Evan Horne [04] Bird Lives!

by Bill Moody

  “Yeah,” Natalie says. “One of them is sitting in your apartment in a short skirt, her shoes off, listening to music. Is that official FBI procedure?”

  “Look, let me see how much I can tell you. Let me check with—”

  “No,” Natalie says. “I don’t want you to check with anybody. I can’t stand around and watch you throw away this second chance you have. I won’t do it.” She takes a few breaths. “This is hard for me to say, but you know what, Evan? I think you like this. Working with the police, solving old crimes. Maybe you got into it by accident, but I think you like it. And now it’s the FBI. You’ve hit the big leagues.”

  “I like this?” I shake my head, feeling like I’m going to snap. Gillian, the FBI, Natalie, juggling rehearsals, it’s all too much. “Jesus, Natalie, people are getting killed. What am I supposed to do?” I hear my voice bounce off the building. An old woman clutching her purse stops, stares at me, then hurries on. I drop my voice till it’s almost a whisper.

  “You think I like being used by the FBI?” I look away and shake my head, feeling the anger and frustration still churning inside me, but it’s as if a curtain has dropped over Natalie’s face.

  “I think you don’t even know it.” She puts her head back and sighs. “I don’t know, maybe you have to, but right now, I…I don’t think we should see each other for a while, at least until this is over.” She gets in the car, rolls down the window, and starts the engine. “Anyway, you’ve got Special Agent Lawrence to keep you company.”

  She pulls the door shut, guns the engine, and races off, leaving me standing in the street. I watch for a few moments until her car disappears around the corner. When I go back inside, Andie is standing by the kitchen counter. Her shoes are on, her bag is on her shoulder, and she’s just hanging up her cell phone.

  “That was FedEx,” she says. “Paid in cash. No way to trace the sender.” She watches me for a moment when I don’t react. “I’ve gotten you in trouble with Natalie, haven’t I?”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re just going through some changes.”

  “I feel responsible.”

  “Don’t. It wasn’t anything you did.” I look at her and manage a slight, unconvincing smile.

  Andie picks up the grocery bag Natalie left and sets it on the counter. She looks inside. “Looks like she was going to cook dinner,” She looks at me questioningly. “Be a shame to waste this.”

  “Andie, I don’t think—”

  “Give me a couple of hours. I have to do something.” She takes out a pen and pad from her bag. She writes quickly and tears a sheet off the pad. “This is my address,” she says, handing it to me.

  I take it from her. “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, if you don’t come, I’ll understand. I would like to take the two CDs if I can. I want to hear them both again and take another look at those lyrics. Maybe there’s something there.”

  “Sure.” I get the Hendricks CD out of the player, put it back in its case, and hand it and the Miles CD to her.

  She stuffs them in her bag. “See you later, I hope.”

  She goes out, and I stand at the counter for a few minutes, clenching and clenching my fingers, listening to the silence. My hand is perfect. Now it’s my mind that’s going.

  I lie down for a while, but my eyes are wide open. I try deep breathing, stretching, tensing all my muscles for several seconds, then letting go. It works for about twenty minutes. I glance at the clock on the night table and give up. I shower and shave and change into jeans, a denim shirt, and loafers.

  I look at the slip of paper with Andie’s address on the counter. I stand for a moment, thinking, then put it in my pocket and head for the door. My hand is on the knob when the phone stops me. I try to convince myself it’s Andie, canceling, or Natalie, changing her mind, wanting to talk. Coop, just checking in. Maybe even a wrong number, or somebody wanting to sell me insurance. But I know it’s none of those.

  I press the record button and pick up on the third ring. I hear Thelonius Monk, a record he did with Gerry Mulligan—“Undecided.”

  “It’s Gillian, lover, complicated as Monk.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Andie’s place is near Westwood, not far from her office at the Federal Building. It’s a large complex with carports, a pool in the center, and a bank of mailboxes next to the manager’s office. I park in a visitor spot in front and walk back past the pool to Andie’s second-floor apartment.

