Evan Horne [03] The Sound of the Trumpet

by Bill Moody

  It’s the same look I saw when Coop and I stopped him at the airport. He was getting away with something, knew nobody could stop him.

  I look once more toward the camera, imagining myself the host of some surreal talk show.

  “Welcome to Obsession. My guest tonight—Raymond Cross.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You know about the elaborate practical joke Ken Perkins played on some of the collectors? The phony record he manufactured?”

  “Yes, another collector told me about it.”

  “Perkins went too far on that one. He humiliated us all.”

  Here’s what else Cross has been obsessed with. This is his weak point, the compulsion that pushed him over the line.

  “The others didn’t take it quite so badly.”

  “No, that’s true, they didn’t,” Cross says as if the thought has just occurred to him. “Oh, it was very clever. I’ll give Perkins that. Finding the old vinyl, the label paper, hiring the group. Very elaborate.” He pauses, shakes his head. “We all went for it, far too easily.”

  Cross’s body goes tense. I can almost feel it, sitting across from him. He squeezes his hands tightly, stares into the fire as the shadows flicker on the wall.

  “When Perkins confessed that he had made the whole thing up, we didn’t believe him at first. None of us believed it was possible for someone to fool us, experienced collectors, with a totally bogus record, one that had never existed. But he did.”

  Cross relaxes somewhat; the pitch of his voice changes. “Well, we had to accept the truth. We’d all been duped. But I made a vow right then, at Perkins’s little celebration dinner when he broke the news. Someday, somehow, I would get even. I would outdo his little escapade.”

  Cross turns to me and smiles. “And then one day, it happened, right in court while I typed up the details of these sloppy criminals and their sordid little crimes. The means for my revenge dropped into my lap, in my court.”

  “Sammy Dell—Spinner.”

  “Precisely. A petty thief who was fond of records and tapes. I took it as a sign. When I went to see him, it was so easy. He had this box of tapes. They could never be traced to me. After all, Dell had stolen them, hadn’t he?”

  I watch Cross replay the whole scene in his mind, see the pleasure it gives him. Somehow, once he’s finished, I have to get out of here, get this tape to the police.

  “Well,” Cross says. “I don’t know jazz very well, but I saw the names, recognized a few, but what was important was that these tapes had obviously never been released. They were genuine ’50s recordings. I didn’t have to manufacture anything. Let the tape be analyzed. I welcomed it. And then I saw the note.”

  “The note?”

  “Yes, someone, whoever had supervised the recording, had written on a card, a note to himself. ‘If this isn’t C.B., it’s his double.’ I was fascinated. It didn’t take much to learn that of course C.B. was Clifford Brown—dead since 1956. It was perfect. I bought some of his records, compared them with the tapes, and even to a nonmusical person like myself, it was astonishing how perfect the imitation was.” Cross glances at me again. “Well, you know, don’t you. We fooled you, certainly that night at Perkins’s house.”

  Cross has me there. “Yeah, I guess you did, at least for a while.”

  He gets up to check the tape. The fire is dwindling, and for the moment the rain has stopped. It’s nearly dark now as Cross returns to his chair and continues.

  “Everything fell into place. I realized what an opportunity this was, how I could use Perkins himself to affect my revenge. He was very respected in the field. Together we could go to a record company, make a considerable deal. But Perkins wasn’t entirely convinced we could pull it off, and of course he thought it was just for a joke anyway, that if we did succeed, we’d give the money back, just like he had done earlier.”

  “And that’s where I came in?”

  “Exactly. We had to be very careful. Perkins had a friend—Buffington, wasn’t it?—who knew you. Perkins insisted we hear your reaction to the tapes. He agreed that if we could fool a musician, he might go ahead with the plan.”

  “But Perkins still thought it was a stunt, right?”

  “Yes, and of course I hadn’t told him everything. I had already decided that if you didn’t think the tapes were genuine Clifford Brown, we’d drop the whole thing right there. I’d figure out something else to get even with Perkins. But you, you were adamant. Do you remember what you said?”

