by Bill Moody
I lean back, feel the sun on my face, and squint at Coop. “We’re even, Coop. This one balances the books.”
“We’ll see,” Coop says.
CHAPTER THREE
Natalie glances up from the television when I come in. There’s a law book open on her lap, a pencil in her hand. I’ve just come back from a long walk on the beachfront. I drop on the couch beside her, run both hands through my hair.
“Busted,” I say, looking at the television. She has a soap opera on. Two impossibly good-looking actresses hold still for close-ups before the show breaks for a commercial.
“Who’s Andrea Lawrence?” Natalie asks.
“Not a good way to study, is it? Andrea Lawrence?”
“She left a message for you to call her. Is she from Quarter Tone Records?” Natalie lays the law book aside, stretches, and leans back. She taps the book with her pencil.
“You know, even in jeans and an old sweatshirt, you’re still very fetching.”
Natalie looks at me just long enough to raise her eyes upward before she turns back to the television. “Every once in a while I wonder if I really want to be a lawyer. This Lawrence babe sounded very formal.” There’s more than a hint of irritation in Natalie’s tone.
I just nod, knowing I’m about to enter dangerous territory here. My mind drifts back to the confidentiality paper I signed, Natalie’s strong feelings—and my own—to not get involved. I weigh them all with the honesty Natalie and I have maintained throughout our relationship.
I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, and look at the floor. “Andrea Lawrence is FBI. She’s a profiler,” I say quietly.
“FBI? A profiler? You mean like that TV show, with the blond? When did you meet her? Evan, what’s going on?” Natalie sits up on the edge of the couch.
“Okay, let’s talk.” I light a cigarette. I’m still trying to quit. I’ve tried the patch, gum, books, articles, even a tape, but I guess I’m not ready. I explain to Natalie about the FBI meeting, Coop’s position, everything I can muster to make a good argument for going this far, but Natalie isn’t buying it.
“Evan, this has nothing to do with you. Why do you owe Coop?”
“For a lot of reasons. Most of them you know. Anyway, that’s not the point.”
Natalie shakes her head. “What is the point, then?”
“Look,” I say. “You know better than anyone how long and hard I’ve worked to get back on track with my playing. No one wants this recording to come off well more than I do. This is just something that’s come up. All I’m doing is providing some background information that might help Coop and the FBI with their investigation.”
“But why, Evan? Why you?”
I tell her about the dates, the FBI’s and Coop’s theory about the killings, but that it’s mainly because Coop has asked for my help. “Andrea Lawrence just wants me to help her with the profile she’s working up. It might help to catch this nut.”
“They really think this is some crazed jazz fan on a rampage?”
“They don’t know what to think. Anyway, I figure if I cooperate now I can be out of it. They won’t bother me again. There won’t be any reason to, and I’ll feel okay about it.” I turn so I can look squarely at her. “I’m going to do it, Natalie.”
She is silent for a few moments. I crush out my cigarette and follow her gaze to the window. The fog is rolling in, dampening the air, the sky is gray, but I’m glad for the reprieve on this place, spared for now from the developers who tried to take over the area. I’d even packed up a bunch of boxes when I thought I was going to have to move, but the zoning permits are on hold.
Natalie turns back to me. “So call Lawrence now, get it over with. I want to hear you tell her this is all you’re going to do.”
“I’ll call later.” For some reason I don’t want to talk to Lawrence with Natalie around.
“Fine,” Natalie says as she stands up. “I’ll make it easy for you. I’ve got a lot of cases to review for an exam Friday.”
“Come on, Natalie.” I reach for her, but she pulls away. She slams the law book shut and grabs her bag.
“See ya.” She kisses me lightly on the cheek and slams the door on her way out.
The number Andie Lawrence has left is for her beeper. I punch in my own number and wait less than five minutes for her to call back.
“Evan? Andie Lawrence.”
“Hi. Just returning your call.”
“Good, thanks for getting back so soon. I’m not causing any problems for you, am I? The woman who took my call wasn’t exactly friendly. Was that your wife?”
“No, we’re not married.” I let it ride at that.
“Okay, well, I’d like to get together as soon as possible. Wendell, Ted, and I all agree we should go ahead with this.”
“I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.
“I understand. How about this evening then?”
“At your office?” I’d had enough of the Federal Building.
“I was thinking of maybe something less formal, where we could talk without being interrupted. The Federal Building can be a little intimidating. I thought we could meet someplace for coffee.”
“How about dinner?” I throw it out just to see what happens.
“Okay, great.” She sounds surprised. “Let me, the FBI, buy you a meal. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable.”
I feel like I’m standing in wet sand, sinking slowly as the tide comes in. “Hey, why not?”
“Let’s see. There’s a place at the beach with patio seating. If it’s not too cold, we could sit outside. You can smoke.”
“How did you know?”
“Saw the pack in your pocket.”
“I forgot. You’re an FBI agent.”
Andie laughs. “I hope that’s not intimidating.”
“I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can. Great. The place is called Sam’s, near Santa Monica Pier.”
