by Bill Moody
“You here alone?” Dixon asks. He takes out a pad and pen and begins to write down Al’s version of my capture.
Coop points at me. “You, I want to talk to.”
I convince Coop to go, back inside the warehouse with me. “This better be good,” he says.
I take him back in the warehouse to the skids, show him the carton I opened, the label on the cartons, and one of the albums inside. He doesn’t get it at first. He looks at me strangely and shakes his head.
“So what the fuck?” Coop says. “You bring me over here to look at some fucking records?”
“Don’t you see, Coop?” I say. “This is what it’s all about.” Dixon and Al have joined us now.
Dixon picks up the Rusty Riddle album. “Shit,” he says, “that dude never could sing.”
“Great,” Coop says. “A piano-playing perp and a music critic for a partner.”
I run it all down to both of them, but it is Dixon who nods with more understanding. “Slick,” he says, looking at one of the records. “Cole is out a lot of bread.”
I convince them to let me check some of the other cartons. We pull open several, and Al is getting more nervous by the minute. It’s the same story. All the cartons have Riddle’s albums in them. None of them match the invoice labels and, more important, none are Lonnie Cole’s.
Coop is finally coming around. “So you’re saying these should all be full of Cole’s records, have I got that straight?”
“Right,” I say. “The bookkeeping shows thousands of returned records. They’re not here, but they’re charged against Cole’s royalties.”
“Where else are these records stored?” Dixon asks, turning to Al.
“Couple of places,” Al says. He appears bewildered by the whole thing. “Look, I got to make a call, get my supervisor.” He hurries off to the office.
Coop stands among the opened cartons and eyes me hard. “This is gettin’ out of hand, sport. If they want to, whoever owns this place can file a breaking and entering charge against you.”
“I entered but I didn’t break in. Al left the door open.”
“Bullshit,” Coop says.
“Let’s get Markham down here,” Dixon suggests. “Doesn’t he have stuff here too?”
We check quickly and find plenty of cartons labeled “Pacific Records.” For all I know, Markham may even own the warehouse.
We go back to the office and find Al pacing around, but he doesn’t object to my call. I dial Markham’s number and get his answering service. I give them the warehouse number and address and stress that it’s an emergency. Coop, Dixon, and I stand outside waiting for an answer. Markham drives up ten minutes later. Apparently he’s left the limo at the office.
Tonight he’s driving a Mercedes coupe and dressed in casual clothes—jeans, shirt, windbreaker, and boat moccasins. He gets out of the Mercedes, takes in the police car, nods to Coop and Dixon. At first he acts like he barely knows me.
“I got a call from my service,” Markham says. “What’s the trouble?”
Coop steps forward. “I’m Lieutenant Cooper. This is my partner, Detective Sergeant Dixon. We’re with Santa Monica Police. I think you know Evan Horne.”
Markham allows the slightest bit of recognition to cross his face. “Evan, what are you doing here?”
“Just what you said. Following the returns.”
We go back into the warehouse past Al, who is still on the phone. He jumps to his feet when he sees Markham.
“Sorry about this,” Al begins, but Markham cuts him off.
“I’ll handle this, Al,” Markham says. “Lock the doors.”
“Yessir,” Al says.
I lead Markham, Coop, and Dixon back to the skids with Lonnie’s alleged returns. Markham looks at the albums in the carton and nods with satisfaction.
“You want to check yours?” I ask him.
There are a dozen skids of Pacific cartons, but they all check out. We open a few random cartons. No bogus albums here, but there might be at one of the other warehouses.
“You want to press charges, Mr. Markham?” Coop asks.
Markham looks at me and seems to consider for a moment. “No. I don’t think that will be necessary. I consider myself partly responsible for this. It seems Mr. Horne took my advice a little too literally, but no harm done.”
“Your call,” Coop says. “What about these?” He points to the bogus returns.
