Bird Lives! Page 10

  Four people have been killed, stabbed to death by some crazy who’s now decided to talk about it and send me a poem. How did I get so lucky? Is she still in LA.? Two of the murders were in New York; one in L.A., one in San Francisco. And now she wants me to help her do something. What? What could I possibly do for her?

  I grab the Times out of the car. There’s a long story about the murders, complete with photos of the victims and their backgrounds. Most of it is a rehash of earlier stories, but the quotes from other musicians—pop jazz artists with big recording contracts—indicate that everyone is taking things very seriously. Some dates have been canceled, security at all concerts has been doubled. I don’t even recognize some of the names, but I’m not alone.

  There are quotes from some mainstream musicians, obviously putting on reporters. “Cochise?” saxophonist Phil Woods says. “He plays jazz? I thought he was an Indian.” Dark, but it’s the only funny thing about the article. Nowhere is there any mention of my name, but there’s no mention of the denial that Wendell Cook promised either.

  I search the paper and find it finally on page twenty-two, in a small paragraph that essentially says that the previously reported story that named pianist Evan Horne is assisting the FBI has not been confirmed. Cook has tried to minimize the damage, but I’d still like to spend a few minutes alone with Ted Rollins. I can’t figure out why he’s so hostile toward me. I’ll probably never know, but it’s hard to believe it’s just a personality conflict. Disgusted, I drop the paper in a trash can.

  Despite Andie’s okay, I hike across the parking lot to call Natalie from a pay phone near the public restrooms. I get her machine and tell her I’ll call later. We will have to talk. I agree with Andie that Natalie should be kept out of it, but it’s going to be difficult; there’s so much I can’t tell her.

  I stroll back to my car, one last look at the ocean, but the cell phone, sticking out of my back pocket, takes me by surprise. I spin around when it rings. I reach for the phone, get back in the car, roll up the window, and make sure I press the right button.

  “Evan Horne.”

  Andie said maybe a couple of days for the next call, but she was wrong. The music is already playing this time. Pianist Bill Evans, one of the Village Vanguard—Sunday afternoon sessions. Scott Lafaro, bass; Paul Motian, drums.

  “You like this one, don’t you?” the voice says. It’s the same smoky, low pitch.

  Think, what does Andie want me to do? Is the call being recorded? I’d already turned off the call forwarding. How did she get this number? Keep her talking.

  “Yeah, I do. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, you can do a lot for me, Evan. You were naughty going to the FBI. Don’t you trust me?”

  I try to keep my voice even. “They came to me. I don’t even know your name. How can I trust you?”

  She pauses, while Scott Lafaro’s bass resonates in my ear. Even on the phone the notes are clear. I dig out a pad and pen from the glove box and write down, Good sound system.

  “Does that mean you want to talk?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, Evan, you don’t. Remember that.” She pauses to let that sink in. “You can call me Gillian. Do you like that?”

  “Sure, it’s fine. Gillian. Okay, Gillian, I’m going to be honest with you. The FBI is monitoring my calls, you must know that.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” There it is again. Rise in pitch, short outburst of anger, then several seconds’ silence. Bill Evans has it again now, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he exchanges eight-bar breaks with drummer Motian. “You’re on a cell phone, Evan. So am I.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m not trying to make you angry. I’m just trying to be up front about how things stand. It’s out of my control.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Evan. It’s completely in your hands.”

  I hear a metallic sound, then the blowing noise as she exhales. I write: Zippo type lighter. “What is?”

  “Whether I keep still or not.”

  “Keep still?” I grip the phone tighter, glance in the rearview mirror. A car is pulling up about a hundred yards behind me. I twist around in the seat, but it’s only a man with his dog.

  “Leave the jazz pretenders alone. Some of them are probably getting worried now.” There’s a lilt, almost a smile, in her voice now.

