Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  “Have a seat,” Ardis says. “Time for the rules.” He takes off his jacket and loosens his tie. Hughes does the same. “Okay, one of us will be with you at all times. We’ll do rotating shifts. As per instructions from Director Cook, your needs will be reasonably met. The telephone has been removed so don’t bother looking for it. The hotel has a health club if you feel like some exercise, and there’s a pool as well, but you don’t go to either alone.”

  He takes out a sheet of paper and glances at it. His checklist. “There’s a restaurant here for all meals, or we can order in the room.” He looks up at me. “You are not to answer or open the door for any reason. There’s a big parking lot out back so you can get some air, take a walk, but again, one of us will be with you.” He glances at Hughes then back to me. “Any questions?”

  “Sounds like fun. How did you two get so lucky?

  “Just our turn,” Ardis says.

  “Oh, there is one thing. Cook promised me a piano.”

  “Coming tomorrow. Kevin will bring it back when we change shifts.”

  I know there are other things I want to know, but for now they can wait.

  “Okay, that’s it for now,” Ardis says. “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

  I smile at the irony and go in the bedroom. I toss my bag on the bed and take out the copy of the script, the couple of changes of clothes, and put my shaving things in the bathroom. I may have to go shopping. There’s a pad and pen on the table near the bed. I start to make a list of things I want. There’s a clock radio on the nightstand. I turn it on and get the jazz station going while I write. I can hear Ardis and Hughes talking quietly in the sitting room, then the door closes.

  Ardis sticks his head in. “I’ve got the first shift. Kevin will be back in the morning. You need anything right now?”

  “No, just thinking of a few things.”

  Ardis glances at his watch. “We’ll go eat about six. That okay with you?”

  “Sure. I’m going to stretch out for awhile.”

  Ardis goes out and pulls the shutter doors closed. In a couple of minutes, I can hear the television. I finish my list and lie down, thinking how exciting it’s going to be to have dinner.

  When I open my eyes, I glance at the clock. I’ve been asleep for almost an hour. I get up and go in the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and wander into the sitting room. Ardis is lounging in a chair, the TV, sound low, tuned to CNN.

  I sit down in another chair and light a cigarette. “I can go out on the balcony if this bothers you,” I say.

  “No, it’s okay. Too much exposure out there.”

  “Aren’t we overdoing it a little?” I can’t believe anybody could possibly know where we are.

  Ardis shrugs. “Maybe, but we have our orders.”

  We watch the news for awhile until the stories start repeating. “Hungry?”

  “Yeah, I could eat.”

  Ardis puts on his jacket and adjusts his gun. We ride the elevator down to the lobby and go into the restaurant. A hostess seats us, but not before Ardis chooses a table facing the entrance. The other diners appear to be business types, with a sprinkling of women at some of the tables. Ardis orders a club sandwich and iced tea. I opt for a salad and fish and chips.

  I watch Ardis, his eyes all over the room for a couple of minutes till he’s satisfied there’s no one posing a threat. He relaxes a little and leans back. “So, what’s it like living with an agent?”

  “Do you know Andie Lawrence?”

  “Not really. We’ve never worked together, but I’ve heard good things about her. I think she’s a favorite of Wendell Cook.”

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “No, not at all,” Ardis says quickly.

  I smile. “I’m just messing with you. Look, would it be violating any Bureau rules if you call me Evan and I call you Ron?”

  “No, I guess not. It’s just kind of weird, this assignment I mean.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  Ardis nods as the waitress brings my salad and refills our water glasses. “Couple of times babysitting a witness for trial, but first time I’ve been assigned to protect one of the good guys.”

  I look up. “What do you mean?”

  “You have to admit it’s different. You were stalked by a serial killer, you went undercover and helped bring her down. Plus, you’re not a cop or an agent. You’re a jazz pianist.”

  “Yeah, there’s that.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “This may be a stupid question, but are you famous?”

  I smile. “Hardly.”