  “If that’s not Clifford Brown, it’s his double?”

  “Exactly what the man had written on the tape box.” Cross holds out his hands, palm up. “I took it as another sign. Do you know why you were fooled so readily? Granted, the imitation was excellent, but you wanted to believe, didn’t you?”

  How many times had I asked myself the same question? “Yes, I guess I did.”

  “Why?” Cross really doesn’t understand. “What difference would it have made to you?”

  I have no answer for Cross, at least not one he’d understand.

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “Little things only a musician could possibly know—playing the tape for some friends I respect. Gut feelings, instinct. I began to have doubts; then I found two of the musicians who had made the tapes. What about the trumpet? That took longer after I found the postcard.”

  “Ah yes, the trumpet.” Cross suddenly looks at me sharply. “Postcard? What postcard?”

  “I found it in the trumpet case, under the lining. It should still be there.”

  Cross is trying to decide whether I’m serious. He gets up and presses the pause button on the video cam. He goes to a closet near the stairs but hardly takes his eyes off me. The trumpet case is inside. He takes it out, brings it over, and sets it on the coffee table.

  “Show me,” he says.

  He watches as I peel back the edge of the lining and pull out the postcard. He takes it, reads it, doesn’t really understand; he was obviously, until this moment, unaware of its existence.

  “It’s from Duke Ellington,” I say, “written to the trumpet player on the tapes, Connie Beale. He kept it as a souvenir, for good luck or something.”

  Cross slips the card back into the case. He stares into the fire for a few moments. “It was inevitable, I suppose.”

  “What?”

  “There are always some things that can’t be anticipated.”

  “You thought the musicians on the tapes were already dead?”

  “It was a good possibility, wasn’t it?”

  I don’t answer. Over the crackling of the fire, we both turn toward the video cam. There’s an audible click sound as the camera restarts itself.

  I take the trumpet out of the vinyl case and put it in the original battered case that Cross has. “This really goes in here,” I say. I toss the vinyl case on the floor next to me.

  “Now, where were we? Yes, the trumpet. It’s been all over, hasn’t it? And now you bring it right to my home. How convenient. You have to admit, the trumpet was a nice touch, wasn’t it? I still remember the look on your face that night at Perkins’s house.

  “Bernie Dalton got it for me. He owed me money. I told him what to look for, had him check around; he finally found what I wanted from Mojo.” Cross smiles again. “Can you imagine, Dalton came back and told me there was just one thing about it? The initials, inscribed in the horn.” Cross holds up his hands again, tilts his head upward, and smiles. “Clearly, it was the ultimate sign.”

  And just as clearly, by that time Raymond Cross was a man on a mission, savoring his opportunity for revenge on Ken Perkins, seeing things that weren’t there until it was too late.

  “But then it went wrong, didn’t it?”

  “No,” Cross says, “not at all. It went perfectly, as perfectly as I envisioned. The only hitch was Perkins, and you of course. He got nervous, wanted to bail out. If we succeeded, even temporarily, this was a serious hoax, fraud. When I wanted to keep you indi
sposed until we made the deal, he panicked. That’s what we argued about. He threatened to go to the police, expose everything.”

  Cross gets very quiet then. His voice drops as he remembers, replays it in his mind. “I simply couldn’t allow that.

  “The gun went off, and, well—” He shrugs. “A pity. It would have been such a great joke, topping even Perkins, since I would have made a great deal of money in the process. I have you to thank for all of that.”

  “I didn’t kill Perkins. You did. What happened to the gun?”

  It’s time to push now, or I’ll be on the video as well. Cross is getting to the end of his story. He’s lost now in the thrill of recording his confession, but he’ll remember, realize he can’t let me out of here.

  “The gun?” Cross looks at me puzzled, as if he’s forgotten I’m there. “It’s not here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had it with me when I went to the pier.” He pauses and smiles, to let me know there’s one more thing I don’t know. “Yes, I followed you when you met Cooper. The pier seemed like a good place. The gun made such a small splash off the end.”