  “Keep still? That’s your euphemism for not killing?” I blurt it out without thinking. There’s a moment of silence when I think she’s going to hang up.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

  “Forget it.” She says it quickly, like she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Euphemism. I like that. This is going to be interesting. Let’s set some ground rules here, Evan, shall we?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “First, FBI or not, here’s our bargain. As long as you keep talking to me, I’ll be still. Second, forget about your friends at the FBI tracing the calls. Even if they do, be gone before they get here, so tell them not to bother. If I decide not to be still, it will be your fault, Evan. Do you understand me?”

  I slide down in the seat of the Camaro, look at the surf, feel the sun burning through the windshield. “Yes, I understand,” I say quietly.

  Her tone changes now. “Good, then we understand each other.”

  “I’m sorry, I could never conceive doing what you’ve done.”

  “Think about it, Evan. They didn’t deserve to live, don’t you realize that? Calling themselves jazz musicians, calling what they play jazz. They’re defiling the memory of Bird and Dizzy and Miles, playing that shit, that electronic, wimpy, worthless shit, and calling it jazz.”

  She runs out of breath then, takes another drag of her cigarette, and exhales. I squeeze my eyes shut. Is this any crazier than the guy who took a shot at Ringo Starr? I wait a second more, thinking, stalling. “Is that what this is about?”

  “No, it’s only part of it. The other part you’re going to help me with.”

  “How? I don’t know how I could help you.”

  “You will. It’s about my brother; that’s what you’re going to help me with.”

  “You have a brother? Does he know what you’ve done?”

  “My brother knows nothing, Evan. He’s dead.” Her voice is bitter.

  “I’m, I’m sorry, I—”

  “I don’t want your sympathy. Just listen.” She spits out the words, then calms down again. “My brother killed himself, so the police say. And he might have, after what was done to him. But I have to be sure. You know about being sure, don’t you, Evan?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Last year. You had to be sure about Clifford Brown, and before that, Wardell Gray. I know all about you, Evan. You couldn’t let go. You’re a seeker of the truth, and you’re good at it. Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t give up, and when it has to do with the music, you can’t conceive giving up. That’s why you fit into my plans perfectly.”

  I take a deep breath, wipe the droplets of sweat from my forehead. “What plans?”

  “Did you like my poem?” She exhales again, and I imagine her smiling. Andie was right. She’s showing off. Where is she? Driving around someplace in L.A.? I strain to hear some traffic noise over the music.

  “That’s enough for today. You’ll find out soon enough. Tell that FBI bitch Lawrence you’re going to keep talking to me. You’re turned on by her, aren’t you, Evan? Is it because she carries a gun?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t know how.

  “Remember our bargain, Evan. As long as you keep your end, nobody has anything to worry about. Break it…”

  I pause a moment, thinking as her voice trails off. She knows she doesn’t have to finish the sentence. There’s so much more I want to know, but she seems just on the edge, like she can go either way.

  “I’ll keep talking to you, but you know they’re going to catch you eventua
lly.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t really care. I’ll call again, Evan. You’re going to get something that will explain everything.”

  “What? How will I get it?”

  “Let me worry about that, Evan. You’ve got rehearsing to do, for your CD.”

  She turns up the music then, lets it play for a few seconds more. I shut my eyes, picturing the scene at the Vanguard. Bill Evans, head bent over the keyboard, hair in his eyes, the audience listening intently. Then the music stops, and Gillian is gone.

  I press the off button, take a deep breath. Sweat pours off me. I can feel my pulse racing. I struggle out of the car, gulp air, and walk around, trying to clear my head. The sun is still warm, the surf still pounds, but everything has changed. When the phone rings again, I want to throw it out on the sand.

  “Evan, it’s Andie. That was her, right?”

  “You mean you don’t know? Didn’t you trace it, record it?”

  “No. She’s on a cell phone, moving. We got the time. It’s complicated. We don’t know yet.”

  I sit down on the wall, not believing what Andie is telling me.