  Ardis seems a bit flustered. “I’m not much of a jazz fan, so you could be and I wouldn’t know. My girlfriend is though,” he adds quickly. “She took me to a jazz club recently. I kind of liked it.”

  I finish my salad. “Who was playing?”

  Ardis looks a way for a moment, trying to remember. He snaps his fingers. “Jarrett. Keith Jarrett.”

  “Your girlfriend has good taste. He’s one of the best and he is famous, at least in the jazz world.”

  The waitress brings our order then and we both dig in. “So why are you?”

  “What?”

  “A jazz pianist.”

  “Why are you an FBI agent?”

  Ardis smiles. “I love it. Can’t imagine doing anything else.”

  “There you go.”

  We finish dinner and coffee then Ardis calls for the check and signs for it. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.” We get up and head for the exit. “How about that walk in the parking lot. I’d like to get some air.”

  We go down a corridor that leads off the lobby to an outside exit door. Ardis opens it and steps outside, scanning the lot, half-filled with parked cars. “Okay,” he says.

  It’s dark now. I can see the lights from the freeway and the surrounding area. I light a cigarette and walk the perimeter a couple of times with Ardis at my side. It feels good to be outside and stretch my legs. Halfway around the second lap, Ardis’ cell phone rings. He puts up his hand for me to stop as he answers.

  He listens, makes a couple of monosyllabic answers, ending with, “Right, no problems.” He closes the phone and looks at me. “Just checking in.”

  We walk back toward exit the door. I watch Ardis constantly scanning the parking lot. He seems anxious to get back inside, but I’m in no hurry. It’s only been one afternoon and evening, but already I’m feeling restless and not at all eager to go back to the room.

  Ardis tries the handle but it’s locked. There’s a small sign that says, locked after 8 p.m. PLEASE USE ROOM CARD. Ardis swipes the key card and we go inside, through the lobby, and take the elevator back up to the room. Just as he did when we arrived, Ardis opens the door and goes in first, leaving me in the hallway, then motions me in. He hangs the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside handle, shuts the door, turns the lock, and adds the chain.

  “Okay,” he says, taking off his coat. “Let’s see what’s on TV.”

  ***

  I spend over an hour going over my copy of the screenplay, trying to absorb my apprehension at reliving on paper an experience I’ve been trying to forget. There are plenty of scenes with Ryan’s character, Chase Hunter—is that a name for a jazz pianist?—playing in a club, a recording studio, even a big finale concert. The downside is the emphasis on Chase’s suddenly developing detective skills. They even have him carrying a gun by the last act, and involved in a shootout with the bad guy.

  I stare at the pages until the type blurs when I hear Ardis call out.

  “Hey, come look at this!” I go into the sitting room and find Ardis on his feet, staring at the TV.

  It’s the entertainment segment of a cable news program. A young blonde with perfect hair, perfect face, and perfect smile looks into the camera.

  “…in what’s been shrouded in secrecy, our sources have confirmed that Ryan Stiles�
�� new project is a gritty mystery with Stiles portraying a jazz pianist investigating the murder of his singer girlfriend’s brother. The role marks a departure for the action hero and promises a new serious side of this young star.” She tosses it back to the male anchor. Both of them framed now.

  “Sounds exciting,” he says, “but can Ryan Stiles really play the piano?”

  “Not to worry, Bob. To add to the authenticity, a real jazz pianist, Evan Horne, was hired to tutor Stiles. Horne spent weeks at the star’s Malibu estate. Horne will also handle the music score chores. In other news, pop singer Prince will…”

  “You are famous,” Ardis says. He clicks off the TV and looks at me. “Not good,” he says. “Not good. I better check in.” He opens his phone and punches in some numbers. “This is Special Agent Ardis. I need Wendell Cook.”

  I sink down on the couch, listening to Ardis’ voice fades as he goes out on the balcony. No, not good at all. This little gem has Grant Robbins prints all over it. He wants me out there publicly, but has no idea what he’s done. The news will be picked up by all the media and the internet by morning. All Gillian will have to do is pick up a paper, a magazine, watch the news, or turn on a computer. It doesn’t matter where she is.

