by Bill Moody
“No, I think I’m done. There’s nothing else I can tell them.”
Natalie sets her glass down and comes over to sit on my lap. She puts her arms around me. I feel her warm breath on my neck. “I’m sorry,” she says. Her look turns mock serious. “But I know this Lawrence is a babe, or you would have told me she’s forty and frumpy.”
“You’re right. She looks like Pamela Anderson Lee’s twin?’
Natalie playfully slaps me on the shoulder. “Stop it. Look, we’ll have a nice dinner, finish this wine, and then later…”
“Yes?”
“I’ll show you—” The phone rings. “Damn,” Natalie says. “Hold that thought. I’ll get it.”
She walks over to the phone and picks it up. She’s looking at me, still smiling, as she talks. “Hello. Yes, he’s here. Just a minute.” She holds the phone out to her side and looks away. Her smile has changed to a glare. “Andie Lawrence.” I take the phone from her, and she goes into the bedroom.
“Yeah, Andie. What’s up?” I catch myself talking louder than necessary.
“I’m sorry to call you. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, just about to have dinner.” I watch Natalie come back, but she won’t meet my eyes as she stomps back to the kitchen. She takes the lid off the pot and stirs viciously.
“Lucky you,” Andie says. “I’m still working. Well, I won’t keep you. I’m working on the profile, and I just thought of something else.”
“What?”
“I’ve been trying to make a connection between the four victims beyond the fact that they’re all successful jazz musicians.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I think I’ve found something. Two of them, Ty Rodman and Cochise, Bobby Ware, went to Berkeley. It was in the bios I got from their record companies. But Berkeley is not necessarily known as a music school. I just thought it was strange.”
“It’s not UC Berkeley, it’s the school in Boston. B-e-r-k-l-e-e. People confuse the two all the time. Berklee in Boston is a jazz school. I went there myself.”
Now I recall seeing notes about both Cochise and Rodman in the alumni update section. I still get the magazine.
“You went to Berklee too?” Andie asks. “You didn’t know Rodman or Ware then, did you?”
“No, they were long after me, and I never graduated. So what does it mean, that they both went to Berklee?”
“Well, I don’t know if it means anything. It’s just another thread really. Anyway, thanks for clearing that up. I’ll check the Boston school tomorrow. Sorry to interrupt your dinner and please apologize to—it’s Natalie, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I will. Good night.”
“Bye, Evan.”
When I hang up, Natalie is standing there, her coat on, her bag in her hand.
“Natalie—”
She nods toward the stove. “That’s almost ready. You just have to cook the rice. I’m sorry, Evan, I can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
She doesn’t answer. She looks at me once more, goes out, and quietly shuts the door behind her. I stand for a moment, wanting to go after her, but there’s nothing I can say that will change her mind, at least not now.
I’m too hungry to let the dinner go. I put water on to boil and turn on some music—an early Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. Listening to it, I wonder how jazz has come to Cochise, Ty Rodman, Kenny G, and a slew of other groups with one-word names I don’t even know about. Smooth jazz, acid jazz, sampling, much of it from old Blue Note artists. What would Bird have thought of a limpid sax over a monotonous synthesized rock beat?
Blakey and his messengers roar through “Night in Tunisia.” The crackling solos by Lee Morgan and Wayne Shorter, pushed and prodded by Blakey’s drums, seem to be the best answer.
I have another glass of wine, but the rice doesn’t come out right. I don’t seem so hungry with Natalie gone. I pace around the apartment. I’m too restless to just stay home, so I call Cal Hughes.
“You busy, Cal?”
“Yeah, Chick Corea wants me to sub for him in his Electric Band.”
“I need to talk. Can I come over?”
“Sure, bring something with you. Maybe you can take Milton for a walk.”
I stop at a liquor store on Sunset and wind my way up into the Hollywood Hills to Cal’s tiny bungalow. “Door’s open,” he calls from inside. He’s in his usual chair, Milton at his side, with the perennial stack of books on a nearby table.
“What are you reading?”
