Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  I tear off a couple of sheets from the legal pad with my notes and pocket them. Carlton seems relieved to see me drop the files on his desk “I’ll bet Charlie Crisp’s records look as good as these,” I say.

  “Better,” Carlton says. He returns the files to a cabinet and carefully locks the drawer. He turns to look at me. “Anything else?”

  “No, I guess not.” My disappointment clearly shows.

  “Oh, you got a call,” Carlton says. He hands me a pink slip of paper with a number on it. Cindy. Maybe she is going out of town. “You can use my phone if you like.”

  “No, it’s not important. Well, thanks for your help, Carlton.”

  “May I tell Lonnie that you’re satisfied, then?”

  “I’ll tell him myself.”

  I only have to wait in the basement parking garage twenty minutes for Carlton to come out. I give him time to clear the garage, then follow behind him and guess right. He merges with the traffic and heads west on Sunset. When I drive by Emerson Barnes’s office, Carlton is getting out of his car.

  He’s careful. He locks that too. Carlton is a very careful man.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The weather is still holding Sunday morning as I drive to West Hollywood. Bright, sunny, dear, a beautiful day for a funeral service. The paper said the services were at eleven. I’m trying to figure out why I’m even going.

  I didn’t know Elvin Case. One half-hour conversation at a taco stand and he turns up dead. Maybe that’s why. I don’t want to admit that Elvin was killed after talking to me. Was it because of our meeting? Maybe I’m just curious to see who else attends; at least, that’s what I tell myself as I look for a parking place at the chapel just off Santa Monica Boulevard.

  I park and walk into the chapel. There are only a handful of people present and none of them looks remotely familiar. No sign of the musicians who were in Elvin’s office, or of Rick Markham. Who arranged the service? I wonder, as I take a seat behind a young woman in the second row.

  There are flowers on a pedestal in front, muted lighting, and organ music coming from somewhere in the back. Not a selection Elvin would have approved of, but I suppose heavy metal wouldn’t be appropriate at a funeral service. There’s no casket, no photo.

  Just after eleven, a man in glasses and a dark suit carrying a Bible emerges from a side door and takes his place at a small podium. There’s a plastic nameplate on the podium that announces he is Pastor David Lewis.

  “We are gathered here today,” Pastor Lewis begins, “to pay respect to”—he pauses to refer to his notes—”Elvin Case.” He drones on for about five minutes with appropriate remarks, but he obviously knows nothing about Elvin. I tune him out and glance around the chapel.

  I spot Ivan Dixon standing against the wall in the back. Of course. The police always go to funerals of murder victims. What’s the logic? The murderer always attends? Dixon catches my eye and thumbs toward the exit. I nod my acknowledgment and turn back to the service.

  It’s over very quickly. Pastor Lewis makes his closing remarks, alludes to the tragic circumstances of Elvin’s death, then stands ready to comfort any of the mourners. There are no takers. The taped organ music comes up again and the small group files out, while I sit for a moment wishing I had gotten to know Elvin better.

  “Did you know Elvin?” The woman in front of me has turned around to face me. We’re the only ones left in the chapel now.

  “No, not really,” I say, getting to my feet. “Are you a relative?”

  She shakes her head and stands up. “I knew him some time ago,” she says. She’s maybe thirty. Her face is drawn and she’s dressed simply in a dark skirt and sweater. She looks vaguely familiar.

  “Elvin wasn’t a bad guy, just—” She shrugs, doesn’t finish the thought. She smiles sadly and makes her way to the exit.

  An old girlfriend? Someone who worked with Elvin? I start to call her back. I want to say something more, but think better of it. At least Elvin had one genuine mourner.

  Outside, Dixon leans on his car, smoking. “Thought I’d find you here. See anyone you know?” he asks.

  “I thought I knew a woman, but I can’t be sure. Probably not.” I light my own cigarette. There’s no sign of Danny Cooper. “What are you doing here?” I ask Dixon.