“I know it. About seven then?”
“Fine. Oh, one thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come alone. That’s not a problem, is it?”
“If it was, I’d tell you.”
Sam’s is not very crowded, and except for Andie Lawrence, the patio is practically deserted. There’s one woman alone, engrossed in a book, and a couple a few tables away, talking quietly. The tables are lit with candles in hurricane lamps, and the whole area is glassed in to shield diners from the chilly ocean breeze. I can hear the surf pounding on the beach a couple of hundred yards away. The torches and outdoor heaters do the rest to make the patio comfortable if you like fresh air.
Andie waves from a corner table. She’s already ordered a carafe of wine. “I hope this is okay,” she says as I join her. “House red. Would you prefer white?”
I sit down and look at her for a moment. “This is starting to feel like an awkward date.”
Even in the candlelight I can see her color slightly. She’s dressed in a dark turtleneck sweater and black jeans and has on more makeup than at the Federal Building this afternoon.
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m trying too hard. Wendell and Ted Rollins weren’t exactly friendly. I just wanted to show you—”
“The FBI isn’t all bad?”
She laughs easily. It comes naturally. “Something like that.”
“Well, you succeeded. This is a big improvement over the Federal Building, and red is fine.” I pour myself a glass and scan the menu. I decide quickly on grilled salmon and light a cigarette after offering her one.
“No, thanks. I quit about a year ago.”
“Good for you. I’m trying but I guess not very hard.”
“I know. It’s tough.”
We order and settle back to get acquainted. She tells me she grew up in a San Francisco suburb, was a psych major at Berkeley, went on to a Ph.D. at Columbia, and chose the FBI as a career for the excitement.
I don’t see a ring, but I ask anyway. “You ma
rried?”
“No, I came close once, but this job isn’t good for relationships. Long hours, traveling. Too demanding. Just doesn’t work.” I catch a flutter of regret in her voice. She made a choice at some point in her life and is now living with it.
“No, I guess not.”
“How about you?”
I think for a minute. How about me? Natalie and I have been together for almost two years. It’s good, the best relationship I’ve ever been in. Natalie is smart, sexy, and when she wants to, she can turn heads anywhere. What is it that holds me back from taking the final step?
“Divorced. Natalie Beamer—the woman you talked to on the phone—and I have been together quite a while. She’s a law student at Loyola. One more year to go. We’ll see what happens then.”
Andie nods and sips her wine but doesn’t probe further. Our dinner comes, and we make more small talk, but she’s leading me in a definite direction. She confesses to being a jazz fan, but her tastes run more to smooth jazz than the heavyweights.
“If you say Kenny G, I’m leaving now.”
“No, David Sanborn is as far as I’ll go.”
I nod. “He can play. I saw him go toe-to-toe with Phil Woods on his television show. Sanborn held his own.”
Andie suddenly looks guilty. “I’m afraid I don’t know who Phil Woods is.”
“Well, I won’t hold it against you.” We’ve finished most of the wine, and when the waiter comes back, we both order coffee and get down to business.
“Don’t panic, but I’m going to take some notes, okay?”
“Fine.”
She takes out a notebook and pen and opens it on the table beside her.
“So tell me how this profiling thing works.”
“It’s not like on TV. I visit crime scenes, but I don’t have visions of the killer or anything like that. It’s mostly compiling and studying data on previous crimes, analyzing photos of crime scenes. Lots of time on the computer going through old cases. It’s become a science really, and we’re getting better at it all the time. The idea is to try and make predictions. It’s like the airlines profiling drug smugglers. There’s usually a behavior pattern that tips them off.”
“So what do you think of Coop’s theory?”
She clicks her pen several times before answering. “I think Cooper stumbled on it, but you put it together. You and Cooper are old friends, aren’t you?”
“Since high school.”
Andie nods. “I read the files on the cases you were involved in—the record scam and extortion with Lonnie Cole—God, who would have thought that—the Wardell Gray murder in Las Vegas. Were you as reluctant to become involved in those? When did you have time to play?”
I light another cigarette and stare out toward the ocean. It’s only a dark mass, but I can see the white foam as the waves break on the beach.
“I was out of commission for quite a while.” I glance down at my hand. “Had a bad accident.” When I look up at her, she’s watching me closely. There’s some kind of empathy in her expression. “Are you profiling me?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“I’m going to hold you to that. I was kind of drawn into those cases. I used to work for Lonnie Cole. He tricked me into helping him, made me the go—between for a ransom. With Wardell Gray, Clifford Brown, I had a lot of time on my hands. I was just doing some research for my friend Ace Buffington at UNLV.” I shrug. “I don’t know, they just happened.”
“And you feel obligated to Cooper.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. I was in over my head, and he got me out of a couple of scrapes, including one with the guy I ran up against last year. It started out just listening to a tape for a record collector. Before I knew it, I was involved with a very disturbed person.”
“Raymond Cross,” Andie says. “We didn’t get involved, but I remember the case. You got quite a lot of publicity. That was also helping someone, at least at first.”