“The Concrete Blonde.” He holds it up. “It’s a detective novel.” He lights a cigarette and eyes the paper bag. “That for me? You do the honors.”
I dig out a couple of glasses and some ice and pour us both hefty drinks. Cal does actually look better, but he still has the cough. Each spasm shakes his body and forces him forward in the chair. Milton looks up at him, disapprovingly with sad basset eyes.
“I knew a woman like that in Chicago once,” he says, putting the book down to take the drink. “Tits hard as a rock. Early silicone. They didn’t have it together yet. You still with the wannabe lawyer?”
“I don’t know. We’re not getting along so well these days.” I tell Cal about Andie Lawrence, the FBI, and my meetings with them. He listens quietly, not commenting until I’ve told him everything.
“The FBI. Fucking Bureau of Intimidation. Thought you were going to stay out of it?”
“I was, I’m not in it, really.”
“No, you meet this FBI broad for dinner and help their task force with a serial killer profile. That’s really staying out of it. What’s this Andie Lawrence like?”
“She’s nice.” Cal holds my gaze for a moment. “Okay, she’s good-looking too.”
Cal snorts. “I thought so.” He rattles his glass. “Encore?”
I fix him another drink. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing, I guess. Four people have died.” He shrugs. “If you can help them catch this guy, I guess you have to, but watch yourself with the FBI.”
“I think it’s a woman.”
“Really.”
I tell Cal my female theory.
“Well, you might be right. What about the record deal?”
“It’s on; had one rehearsal already. The other guys are good, we’re just picking tunes.”
“Do some familiar ones, standards, but there’s also a lot of good tunes nobody does anymore, obscure ones. It works for Keith Jarrett.” Cal shakes his head. “Guy’s a fucking genius.”
We talk music some more, then both of us notice Milton’s inquiring look. “Can you take him for a spin around the block before you go?”
“Sure. C’mon, Milton.” The big basset hound lumbers to the door and allows me to snap on his leash. I take him around the block, letting him explore at his own pace. I wonder if Natalie has changed her mind or called, and I suddenly want to get Milton back, go home.
Back inside, Cal has the TV on. “Look at this,” he says.
It’s no longer the lead story. Too much time has passed. But just before the weather, the Cochise and Ty Rodman murders are rehashed.
“And in a local note,” the anchor says, “FBI task force leader Wendell Cook reports the bureau is being assisted in their inquiries by a local musician.”
They cut to Cook coming out of the Federal Building with Andie Lawrence and Ted Rollins trailing behind him. He almost looks surprised to see the reporters.
“Yes, this musician knew one of the victims, Bobby Ware, at the Berklee College of Music in Boston. We have no other leads at this time,” Cook continues, “but he is being very helpful. That’s all I can say at this time.”
They cut back to the studio then. “Action News has learned that the musician referred to has assisted the police several other times in the past three years. Next—”
Cal hits the mute button and looks at me. “Oh-oh, you’ve just been sandbagged, buddy.”
I’m sitting in my car, waiting for Andie
Lawrence in the Federal Building parking garage at eight o’clock, sipping 7-Eleven coffee from a paper cup, smoking my third cigarette. I have on the same clothes from last night, and my eyes feel gritty as I scan the cars arriving.
I ended up crashing at Cal’s after the newscast and several more scotches. I imagine my machine is full of messages from Jeff, Gene, Paul Westbrook, Coop, Natalie, and maybe even Andie, who is the only one I want to talk to at the moment.
At ten after eight, she pulls into the garage and parks in the reserved parking area almost directly across from me. I get out and walk to her car. She takes a box out of the backseat and kicks the door shut with her foot.
“Andie.”
She turns, startled, sees me, and bows her head slightly. I’d hoped she hadn’t been in on the leak. It’s hard to believe she isn’t. She knows why I’m here. She straightens up, sits the box on the hood of her car. “I tried to call you last night.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” I angrily flip my cigarette away. “What were you thinking about?”
“Evan, look, it wasn’t me.”
