Bird Lives! Read online

  BIRD LIVES!

  An Evan Horne Mystery

  Bill Moody

  PRAISE FOR BIRD LIVES!

  “The jazz esoterica and the unusual serial killer should keep Evan Horne fans reading.” —Publishers Weekly

  “The witty premise and all the jazz talk will more than satisfy series fans.” —Booklist

  Copyright © 2000 by Bill Moody

  First Down & Out Books Edition: June 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Road, Suite 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  DownAndOutBooks.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Visit the Down & Out Books website to sign up for our monthly newsletter and we’ll deliver the latest news on our upcoming titles, sale books, Down & Out authors on the net, and more!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Bird Lives!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview from The Sound of the Trumpet, an Evan Horne mystery by Bill Moody

  Preview from Big Money, an Austin Car mystery by Jack Getze

  Preview from The Serpent’s Game, a Jonathan Brooks novel by A.C. Frieden

  For Teresa.

  PROLOGUE

  I’m at Ruth Price’s Jazz Bakery in Culver City, California, and this time it’s no dream.

  Originally the club housed the Helms Bakery, so Ruth kept that much of the name, and some people swear they can still smell the lingering aroma of baking bread.

  Minutes before the first set, I stand in the lobby with Ruth, sipping coffee, running over tunes in my mind, wondering if I’ve got the right bass and drums with me.

  Open with something familiar so the audience can get a fix on what you’re up to.

  I flex the fingers of my right hand, encased in a fingerless black latex glove that keeps the muscles warm, the pain less. But the memory of that night on the Pacific Coast Highway remains constant. The headlights of the truck looming out of the fog, the shattered glass severing the tendons of my right hand, still hover close to the surface in my mind. It’s been a long road, strewn with surgery, therapy, practicing, and squeezing a rubber ball thousands of times. But now it’s finally paid off.

  “How’s it feel?” Ruth Price asks, seeing me look at my hand. She still sings occasionally, and her voice has changed only slightly since her days with Shelly Manne. Today she devotes herself to running this hip, alcohol—free showcase for jazz. Ruth was good to give me this shot, and I know better than anyone how lucky I am to be here. It was short notice—a last—minute substitution for Monty Alexander, who missed a plane connection—but when you’re trying to make a comeback, you take the dates when they’re offered.

  I squeeze my fingers again. “Fine, feels really good,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the flutter I feel inside. Practicing is one thing; working a gig, keeping things popping for two sets, is another. This is not a jam session or a futile shopping mall gig, like I did in Las Vegas.

  Ruth nods and smiles. “’Bout ten minutes,” she says. “Hey, don’t worry, there’ll be some new fans who’ve never seen a detective play the piano.” She moves off to greet some late arrivals.

  The L.A. Times ran a brief article about me, but in an effort to punch up the piece, the writer briefly recounted my moonlighting in three murder investigations that had spilled over into the jazz world. No way to avoid it.

  I have to go outside for a final cigarette. Smoky jazz clubs, at least in California, are a thing of the past. My bassist, Jeff Lasorda, and drummer, Gene Sherman, are already there, joking, watching the cars arrive and park on the short block between Venice and Washington Boulevards. We’ve worked together a few times, but for them it’s just another gig. For me it’s a test.

  They both see me at the same time. “Don’t worry, man,” Gene says, “just don’t make any mistakes.” Jeff laughs and slaps Gene’s upturned palm.

  “Yeah,” Jeff says, looking at my hand. “Only your glove should be white, man, like Michael Jackson.”

  “Thanks, guys, that really makes me feel better.” I look at my watch and take a last drag. “Let’s do it.”

  Inside, the rows of green plastic chairs facing the stage are about three-quarters full, mostly college types and their dates. Ruth smiles and shoots me the thumbs-up sign from the sound booth one more time as we walk past her into the room marked “Musicians Only,” where we wait for the announcement.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Jazz Bakery,” Ruth says. “We’re very pleased tonight to present the Evan Horne Trio. First, Jeff Lasorda on bass.”

  There’s polite applause as Jeff makes his way to the stage and picks up his bass. Gene follows, and then there’s just me. “And now, after too long an absence from the jazz scene, we’re very happy to welcome back Evan Horne.”

  I walk out and sit down at the piano, feeling decidedly self-conscious. The applause is more than I expected. No bar, no waitresses, no whine of blenders mixing up Margaritas here. Just concert-hall quiet as I glance up at Jeff and Gene, then turn my eyes to the keyboard.

  I steal one glance at the audience and catch Natalie, Danny Cooper, and Ace Buffington sliding into third-row seats. “Traffic,” Natalie mimes.

  I begin alone, gathering my thoughts, playing rubato on “My Romance.” At the end of the chorus, I ease into tempo and glimpse Jeff, his arms curled around the bass, poised to make his entrance. Gene, brushes in hand, prepares to smooth the way.

