by Bill Moody
“I can’t believe you just let him walk away like that.”
Coop clamps down on his cigar, almost bites it in half. “You can’t, huh? What would you like me to have done, cuff him spread-eagled on the ground? I have no warrant, no jurisdiction, no probable cause, nothing. He didn’t have to even show us the trumpet case. How did you get the trumpet, by the way?”
I have a hard time meeting Coop’s eyes. “I took it from Perkins’s house the night of the murder.”
“Wonderful, just fucking wonderful,” Coop says as we step off the walkway and head for the street doors. “You remove evidence from a crime scene, and you have to tell me about it.”
“Well, you asked.”
“Didn’t it occur to you there might be prints on that trumpet? Cross’s prints. Las Vegas would have had a big jump on this if they’d had Cross’s prints. And now we don’t even have the trumpet.”
“I didn’t think about that, but I bet he didn’t touch it anyway. Perkins is the one who showed it to me. Cross is too careful.”
Something else besides the trumpet being missing is bothering me. Connie Beale said it was stolen. Cross said, and had proof, that he bought it from Mojo, who told me he had bought it at a garage sale.
Coop’s car is where we left it, still being watched by the skycap, who asks, “Did you get him?”
“Not this time,” Coop says.
We get in the car. Still seething, Coop slams his door so hard the window almost pops out. We sit there for a few minutes while taxis and cars swirl around us.
Where is the trumpet? Something Pappy said bothers me. He saw Cross come out of the pawn shop with the case and followed him to the airport, where he lost him, but of course—it wasn’t Cross.
“Cross switched the trumpet when Pappy lost him at the airport.”
“What?”
“Sure, that’s how he did it. He must have guessed somebody would be waiting for him here. He switched it at Las Vegas, passed it off to somebody there who carried it for him to L.A. Pappy described him as a little weasel dude. That doesn’t fit Cross.”
“Maybe,” Coop says, “but who?”
“Anybody, it doesn’t matter. The point is, Cross still has the trumpet and the other tape.”
“You mean you think he’ll still go ahead with this, try to sell the tapes and the trumpet?”
“Why not? There’s nothing to link him to Perkins’s murder but me. Everything is my word against his. He still thinks the trumpet is genuine, and I know how to get it back.”
“Good,” Coop says. He starts the engine and skids away from the curb.
“I want to nail that sonofabitch.”
“How about lunch in Malibu?” I ask Natalie.
“Malibu? Yeah, sure.” She sees there’s nothing in my hand. “I guess we’re not celebrating getting the trumpet back.”
“No, we’re not.”
While she changes, I tell her about the airport fiasco, but not about what I have planned. Not yet, anyway.
We eat at Gladstone’s on the Pacific Coast Highway. The air is still chilly, but there are no rains, no mud slides. Just sun and the Pacific and lots of good fish served on wooden platters heaped high with French fries and small loaves of warm sourdough bread. Even the waiters cooperate by not bugging me every two minutes to ask if everything is okay.
After lunch, I surprise Natalie again by suggesting a drive farther up the coast.
“What’s really going on here? You should be depressed and frustrated. Instead you’re taking me to lunch and a drive up the coast.”
“Just something I want to check out.”
“This isn’t going to be dangerous, is it?”
“Not this time.”
We drive through Malibu, past the pier, the Colony, Pepperdine College, then down the grade to Point Dume and Zuma Beach. At the traffic light I turn on Trancas Canyon and wind up through the hills a half mile or so to Tapia Drive, where I pull up and park. Natalie looks around.
“Why have we stopped here?”
“This is where Raymond Cross lives. C’mon, let’s take a walk.”
If I wasn’t holding her hand, I don’t think Natalie would have come with me. We walk through a common area of the condominium complex that comes out near the pool. A sidewalk runs alongside, affording a view of the homes in Trancas Canyon below. Around the corner is a vista of the ocean that residents on that side must have paid heavily for. Cross’s unit is about halfway down.
“You’re not going to just go up to the front door and knock, are you?”
“No, we’re not even going to walk past. Well, you can if you want.”
“No thanks. So why are we here?”
I shrug and stare out at the ocean. “I just wanted to check out the place, get a feel for it.”
Natalie turns toward me, one hand on her hips. “So if you break in here and have to make a quick getaway, you’ll know the area.”
“Something like that. Actually, whether I do that or not depends on you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, how are your acting skills?”
It takes the entire drive back to Venice to convince Natalie I’m not crazy. Another hour later, she makes the call from my place. I stand right beside her as she dials the number I give her.
“Mr. Raymond Cross, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Cross, I’m the personal assistant of Rick Markham at Pacific Records. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Markham to invite you to a Pacific party this evening.”
“Could I speak to Mr. Markham?” Cross says.
Natalie looks at me. I shake my head.
“I’m afraid Mr. Markham is not available at the moment, but he would very much like you to come tonight. He also asked me to remind you about the tape and the trumpet? He said you’d know what he meant, and he apologizes for the short notice.”
Natalie glances at me again. There are several moments of silence while Cross thinks it over.
“Am I to bring the tape and trumpet?”
“I don’t know. I assume you’d know about that, Mr. Cross.”