I look back at her. “You know about that too.”
“Afraid so. Helped me to get a handle on you, since we’re going to be working together.”
“Working together? What is your handle on me?”
Andie drops her pen on the table and leans back. “Well, you haven’t talked about your family.”
“No, I haven’t.”
She studies me for a moment. “Okay, I won’t go there. First impressions? Smart, goal-oriented, maybe somewhat obsessed, as most artists are. You’re a talented, dedicated, determined musician who’s had some bad breaks, and now apparently on the comeback trail.”
“I hadn’t thought of it myself in quite that way.”
“What do you think has kept you going?”
“I feel like you are profiling me now.”
She smiles. “I guess I am. Sorry, occupational hazard. Helps me to gauge what you tell me. Anyway, let’s get to the purpose of this meeting, shall we?”
“That’s fine with me.”
She picks up her pen again. “Okay, first tell me about the difference between smooth jazz and classic jazz.”
“Smooth jazz is a marketing term, a category. It’s used by radio stations and record companies. Some stations only play smooth jazz. It’s light, not too demanding for listeners, and is usually a horn with a rockish type rhythm section, lot of electronics. Most musicians, the purists, don’t like the term. For genuine fans, jazz means Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Keith Jarrett, straight-ahead, mainstream, swinging music. And it’s usually acoustic.”
“Which you play.”
“Right again. With all the electronics in music, they had to come up with a retro term. Now there’s acoustic jazz—which has always been around—to distinguish it from synthesizers, drum machines. Chick Corea keeps two groups going—the electric band and the acoustic band.”
“And smooth jazz is more commercial. The artists make a lot more money?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why?”
“The same reason writers like Stephen King and Danielle Steele make more money than John Updike or Saul Bellow. Mass market. They appeal to a lower common denominator.”
Andie scribbles while I talk and underlines a couple of notes. “So your theory is that our killer could be a bitter musician, jealous that these smooth jazz players are making it, and they’re not. Have I got that right?”
“That’s a possibility, I guess, but I don’t think so. If you ask Horace Silver or the Modem Jazz Quartet or Phil Woods, they would tell you, Kenny G, for example, has nothing to do with what they do.” I think for a moment and light a cigarette. “Maybe it’s a fan who is bitter about the fact that someone like you knows David Sanborn and not Phil Woods. Phil has his audience and is doing fine though. More sometimes isn’t better.”
“So a fan or a musician would be obsessive?”
“A musician for sure. You’ve already told me I am. But yeah, fans too.” I think about the collectors I came across when I was tracking down the Clifford Brown tape. “They’d have very strong feelings about the music. Like I said, the dates of these killings have to mean something. It’s someone who knows a lot about jazz history. They’re playing with you, making a statement by leaving clues.”
“Like the bird feather?”
“Exactly.” I’d thought a lot about the feather. Unless there was a jazz buff with the FBI, the killer was counting on them taking a long time to figure that one out.
Andie nods. “In most cases with serial killers, if that’s what we’re dealing with, the crime scene tells some kind of story. The killer usually has a signature. Subtle or not, the clues tell us mainly whether he’s organized. If he is, he obsesses over details, which usually means he’s progressing.”
“Was there a feather at the other two scenes?”
“No, and that bothers me.”
“Because the feather is some kind of progression?”
“It could be.”
“You keep calling this killer a he. What about women serial killers?”
&
nbsp; “You think this could be a woman?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t it a possibility? It must be someone who knew these musicians. It isn’t easy to get backstage. A woman, especially a good-looking woman, would have the best chance.”
“Groupies, you mean.” Andie smiles. “Maybe, but very unlikely. There have been very few female serial killers. Women tend to internalize their feelings. They usually don’t act out on them. The classic cases are men with horrible, dysfunctional childhoods, murdering their mothers over and over again. The patterns are awfully convincing.”
“How do you know when you’re dealing with a serial killer?”
“We don’t, really, but the signs are there. Three killings, all musicians, victims are similar type, the same crime scenes, the music playing.”
“So how do you go about catching them?”
“We compile as much data as possible, then hope for a break.”
“Or a mistake by the killer.”
“Exactly. They always trip up some way. Sometimes they want to be stopped. Sometimes they get arrogant, think they’re invincible. We just hope that happens before there are too many deaths.”
“So does this help, brainstorming like this?”
Andie nods and finishes her coffee. “Very much.” She pauses, listens to the surf for a moment. “I love that sound. Wish I lived near the beach.”
“Yeah, it’s hypnotic.”
She looks over her notes again. “Look, here’s what I’d like to do. Let me take this information, add it to what I already have, and work up a profile. I’d like you to see it, go over it with me, see what else you could add. Would you be willing to do that?”
One more step, but I’ve gone this far. I feel myself being drawn in but unable to do anything about it. I’m talking to the FBI. They think I can help them catch a serial killer because of what I know about jazz. What am I supposed to do?
“As long as you understand that’s as far as I go. I don’t know what else I could do anyway. I’ve got this recording to think about, rehearsals, gigs, so I have to focus on that.”