  I try to cover my excitement. This is what we need, solid evidence.

  “Now,” Cross says, “we have to find a place for you.”

  He leans in closer, turns his face directly into the camera, and speaks slowly, relishing each word: “I killed Ken Perkins.”

  And now was he going to kill me? Or could I just get up and walk out of here? Was Cross so confident that, even with me as a witness to his taped confession, it would never be seen or heard by anyone?

  “What are you going to do with this tape?”

  Cross looks surprised at the question. “Do? Nothing. Keep it, know that I have it.”

  He gets up and goes to the camera to stop the tape, then rewind it.

  “But that’s not really enough, is it?”

  “What do you mean?” Cross presses play and peers into the viewfinder, checking the playback.

  “I mean, part of the kick of being a collector is letting other people know you’ve got it. You can’t tell anyone about this, even anonymously.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Before I can answer, we both freeze as the doorbell rings. Cross presses the pause button on the camera and walks quickly to the front door. I watch him peer through the peephole, then spin around toward me.

  “You lied. It’s Cooper.”

  “I didn’t call him. But what are you worried about? Remember it’s my word against yours, right?”

  Cross hesitates for a moment. The confidence is gone, replaced by agitation. The doorbell sounds again. He looks from me to the door. Then Coop is pounding on the door.

  “Police, Mr. Cross. Open up, please.”

  I get up and walk closer to the door and stand behind Cross. He opens the door and flips on the outside light that causes Coop to blink.

  “Lieutenant Cooper, how can I help you?”

  “I spoke to Evan Horne about returning the trumpet, then I saw his car parked outside.” Coop looks past Cross, but he can’t see me yet.

  “Why didn’t you just call?” Cross asks.

  “Is Horne here, Mr. Cross?”

  “Right here, Coop.”

  Coop looks around Cross, sees me, and steps inside.

  “Now see here, Lieutenant, you can’t just barge in here and—”

  “Yes, I can,” Coop says, looking at me. “Barge in? The door is open, you’re not stopping me. What’s going on here?” He sees the video cam on the tripod and starts to walk into the living room, but Cross grabs him, tries to pull him around.

  “You can’t go in there. I know my rights.”

  “You’re about to lose some,” Coop says. He looks down at Cross’s hand, then stares at him, challenging him. “Are you assaulting a police officer?”

  Cross takes his hand away as if Coop’s arm is a poisonous snake. “No—I—You have no right to be here.”

  Coop ignores him and looks at me. “You okay?” Coop asks. “What’s all this?” Coop points at the camera.

  “He just confessed, Coop. The whole thing—wanted to have the tape for a souvenir. He threw the gun off Santa Monica Pier.”

  Coop is trying to warn me with his eyes. Nothing could be more frustrating for a policeman to know someone is guilty of a crime and not be able to do anything about it.

  For a few seconds, the three of us don’t move. Then the silence is broken by the clicking sound as the video cam starts to play. Cross’s voice fills the room.

  “The gun? It’s not here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had it with me at the pier.”

  Coop turns to the camera, bends over to look in the viewfinder.

  “You can’t do that!” Cross screams and charges past me, toward Coop. I catch him from the side, glance off, and spin backward into the sound system wall before Coop can grab him. My right hand collides with the edge of one of the shelves. Tapes go flying and I wind up on the floor, Cross on top of me, his hands digging at my throat.

  Then just as quickly, he flies backward, as if someone had pulled a wire attached to his back. Coop has him by the back of the neck and pushes him facedown onto the Bette Davis chair. “Now you stay right here, Cross.” Coop turns to me. “You okay?” Coop rights the camera tripod.

  I nod yes, get to my feet, holding my wrist

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Cross. Assault and battery. You have the right to remain silent. You have—”

  Coop finishes the Miranda routine while Cross glares at him. He cuffs Cross and calls for backup to take him in.

