Evan Horne [03] The Sound of the Trumpet Page 18

  Back in the house, I go over it all again, trying to figure it out, when the phone jars the silence.

  “Hello.”

  “That was very clever, Mr. Horne. A good hiding place for the tape. Who would have thought of a pawn shop?”

  I know the voice. Raymond Cross.

  “How did you—”

  “Get the pawn ticket? I searched your car twice. Missed it the first time. Valet parking is not very reliable. They get busy, don’t notice things, and often don’t lock the cars. It was quite easy. I was looking for the tape, but then I found the ticket, and now I’ll have both tapes.”

  “But it’s not for the tape. The police still have the tapes.”

  Cross pauses, says nothing for a few moments, while my mind races with possibilities. “Really? What, then? Oh, of course, the trumpet. Even better. It was you who took it from Perkins’s house. I wondered about that. You must have beaten me to it by minutes.”

  “Cross, you know that’s not Clifford Brown on those tapes. They’re not worth anything to you or anyone now. Neither is the trumpet.”

  “Aren’t they? I saw the little scenario you must have created on television the other night. How much did the record company offer?”

  “What difference does it make? Their offer was for genuine Clifford Brown. These tapes are bogus.”

  “Really? Can Pacific or any record company afford not to make an offer? They can’t be sure they’re not genuine. There’s no foolproof way to tell, Horne, you know that yourself. We fooled you.”

  “Why did you kill Ken Perkins?”

  “Not now, Horne. There isn’t time for this.”

  “No, there isn’t. The police are looking for you.”

  “Of course they are, but what are they going to charge me with? They have no witness, no weapon. Do you think that after twelve years of typing trial transcripts I don’t know about procedure, evidence? I’ve simply been on vacation, and I’ll return to work totally unaware of any police search.”

  For once I wish I had caller ID, to see where Cross is calling from. I wonder now if Cross is right. I can’t positively identify him. Can he just do that, reappear with no consequences?

  “Please do not try and tell me, even if the tapes are not genuine, that the trumpet isn’t either. Why else would you hide it?”

  “The trumpet belonged to the same musician who made the tapes. It just happens his initials are the same.” Even as I say the words, I imagine how Cross must be taking them. Of course I would deny the trumpet is genuine, and who but Connie Beale could prove otherwise? “Meet me, let’s talk about this some more.”

  “Why, so you can arrange with the police to tape my confession? Please, Horne, give me more credit than that. I’ll decide when to do that. I will be in touch again.”

  “Wait—” But it’s already too late. Raymond Cross is gone.

  Now what? Cross could have been calling from Las Vegas, but if he was, he could already have redeemed the pawn ticket, so that leaves L.A. For all I know, he was calling from his house or LAX.

  Even if the call came from LAX, the pawn shop in Las Vegas wouldn’t open until tomorrow morning. There is a way to do this, identify Cross and get him at the same time.

  I call Pappy back, explain the change in plans, tell him about Raymond Cross.

  “You want me to what?”

  “Stake out the pawn shop. Don’t do anything, even let him see you, just follow whoever comes out with the trumpet case. Cross doesn’t know you. He’ll probably go to the airport. Soon as you see him get on the plane, call me and let me know the flight number and airline.”

  “Why I got to do this?” Pappy doesn’t sound happy.

  “C’mon, Pappy. I don’t have time to get there and do it myself.”

  “Shit, you done made me a detective too. All right. I must be crazy. What’s the name of the pawn shop?”

  “Silver State Pawn on Fremont Street. Thanks, Pappy.”

  “We’re even now.”

  “It may be over tomorrow,” I tell Natalie. I tried Coop at home and at police headquarters, but no go.

  Natalie pours me a glass of wine and brings a plate of cheese and crackers to the coffee table.

  “Have you told Trask in Las Vegas about this?” She doesn’t approve of my plan at all.

  “Not yet. I will, in the morning.”