“No? It was you I had the Berklee conversation with. I told you I didn’t know Bobby Ware.”
“I think you need to come upstairs and talk to Wendell,” she says.
“Oh, I’m definitely looking forward to that.”
Andie locks her car, and we go inside. I let her wrestle the box on her own, and I’m too angry to speak until we’re in the elevator.
“Is Rollins here too?” I ask.
Andie nods. “He should be.”
We get off the elevator, and I follow her back through the bull pen to Wendell Cook’s office. It’s all getting just a bit too familiar.
Cook looks like he knows we’re coming. He’s standing in the doorway of his office. Over his shoulder, I can see Ted Rollins and Coop already inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Horne,” Cook says. “We’d—”
“Don’t bother with the formalities, Wendell. And by the way, it’s Evan. We need to talk.” I brush past him and sit down at the long table opposite Rollins and Coop. At the door, Cook takes the box from Andie and sets it on the floor. They both come in and join the rest of us. “Can somebody please tell me why it was necessary to tell the television folks a local musician was helping you? Don’t you realize anyone that’s read the papers, seen the news, the past couple of years can figure out it was me?”
Nothing but silence. I look from face to face, but not one seems to be able to look at me. Andie stares ahead into space. Rollins fidgets with a pen, and Wendell Cook sits quietly, his hands folded in front of him.
Finally, Coop looks at Wendell Cook. “Well, are you going to tell him?”
I take out my cigarettes and light one, an insignificant act of defiance, but Cook says nothing. He just pushes a paper coffee cup toward me. I tap an ash in the cold coffee.
“I’m afraid they’ve already figured it out,” he says. He gets up and brings back a newspaper from his desk. It’s folded over to page three. Cook slides it across to me and taps on the sidebar of yet another story on the murders. My name is in the second paragraph: “…Special Agent Ted Rollins revealed to this reporter that the musician named by Task Force Director Wendell Cook as assisting the FBI with its inquiries is pianist Evan Horne. Horne assisted police in several investigations over the past three years. He recently played an engagement at the Jazz Bakery with his trio.”
There’s more. The story briefly summarizes the Lonnie Cole case, the Las Vegas murders of Wardell Gray and record collector Ken Perkins. He doesn’t bother to mention that Gray’s death was in 1955. I turn back to the front page. It’s below the fold, but the headline reads: LOCAL MUSICIAN HELPS FBI IN JAZZ LAND MURDERS.
I take a long, last drag on my cigarette and drown it in the coffee cup. “Evan,” Cook begins. “I know—”
“What the fuck were you thinking about?” I lean toward Rollins. I sense Coop give me a warning look, but I ignore it. “Who authorized this?”
“Nobody authorized it,” Cook says. “It was a mistake.” Rollins shrugs and glances at Cook. “There was a Times reporter,” he says. “I thought it was off the record.”
“Bullshit. You wanted to see your name in the paper,” I shoot back.
“That’s not true,” Rollins says. He’s glaring at me now.
“All right,” Cook says. “That’s enough. What’s done is done.”
“Oh, let me write that down. I’ll tell that to Paul Westbrook when he cancels my recording date. Jesus Christ.”
Cook gives me a few moments to calm down. “I understand that you’re upset, Evan, but we had no choice. This was a Bureau decision.”
“I thought you said it was a mistake.”
“Releasing your name was. Letting the media know a musician was assisting us was not.”
“What? I don’t understand.” And then suddenly, I do. “You’re hoping the killer will contact me. That’s it, isn’t it?” Nobody says anything for a moment. Except for Coop, they all steal a glance at me. Coop’s eyes meet mine, letting me know he had nothing to do with this.
Cook sighs before he answers. “We have four murders, all seemingly related. Your input has convinced us it’s either a musician, someone related to a musician, or a fan. We have no other leads, no direction to go.”
“And you figure this UNSUB—that’s what you call him, isn’t it, Andie?—will be smart enough to figure out, even without my name, that I’m the local musician. Then what?” I can’t resist the dig at Andie.