  We lope through two choruses in a laidback, two-beat tempo. Jeff’s buzzing bass lines spill over the bar lines and anticipate my chords. Gene’s brush patterns and the occasional splash of cymbals provide color. The keys seem to shimmer before my eyes. I look up again and nod. Jeff bears down and walks into the next chorus as Gene switches to sticks; then we push it and swing all out for two more. This is how it should always be, I think, as I back off and turn it over to Jeff for his solo, then trade eight-bar exchanges with Gene’s crisp drums. Finally, I remind the audience of the melody and take it out to a nice hand. There. First one down. The butterflies are gone.

  The rest of the set goes just as well. No pain; the glove is working, and so are my chops. Before I close the set, I introduce Jeff and Gene, and add a personal note.

  “This has been a long time coming,” I say. “I just want to thank everyone for being here.” I catch Natalie smiling, Ace beaming. Coop is fiddling with his beeper.

  I feel so confident I close with Chick Corea’s “Matrix,” a tricky tune that nevertheless seems to flow out of my fingers as I slip into the zone. Somebody recognizes the opening notes and shouts out, “All right, Evan!”

  When I get to the lobby, Ace and Natalie are waiting. I push through the lingering crowd, and let the approving looks, the snatches of comments, wash over me like a benediction.

  Natalie spots me and waves. “Coop had to go,” she says when I reach her. “Some kind of emergency. You know cops.” She hugs me close. “God, that was so wonderful to see you up there playing again.”

  Over her shoulder I see Ace grinning, pacing back and forth. “Man oh man oh man, that was something.” His voice booms all over the lobby. Several people turn and smile. “Wish I could stay for the next set,” Ace says. He has classes tomorrow at UNLV, a flight to catch, and Nat
alie is taking him to the airport.

  “We better go,” she says, looking at Ace. She hugs me again and whispers, “See you at home.”

  I go outside to smoke and calm down. Then, just when I think it couldn’t get any better, it does.

  “Evan?” I turn to see a short man in slacks, black turtleneck, and cord jacket.

  “Paul Westbrook, Quarter Tone Records,” he says, pushing the thick glasses up. We shake hands, and he hands me his business card. “I’m glad to see you back playing. I’d like to talk to you about recording.”

  I look at his card. Quarter Tone is a small, independent label that’s done some nice work. “Recording? Sure, I—”

  “Give me a call, please,” Westbrook says. “Sorry I can’t talk now.” He hurries to his car and waves as he drives off. I stand holding his card, stunned, wondering if it really happened.

  Back onstage, I begin the second set even more relaxed. Everything feels so natural, so right, I wonder if I’ve ever been away. More importantly, how long can I stay this time?

  For now, there’s only the music. I’m back.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Look at this,” Natalie says, turning up the sound on the television.

  We have the news on, just kicking back after an expensive dinner to celebrate her birthday and my first gig in over a year. The two nights at the Jazz Bakery linger sweetly in my mind.

  I glance at the screen in time to see the anchor cut away to a reporter standing in front of a large crowd. She has on a raincoat and holds a microphone in one hand, brushing her hair out of her eyes with the other. She looks flustered, as if they’ve cut to her before she was ready. She stares at the camera and puts her hand to her ear.

  “Yes, I can hear you now, Jim.” She glances over her shoulder once, then looks back at the camera. “Well, as you can see, we’re at the Santa Monica Civic, where jazz star Ty Rodman just finished performing to a sold-out crowd.”

  She falters for a moment as the crowd jostles her from behind. Some of them are waving and yelling, just wanting to get on TV. She turns her head again nervously, then back to the camera.

  “Santa Monica police are confirming that Rodman is the victim of a stabbing, but we’re not sure of the extent of his injuries at this time. I’m trying to get word from the police. As you can see, many of Rodman’s fans are still here.” She tries to keep her look serious, but a smile slips through as she’s jostled again. “Somehow they’ve heard the news and are staying around although the concert was over some forty minutes ago. That’s all we have at the moment. Jim, back to you in the studio.”

  “Thanks for that report, Trish,” Jim says. He shuffles some papers and glances at his co-anchor, a perfectly made up blond. “Looks rough out there. Once again, we have unconfirmed reports of a stabbing at Santa Monica Civic involving jazz star Ty Rodman. We’ll have more on this before the end of our newscast, right, Marion?”

  “That’s right, Jim,” Marion says. “When we come back, Bob will have the latest weather. Stay with us, right here on Action News.”

  “Jazz star?” I look at Natalie as she hits the mute button. “Ty Rodman?”

  “You know him, don’t you?” she asks.

  “I know who he is, maybe met him once, but I don’t know him.”

  Ty Rodman and I don’t travel in the same circles. He’s one of a half-dozen sax players who’ve fused blues riffs with a rock beat and turned it into a fortune while breathing down Kenny G’s neck.

  “I wonder what happened,” Natalie says.

  “I’m sure Action News will tell us. Want a beer?”

  “Sure,” Natalie says.

  I’m halfway to the kitchen when the phone rings.

  “Evan? You busy?”

  “Coop? No, just celebrating Natalie’s birthday. What’s up?”

  “I need you to come down to Santa Monica Civic.”

  “Yeah, I just saw it on the news. What happened? Is Rodman okay?”

  “He’s not okay, he’s dead. There’s something here I need you to look at.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” There’s none of the usual bantering in Coop’s voice. This is his Lieutenant Cooper, homicide detective, tone.