  “That’s not going to give him much time. He’s not going to like it that you’ve gone ahead with this.”

  “I know, but what else could I do?”

  “You could leave it to them.”

  “Yeah, and nothing would happen.”

  “Nothing may happen anyway. You said you can’t positively identify Cross. You’re going up against a solid citizen who works in the system, for God’s sake. He will have covered himself.”

  Natalie was right about that and Trask for sure, Coop maybe, didn’t buy Cross as Perkins’s killer for exactly those reasons.

  “I want to be there when he gets off that plane. I want that trumpet back. I want to see Connie Beale get it back.”

  Natalie looks away and is silent. She knows there’s no point in trying to talk me out of it.

  “Well, at least you proved it’s not Clifford Brown on that tape. That’s something.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She sets her glass down on the table, puts her head on my chest, I put my arm around her, and we sit for a few minutes, neither of us speaking.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I’m up early, grinding coffee, pacing around waiting for Danny Cooper to call back and Silver State Pawn to open. I’d left a message with him to call as soon as he gets in, and I want to time the call to Trask so he won’t be able to intercept Cross if he shows. I want that trumpet back, but it’s all up to Pappy Dean now.

  Just as I check my watch, the phone rings.

  “My, we’re up early today, aren’t we?” Coop says.

  “Coop, listen to me, then you can tell Trask if you need to.”

  “This doesn’t sound good, sport.”

  Coop listens without interrupting while I tell him what’s supposed to happen, about the pawn ticket, the trumpet. There’s a long silence when I finish before Coop finally speaks.

  “There’s some holes in this. First, I’ve got to let Trask know.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. Let’s suppose Cross actually does get off that plane and has the trumpet. We still have nothing, since you can’t positively put him in Perkins’s house the night of the murder. All you’ve got is a guy getting off a plane carrying a trumpet.”

  “But I can confront him. Maybe that will be enough.”

  “If it’s him, at least we’ll know who and where he is,” Coop concedes. “Call me back as soon as you hear from Pappy. I’ve got to talk to Las Vegas. If the pawn shop opens at nine, the earliest flight he could get would be ten, which would put him here at eleven, if Trask doesn’t pick him up first.”

  “Why would he? You just said they’ve got nothing.”

  “You don’t know how much Trask wants a break on this.”

  “That’s what I’m giving him.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I hang up. Seconds later, the phone rings again.

  “Pappy?”

  “Yeah.” I know he’s talking on a pay phone. I can hear snatches of other conversations in the background, and I think, public address announcements.

  “Are you at the airport?”

  “Yeah, he came just like you said, waiting for the door to open, had a taxi waiting.”

  “Did he get the trumpet?”

  “Oh yeah, little weasel dude, he got it, jumped back in the cab, went right to the airport.”

  “And?”

  “I had to park, man, he didn’t.” Even before the silence I know what’s coming. “I lost him.”

  “What?”

  “I caught up inside the terminal but I got hung up at the security thing. That red light kept coming on. I ha
d to walk through three times before they let me by. I told them I wasn’t flyin’ anyway, just looking for somebody. Lookin’ for who? they wanted to know. I told ’em it was none of their damn business. They finally let me pass, but when I got to the gates there was so many airlines.”

  Pappy pauses like he’s out of breath. I hadn’t even considered he wouldn’t know his way around an airport.

  “I looked everywhere, man, but I couldn’t find him. I’m sorry, man, I really am.”

  I don’t know what to say. Cross is on a flight headed for L.A., and we don’t know which one.

  “It’s all right, Pappy. You couldn’t help it. At least we know he got the trumpet, and that’s important.”

  “No, it ain’t all right,” Pappy says. “I’ll do something to fix it. You let me know what, and I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Pappy. I’ll get back to you.”

  I hang up and pound my fist on the counter loud enough to wake up Natalie. She comes out of the bedroom, belting a robe around her.

  “What happened?”