  Gillian Payne now knows how to track me down.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I wake up when Ardis, looking a little grim, knocks on the door jam. “Director Cook is here,” he says.

  “Okay, I’ll be right out.” I glance at the clock, get up, go to the bathroom, and splash water on my face. I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, not bothering with socks or shoes. Ardis and Wendell Cook are seated at the table. On reflex, I look for Andie even though I know she won’t be there.

  Wendell stands up and comes forward to shake hands. He’s in a muted gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie. “Evan, how are you doing?” He doesn’t wait for or expect an answer, just motions me into another chair. “I guess you know we’ve got a problem.”

  “You’re the master of understatement, Wendell. Less than twenty-four hours in so-called protective custody and we’re compromised.” I put extra emphasis on protective and Wendell catches it.

  He puts up a hand. “You’re compromised—and that’s not even the right word— but your location is not. We don’t know if Gillian even saw that item on the news.”

  “Oh, come on, Wendell. If not that one, there will certainly be others. Anything connected with Ryan Stiles is news. All she has to do is go to any internet cafe if she hasn’t already. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Cook is quiet for a moment. “There won’t be any new press releases,” he says. “I’m seeing Stiles’ attorney, Grant Robbins, this morning.”

  “And telling him what?”

  “That you’re involved in a very sensitive matter and unavailable until further notice. In addition, we’re going to ask him to cooperate, and make no attempt to contact you, and issue no new releases to the media concerning your part in the movie.”

  “You think he will go along with that?”

  “We’re going to make sure he does.” Cook meets my eyes. “I’m sure you know the less complimentary meaning of FBI.”

  “Federal Bureau of Intimidation?”

  “Precisely. Robbins will cooperate. There are a number of avenues to pursue.”

  “Which are?” I wonder what that means. Taxes? A call to the IRS? A friendly audit? A guy like Robbins I’m sure wouldn’t like an unannounced visit from the IRS.

  “I’d rather not go into that,” Cook says. “Just leave it to us. In the meantime, we feel you’re safe staying right here.”

  “What about Gillian Payne?”

  Cook shrugs. “We’re pursuing her with all vigor and we have every hope of apprehending her soon.”

  “Sorry, Wendell, that sounds like a press conference statement.”

  “Payne’s an escaped felon now, not so free to move about as she did before. She’ll make a mistake and we’ll be ready for her. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “How much time? A week? A month?” I have no doubt about Cook’s sincerity but the thought of being holed up in a hotel is already getting to me. As long as I’m stuck here, I’m helpless to do anything and I don’t like the feeling.

  Cook unbuttons his coat and leans forward, lacing his hands together on the table. “Evan, no one regrets this situation more than I do, but sometimes the system fails, things go wrong, people slip through the cracks. That said, I won’t have you unnecessarily endangered while the search is on until we have her back in custody.”

  “Will I be allowed to see Andie?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Too dangerous for both of you. Gillian knows about your involvement with Andie, at least from before. I can’t approve that.”

  I sigh and look up at the ceiling. “This is called protective custody, for my own good, but legally, you can’t hold me. Isn’t that right?” I glance over and see Ardis’ eyes on me.

  “Don’t go there, Evan,” Cook says quickly. “Legally, no, we can’t hold you, but you’d make our job even harder. We don’t need any distractions from tracking Gillian Payne. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  I nod. “Just checking.”

  Cook relaxes a bit and leans back in his chair. “Good. Anything else we can do? Agent Hughes is bringing the piano over later.”

  “My dog, Milton. He’s in a kennel in Monte Rio. I need to get word to the vet that I probably won’t be back when I thought. Andie has the number.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Cook says as he gets to his feet. “Okay, I’m going to leave you in Agent Ardis’ good hands then.” He heads for the door then turns back. “Keep the faith, Evan. We’ll wind this up as soon as we can.”