  “Why?”

  “Just get down here. In a minute,” he yells at someone. I hear other voices. “I gotta go,” he says to me. “Come to the stage entrance.”

  Before I can ask more, Coop hangs up. I put down the phone and glance at Natalie watching me. “Rodman’s dead. Coop wants me to come down there to see something.”

  “Dead? Why does he want you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I better find out.”

  I don’t like it, but I go, not only because Danny Cooper is a homicide detective, but because he’s also my oldest friend.

  From Venice, the drive to Santa Monica Civic is short, but at Pico and Ocean Avenue the traffic is backed up and being diverted. A light rain peppers the streets. I creep up to the intersection, manage to convince a traffic cop I’m expected, and pull in near a fleet of police cars. The news has spread quickly. There’s crime-scene tape around the side entrance and a sizable crowd of concertgoers pushing forward against the uniformed cops trying to maintain control.

  I get through to the front and identify myself to one of the uniforms, who escorts me down a long corridor to Ty Rodman’s dressing room. There’s a placard on the door, and Rodman’s name has a large X drawn through it with a black marker pen. Another uniform standing guard knocks and opens the door.

  “He’s here, Lieutenant.” I get a glimpse of the dressing room through the open door. “Go ahead,” the guard says.

  Coop and his partner, Ivan Dixon, are squatting down over Ty Rodman’s body, which is half covered with a coroner’s blanket.

  Coop stands up and looks at me. “Thanks for coming. Want a look?” He nods toward Rodman’s body. Dixon recovers it with the blanket, but not quickly enough to keep me from seeing the blood, shockingly bright against Rodman’s trademark white suit.

  “I’ll pass,” I say, glancing at Dixon. The police photographer is packing up his equipment, and other forensic technicians are slipping on latex gloves, ready to go to work. Another guy briefly points a video camera at me. I wonder about the rest of Rodman’s band.

  The dressing room is strewn with discarded clothes and beer bottles. Traces of white powder are smeared on the countertop in front of a large mirror bordered with oversize light bulbs. I’m already staring before Coop speaks.

  “That’s what I wanted you to see,” Coop says, pointing to the mirror. “What the fuck is this?”

  The letters still look wet. They’ve dripped down in places. It could be paint or nail polish, but I know it’s blood—two words scrawled across the top of the mirror: Bird Lives!

  I stare at it for a few moments, then look at Coop. He and Ivan Dixon are both watching my reaction.

  “Charlie Parker, right?” Dixon says.

  “Another one of your jazz people?” Coop asks.

  “Yeah, Charlie Parker, saxophonist. They called him Bird.”

  “Who called him Bird?”

  “Everybody. That was his nickname. Charlie Yardbird Parker.”

  Dixon and I glance at each other. Dixon is a jazz buff himself. He knew but wanted to be sure. Call your friend Evan Horne. He’ll know. Thanks, Dixon.

  I look at the words on the mirror again. “When Parker died, that started showing up all over Greenwich Village.”

  “Dare I ask? When was that?” Coop wants to know.

  “March 1955.”

  Coop nods and glances at the writing, then back to me. “So what does this Bird guy have to do with Ty Rodman?”

  Good question. The only thing they had in common was that they both played alto saxophone. “I think it’s the other way around. What does Rodman have to do with Bird?”

  Coop ignores my question. He doesn’t like this; he’s out of his element. He scowls at the mirror. “Are we talking about a disgruntled jazz fan here?”


  My eyes are drawn to a portable CD player sitting on the countertop. “Oh yeah, there’s something else. According to the stage manager, this was playing when he came to get Rodman.”

  Coop presses the play button with a gloved finger. I recognize the tune immediately. It’s Bird with trumpeter Red Rodney, recorded sometime in the early ’50s. One of Bird’s own tunes. A blues called “Now’s the Time.”

  Coop lets it play for a few seconds, then stops the CD and looks at me again, sees the expression on my face.

  “What?”

  I look around. “Where’s his horn?”

  Coop nods. “Over there, what’s left of it.”

  In one corner, half covered with what is probably one of Rodman’s shirts, is the saxophone case. Coop pulls the shirt aside.

  Nobody will play this horn again. It still gleams, but this alto saxophone has been smashed against the wall or the floor. Some of the keys are broken off, and there are large dents in the horn. It looks like it’s been thrown back in the case.

  Somebody yells for Coop, one of the uniforms. He turns to me. “Look, I’ll be here all night, but I need to talk to you in the morning, okay?”

  “Coop, I—”

  “I need to talk to you.” There’s an urgency in his voice that goes beyond the usual. “I’ll call you.”

  I don’t feel like arguing. “Okay.”

  Coop sees me look around the dressing room. I glance again at the two words on the mirror. It’s hard to breathe in here. I just want to get away.

  “What?” Coop says.

  “Nothing right now, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Driving back to Venice, I keep seeing those words on the mirror: Bird Lives!

  What I haven’t told Coop is that today, March 12, is not only Natalie’s birthday but also the anniversary of Charlie Parker’s death.