“Very well, tell him thank you. Tell Mr. Markham I’ll be there.”
“Good. I’ll tell Mr. Markham. Seven o’clock.” She gives him the address and hangs up.
“God, I was nervous,” she says to me.
“Hey, if law school doesn’t work out, there’s always acting classes.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rick Markham’s three story home in Encino is enormous, taking up the entire end of a cul-de-sac. Burning torches are positioned around the main entrance and up the winding walkway to the front door. Four young guys in black pants, white shirts, and red bow ties are parking cars when we pull up.
“Just leave the keys, sir,” one of them says as he opens the door. He’s speaking to me, but his eyes are on Natalie.
She dazzles the entire valet crew when she gets out of the car. Her blond hair shimmers in the torchlight, and the short black dress and heels showcase her long legs and slender body.
I stand with Natalie for a moment, watching the parking arrangements. There are no tickets. The cars are being parked in a lot half a block away, and the keys are put in small manila envelopes in a box with the license numbers written on the front with marker pens. I file this information away in case I want to get to mine or somebody else’s car during the party.
Natalie and I make our way up the front walk with other guests and are greeted by some of Rick’s people. Taped music spills out of the entranceway, some of Pacific Records’ artists no doubt, but once inside I see drums and a bass lying on its side next to a grand piano, so there’ll be live music as well.
I quickly scan the guests already there, looking for Raymond Cross, but either I miss him or he hasn’t arrived yet. Someone I do recognize is Barry Hastings, standing near the bar. Him, I’d prefer to avoid.
Just past the bar, a large glassed-in entertainment room commands a view of the valley lights winking a
t us from below. The room is a symphony of clinking glasses, too-loud conversation, and forced laughter. There are a lot of record company types and a few pop stars I recognize from PR photos, as well as some television actors and actresses. This must be at least Rick Markham’s B-plus list. The record business is obviously good.
I spot Rick Markham about the same time he sees me. He breaks away from a group at the buffet and comes over, looking like anything but a happy host.
“Evan, I need to talk to you for a moment.” He guides me away after nodding to Natalie.
“Get us a drink and something to eat,” I call to her over my shoulder. Rick takes me into a small office and closes the door.
“Two things,” he says. “Barry Hastings is here, and not too happy with you. I discouraged him from coming, but he is one of my people.”
“I thought he was fired.”
“I had to rethink that,” Rick says, watching my reaction. “It was kind of a setup, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess it was. I didn’t want him to lose his job. I just didn’t want him in charge of Clifford Brown discoveries.”
“Well, I’ll try to keep you two separated, but he may have a few words for you sometime during the evening. Now what about this Raymond Cross character you invited? What am I supposed to do about him?”
I’d given Markham only the briefest sketch on the tapes, the trumpet, and why I wanted Cross here tonight.
“Cross is the guy with the tape and the trumpet, which I want back. If we confront him about the tape right here tonight, we might clear up a lot of things with the police.”
“What are you doing, staging an Agatha Christie thing here? I don’t know, Evan. As usual, you’re not telling me everything.”
He paces around a few steps. Obviously, he has some reservations; he’d have more if he knew as much about Cross as I do.
“Look,” he says finally, “I’ll help if I can, but I don’t want things to get out of hand.”
“Okay. Cross will probably seek you out if he comes. You need to convince him that I told you he was the one with the tape, and no matter what I’ve said, you’d like to talk with him about it while he’s here tonight. Is there someplace we could listen to a cassette later?”
“Sure, I have a big music and screening room downstairs. He’s not likely to start anything, is he?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s just got to believe you’re really interested.”
“If he saw Barry on television, he knows we are.”
“I just hope he brought the trumpet. Anyway, let’s just play it by ear.”
I hear the taped music stop then, replaced by the sounds of a live trio and a trumpet.
I look at Rick. He shrugs. “I thought a trumpet would be appropriate. C’mon, let’s join the party. I have to make up for my rudeness to your date. She’s a real stunner. Serious?”
“Very. I’ll introduce you.”
By now the bar and larger room are full of guests balancing drinks and plates of hot food. As I walk by the trio, I instinctively flex my right hand. It’s been rested for nearly two weeks. I wonder how it would hold up for a couple of tunes. The trumpet player is a stocky guy with a red beard and hair. I can’t place him immediately, but he looks familiar.
I find Natalie warding off two guys who look like they belong in a daytime soap opera. Expensive suits, ditto haircuts, and winning smiles. Both are being very solicitous.
“Oh, there you are,” Natalie says as I come up behind the two heartthrobs. “Nice talking to you guys. Good luck with the audition.”
They both turn to look at me. In loafers, Dockers, and a dark sweater, I’m probably the worst dressed at the party. They look back at Natalie, then at me again. Probably they wonder what I’m doing with her, but they drift away looking for new prey.
“I guess I’m a little underdressed,” I say, taking a Scotch and a plate of food from Natalie.
“True,” she says, “but you have your good points.”
We find a seat near the fireplace. Looking at my plate, it looks like a Thai/Chinese offering. Egg rolls, tiny chunks of meat and chicken on sticks, hot sauce, and an ice-cream-scoop-size mound of fried rice, which for my money is ruined with a sprinkling of peas.