  Dixon steps on his cigarette, grinds it under his heel. “Routine, just seeing who shows up.”

  “Still no leads?” Dixon shakes his head. “How about the service? Any idea who paid for this?”

  “That’s the strange part,” Dixon says. “It was all done anonymously, all the charges, all the arrangements. Body will be cremated after the autopsy. Also routine. All we know is the caliber of the bullets.”

  Where do the police start on something like this? With me? I was maybe the last person to see Elvin alive.

  Dixon opens the door of his car and answers my thoughts. “Coop wants to see you,” he says. “Think he’s got something you’ll be interested in.”

  “Okay, tell him I’ll come by later this afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow morning is soon enough,” Dixon says. “Even police lieutenants get Sunday off.” He’s almost in the car when his head pops up again. “Bud Shank’s playing out in Malibu with a quartet this afternoon. Wanna make it?”

  I think for a moment. Any other time I would have said yes, but since the accident, I’ve backed off the music scene. Maybe it’s too difficult watching somebody else do what you can’t do anymore. “Thanks, I think I’ll pass,” I say.

  “Whatever,” Dixon says.

  I stand on the sidewalk for a moment as he pulls away. I start to head for my car when a white stretch limo pulls up alongside me and stops. The tinted rear window rolls down and I can see Rick Markham inside.

  “Can we talk, Evan?”

  I glance up the street. Dixon is already out of sight. “Sure, why not?” I get in and join Markham. He knocks on the glass separating us from the driver and the Lincoln glides forward. There’s a telephone, a small TV, and a bar all mounted in front of us in a console.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just a short drive if you don’t mind,” Markham says. “I prefer privacy.”

  Naturally. I hadn’t seen him, but I wonder if Markham had been in the chapel. If he had been, it would have hardly been distancing himself from Elvin Case.

  We drive for a few minutes up Santa Monica Boulevard, then turn south down La Brea. Markham pours himself a bottled water and offers me the same. I shake my head no.

  “Well, did you learn anything?”

  “About what?”

  “I assume by now you’ve had a chance to look into further. Was my information of any help?”

  What does he want? Credit? Why won’t he just come out and ask me if I’ve looked at Lonnie’s records? Everything has to remain vague.

  “Yeah, you were right. You did save me some time.”

  “Good. I’m pleased. And what about the other matter, my offer?”

  “I’m still thinking about it,” I say, angry at Markham’s presumptive attitude. He’s no doubt used to people jumping at his offers. Markham doesn’t answer, as if he knows I’m going to say more. He stares straight ahead as the limo turns right again.

  “Look, Markham, I have my own agenda here. You obviously know a lot more than you’re letting on. You probably know that I’m on the hook myself. If I happen to run across answers about Elvin in the process of clearing myself, that’s all well and good. If I do, I’ll be going to the police with that information.”

  “Suit yourself,” Markham says, “but my offer still stands.” He turns and looks at me. His eyes are steady, unwavering. We’ve come full circle now and are back at the chapel. The limo silently rolls to a stop and I reach for the door. I get out and start to walk away when he rolls down the window and leans forward on the seat.

  “You’re not being very smart about this,” Markham says.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Just an observation.
” The window goes up and I’m looking again at tinted glass. I watch the limo glide away.

  There’s something about Markham’s concern for Elvin Case that nags at me. Conscience or not, his interest, his pushing me to accept his offer, is too much to be just the concern of a former employer. There’s something else. I can feel it. It floats around in my mind as I try to recall our conversation in his office. At one point there was some expression, some remark, that didn’t ring true, but I can’t place it now.

  I start for my car again, but suddenly, on impulse, I turn around and go back inside, looking for Pastor Lewis. The chapel is deserted now. The lights are down, the organ music has been silenced. I find Lewis in a back office.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “I wonder if you can help me.”

  “Of course,” the Pastor says. “Are you a relative of the deceased, ah, Mr. Case?” He’s seated at a small desk.

