by Bill Moody
“Not a problem. Those were accidental involvements.”
“Whatever. Great, that’s all I wanted to hear.”
Westbrook leaves me sitting there for a few minutes, taking it all in, the excitement churning inside me. I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.
“Will you be having dessert, sir?” the waitress asks.
I look up at her. “What? I think I already did.”
I call Coop from the pay phone in the lobby. For some reason he doesn’t want me to come to the station.
“I hope you’ve got something for me,” he says. “Meet me down at the Palisades, between Idaho and Montana, in about half an hour.”
“Coop.”
“Not on the phone.”
He hangs up before I can protest.
With some time to kill, I walk over to a record store on the Third Street Promenade and do a quick search of the jazz bins for Quarter Tone Records. I find two trios: one with a young lion I’d seen profiled in Jazz Times, now with Blue Note; and one with a veteran who hasn’t recorded in a long time. I fit somewhere in the middle of that mix, but I’m pleased to see I’m in such good company.
Palisades Park stretches north from Santa Monica Pier on the west side of Ocean Avenue, just past San Vicente, then dips down into Santa Monica Canyon. A narrow strip of grass, asphalt paths, and benches, the park was for a time a homeless camp until the police chased them away.
Today the bright sunshine has brought out strollers, joggers, and women pushing baby carriages. Parts of the bluffs have crumbled away over the years, but the park is still one of the city’s best features.
Coop is already waiting for me, pacing around, oblivious to the view of Santa Monica Bay. The muffled roar of traffic rushing by on the Coast Highway below us filters up and blends with the distant sound of the surf.
“Well, I’m about to sign a recording contract,” I say.
“Great, that’s great,” Coop says. “What have you got for me?”
I give Coop a look and pull out the paper I’ve written down Ace’s research on. “Okay. January 5, the bassist Charlie Mingus died in 1979. January 21, Miles Davis recorded Birth of the Cool.”
Coop takes out his notebook. “And Mingus wrote ‘Better Git It in Your Soul’?”
“Right.”
“Let me guess. ‘Boplicity’ was one of the songs on Birth of the Cool.”
“Right again. Was that the song that was playing?”
Coop doesn’t answer. He just slaps the notebook with his hand. “I was afraid of that.”
“Afraid of what?” I’ve never seen Coop quite like this. He still looks like he hasn’t recovered from his all-nighter at the Rodman scene. He leans on the rail and stares down at Coast Highway.
“They are connected,” he says, almost to himself. He’s silent for a minute, then turns to me. “Let me ask you a question. What do you make of this? The other two murders I told you about, in New York, and this one here the other night all occurred on the anniversaries of significant jazz events. I assume Mingus and Miles Davis were significant. Hell, I’ve even heard of Miles Davis.”
I was already ahead of Coop. When Ace had called back, it didn’t take much to put together the dates and the music playing at the murder scenes. It was too much of a stretch to think more than one person had done these, or that they weren’t trying to make a point.
“I’d say whoever did these murders knows a lot about jazz and is making a statement by their choice of dates. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is a deranged jazz fan.”
Coop nods as if he already knew what I was going to say. “Would you be willing to tell that to the authorities?”
I stare at him for a moment. “The authorities? You’re the authorities. I just told you.”
“Not me,” Coop says. “The FBI.”
“The FBI?” I walk away a few steps from Coop, then turn back. “Look, man, I checked out these dates for you, but that’s all. I’m not getting involved in this one. I’m playing again, I’ve got a record contract in the works. No, Coop, I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it”
“I know, I know,” Coop says quietly. “I need some help on this to convince the FBI I’m not crazy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look, Rodman’s murder was in my jurisdiction. The New York murders are being investigated there, but I think there’s enough of a connection to bring in the FBI, maybe a profiler. I think this is a serial killer.”
I stand perfectly still, not wanting to listen to any of this, but Coop continues.
“The way it works is, they have to be invited by local authorities, and that’s me. There have been three murders, all musicians, all on dates that have some meaning to jazz, but they’re in different cities.”