  When I knock, she opens the door quickly, as if she’d been standing there, watching for me. She has on a faded Berkeley sweatshirt that’s endured many washings, black jeans, and sandals. Her hair looks damp, and the smells of shampoo and scented soap compete for dominance.

  “Did you bring the tape?”

  I have the cassette in my hand as I walk in, and I hand it to her. She shuts the door behind me and goes right to a bookshelf on one wall that holds a small stereo system and a large collection of paperback and hardcover books. There’s a couple of framed posters on the wall, some plants, a love seat, and two chairs facing a television on a stand and shelves below it, crammed with videotapes. Under one window is a roll top desk. The cover is up, and a banker’s light bums on top. I can see a laptop computer and an assortment of file folders and papers scattered beside it.

  “Help yourself,” she says. “There’s beer, wine in the refrigerator.” I get a beer and sit in one of the chairs as she turns on the tape. She adjusts the volume, and we hear Gillian’s voice with Thelonius Monk and Gerry Mulligan’s baritone sax softly under it.

  “It’s Gillian, lover,” the voice says, “complicated as Monk.”

  Andie grabs a pen and a yellow legal pad from her desk and sits on the love seat. She sets the pad on a small glass coffee table and listens, her pen poised over the pad.

  “I got your delivery.” I hear my own voice. It sounds strange, like another person’s.

  “Good,” Gillian says. “Now you’re ready to go to work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You remember our bargain. You keep talking to me; I keep still. Now we’re going to expand that.”

  “How?”

  “You’re going to investigate my brother’s death. Greg Sims is his real name, in case you’re wondering. Like Zoot, he was a tenor player.”

  I watch as Andie writes Zoot Sims on her pad.

  “I don’t know what it is you want me to do. I thought you said it was a suicide?”

  “I told you that’s what the police said.” Her voice rises in pitch. That languid quality is gone briefly. There’s a pause of a few seconds, then, “I want to know for sure.”

  “Where and when did he die?”

  “In San Francisco. Almost a year ago:” Her voice is monotone now, just reciting facts.

  Andie writes again on the pad and looks up at me.

  “You can start there,” Gillian says. “Let’s see just how good you are.”

  “Hey, I’m not a professional detective. How am I supposed to do this?”

  I take a drink of my beer and listen to the note of panic in my voice. I can hear that blowing sound as she exhales on her cigarette. “You did just fine with Wardell and Clifford Brown, and you put Lonnie Cole in prison. I’m sure the FBI will help you.” She pauses then. “Lawrence wants to help you, Evan.”

  Andie looks up from the pad, holds my gaze for a moment.

  “I was lucky, that’s all. Why don’t you just hire a real detective?”

  “Because I want you, Evan. You understand the music. You’ll know what really happened to Greg and why.”

  “That’s all I get? His name and the city?”

  “There’ll be much more.”

  “How? Another delivery?”

  “Exactly, but different the next time.”

  “Different how?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll know. Greg was a serious musician. He studied long and hard until he couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “Couldn’t stand what? Why don�
��t you just tell me?” I hear myself sigh, the frustration in my voice. “If you really want me to do this, I need to know more about your brother.”

  I get up and walk to the sliding glass door that opens onto a small balcony. I go out, leave the door open, and light a cigarette. I can still hear the tape.

  “I told you there’ll be more. I want to keep it interesting for you, Evan. Sharpen your investigative skills.” She laughs softly. She’s playing again now, enjoying the control. “We might even meet, but don’t look for me.”

  “Gillian, I can’t do this.”

  There’s a pause on the tape, then Gillian again. “You have to, Evan. People’s lives depend on it.”

  The music comes up, Gerry Mulligan negotiating Monk’s “Straight No Chaser,” with Monk behind him, comping like he’s playing with the palms of his hands, then an abrupt silence. Andie gets up and shuts off the tape.

  I put my cigarette out in the beer bottle and come back inside. Andie is leaning back, staring at the pad, covered now with her notes.