  “No, I just forgot to sign the guest register.”

  “Here you are.” He pushes the register across, open to the right page, and hands me a pen with the chapel’s name embossed on it. As I sign my name, I scan the list. Rick Markham’s name is not there, but another one is.

  Now I know why the woman in front of me had looked familiar. The last time I saw her signature it was on the back of Elvin’s Rolex.

  I hand him back the register. “I would like to make a small donation to the family. Is that possible?”

  “Certainly.” He consults a page of a ledger on his desk, runs his finger down a column. “Here we are. Any donations should be made in care of-this is odd—Pacific Records in Studio City. Do you need the address?”

  “No, I’ve already got it,” I say. “Did Pacific pay for the service too?”

  “They certainly did, and also, I might add, they provided Mr. Case with a very handsome resting place.”

  “Yes, Pacific Records paid for everything.”

  Late Monday morning in Santa Monica the fog is rolling in when I exit the Santa Monica Freeway at Lincoln Boulevard. I drive south to Pico, then west past Santa Monica High School, where Coop and I both went.

  Some kids, probably cutting class, are hanging around out front, and when I turn on 4th Street, past the athletic field, a gym class is playing touch football.

  I spent Sunday afternoon absently watching football on television, waiting to hear from Cindy and half expecting another phone call from Rick Markham. He isn’t going to give up.

  When I didn’t hear from anyone, I spent the evening trying to piece things together. Twice I almost left the apartment to check out one of the record warehouses in Inglewood, not far from the Tape Factory, but in the end I decided to wait until I’d talked to Coop again.

  Now, as I turn into the parking lot at Police Headquarters, I regret the previous night’s indecision, but that’s the way it’s been lately. Maybe I should read Hamlet again.

  Inside, I get a visitor’s badge from the sergeant on the front desk and find Coop in his office, his feet on his desk, stuffing fries in his mouth from a Burger King bag.

  “So, this is how you rid the city of crime.”

  “Even as we speak,” Coop says between mouthfuls. He takes the last bite, crumples the bag, and lofts it toward the wastebasket a few feet away. He wipes his hands on a paper towel, lights a cigar, and shuffles through a stack of papers on his desk.

  “My gift to you,” he says, tossing me some stapled sheets of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “Sales records from the discount chain where you bought your typewriter. There are seventeen stores in the greater Los Angeles area. Have fun. They were very cooperative. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  There must be a dozen pages, a computer printout that shows the item purchased, method of payment, store location, cost, and name and address of the buyer.

  “That goes back six months,” Coop says as I look over the top page. I scan the list for Barnes or Burroughs immediately. Well, I didn’t think it was going to be easy.

  “Thanks, Coop. I appreciate this. I may have something for you,” I say.

  “Give.” He leans back in his chair and blows smoke at the ceiling.

  “I talked to another record guy yesterday, Rick Markham at Pacific Records. Elvin Case used to work for him.”

  “We’re not going to find this Markham on the beach too, are we?”

  “Very funny. Markham is a big wheel in the industry, but he was awfully concerned about Elvin. Says he feels somewhat responsible since he had to fire Elvin, but it sounds like more than that to me.”

  “Such as.”

  I fill Coop in on most of my conversation with Markham but leave out his offer to hire me. I know what Coop would say about that

  “Pacific Records paid for the funeral service. I don’t think the company has a burial plan for former employees, but I bet if you run Elvin Case down you’ll find something that might connect him to Markham. Does Elvin have a record?”

  “We’re waiting for a report now,” Coop says. He smiles at me. “You’re catching on to this detective shit, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I just think there’s some earlier connection between Markham and Elvin that might be relevant. Worth a try, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll see what turns up,” Coop says, remaining cautious.

  One more thing occurs to me. “What about the boat in the marina?”

  Coop consults another paper on his desk. “Already talked to them. Registered to a couple in Playa del Rey.”

  “And?”