“I’ll leave them in your hands,” Markham says. “Now if you gentlemen don’t need me for anything else, I’ll be on my way.”
Coop and Dixon exchange glances. “We’ll be in touch,” Coop says.
Markham turns to go. “I was right, wasn’t I?” he says to me. Then he’s gone.
“Before you start,” Coop says to me, “there’s some kind of fraud here. These records are evidence.”
“Look,” I say. “Markham said to leave them in your hands and he isn’t going to press charges.”
“Leaving them in my hands doesn’t mean leaving them here or—” Coop frowns at me. “I don’t think I want to hear this,” he says.
“Look, if you start asking questions, whoever is responsible will have plenty of time to cover their tracks. You won’t be able to prove a thing. Let me have a couple of days.”
“To do what?” Coop says.
“I think I know who did this, but there’s a couple of things I need to check. I can’t prove it yet. You’ll be the first to know everything.”
Coop walks away a few steps. I know what he’s thinking. If he lets me do this, he’s on the line as well. He turns to look at Dixon questioningly.
“He’s probably right,” Dixon says.
Coop sighs and kicks at one of the record cartons. “Okay, sport, two days, that’s it. What about Al?”
“Markham will handle him. He won’t be a problem.”
The three of us put everything back the way it was except for the carton I’ve opened. “I need to take this one with me,” I say.
“Sure you do,” Coop says, but he’s already grabbing the carton. We walk out past Al. “Evidence,” Coop says before Al can protest.
Outside, Coop says, “I suppose you need a ride too, huh?”
Dixon stifles a laugh as I wave toward Cindy. The lights of my car come on and she drives over. Coop puts the carton in the back of my car, gives Cindy a long look, then turns and raises his eyebrows at me.
“Two days, sport. Two days.”
There’s just one other thing I want to know. “Did you have to ask Markham if he wanted to press charges?” I ask Coop.
He smirks at me and shrugs. “Merely performing my duty. We protect and serve.”
I get in the car. Cindy is glaring at me.
“Don’t ask,” I say. “Don’t ask.”
We get back to my apartment twenty minutes later. Cindy calms down long enough for me to explain to her what happened. I put the carton of records in a closet and sit down with her on the couch.
A sense of relief floods over me. I know how it was done, but I still don’t know for sure who did it. The why will be the most interesting.
“Are you through for the night?” Cindy asks. She yawns and stretches. Cindy recovers fast. “I’m ready for bed.”
“Not yet,” I say, pouring us each a glass of wine.
“Damon Barnes, please.”
“Yeah, he’s upstairs, I think. Hang on.”
It’s not the kid with the high-pitched voice this morning when I call Alpha Phi House. This one sounds like he’s got a cold. I wait a couple of minutes, think about Cindy still asleep, then Damon Barnes picks up the phone.
“This is Damon Barnes.”
“Ah, Mr. Barnes, so glad I caught you,” I say, putting on my best business voice. I tell him the name of the store and that I’m a customer service representative. “Our records show one of our electronic typewriters was purchased for you recently. We like to follow up purchases in our continuing customer service program, just to see if everything abou
t that purchase was satisfactory.”
I pause for a moment. If I don’t get this exactly right I can blow the whole thing. I wonder if I’ve already used the word purchase too many times. “The warranty card you mailed in shows the typewriter was a gift. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Barnes says, “I didn’t buy it. It was from my uncle.”
“I see. And have you found it to be entirely to your satisfaction? We do have a generous exchange policy if for some reason—”
“No, everything is cool, when I get to use it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, my uncle borrowed it a couple of times.”
I want more, but there’s impatience in Barnes’s voice.
“Look, is there something else? I’ve got a class in twenty minutes.”
“No, Mr. Barnes. I’d like to thank you for your time. Good luck with your studies.”
“Thanks,” Barnes says and hangs up.
I put the phone down and sit for a minute looking out the window at the fog rolling in off the Pacific.
