being made as we speak,” Robbins says. “I thought we could take this time to get acquainted while we wait.”

  This is obviously for my benefit. I’m sure the others already know each other. I’d already met Dennis Mills briefly. He was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He had longish hair and modish looking glasses. Soft spoken, he’d greeted me with some interest, confessing he was a big fan of Keith Jarrett, which I took as a good sign.

  Sandy Simmons had slipped in last with a flourish and a big smile. He was younger than me and also dressed casually in slacks, loafers, a dark green sport shirt, and a black baseball cap with the title of a movie he’d directed stitched in gold. It was one I didn’t recognize.

  “So, you’re the music guy, eh? We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” he says, as if that will be an exciting event. Whether he means for me or him I can’t tell. We all turn our attention to Grant Robbins.

  “Drinks anybody? Coffee, water, something else?”

  Everyone seems to look to me for a decision. “Coffee would be great,” I say. Mills and Simmons both nod their agreement. Ryan just shrugs in a“whatever” gesture.

  Robbins picks up a phone on the table and places an order. In less than three minutes, an attractive young redhead comes in with a thermal pot and four mugs emblazoned with the studio logo. Cream, sugar, and spoons rest on a small tray. I watch her trying not to stare at Ryan as she sets everything on the table, but he catches her and gives her a big smile. She blushes and rushes out of the room.

  Before we can take our first sip of coffee, a young man in cargo pants and a UCLA sweatshirt comes in with a stack of bound scripts. He plops them down on the table in front of Grant Robbins. “Sorry for the delay,” he says and quickly beats a retreat.

  Robbins flips through the top copy then slides one to each of us. Mills hardly glances at his, but since he wrote it, I’m not surprised. Sandy Simmons glances at the title page and tips his cap on the back of his head.

  “Is this the title we’re going with?”

  I look down at my copy. “Solo Blues” had become “Murder in B Flat”. The first two pages are a brief synopsis. Halfway through, I feel my stomach tighten. I look up and find Ryan and Robbins watching me, gauging my reaction. I continue reading then close the script.

  Now I understand the mediocre first draft. That was to get me to sign the contract and accept the first payment installment. I didn’t need to read the script to know it mirrored probably everything that happened with Gillian Payne. Dennis Mills sees me glare at Grant Robbins.

  “What?” he says.

  “Where did you get the material for this? I slap the script down on the table. Mills flinches and looks at Robbins.

  “Newspaper articles, mostly.” He looks genuinely confused. “I thought you were okay with it.”

  “Well, I’m not.” I start to get up, but Robbins stops me.

  “Evan,” he begins, “there are two ways this can go. You signed a binding contract to score this film. Nowhere in that contract does it give you approval of the script or source material. You can fulfill your obligation, or, you can walk away and deal with a failure to comply lawsuit. Since you’ve been paid and accepted the first installment. The case is public domain, taken from newspaper accounts, interviews, well, you know that as well as I do. Any objections you have won’t really fly in court.”

  I lean back in my chair, knowing everything Robbins said is true. They had me and everybody at the table knew it. I should have known it, too. I let my mind drift back to our first meeting at the Jazz Bakery. Robbins knew the whole story, everything about me, including the fact that Andie and Coop were waiting for me.

  Dennis Mills still looks confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Robbins smiles. “Not at all, Dennis. You wrote a great script and it’s going to be a great movie.”

  Mills looks at me, finally getting it. “Shit, you’re the guy, aren’t you?” He shakes his head. “I just didn’t put it together. Nobody told me.”

  Robbins looks at me again. “Evan, before you do anything rash, read the script.”

  I look across at Ryan. He grins and shrugs.

  “Hey man, welcome to Hollywood.”

  ***

  I turn from the window of the Federal Building in Westwood, looking down at Wilshire Boulevard from the seventeenth floor. I can see the Veteran’s cemetery, the rows of white gravestones stretching as far as I can see, and the traffic crawling along Wilshire Boulevard. I turn when the door opens and Andie comes out. She’d had me wait after picking me up from the studio, driving me to the Bureau herself in a black SUV with dark-tinted windows.

  “Wendell Cook needs to see you,” was all she’d said, and brushed off my questions with a simple, “Just procedure.”

  She was tense and not very talkative on the drive from Culver City to Westwood. When I’d pressed, she said, “Wendell will explain everything.”

  I assumed it was about Gillian Payne, thinking they’d caught up with her, but Andie wasn’t having it. “I can’t talk about it. Please, Evan, just be patient.”

  Now, as I follow her inside, she has trouble meeting my eyes. We walk back down a long corridor to Cook’s office, a place I’m all too familiar with. This was where I’d first met Andie, where I’d begun the nightmare of helping the FBI identify clues left at crime scenes that were entirely related to jazz.