  “They were out of town the night you went swimming.”

  Cindy is gone on an overnight run to Denver, says the note thumb tacked to my door. Two messages on the machine, one from Tim Shaw at Blue Note. He likes the Chick Corea review and the check is in the mail. The other is from Dr. Mann.

  “Call me at home if you want, Evan. I’ll be in all evening.”

  Well, at least someone is worrying about me.

  I take a long shower, open a can of chili, and while it’s heating turn on the TV to catch the local news. I’m just in time to see the anchorwoman and the sports guy go through their forced ad-libbing about the Rams’ chances with the Giants in the Monday night game. I wonder if T.J. is still thinking about suiting up. After the sports there’s about twenty seconds on Elvin’s murder. Nothing new, no leads, just a bit about the services.

  I wash down the chili with a beer, then turn off the TV and start going through the computer printouts Coop gave me. The sales records are for all seventeen stores, so there’s no easy way to narrow it down.

  I count sixty-seven typewriters in all, but some purchases are for more than one item. I check first for the name of every person I’ve talked to in the past few days, but there’s no Barnes, no Burroughs, no Case or Charles or Crisp. Zip. Nothing.

  The purchase, if there was one, could have been made before these records, but I don’t think so. I check again, going through the entire list, this time looking for company names. No Pacific or Angeles Records, nothing that sounds remotely familiar.

  What have I missed? The names are blurring now. I get up and walk around the apartment Maybe I’m not thinking back far enough. Finally, something else, a very long shot, occurs to me. I check through the pages again, running my finger down the list, and stop at one entry that now jumps out at me. It’s like a lot of things have been this week. I wasn’t looking so I didn’t see it.

  The item purchased is an electronic typewriter, exactly the same model as mine. The store location is the Topanga Plaza Mall. Payment was made with a Visa credit card and the address is Encino.

  The buyer’s name is one I haven’t thought of for a long time—Lindsey, the maiden name of my former wife Sharon.

  The Encino address is Lonnie Cole’s.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The last year Sharon and I were together was a wasted one. By then we both knew we weren’t suited to each other. If we had thought about it more carefully at the time, we probably wouldn
’t have gotten married in the first place.

  “Music doesn’t leave you any room for anything else, Evan, certainly not for me,” Sharon often said. She was probably right. Until now, music had taken up all my time.

  To strive to be the best, a major-league shortstop, a best-selling writer, or, in my case, a world-class pianist, you have to eat, sleep, and drink baseball, writing, or music, and that’s what I’d done. By the time I realized that, it was too late. My accident simply provided Sharon with the convenient out she’d probably been looking for a long time.

  When we got married, Sharon was independent and just liberated enough to keep her maiden name on credit cards, her driver’s license, and other legal documents. I can’t remember talking to her about buying the typewriter, although now, having seen her name there on the sales list, bursting out at me as if it were highlighted, I must have mentioned it, at least in passing. If not to her, then to someone else, someone who could have told Sharon about the purchase.

  I don’t want to believe she had anything to do with any of this, but, I remind myself, it was Sharon who originally contacted me. It was Sharon who was sent to try to persuade me to get involved, and it was Sharon who left out the part that my name was in the blackmail notes.

  Was all of that a calculated plan to set me up as the fall guy? I don’t want to admit any of this to myself, that I didn’t see through it, but people change. Maybe I don’t know Sharon as well as I think.

  When I called her she sounded distracted, as if she’d been caught off guard by my call. She was even more wary when I wouldn’t tell her what I wanted, but in the end she agreed to see me. Still, when I pull into the drive at Lonnie’s house I find myself desperately hoping I’m wrong.

  The house is quiet but I can hear Lonnie’s dogs roaming around in the back, barking, sniffing, trying to determine if I’m friend or foe. I ring the doorbell and Sharon answers it herself.

  “Hello, Evan,” she says, and steps aside to let me in. “Lonnie’s not here, you know.”