  “Cross was there, but Pappy lost him.”

  “Did he get the trumpet?”

  “Yeah, he got it.” I reach for the phone again and call Coop, relay the news to him.

  “That was one of the holes I mentioned,” he says. “I’ll have somebody cover Burbank. Jesus, what do I tell them, look for a guy with a trumpet? I hope there are no bands coming in this morning. You and I are going to LAX. Pick you up in ten minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll be outside.” I hang up and turn to Natalie.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “I don’t know what. Stay here and cover the phone in case Pappy calls back.”

  “Call me,” she says. She gives me a hug. “There wasn’t anything else you could do.”

  “Yes, there was.”

  Coop has his red light on but still has to dodge cars as we careen down Lincoln toward LAX. He keeps both hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road, but manages to talk over the whine of the engine.

  “Trask, as you might imagine, is furious with you, but if your friend is right Cross would have already been gone. You better hope we get lucky.”

  Coop changes lanes again and skirts a bus. I put one hand on the dash to steady myself as the airport exit at Century comes into view. We take the ramp almost on two wheels.

  “Southwest is our best bet,” I say to Coop over, the roar of the engine and the squealing tires. He nods and cuts off two taxis to head for the terminal area.

  We skid to a stop in front of Southwest and almost take off the toes of a wide-eyed skycap who jumps back on the curb. Coop whips out his badge case and flashes it to the skycap.

  “Police business,” he says, brushing by. “Keep an eye on the car.”

  “You got it,” the skycap says, straightening his hat.

  We run in the terminal and stop at the arrivals board to scan the listings, watching the cities and times change before our eyes. There are two flights on Southwest, one on United, due in from Las Vegas within the next fifteen minutes.

  “I’ll take United,” Coop says. “You take Southwest.” Coop gets us through security in record time, and we split off in different directions.

  As always, the gate area is noisy and busy with travelers. Businessmen, families with small children, and the usual collection of friends and relatives waiting for arrivals. At Southwest I check the gates of the two arrivals. Still time. Both are due within minutes of each other.

  While I’m waiting I check the other gates for any flights I might have missed. Cross could have got something that went via Phoenix or San Diego. For that matter, he could already have landed in San Diego and be at this very moment lining up at a car rental counter.

  I watch the desk at Gate 17, finally see the attendant pick up the microphone and announce the flight’s arrival. Outside, the plane taxis to the gate and locks on to the jet way.

  I fight a crowd, all pushing toward the roped-off area, desperate for their first glimpse of a friend or loved one. The attendant gives instructions to boarding passengers to line up by boarding pass colors, and the first passengers file up the jet way and into the terminal.

  I stand there for ten minutes, looking over heads and shoulders as the plane empties. There’s a short break when I think they’re all off, then a half dozen more people file past, eyes on the crowd, looking for the people meeting them. No Cross.

  Across the way, the second Las Vegas flight is deplaning, and the entire process is repeated. All I can look for is a man with a trumpet, which I assume he’ll be carrying. About half the plane is off when Coop comes up beside me.

  “Nothing at United,” he says. “Next flight from Vegas is due at noon.”

  “Same here so far.”

  We both watch, straining to look at each passenger. I curse myself for not asking Pappy what Cross was wearing. I’m just about to give up on this one when I see him.

  “There, the guy in the dark suit,” I say, pointing for Coop to see.

  Raymond Cross, carrying an overnight bag in one hand and a battered trumpet case in the other, walks with the air of a man just back from a business trip whose only care is where he’s going to have lunch.

  I search my memory for images from the night at Ken Perkins’s house. The build is right, the dark wavy hair, the thick glasses. It’s Cross.

  “Okay,” Coop says. “Let me handle this.”

  We circle the crowd and intercept Cross as he starts for the main terminal and baggage area.

  “Raymond Cross?” Coop says. He holds up his badge for Cross to see. “I’m Lieutenant Dan Cooper.”