Okay, Emerson had access to the typewriter, but was it he who used it or did he have someone else write the notes? It seems unlikely that Emerson would involve anyone else, at least anyone known to me, but I want to be sure. I don’t want to panic Emerson or whoever is behind this. I need to narrow down the field. Emerson will be last.
I pick up the phone and make another call to the Frontier in Las Vegas.
“Room 1030,” I say when the hotel operator answers. “Charlie Crisp, please.”
“One moment, please,” the operator says. I hear a couple of clicks and then I’m talking to the front desk.
“Frontier Hotel. How may I help you?”
“I was trying to get Charlie Crisp, Suite 1030.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crisp closed last night and checked out this morning.”
“This is pretty important. Do you happen to know where he was going? I’m one of Mr. Crisp’s associates.”
“I believe his manager said they were going home to Nashville.”
“Thanks,” I say, and hang up. Even if they had the number, they wouldn’t give it out I decide to try Megan Charles. When I dial Lonnie’s number, T.J. answers.
“T.J., it’s Evan. Is Megan there?”
“Hey, Evan,” T.J. says. He sounds weary. “Yeah she’s here, pacing around, on my case because I won’t tell her where Lonnie is. You sure you want to talk to her?”
“Yeah, I’ll talk to her, and, T.J., keep her in the dark about where Lonnie is.”
“You got it,” T.J. says. “Anything happening?”
“Yeah, if you talk to Lonnie, tell him it’s starting to come together.”
“All right,” T.J. says. “He’ll be glad to hear that.”
A few moments later, Megan comes on, an edge to her voice as sharp as a razor.
“Evan,” she begins, “I have just about reached the end of my patience. The awards are Thursday in case you’ve forgotten, and this... hulk T.J. refuses to tell me where Lonnie is. This misplaced loyalty of T.J.’s is absolutely ridiculous.”
“It’s not misplaced. T.J.’s got good reason, Megan, and so do I.”
There’s a long pause before she says, “Tell me one reason I should not hang up on you.”
“Because I need Crisp’s number in Nashville. It’s important, Megan.”
“He’s not in Nashville,” Megan says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “He’s here in L.A. Should he be able to appear at the awards—and thanks to you neither he nor Lonnie may—he wanted to be in town.”
“Where is he?”
“The Sunset Inn, but I don’t know why he would want to talk to you.”
“Sounds like a Rusty Riddle song.”
“Who?”
“Thanks, Megan.” I hang up before she can say any more.
I grab a couple of the Rusty Riddle albums from the box in the closet, along with my rubber ball, and head for Brentwood.
The Sunset Inn is a circular structure that overlooks the San Diego Freeway and the UCLA campus. The traffic is so heavy I can’t get over to the exit on Sunset and have to double back. When I call Crisp’s room from the lobby I get Bo Harris.
“Whatta you want, Horne?” Harris says.
“I’m downstairs. I need to see Charlie.”
“He’s taking a nap,” Harris says.
“Well, wake him up. It’s important.”
“It better be.”
In his suite, I find Crisp on the balcony, sipping a Bloody Mary, watching the freeway traffic crawl by below.
“Where are they all going?” Crisp says. He glances at me through dark glasses. “What you got there?” he asks, seeing the albums I’m carrying. Harris doesn’t give them a second look.
I pull up a chair and join him on the balcony. “I need to talk to you,” I say. “Alone.”
Crisp glances at Harris. “Bo, go get some coffee.” Harris glares at me and goes out, slamming the door behind him. “He’s a mite touchy these days,” Crisp says. “So what’s up?”
“You know this guy?” I ask, handing him one of the albums.
Crisp shoves the glasses on top of his head and squints at the cover. “Rusty Riddle,” he says with a smile. “Where’d you get this?”
I study Crisp’s face, looking for some reaction, but there is nothing except mild curiosity. “Somebody called me about doing a couple of charts for him. You know him?”