“What are you doing?” Natalie asks, watching me separate the peas from the rice with plastic chopsticks.
“I don’t do peas in any form. It’s a childhood thing. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
“I’m learning more about you all the time. Anything else you don’t eat?”
“Sweet potatoes. That’s all you get to know for now.”
We work our way through the food, and I get another drink for me and a white wine for Natalie at the bar. The little I catch of the trio sounds good. Maybe I’ll give that a try later.
I bring back the drinks, and for a few minutes we just people-watch. Rick Markham comes over, and I introduce Natalie. Rick is charmed out of his socks.
“If I can make up for my rudeness earlier, perhaps you’d like to meet that gentleman over there.”
We follow his gaze and see the star of a current TV cop show holding court with a small group of admirers.
“I certainly would,” Natalie says. “Evan?”
“I’ll catch up with you in a minute. Think I’ll have a cigarette.” I haven’t seen anyone smoking or any sign of ashtrays.
“Through those doors,” Rick says. “There’s a deck out there.”
“Thanks. See you guys in a minute.”
I make my way outside. There’s another couple on the deck as I take up a position at one corner, looking out over the San Fernando Valley. The air is January, cool, but it feels good. The couple drifts back inside, and I’m just about to do the same when I hear a voice behind me.
“Trying to avoid me, Horne?” It’s Barry Hastings, the itinerant surfer and trumpet expert.
I turn to face him. “Not at all. Why should I?”
He’s on the way to being drunk, already slurring his words and a little unsteady on his feet. He sets his glass down on the railing so hard some of his drink splashes out.
“You almost got me fired.”
“You did that on your own, Barry. I told both you and Rick we didn’t need a leak on the tapes. Nobody told you to go on TV and make what was obviously a premature announcement.”
Hastings just sneers. “You didn’t think Rick would really fire me, did you? I’m too valuable to the company, certainly more than a broken-down piano player.”
Against my will, I stiffen and flex my hand. For a moment I contemplate shoving Barry over the railing. “Why don’t you just cool it, Barry? Go on in and enjoy the party.”
“There aren’t any tapes or a trumpet, are there?”
“There are tapes and a trumpet. They’re just not the real thing. If you’d waited, you could have saved yourself some embarrassment.” I lean back against the railing as Barry wobbles before me.
“You know what I think? I think you just want to, like, cut me out of the picture, and that’s cold, man, really cold.”
“There’s nothing to cut you out of. Before the end of the night, I’m sure Rick will explain everything.”
“Rick.” Barry snarls. “I don’t even get to call him Rick. It’s Mr. Markham this, Mr. Markham that. I—”
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Natalie says. She’s come up behind Barry Hastings.
He whirls around and almost falls over the railing without my help. I grab him by the shoulders, but he shakes me off. “Let go of me, man.” He heads back inside. “Don’t get in my way, Horne,” he calls back from the door.
Natalie and I watch him go. “Charming,” she says. “Wasn’t that the guy on TV?”
“None other. He’s not too happy with me.”
Natalie rubs her arms. “Let’s go back inside. It’s cold out here.”
“Sure, I want to check out the band.”
We make our way through the crowd to the bar area. I make a quick scan
of the room, but still no Raymond Cross. Maybe this isn’t going to work after all.
The band is just about to play a second set when I recognize the trumpet player, a studio session guy who plays good jazz as well, Steve Patterson.
He catches my eye and comes over. “Evan Horne? I thought that was you. Hanging out with the in crowd these days, huh?” As is often the case, Steve and the band, all in tuxes, are the most formally dressed at the party.
“Not hardly. I just happen to know the host. You guys sound good.”
“Yeah, it’s nice to get out of the studio for a while. I just threw this together for tonight. What are you doing these days?”
I hold out my hand and flex my fingers. “Still in rehab, but it’s getting better.”
“Cool, man, why don’t you play a couple with us? Bobby won’t mind,” Steve says, nodding toward the pianist.
I hesitate for a moment. I’m dying to play, but I don’t know how my hand will hold up or for how long. Everything else about this evening is reckless though—why not this too?
“Hey, why not? Thanks.”
Steve walks over and speaks to the pianist, who nods and waves and heads for the bar as I sit down at the piano. They don’t roll their eyes, but I catch the bassist and drummer exchanging glances. I know what they’re thinking; I’ve been there myself. I wish I could ease their apprehension, but that won’t happen until I play.
Musicians are always wary of people they don’t know sitting in, especially at a party. Good players get stuck with somebody’s friend playing wrong chords and generally messing up a good gig.
I run over a few chords to check the action of the piano. “How about ‘Stella by Starlight’?”
Steve nods. I play eight bars up front, and Steve takes the pickup notes. I start feeding him chords for the melody, substitute changes that everybody knows, and the bassist is right with me. We smile at each other, and everything is fine and relaxed. The drummer plays slightly on top of the beat and pushes us right along through three good choruses, Steve sounding great with his mute.
No pain, no tenseness in my hand. When it’s my turn I manage to get through a couple myself before I turn it over to the bassist.