  “I just don’t believe this,” Andie says finally. “She’s so…so brazen, so sure of herself. So sure of you.”

  “That’s what worries me,” I say. I drop down in one of the chairs. “I have to do this, don’t I?”

  “Yes,” Andie says. “She’s very serious, over the edge. What a voice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s in effect telling you that if you don’t keep talking to her, don’t investigate her brother’s death to her satisfaction, she’s going to kill again. But her voice is so smooth, even dreamy at times. Is it possible she was a singer? It’s like she’s talking to her lover.”

  I feel a shudder go through my body. “That’s a scary thought.”

  “Yes, it is,” Andie says. She gets up and takes the tape out of the machine and puts it on her desk. “Well, at least we’ve got her on tape now. I’ll listen to this again and get it enhanced, see if we can pick up any other background noise that will help us find her.”

  “I don’t think she was in a car this time.”

  “No, I don’t either. It was too clear, no traffic sounds, but we’ll see what the lab technicians say when they hear it.”

  Andie stands, thinking a moment, her hands on her hips. She’s returned the pad and pen to her desk and now bends over to circle something she’s written.

  “Okay,” she says. She straightens up. “Let’s eat. I’ve got lasagna and a salad, if that’s all right with you.” She studies me for a moment, cocks her head to one side. “Would you have come even without the tape, if Gillian hadn’t called?”

  I pause for a moment before answering, but there’s really no need to. “I was on the way out the door when she called.”

  All through dinner, Andie keeps the pad with her notes on the table, referring to it between bites of lasagna, sips of wine. She probes for details, with Miles Davis playing low on the CD player.

  “Tell me about Zoot Sims.”

  “It would be easier to show you. Very opposite from Coltrane, not that hard, harsh sound. Zoot was out of the Lester Young, Stan Getz bag. Very melodic, smooth sound. Another good one to add to your collection.”

  Andie nods and makes a few more notes. “You want some coffee?”

  “Sure.” I help her clear the table, then go out on the balcony for a cigarette while she gets the coffee going. I can hear somebody splashing around in the pool, and just over the building tops I can see the lights of Westwood glowing in the sky.

  Andie joins me, balancing two mugs of coffee and cream and sugar on a tray. “Don’t know how you take it,” she says, “so I brought everything.” She drags two plastic chairs from the corner. “We can sit out here if you like.”

  “Fine.” I fix my coffee and sit down. Andie holds her cup close to her face, sips hers, and stares out over the rim of the cup.

  “Does this job ever get to you?” I ask her.

  “Sure,” she says. “All the time, but this one is different. I’ve never gotten personally involved before.” She glances at me and then quickly adds, “I mean, the way this one has evolved. It’s usually just bureau people or local police, and—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just going to say, survivors of the victims.”

  I feel her studying me for a moment. When I look at her, she holds my gaze. “I really am sorry about that thing this afternoon, with Natalie, I mean. She’ll come around, won’t she?” Andie looks away. “I’m sorry. If this is uncomfortable, we don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t know. Natalie can be pretty stubborn.” I drink off my coffee and light another cigarette. “She thinks I like this.”

  Andie looks surprised. “Being a go-between, for a killer and the FBI?”

  “Not just that, but working with the police, tracking down things.”

  “Do you?”

  I shrug. Good question. “I wouldn’t have chosen to get into this, but I know I can’t walk away from things, just let them go. When I was looking into Wardell Gray’s death or chasing down a tape I thought was Clifford Brown, I don’t know, those things were in the past, but it didn’t matter that they happened so long ago. I just had to know. This is different. It’s happening right now.

  “I’ve got an old friend, a former teacher, Cal Hughes, who says I’m exactly the one to be doing this because I’m so connected with the music. He said Wardell Gray and Clifford Brown were reaching out to me.” I laugh. “Of course, Cal is a tad eccentric, and he’d had quite a bit to drink.”