  “Yes?” Cross says. He stops, looks at Coop, then catches sight of me. It’s not much, but he registers slight indecision.

  “A few questions, please,” Coop says. “Could you step over here?” He guides Cross with his hand on his elbow. We walk to one of the gates that’s not in service, and Cross sits down in one of the plastic chairs. I stare at the bag and trumpet case at his feet.

  “What’s this about?” Cross says, looking at Coop. “I know you, I think. I’ve seen you in court, haven’t I?” He takes out a roll of antacid tablets and pops one in his mouth.

  “That you have,” Coop says. “We’d like to know about the trumpet.”

  Cross looks down at it as if he’s just become aware of its presence.

  “The trumpet? I hardly think the police would be interested in this old thing.”

  Coop has to go carefully here. He has no warrant, no probable cause for a search, no jurisdiction really. Cross will have to cooperate, and he knows how all this works.

  “Am I under arrest, Lieutenant?”

  “I didn’t say that. We’d like to look at the trumpet”

  Cross looks over at me. It’s the first he’s acknowledged my presence. He sets the case on one of the plastic chairs and flips open the catches, lifts up the lid of the case.

  All three of us look inside. I try not to show my shock, but Coop sees it on my face when his eyes meet mine.

  The case is empty.

  Coop touches the inside of the case as if the trumpet is hidden somewhere under the lining. He straightens up and looks at me. “Well, isn’t this interesting?”

  I look from the case to Coop. “When I pawned this,” I say, pointing at the case, “the trumpet was in there.”

  “Well, we seem to have a slight problem,” Coop says.

  Cross glances at me, smiles, and addresses Coop. “No, Lieutenant, you have a problem. This case is my property, as was the trumpet. A gentleman bought it at a garage sale. I subsequently purchased it from him, and I have a receipt. If you’ll allow me?”

  His hand goes to the inside pocket of his jacket. He takes out his wallet, removes a folded slip of paper, and hands it to Coop.

  “Who the hell is Mojo Boneyard?” Coop says, turning to me.

  “Yes,” Cross says. “A colorful name, but a bona fide dealer in collectibles nonetheless, as I am myself
.”

  Coop hands back the receipt. Cross returns it to his wallet, puts the wallet in his pocket. He looks from me to Coop.

  “I think a question you should ask Mr. Horne is how he came into the possession of the trumpet.”

  “Where is the trumpet, Cross?” I ask.

  Cross ignores me. “That, Lieutenant, is something you should ask Mr. Horne.”

  The color is rising to Coop’s face as he tries to maintain control. “The Las Vegas police have some questions for you, Cross, regarding the murder of one Kenneth Perkins.”

  “Then the Las Vegas police should contact me. As you know, I just came from Las Vegas, and I certainly was not detained in any way.”

  Coop looks at me again. His expression says, That’s thanks to you. Cross straightens his coat, stands up, and looks at both of us.

  “Now, if there are no more questions and I am not being detained, I would like to be on my way. Otherwise, I’ll need to contact my attorney.”

  Coop shrugs and looks around the terminal but avoids my eyes, which are screaming at him to do something.

  “Calling your attorney might be a good idea, but that’ll be all for now, Mr. Cross. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “Not at all,” Cross says. He picks up the trumpet case and his bag and walks away, cool, confident, not a care in the world.

  “Coop.”

  Coop holds up his hand. “Don’t say a word.”

  We’re halfway back to the street before Coop finally speaks. He takes out one of his cigars as we step on the moving walkway and lights up. Two business types in suits and carrying briefcases next to us give Coop a look and mumble something about smoking.

  Coop glares back at them and holds up his badge. “I’ll be happy to take your complaint.” The two men move farther down the walkway.

  Coop blows a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Cross is one cool sonofabitch. You see his eyes? I don’t think his driveway goes all the way to the street. You didn’t tell me we’re dealing with a nut case.”