Coop presses on, knowing I want to interrupt him. “My FBI contacts concede we might be dealing with a serial killer, but they want to be convinced, especially the profiler. Nobody has any idea who or why, but this could help narrow down the field.”
Coop pauses and looks at me. “I want you to talk to the FBI, back me up on this. Ty Rodman’s murder was in my backyard, a block from my office, and I don’t know where to begin.”
I sigh, walking away a few steps, but already knowing I’ll do what Coop wants. I owe him in many ways. If the FBI works like most federal agencies, they’ll think I’m a nut case too and let it go at that. They’ll just say, Thanks for your cooperation. Go play music.
“All right. I’ll talk to them, but—”
“Thanks,” Coop says. He checks his watch. “I gotta go.” He starts for his car. “Tomorrow morning, at ten,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll pick you up.”
The Federal Building is on Wilshire, south of the UCLA campus, and just east of the San Diego Freeway. Coop drives straight up Wilshire and parks in the underground garage. He flashes his badge when we go through the metal detectors and head for the bank of elevators. We ride up to the seventeenth floor in silence. The doors open onto a reception area.
“Wait here,” Coop says.
“We going to see Eliot Ness?”
Coop stops and glares at me for a moment, then walks over to the receptionist and says something to her. She picks up the phone and speaks into it, and Coop comes back to stand with me where I’m looking down across Wilshire toward Westwood.
“Looking for coeds?”
Before I can answer, a door off the reception area opens, and a tall, heavily built black man pushes through. He’s immaculately dressed in a three-piece dark suit, muted tie, and button-down collar that doesn’t seem big enough for his neck.
Coop turns around as the door clicks shut behind him. “Morning, Wendell,” Coop says. Wendell looks past Coop to me. “You must be Evan Horne.” He holds out a massive hand that my own all but disappears into. Only then does he acknowledge Coop. “Thanks for coming. I’m Wendell Cook. Come on, let’s go back.”
He opens the door with a card key and leads the way down a corridor past a number of rooms, which eventually opens into a bullpen-like area with rows of desks. Most of the people at the desks are talking on the phone or staring at their computers. A couple look up as we pass.
Another door opens to a small meeting room. Inside, two people are seated at a conference table. They both look up as we walk in, and I immediately sense they’re sizing me up. I suddenly realize the risk Coop is taking by bringing in not only a civilian but a jazz musician high school buddy to substantiate his theory.
Cook motions Coop and me to chairs. The other two take their cue from Cook. They both have coffee cups and notepads in front of them. Cook walks around the table and stands between them. “This is Special Agent Ted Rollins and Andrea Lawrence.” We shake hands all around. Like Cook, Rollins is uniform FBI—dark suit, white shirt, and tie. He mumbles hello and drops back in his chair.
Andrea Lawrence is only a little less formal in navy skirt and white blouse. She’s not pretty exactly, but the short haircut frames her face and accentuates her
eyes. There’s a definite appealing quality about her. She stands up and smiles. “Thanks for coming.”
“Well, let’s begin,” Cook says. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Horne?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
Cook allows himself a slight smile. “Just like to get this over with as soon as possible, right?”
“Well, frankly, yes.” I feel like I’m at an IRS audit.
Cook nods and opens a file in front of him. “I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but this conversation is entirely confidential. Lieutenant Cooper has vouched for you”—Cook slides a form across the table—”but we’d like you to sign this, please.”
I scan it quickly. There’s a lot of fine print, but I accept that it’s what Cook says it is and use his pen to sign.
“Thank you.” Cook says. He returns the form to the file folder. “We appreciate your coming in.”
I study Cook for a moment. His name rings a bell for some reason, as does his massive build, and then I have it. “Didn’t you play pro football sometime back?” Of course. Kansas City Chiefs.
Cook looks down and studies the file, but I catch him smiling slightly at the recognition. “That was years ago.”
“All-Pro defensive end,” Ted Rollins offers. Andrea Lawrence stifles a laugh.