“I didn’t even know he was still recording,” Crisp says. “He opened for Willie Nelson once, a couple of other stars, made a little noise, but hey, man, the country field is crowded.” Crisp hands me back the album. “What’s a jazz boy like you doin’ with a country, singer?”
“I’m not. I just wanted to see your reaction.”
Crisp stares at me for a few moments trying to figure it out. “Well, you’ve seen it.”
I prop the albums against my chair and light a cigarette. “There are several thousand of these in cartons in a warehouse. They’re all labeled with Lonnie’s name.”
Crisp takes this in and stares out at the freeway. “You thought I might have something to do with this?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“And you just walk in here and try it out. If I did, you might be flying over this balcony about now.”
“That crossed my mind, too.”
Crisp doesn’t say anything. He sips his drink, looks at me again. “How many are we talking about?” he asks.
“Maybe a hundred thousand in this one warehouse alone. I don’t know about the others.”
Crisp looks genuinely surprised. “Why would any record company press that many albums of Rusty Riddle?”
“Good question. If someone got the master tapes, it wouldn’t be too difficult to do. Not too expensive either when you consider the profit from eventually selling these off.”
“Not bad,” Crisp says, “not bad. You going to run with this?”
“I already am.”
“I hope you get to the finish line by Thursday night.” Crisp laughs and shakes his head.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“I was just thinking. I wonder what Rusty Riddle would say if he knew there were thousands of his records sitting in a warehouse in California.”
Carlton Burroughs is just coming out of his office when I stop by. There’s another man with him. It takes me a few seconds but I recognize him finally, the comedian from Gemini’s Restaurant. Carlton seems only mildly surprised to see me.
“Be with you in a minute, Evan.” He shepherds the comedian to the door, pats him on the back with a few reassuring phrases, and shuts the door behind him.
Carlton turns to me, shaking his head. “He can’t seem to understand why the gross doesn’t match his net income. Performers.” Carlton shakes his head again and leads me into his office.
We both sit down. Carlton fiddles with some papers on his desk, then takes off his glasses. “This whole situation is becoming very
grave, Evan. No one knows where Lonnie is, Megan is beside herself and drafting a cancellation press release for the awards ceremony. She could say Lonnie is ill, but explaining both Lonnie’s and Crisp’s absence could be very tricky.”
“She may not have to,” I say, “thanks to Rusty Riddle.”
Carlton puts his glasses back on and leans over the desk. “What is a Rusty Riddle?”
“It is a who,” I say. “Rusty Riddle is a country singer.” I drop the album on his desk. Carlton picks it up, stares at the picture on the cover. He looks at me, then back to the album.
“Do I understand that you intend to substitute this Riddle person for Charlie Crisp at the awards?”
I have to laugh at that. “Nothing like that, Carlton. Have you ever seen this record before, ever heard of this guy?”
“No, and I thought I made that clear already. What’s this all about, Evan?”
“I don’t know yet, but when I do, I’ll let you know.”
“Please do.” Carlton gets up and walks around the office. “This whole thing, it’s very disturbing, and now Emerson.”
“What about Emerson?”
“Well, for one thing, I haven’t heard from him for a couple of days. He’s been acting very strangely. He insisted we talk the other night after our dinner at Gemini’s.”
“What about?”
“He was very upset about you looking at Lonnie’s financial records. I told him Lonnie had given his permission and that you were doing what you had been hired to do. He got almost abusive, Evan, so much so that I’m afraid I confessed to him that despite Lonnie’s permission I had reservations of my own, that I wasn’t sure I was going to let you see those records.”
“And you left it like that?”
Carlton spreads his hands in front of him. “Yes, I’m afraid I did.”
“Don’t be, Carlton. You probably did us both a favor.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
From Carlton’s office, I drive west on Sunset to Emerson Barnes’s place near Highland. Traffic is light this time of day, so I have no trouble watching the rearview mirror for the beach boys. I try to put them out of my mind, but I can still feel the gun barrel on the back of my head.