  “Evan? You did good, though. You kept her talking. We’ve got to talk about this one, right away. Did she tell you her name?”

  “Gillian. Her name is Gillian. She wants me to do something for her brother.”

  Even through the phone I can hear Andie sigh. “At least we have a name. She’s no longer UNSUB. Gillian, such a pretty name.”

  “Well, this is a new way to hire a detective,” Ted Rollins says. “Kill four people, then threaten to kill more if he doesn’t deliver.”

  “Ted,” Andie says. “Come on.”

  “We don’t know for sure that’s what she means,” Wendell Cook puts in.

  “I think we do.” Coop has been sitting quietly, listening to the four of them analyze what I’ve told them about the call, trapped in this room at the Federal Building that I’m growing to hate. I feel like I live here.

  Coop is right, and I know it. Gillian will dictate the play, and I’ll have to keep talking to her, do whatever she wants as long as I can. Right now, I want to talk to Andie, but not in front of the others.

  “Why can’t you trace the call? Why wasn’t it recorded?” I ask. “We must have talked for ten minutes.”

  “Seven minutes, forty-seven seconds,” Rollins says, looking at a slip of paper. “That’s how long your phone was engaged.”

  I lean my elbows on the table, my head in my hands, and watch them look at me as if they’ve just discovered I’m there.

  “It’s much harder with cell phones, Evan,” Andie says. “We have to zero in on a moving tone. She could be switching phones. Anything is possible.” She pauses and looks at the others, but the explanation is really for me. “With call forwarding, the incoming call to your place goes back to the phone-company switching center first, so there was no recording. We didn’t figure on that.”

  Andie shrugs and turns back to me. “She bypassed your home phone and called you directly on the cell.”

  I look up at Andie. Her face is pinched into a frown. “How did she get my cell phone number? I thought nobody but you and Coop had it.” I glance quickly at Ted Rollins.

  “Cloning cell phones is amateur stuff,” he says. “All you need is a scanner. In L.A. it’s as easy as buying a gun.”

  “She knew you’d have a tape set up at my house, so she bypassed that, called me direct on the cell phone, right? So the phone is cloned.”

  Andie shrugs. “Probably.”

  “Great.” I get up and walk around. “She knows everything about me—the other cases I was involved in, the recording—and you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do, I have to go along with whatever she says?”

  “What you tell us she said. You’re not going along with anything,” Rollins says, “except what we tell you to do.”

  I feel Coop stiffen. He knows I’m about to go across the table at Rollins.

  “No, you listen to me, Rollins. Until I came along, you didn’t have squat. You don’t know anything about the music. Gillian, or whatever her name is, has decided I’m the go-between, and now you’re telling me the FBI can’t do anything, not even trace or record the call. I’m not going to risk anyone else’s life.”

  “We’re hoping at some point she’ll call you at home,” Andie says weakly.

  “So I’m just supposed to hang around the house waiting?”

  Wendell Cook gets to his feet. “All right, all right, this isn’t getting us anywhere.” He glares at Rollins. “Ted, please, just shut up.”

  Rollins glowers at Cook. He looks away, but he and Cook will have words later. I’d bet on it.

  “What about the music?” Andie asks. “You said it was Bill Evans at the Village Vanguard in New York. Any significance there, about New York, I mean?”

  I shake my head. “No, that was for me. I’m sure of it. She knows or guessed, Evans, that album would be one of my favorites. She knows I play piano.”

  “Jesus, what else does she know?” Coop asks.

  “I don’t know,” Andie says. “We’re going to have to wait for her to tell us.” She looks at the notes she’s been making. “Let’s not forget we got some information. Her name is Gillian, she has a brother, she’s a smoker, and she probably drives a newer car.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “What you said about the music, the sound quality.”