“Anyway,” Cook continues, “Lieutenant Cooper has an interesting theory about the three murders being investigated, and it seems you have some similar views. We’d like to have your thoughts, Mr. Horne.”
They all look at me expectantly. I feel like a Ph.D. candidate defending my dissertation. Time to make my adviser look good.
“Sure, as long as you understand this is just my opinion.”
“Of course,” Cook says. “We’re looking for someplace to start, Mr. Horne. Three people have died. All three are what we could consider celebrity musicians. Stalking, threatening, even murdering celebrities is nothing new, as I’m sure you’re aware. John Lennon was one example. There was even an attempt on Ringo Starr.”
“Somebody tried to kill Ringo?” That’s one I haven’t heard about.
Cook smiles patiently. “Neither did Ringo until after the fact. His assailant fired one shot, point—blank range, but the bullet glanced off his earring and passed through his beard. Starr was never even aware of the attack. His attacker became obsessed with locating and stalking, in his words, ‘any trace of musical ability in Staff’s contribution to the band.’” Cook pauses for a moment and looks up at me.
I can’t help but smile as a long-standing joke among jazz musicians comes to mind.
“You find this amusing, Mr. Horne?” Cook asks, frowning at me. I can feel Coop’s glare.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just thinking about something.”
“Perhaps you’d like to share it with us,” Cook says. His look is stern now, probably the one he gave opposing quarterbacks.
If he could have reached, Coop would have kicked me under the table. “Kind of sick, but when Lennon died, the joke among jazz musicians was, One down, three to go.”
Only Andrea Lawrence smiles.
“What’s wrong with the Beatles?” Ted Rollins asks, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“Nothing,” I say, glancing at Rollins. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is,” Cook says. “In any case, as I said, stalking celebrities is not new, but there certainly seems to be a common music thread in these three murders, and Lieutenant Cooper has pointed it out to us. As Lieutenant Cooper’s friend and someone who has some expertise in the field, we’d like to hear your views.”
Now I’m an expert. “Okay, the murders are all people who play what’s known in the trade as fusion, smooth jazz, almost pop music, right? The dates of the murders are significant to jazz history, classic jazz. Ty Rodman, March 12, the anniversary of Charlie Parker’s death. The other two happened on the day Charles Mingus died and the date of Miles Davis’s recording of Birth of the Cool. The music playing at all three locations was some jazz standard—‘Now’s the Time,’ Parker; ‘Better Git It in Your Soul,’ Mingus; and ‘Boplicity,’ Miles Davis.”
There, it’s out. Cook flicks a glance at Coop. Maybe I’m not supposed to know that much. Well, now the FBI can make what they want of it. I want a cigarette badly, but of course I’m in a federal building.
Cook, Rollins, and Lawrence all exchange glances. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Horne?” Cook asks.
I’m sure they know exactly what I’m saying, but they just want to hear it out loud.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying that I agree with Lieutenant Cooper. It seems like too much of a coincidence. Whoever is doing this knows a lot about jazz, and they’re picking on pop jazz musicians who make a lot of money.”
“Classic jazz musicians don’t?” Rollins asks.
“Not usually, unless they’re Miles Davis or Dave Brubeck or Wynton Marsalis.”
“Any ideas on motive?” Andrea Lawrence asks. She’s been making notes on her pad all the time I’ve been talking. “That’s what’s bothering us. Revenge, maybe?”
I shrug and glance at Coop. You’re doing fine, his look says. “I don’t know really. I suppose it could be some kind of revenge.”
“Are you trying to tell us that some kook who likes jazz, classic jazz as you call it, is pissed off because Kenny G is making millions?” Rollins shakes his head as if it were absurd. Maybe it is.
“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m just giving you my opinion, which is what I thought you wanted.” At least I know Rollins’s musical taste. “I don’t think Kenny G has anything to worry about. He doesn’t even call himself a jazz musician, and he plays soprano sax, not alto.”