“We’re not sure exactly,” Cook says. “I don’t think it’s enough to stop him, but it might give us some time, cause him, or her, to rethink things. We just don’t know.”
I shake my head. “In the meantime, I’m supposed to do what? Just go on with life as normal?”
“We’re going to issue a denial that you’re the musician. In fact, Ted has already taken care of that.”
Rollins just sits there looking arrogant. “You know what, Rollins,” I say, “you didn’t have to give them my name. If this killer is as smart as you all think he is, he wouldn’t need my name.”
Rollins looks up. “Just for the record, Horne, I was against you being in on this from the get-go. I still am. The last thing we need is some cockamamie musician—”
“All right, Ted, that’s enough,” Cook says.
I’m already headed for the door. I want out. Coop gets up. “I’ll walk you out.”
I give Andie one last look, and Coop and I ride down to the garage.
We stop at my car. I light a cigarette and lean against the door, my mind still on the newspaper story.
“Well,” Coop says, “here’s another fine mess I’ve got you into.” He taps his finger on my chest. “You know I had nothing to do with leaking you to the media. I was madder than you when I heard. That’s why they were all so quiet up there.” He looks away at some cars pulling into the garage. “Andie didn’t either, in case you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Well, you were a little rough on her. She nearly ate Rollins alive.”
“Rollins is—”
“An FBI prick. Hey, what else do you call someone who likes Kenny G?”
“Musically challenged?” I know what Coop’s doing, and I laugh in spite of myself. “Look, Coop. I didn’t mind helping them, but I don’t need this kind of publicity. The guy at Quarter Tone asked me about this stuff when we talked.”
“I know,” Coop says. “It’ll probably blow over. Just hang in there. Get some sleep.” He starts toward his car. “I’ll stay in touch.”
I’m too keyed up to go home. I drive up the Coast Highway to Malibu and park in a deserted lot at Zuma Beach. I sit there for over an hour, listening to the surf, running everything over in my mind, finally realizing there’s nothing I can do. Cook was right. It’s done. Even if there’s a denial, nobody will believe it.
When I get home, my answering machine light is blinking crazily. I don’t even check the mess
ages. Unplugging the phone, I just take off my clothes and fall into bed. When I wake up, it’s almost dark. I stand in the shower long enough to wake up and then put on some coffee. I plug in the phone and face the answering machine.
The messages are predictable. Coop, Andie, Natalie, and Jeff Lasorda, who hums the Dragnet theme and then says, “Call me, guy.”
Paul Westbrook simply wants me to call him immediately, probably to cancel the recording date. There are also two calls from someone who identifies himself as a reporter. That’s one I won’t answer.
I decide to call Natalie first, but before I can dial, the phone rings. Without thinking, I pick it up.
“Hello.” Nothing. “Hello. Anybody there?” I’m just about to hang up when I hear music, a saxophone. I listen for a moment. “Who is this?”
“Oh, you know who it is.” The voice is low, at once smoky and clear. “This is a test, Evan. Who’s that playing?”
“John Coltrane.”
“Which album?”
“Soultrane.”
“Right again. And the tune?”
“‘Good Bait’.”
“This is going to be so much fun, Evan.”
“How do you know my name? Who is this?”
“I need you, Evan. You’re going to help me.”
“Help you do what? If this is some kind of joke—”
“Just shut up and listen.” I strain my ears, but there’s nothing but Coltrane’s unmistakable tenor saxophone sound and some breathing.
“Sorry, Evan, I got angry for a moment, like I did with Ty Rodman. He wouldn’t listen either.”
I turn around, stare out the window at the darkness. My legs are suddenly rubbery. “What do you know about Ty Rodman?”
“I know he’s dead.” The voice is calm, dispassionate.
“So does anyone who reads the newspaper or watches television. Don’t call—”
“You found the feather, didn’t you, Evan?”
“What feather? What are you talking about?”
“The one in Rodman’s horn case. I know it was you. Just like the one in Cochise’s case. Beautiful and pure and white.”
I slide down the counter, find myself sitting on the floor, and wonder how I got there.