  “And now it’s Bird and Miles and Coltrane,” Andie says. “And Zoot Sims.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the same. I don’t have much choice now. If Gillian can be believed, if I walked away now, I could be responsible for more deaths.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she can be believed. When I listen to that tape again, I’ll find out more. I’m betting on some real disorder we can pinpoint.”

  “Real disorder? Well, that’s a given, isn’t it? Anybody who’s killed four people because of the music they play definitely has something more than a disorder.”

  “Of course. I mean something we can put a name to. From the transcript of the first call and listening to her voice, I’m thinking big mood swings. Manic depressive, maybe.”

  “How will that help, knowing that?”

  “It will give us a better idea of what we’re dealing with. I’d be willing to bet that she’s undergone some kind of treatment. When we run down her brother’s background, we might make a connection.”

  We both sit quietly for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. It’s nearly eleven when I glance at my watch. “I’d better go,” I say.

  Andie nods. “Yeah, long day for me tomorrow with all this to go through.”

  “And I’ve got a gig tomorrow night. Going to stop by? Chadney’s, in the Valley.”

  “I’ll see, but I don’t want to—”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think Natalie will be there.”

  Andie’s eyes flicker and darken. “She should be.”

  Natalie isn’t there when I arrive at Chadney’s, but a lot of people are. Paul Westbrook has seen to that. Somehow he’s arranged for some radio spots on the jazz station KLON, and Chadney’s has been featuring jazz for quite a while. Several people look up from their drinks when I sit down at the piano and try it out. It’s been recently tuned, and the keyboard action is good. Jeff’s bass is lying on the floor beside the piano, and Gene’s drums are crammed into a corner opposite the piano. I spot them both at the bar and sit for a moment, absorbing the good feeling that washes over me.

  My own trio again, a good piano, and nearly a full house, at least for the first set. I look over my shoulder and see a couple right at my elbow. Close quarters here. There are several small tables just behind me. I look through the music I’ve brought along, some of the new tunes we might try later in the evening, but the first set is going to be familiar territory
.

  I’ve spent the day alone, not hearing from anyone. Practiced a couple of hours, thought about the gig, and walked on the beach later. No calls, no messages, just some welcome time alone. I made one call to Natalie to remind her about the gig, but there was no response.

  Andie, Ted Rollins, and Wendell Cook, I assumed, had spent the day running down Greg Sims and going over the tape of Gillian’s call. The only thing that could make this night better would be for them to tell me they’d caught Gillian and I had nothing further to worry about. Meanwhile, it was time to play.

  Jeff and Gene wander over, drinks in hand. “Hey, guys, you ready to do it?”

  Gene sits down at his drums, moving the stool slightly so he can see me clearly, Jeff picks up his bass and runs a towel over the fingerboard, and we tune up. Jeff nods, and Gene looks at me expectantly.

  “‘Solar’?” I say. I slip on my glove, flex my fingers. There’s no announcement or introduction here. For many, the jazz is background, something to go with drinks and conversation. I take off over the hum of the audience and feel it dim immediately.

  I hit the third chorus, shift slightly on the piano bench, and lean back from the keyboard. I can sense the eyes of the people at the table behind me as I build gradually, pushed on by Jeff’s gorgeous bass lines, Gene’s sparkling cymbal work. Eventually, the audience becomes white noise. All I hear are the bass and drums and my own lines, rolling off my fingers through four choruses.

  I look up, catch Gene’s eye, and he explodes into his solo. Jeff listens, head down, his arm around the bass. As Gene comes into the final eight bars, Jeff and I exchange glances. I raise my eyebrows and Gene, instead of a loud crash, simply taps the edge of a cymbal so that it rings through the first note of Jeff’s solo.

  I comp behind him, dropping in the chord changes lightly, and scan the room, unconsciously looking for someone who might be Gillian, then discarding the idea just as quickly. Surely she wouldn’t chance showing up here. I do catch a glimpse of Coop and Andie, half hidden behind a waitress taking their order. I hadn’t even seen them come in. If any more of the FBI contingent are here, I don’t see them.