  “Right,” Cook says. “We can assume it’s a newer car, with a CD player.” He’s been pacing around the room. Now he wheels toward me. “Whatever it is, Evan, whatever she wants you to do, we’re going to help you. Whatever it takes. All our resources will be at your disposal. We don’t want any more killing.” He looks at everyone, making sure they all understand. “Evan,” he says, “believe it or not, I like this even less than you do, but we have no other choice. You’re the only link we have.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Yeah,” Coop says. “Stay home.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At Jeff Lasorda’s house in the Valley, we run through four tunes for the CD. For the moment at least, I’m almost able to put everything else out of my mind and concentrate on the music. But Gillian’s voice, echoing in my head, fights for my attention.

  I feel the trio coming together, as if Jeff, Gene, and I have worked together more than a handful of times. Nothing replaces steady gigs to sort out the kinks, fine-tune that mental telepathy that happens in working groups, and we don’t have that luxury; but something else is happening with us. I’m just lucky that Jeff and Gene are the two right people.

  The rehearsal is punctuated with smiles and comments as we surprise each other at times, trusting that side trips, excursions beyond the confines of the tune, will lead back home.

  I’m reminded of pianist-singer Mose Allison’s philosophy about working with bassists and drummers he doesn’t know. “After the head, guys, I’m going out there. You can come with me or just wait here till I come back.” Jeff and Gene like to explore as much as I do. They come with me. I don’t want to overdo rehearsing; I want the music to sound fresh when we get to the studio.

  It’s been three days since the call from Gillian, the poem, and just as long since I’ve heard from Natalie. She isn’t returning my calls. I put it down to her heavy study schedule, but I know it’s more than that. In a way, I’m relieved. I don’t have to tell her about things or talk her out of wanting to be with me while this sparring with Gillian continues. But the other side is that I miss her, want her with me.

  Gillian’s silence has been strange, uncharacteristic, according to Andie Lawrence. I haven’t received anything, and the waiting is getting harder and harder, but at least it’s allowing me to plan for the CD.

  “What about a Miles tune?” I ask the guys. Taking Cal’s advice, we’ve just finished running through a couple of old, obscure standards.

  “Cool,” Gene says. “Something up, though. We’ve already got enough ballads
, don’t we?”

  I look to Jeff. He stands with his arm cradled around his bass, lost in thought. “Got something in mind?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I was thinking of ‘Solar’,” I say. It’s always been one of my favorites and not too heavily recorded.

  “Yeah,” Gene says. He hums the first few bars, taps out some time on the cymbal.

  “Jeff?”

  Jeff nods approvingly. “Yeah, that could work.”

  “All right, let’s try it, see what happens.” I begin in tempo with the first four bars, just a single note line with my right hand. When I hit the fifth measure and go for a two-handed, altered chord, Jeff is right with me, and Gene splashes in with cymbals.

  While I play it out, Jeff and Gene roam freely behind me, intimating the rhythm, but by the first solo chorus it’s burning, and I know it’s a good choice for the CD. I don’t look up for six choruses, then nod to Gene. He plays two that are nothing like a conventional drum solo while Jeff and I get into a question-and-answer thing behind him that fits perfectly with Gene’s musings.

  When we take it out, everyone is smiling. “Yeah, that’s the one,” Gene says. He stands up and stretches his arms over his head.

  Jeff agrees. “Yeah, Evan, that was smoking.”

  I sit at the piano, smile, feel the rush course through me. Good moments count, whether they’re in a rehearsal or on a gig. I flex my fingers, look at the black glove, and feel fine.

  “Listen, guys, Paul Westbrook said he might come by and listen a little bit. Let’s take a break.” I glance at my watch. “He should be here any minute.”

  “Oh-oh,” Gene says. “We’re being scouted. I’m going to run down to the 7-Eleven. You guys want anything?”

  “Not for me,” Jeff says. I pass too, and Gene goes out to his car. I look at my cell phone, which has been sitting on top of the piano. “When did you start carrying one of those?” Jeff asks.

  I’m a beat slow with the answer, and Jeff catches it. “Just trying it out,” I say. “I got a special trial deal.”