  We both look at the video camera and wonder. “How did you know I was here?” I ask Coop.

  “Natalie called me. You’re late for dinner.”

  “You better tell her to meet me at the hospital. I think my wrist is broken.”

  Cross is silent and sullen as he’s taken away twenty minutes later by two uniformed cops. Coop removes the video camera, looks around the room.

  “Well, look here,” he says, picking up the trumpet case. “We better return this to the owner.”

  Outside, we stop to put the case in my car. I ride with Coop to Malibu Emergency, cradling my arm against my chest. There’s some swelling now, and a strong, throbbing pain.

  “I’m not going to condone what you did,” Coop says, “but I’ll call Trask, tell him about the tape. That should be enough, but let’s hope we get lucky and find the gun.”

  Coop waits until they admit me to be x-rayed. “You better do a psychiatric workup as well,” Coop tells the doctor. “This guy is nuts.” He looks at my wrist and shakes his head. “Jesus, it had to be the right one, didn’t it? See you, sport, I’ve got a video to watch.”

  Natalie arrives as the doctor puts the finishing touches on the wet-wrap cast that fits over my hand and wrist like a long glove without fingers.

  “Oh, my God,” she says, putting her hand to her mouth.

  “We’ll have that off in four weeks,” the doctor says. “Bad hairline crack, but you’ll be all right. What did you do, try to karate-chop a brick?” He tears off a page from the prescription pad. “Take two of these before you go to bed.”

  Natalie walks me outside, and we stand for a moment listening to the ocean, audible even across the highway. We walk to her car.

  “How did Coop know where I was?” I ask her.

  “When you didn’t call or show for dinner, I called him. That’s where you said we were going. I told him we had been to Cross’s place the other day. He didn’t wait for any more. He just hung up. He must have gone right out there.”

  She stops, turns to face me. “What did happen out there?”

  “I just spent the evening with a madman, I think. Come on, you can take me to my car.”

  “Can you drive with that cast?”

  “Yeah, you need two hands for the piano, not for driving.”

  The Camaro is in place, glistening with rain. I slide in, carefully holding my right hand in my lap. The cast is rock-ha
rd now. I drop the keys twice, trying to get the ignition key in, but finally get the engine started. I have to reach across my body with my left hand to depress the shifter lever button and slide it into drive.

  “My place or yours?” I say to Natalie.

  “Mine. Remember? Gladys Cowen told me to take care of you.” She looks at the cast. Her eyes glisten in the streetlight.

  “Come on, I’m fine.”

  Natalie’s headlights behind me, I guide the car back down the coast highway. The road is slick and wet, but the rain has stopped. To my right, the sky is dark but for a narrow light strip on the horizon. Tomorrow will be a good day.

  A couple of miles before Santa Monica Canyon, two lanes are closed, and the Cal-Trans crews are clearing away mud and debris from the most recent slide. Otherwise the trip is fine.

  I take two of the Percodan at Natalie’s and stay awake long enough to tell her about Cross’s video confession.

  “We’ve got him now,” I say, feeling my eyes getting heavy. I drift off then. Natalie’s face fades into blackness.

  I wake up from a dream. I’m playing the piano, comping fine with my left hand, but my right, still encased in the cast, bangs against the keys, hitting meaningless clusters of notes. I try to reach across with my left to play the solo, but it won’t reach.

  “Evan,” Natalie says. She’s looking down at me, holding a cup of coffee.

  I blink, look at her, then at the cast. I sit up on the edge of the bed and take the coffee, try to clear my head. I keep hearing Cross’s voice, seeing his face on the video.

  I take a shower, holding my right hand over my head so the cast doesn’t get wet. Natalie helps me get dressed, and around noon I call Coop.

  “Cross walked,” he says.

  “What? How?”

  “His lawyer got down here bright and early, and given his record of no priors, his job, he made bail. I showed the video to the DA. They won’t allow it now, but the bail was high. Cross may have to sell some of his records to come up with it.”