“Why not?” Rollins asks. “What’s wrong with—”
Cook cuts him off. “Ted, let’s move on. Andie, what do you think?” Cook turns back to me. “Andrea is on loan from our Washington office. She’s one of our profilers, Mr. Horne.”
Andrea nods. “I think he might be onto something,” she says. “What about a, I don’t know, an angry, jealous, failed jazz musician? Is that a possibility?”
So far, she’s the only one I like. “I suppose that’s possible. Or maybe it’s an angry, jealous, obsessed fan. Like the one that shot at Ringo?’
Rollins throws his pen down. “Oh, come on, I’m not buying it.”
“Serial killers are studies in obsession,” Andrea says. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that, Ted.”
“No, you don’t,” Rollins says. He turns to Cook. “C’mon, Wendell. Aren’t we getting a little far-fetched here?”
If they work together, I imagine Rollins and Lawrence clash a lot.
Cook’s pensive look lets me know he doesn’t agree with Rollins. “Okay, let’s get back on track,” he says. “Andie, I think you need to work up a profile on this, perhaps with Mr. Horne’s help. Lieutenant Cooper says you would be willing to cooperate in that regard, right?”
My turn to glare at Coop. “Look, I don’t think I could add anything on this, and I’d prefer not to be involved. I’m pretty busy at the moment.”
“It wouldn’t take long,” Lawrence says.
I sit for a moment, feeling pressured, cornered, not wanting to commit to anything, seething inside at Coop.
“Mr. Horne,” Cook says, “so far, three people have died. We have, it seems to me, good cause to expect there might be more. I’m sure if you could play even a very minor role in stopping further murders, you’d want to. Am I right?” Cook lets that sink in and then adds, “And I’ve been told you were previously involved, helped the police on other cases.” He flips through the file, then looks up.
Cook has me there. They’ve probably already done a profile on me.
“Well, Mr. Horne?”
I look at Coop, but he’s busy studying the ceiling. “Yes, of course.”
“Fine,” Cook says. “We won’t inconvenience you any more than necessary. Thanks for coming in. Andrea will work out something that s
uits your schedule.”
Andrea Lawrence nods in agreement and gives me a reassuring smile. Cook closes the file folder and stands up.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Horne. We’ll make this as painless as possible.”
I close my right hand into a fist.
The elevator doors are barely closed before I start on Coop. “I don’t want any part of this, Coop. I told you I would talk to them, I gave my opinion, but you didn’t tell me I’d have to help them with a profile.”
Coop listens stoically, keeping an eye on the floor lights, but he’s smiling. When the doors open he says, “Can’t tell me you wouldn’t like to spend a little time with Andie Lawrence. Nice legs, and she fills out that skirt pretty well.” He walks on toward the Wilshire exit. “C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch in Century City.”
No more is said until we’re settled at an outdoor table, picking at a selection of Chinese dishes. The mall is crowded. Shoppers swirl around us, and the sun is so bright I can hardly see Coop’s face.
“Okay, I might have overstepped a little there, but there was a reason. When the FBI moves in, it can get touchy. Territory and all that shit. Usually they’re cool. Cook is okay, but he wants to make a name for himself, solve a serial murder. They’re stepping on my neck, and I want some leverage. I—okay, with your help—came up with this theory, so that means they’ll keep me in with the proper courtesy.” He sucks some soy sauce off a chopstick and drops it in an empty carton.
“This is about territory. You against the feds? I know it didn’t register, but yesterday I told you about a recording contract. I’ve got rehearsals, tunes to think about. Jesus, Coop, give me a break. You’re getting me mixed up in a serial killing. I don’t want to talk to any FBI profiler, even if she does look like Andie Lawrence.”
Coop grins. “Thought you’d noticed. Look, all she wants is some info to help her work up the profile. It won’t go any farther than that. The FBI doesn’t want a civilian in this, any more than I do. You just happen to have some information, some insight that could be helpful, that’s all.” Coop grins at me again. “Think of it as your civic duty.”