  Ardis chains the door once Cook leaves. “Some breakfast?”

  “Sure. Give me a half hour.

  I take a long shower, running everything over in my mind, weighing my options which are few. I dress and, as an afterthought, grab the script before I let Ardis know I’m ready. We go down to the dining room, but have to wait a few minutes for a table. The room is full of business types, some sipping coffee with laptops open on their tables. The hostess seats us next to four guys, carry-on bags next their chairs, in intensive conversation about some kind of new sales policy.

  Ardis ignores them, but scans the room until he’s satisfied, then finally opens his menu as a waitress brings us coffee. We both order omelets. “We’re in kind of a hurry,” he tells her.

  “So is everybody, sweetie.” She hurries off before he can reply.

  “Relax, Ron. We have nothing but time.”

  We’re on our second cup of coffee when Ardis asks about the script laying on the table, but before I can answer, his cell phone rings. He takes the call, listens for a few moments. “Right, see you then.” He closes his phone. “That’s Hughes. He’s on the way with your piano.”

  “Great. I’m going to need some cigarettes, too.”

  Ardis nods. “There’s a convenience store next door. I’ll get you some when Hughes gets here.”

  “Thanks.” I tell him the brand. We finish breakfast and Ardis signs the check and starts for the elevator. I stop and look down the corridor.

  “How about a walk?”

  “Yeah, why not.”

  We go out the exit to the parking lot. It’s full of cars, mostly rentals I’m guessing, and a couple of airport shuttle vans are parked near the entrance, doors open, the drivers standing nearby, smoking, checking their watches. I stand close by, watching as the first one starts to fill up.

  “I thought you wanted to walk,” Ardis says. He’s a few steps ahead of me.

  “I do.” I make a show of looking beyond Ardis. He turns, follows my gaze.

  “What?” he says, turning to look.

  “Was that van here last night? Over there in the corner.”

  “I’m not sure. Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

  As he s
tarts for the van, I turn back to the shuttle bus. It’s nearly full now, the driver at the wheel, ready to close the door. I slip on and just make it. “Sorry, missed my wakeup call.”

  I go to the rear bench seat and scrunch down, blocked by suits and bags. I see Ardis at the van, checking the doors. He turns back. When he sees I’m gone, he breaks into a jog, looking all around. As the bus pulls away toward the street, I sneak a look out the back window. Ardis is checking the second shuttle and grabbing his cell phone.

  Two minutes later, the bus is heading up the on-ramp of the Ventura Freeway.

  I hear the driver click on the microphone. “First stop is Burbank Airport.”

  I join half the bus getting off at the Southwest Airlines stop, trying to keep in the group, letting the suits shield me as much as possible. Inside the terminal, I lose myself in the crowd and get to a window, scanning the sidewalk. I’m counting on Ardis not being able to leave the hotel until Hughes arrives to pick him up, but of course he would have phoned in. The shuttle I arrived on has already gone, but more are pulling in every few minutes from a number of different hotels.

  I make my way to the Southwest counter, mired in a line for several minutes until it’s finally my turn. “I need a one-way ticket to Las Vegas on your next available flight,” I tell the harried agent, her dark hair in a ponytail.

  She punches some keys on her computer and shakes her head. “Sorry, nothing open until 2:15.”

  “How about standby?”

  “You can try. There are always some no shows.”

  “Okay, let’s do that.” I hand over my credit card and scan the area while she prints out a boarding pass. So far, so good.

  “Any luggage?”

  “No. Just a quick trip.”

  She nods. “Go to C gates to get on standby. Good luck.”

  On the way to security, I stop at a gift shop and buy a Dodgers baseball cap and a small blue nylon carry-on bag with two big dice and Las Vegas emblazoned on the side. I stuff the script inside and head for security, donning the cap and my sunglasses. I get through fairly quickly without setting off any alarms and check the departure board. Gate 17 is the next flight, but it’s a no go. Passengers are already lining up to board and it looks full.