  As we enter Cook’s office, he gets to his feet, his huge former-NFL-linebacker body coming toward me to shake hands. “Good to see you again, Evan.”

  “I hope so.”

  �
�Have a seat,” he says, motioning me to a chair in front of his desk. Sensing someone behind me, I turn and see Coop leaning against the wall.

  “Hey, sport,” he says, giving me a slight wave and a smile.

  I sit down, feeling confused and a bit annoyed.

  Wendell settles behind his desk. “Well, here we are again,” he says, a slight smile on his face.

  “So what’s this all about? Have you caught her?”

  Wendell answers my question by looking away. “I know Andie told you we had a strong lead in Las Vegas,” he begins, “but that didn’t pan out. We weren’t fast enough. Somehow she slipped through.” His eyes lock with mine. “I’ll be honest with you, Evan. Right now, we don’t know where she is.” He lets that sink in for a moment then continues. “Which brings us to the purpose of this meeting.”

  I put up my hands. “Oh no, I’m not going there again. I’ve been there, done that—”

  Wendell shakes his head and smiles. “You’ve got it all wrong, Evan. You didn’t think we’d ask you to be—”

  “Bait?”

  “No, exactly the opposite. We want to protect you until Payne is captured, and make no mistake, we will take her down.”

  I look from Andie to Coop then back to Wendell. “Protect me how? It didn’t work very well last time.” Coop had been stabbed and seriously injured. I’d been terrorized and forced to go undercover in Las Vegas while they set a trap for her that had almost ended in disaster.

  “And that is to my everlasting regret. We’re putting you in protective custody until she’s caught. We don’t even know if she’ll come after you, but this time we’re not taking any chances.”

  I shift in my chair and sit forward. “What do you mean, protective custody?”

  “I mean you’ll be in a safe house, at an undisclosed location known only to a very few people in the Bureau and Detective Cooper.”

  I look over at Andie. “Did you know about this?”

  “Not until I got here, but I agree. I think it’s best.”

  “Wendell, I’m right in the middle of something. I can’t just put my life on hold. I’m sure Andie told you I’m about to score a movie. I’ve got meetings, research to do. I can’t just, what, disappear like I’m in the Witness Protection Program.”

  “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it means. For this to work, you won’t have any contact with anybody—including Andie, the movie people, even Detective Cooper— until Gillian Payne is safely back in prison.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes.” Wendell leans forward, his huge hands on his desk. “This is for your own good, Evan.”

  “What do I tell Ryan Stiles, the people connected with the movie?”

  “You’re not going to tell them anything because you won’t see or talk to them. We can’t chance slipping any clue to Gillian as to your whereabouts. An agent will be with you at all times. I’m sorry, Evan, I know this is going to be hard, but the alternative is not an option.”

  “I am with an agent, most of the time.” I shoot a look at Andie.

  Wendell allows himself a smile. “Nice try, but obviously that won’t work.”

  “Isn’t this a bit of overkill? Do we really know she’s even interested in finding me?”

  Wendell sighs and leans back in his chair. “We do know that much. In the years since her imprisonment, we know she holds you responsible. She talked about it a lot in sessions with a therapist. She blames you for her brother as well.”

  “She’s the one who nearly killed him,” I say. I stand up and walk around the room. I hadn’t testified, but I had made a detailed statement. Her attempt on her brother in Las Vegas had more than enough witnesses, including Coop.

  “You know that, we all do, but Gillian Payne is not stable. She’s a twisted killer, Evan. We all know that, too.”

  I feel them all looking at me as I drop back into the chair. “Okay, okay. What do I have to do?”

  “To start, I’ll need your cell phone,” Wendell says.

  I nod and pull it out of my pocket and toss it on Wendell’s desk. He takes it and places it in a desk drawer. “Do you have any other questions?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything now.”

  Andie and Coop both come closer. “It’s the best way, Evan,” Andie says.

  “Hang in there, sport,” Coop says. He claps a hand on my shoulder.

  Wendell stands and nods to Coop. “We’ll give you a few minutes alone with Andie. You’ll be given a full briefing later.” They walk out and shut the door.

  Andie comes over and hugs me. “I know this is a shock, baby, but we, I, want you safe. There’s no other way to guarantee that.”

  “I know, it’s just, I’m going to be like a prisoner, and for how long?”

  “I did insist on one thing. We’ve arranged for you to have an electric piano. It comes with headphones so nobody will hear. You can practice, even work on the movie music if you want. You’re going to be as comfortable as possible.”

  I know she’s right but the prospect of isolation for an unknown amount of time is not appealing. Andie wraps her arms around me and kisses me. “It won’t be for long. I promise.”

  The door opens and Wendell sticks his head in. “It’s time, Evan. We have to go.”

  I leave Andie standing by Wendell’s desk, her eyes on me, wondering when I’ll see her again. I follow Cook out into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We take the elevator to the basement parking garage. I stand between Wendell Cook and Coop, my mind swirling with questions now. I want to go back upstairs and say something more to Andie but it’s too late. Another black SUV pulls up and two men in dark suits and muted ties get out, but leave the engine running.

  The driver is about my size with sandy hair and deep blue eyes. The passenger is short and stocky with close-cropped dark hair. They both look me over as Wendell steps forward.

  “Evan, this is Special Agent Kevin Hughes,” Cook says, nodding to the driver, “and Ron Ardis.” I shake hands with both men. “You’re in their care now, Evan. Everything goes through me, so if you have any questions, well…”

  He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Hughes and Ardis both nod earnestly, their special agent faces on. Ardis opens the rear door. When I start to get in, I see my bag is already on the seat. I feel Coop’s hand on my shoulder. “Hang in there, sport,” then he shuts the door and steps away. I sit back and look out through the dark-tinted windows, watching them all confer for a minute, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. They check their watches, then Cook steps back and nods.

  Hughes gets behind the wheel and Ardis joins him in the passenger seat. We pull away and head up the ramp out of the garage into the bright sunshine. Ardis looks back at me over his shoulder. “You okay back there, Mr. Horne?”

  “Sure. It’s Evan.”

  “Enjoy the ride.”

  Hughes merges with the Wilshire traffic, then makes a U-turn at the first light and goes back west toward the 405 Freeway. I catch Hughes’ eyes in the rearview mirror as he accelerates up the onramp. Ardis is checking the side mirror. He glances at Hughes. “Clear,” he says. Hughes nods and relaxes a little, leaning back, loosening his grip on the wheel as we merge with the freeway traffic.

  Ardis turns back toward me. “Agent Cook said it’s okay for you to smoke. Just crack the window a bit.”

  “Thanks.” I dig out my cigarettes and light one. I lower the window a few inches. “Do I get to know where we’re going?”

  Ardis faces forward again now. “You’ll know when we get there.”

  Hughes catches my eye in the mirror again. “Procedure.”

  I finish my cigarette and lean back, my head against the seat, and wonder at the day’s events. I’d hardly had time to work up my anger at the script meeting before Andie carted me off to the Bureau offices. It settles over me no
w like a blanket tucked around too tightly, wrapping itself around my mind, inescapable, and beyond my control.

  Grant Robbins and Ryan Stiles had both known I would never have agreed to being a part of a screenplay that would dredge up memories of one of the worst experiences of my life. But they had been clever, establishing trust, letting me in, then slipping in the binding contract, the payment, and now there was no way out. I wonder now what they’ll do when I don’t show up for the next meeting, what they’ll think when they can’t get me on the phone.

  Ryan will try Andie. Robbins will use whatever contacts he has, and I’m guessing there are many. I hadn’t been able to talk to Andie about it, but she’ll either be unavailable or, if pressed, tell him she doesn’t know where I am. He and Robbins will both conclude I’m bailing on the whole project and look for an alternative, a way to get me back in the fold. And how long will I be unavailable?

  I open my eyes as I feel the car slow when we merge onto the Ventura Freeway heading west. Somewhere in the San Fernando Valley or farther. Palmdale? Barstow? Farther still? Las Vegas? Not if that’s where Gillian was spotted. They wouldn’t take me closer would they? Unless—I don’t want to finish that thought.

  The car speeds up again as the traffic thins and we pass though Van Nuys, Encino, Reseda, Woodland Hills. Eventually, we exit just beyond Agoura Hills and come to a collection of gas stations, a strip mall, fast-food restaurants, and finally, a good-sized Business Suite Hotel perched on a hillside overlooking the freeway.

  Hughes pulls into the underground parking garage and parks near an elevator. “Here we are,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  We all get out and ride up to the top floor. Ardis produces a key card, opens the door, and goes inside. I feel Hughes’ hand on my arm. We wait for Ardis to come back. “Clear,” he says, then we go in and Hughes shuts and locks the door.

  It’s well appointed with a sitting room, a flat screen television, small couch, and a couple of chairs and a table. There’s a mini-fridge and a coffee machine on a table. A sliding glass door leads to a tiny balcony. Ardis quickly draws the drapes closed. Through connecting shuttered doors, I can see a bed and the bathroom. I stand waiting as they check out everything. They both come back and motion me toward the table.