Shades of Blue (21 page)

Where did this come from? Who sent it? It’s a photo copy so the original is still somewhere in the FBI files. Who besides Andie knew about the file? Anyone who worked on the case of course, but after? More recently? The only name I can come up with is Ted Rollins.

I drive back to the house and find Andie on the deck, her legs stretched out, her skirt up around her legs, getting some sun.

“Nothing from FedEx?”

“No, not a word,” she says. “Any good mail?”

“Yeah, couple of things.” I drop everything on the dining table and grab the phone. “I’m going to call them.”

I read off the number on the delivery slip to whoever answers the phone.

“Oh, yeah,” a woman says. “Driver couldn’t find your house.”

“Really. I’m using the delivery slip he left yesterday to call you.”

“Different driver today, hon. He got lost I guess.”

“So what about my package? How could he not find it. I’ve seen your TV ads of you delivering to tree houses in the jungle.”

“Settle down,” she says. “We’ll get your package. Give me the names of major cross streets nearest to you.”

I sigh. “This is Monte Rio. There are no major cross streets.” I give her directions from the 116 highway and the movie theater. “Tell him to turn left, cross over the bridge, and take the second left. That’s Bohemian Avenue.”

“Got it,” she says.

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Not sure. I’ll try to get him on the radio. We’re just a sub contractor for FedEx.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

I hang up and go out to join Andie on the deck. I drop the priority envelope on her lap, and lean against the railing. “Take a look at that.”

She sits up, glances at me and pulls the file folder out. I watch her face as she opens the folder. She flips through the pages and stops on the one with the blacked out lines. “Oh shit,” she says. She flips back to the front, then looks at the envelope, checking the return address.

“Who sent this?”

“I thought maybe you’d know,” I say.

She shakes her head then slaps her hand on the envelope. “That sonofabitch.”

“Who?”

“Rollins, who else?”

“What’s it mean, Andie? Those blacked out lines, and why would he send it to me?”

She gets up and walks around the deck, rubbing her head. “To make me look bad of course. I asked him about it several times. He knew I was going to show it to you if we found it.”

“What about the blacked out lines?”

She looks again, shaking her head. “I don’t know, I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, but I know I didn’t black anything out.” She raises her eyes to mine. “Evan, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I don’t know either, Andie.”

She flips through the pages again, then sets the file down on the small table between us. It lies there, neither of us wanting to touch it. “Don’t you believe me?”

First Dana, now Andie. “I want to believe you. You can’t know how much, but I’m not doing very well on trust at the moment, not after this week. I’ve been lied to for years, my whole life. How do you think it feels to find out you’re not who you thought you were. There’s a big piece of my life missing. I’m just now finding out how much, and now this fucking file.” I turn to look at Andie. How much do I know about her? Who is she?

Andrea Lawrence, Special Agent, FBI. Why was the file missing and now suddenly found? What was blacked out? What was so important? And if Ted Rollins sent it, why was he trying to drive a wedge between Andie and me?

I take both her hands in mine and look in her eyes. “Just tell me, Andie. Were you seeing Rollins while I was gone?”

Chapter Sixteen

Before Andie can answer, there’s a loud knock on the door. I jog downstairs two at a time and open the door. A young guy in shorts, denim shirt, and a FedEx baseball cap is looking up at the glassed in second story.

“Cool place,” he says. “Evan Horne?”

“Yes. You finally found it, huh?”

He shrugs and hands me a flat, heavy cardboard envelope. “Tricky area, man.”

I take the package from him and sign for it. He turns to go but I stop him. “Wait.” I open it, find two CDs shrink wrapped in generic jewel cases, which are thinner than commercial ones, and both in separate zip-loc plastic bag. Buzz wasn’t taking any chances. Each has a typed label I can read through the bags. Just like I had requested: Miles and Cal–Boplicity. There was also one of Buzz’s business cards from Avatar Studios. “There’s only this one package?”

“That’s it,” the driver says, looking at his watch, anxious to get going.

“Okay, thanks.”

I shut the door and walk slowly back up the stairs. Andie is waiting at the top.

“That your CDs?”

“Yeah but the tapes aren’t here.” For the moment, the file is forgotten.

I brush past her and grab the phone to call Buzz in New York. It rings several times then a young girl’s voice. “Studios.”

“Is Buzz around? It’s Evan Horne.”

“Hang on,” she says.

“Evan? What’s up man?” In the background I hear some loud rock music.

“Hi Buzz. I got the CDs but where are the tapes?”

“Hang on a sec.” I hear the music go down then he’s back on. “That guy who was with you at the session, Cameron something? He took them. Said he’d hand-carry them to you in case the package got lost.”

“When did he pick them up?”

“Yesterday. Said he was flying back to California today sometime.”

“Okay, thanks, Buzz. Did the CDs come out okay.”

“Yeah. We cleaned them up some. Still not great quality but they are playable.”

“Well, tell your friend Joey thanks too.”

“Will do. Hey, I finished the mix on your two tracks with Roy. Want a copy?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay, I’ll burn a CD and mail it out today.”

“Thanks, Buzz. I appreciate it.”

I hang up, thinking about Cameron Brody with my tapes. Maybe it was a smart move. Things get lost in the mail, even with UPS or FedEx. I stand for a moment thinking about it.

Andie moves nearby, waiting. “Is everything all right?”

I sigh. “Yeah, I think so. They were supposed to send the tapes and the CD copies together, but that guy I told you about, Cameron Brody, he has the tapes.”

“At least you know they’re safe then.” When I don’t answer, she looks at me. “Aren’t they?”

I don’t want to answer. “I’m going for a walk,” I say. Andie doesn’t move as I jog down the stairs. When I round the corner, heading toward the bridge, I look up and see her on the deck, head down, looking through the file again.

I walk halfway across the Monte Rio Bridge and lean on the concrete railing, looking down at the dark water flowing past toward the ocean, trying to be okay with Cameron Brody taking the tapes with him. I know what he was thinking, but he should have called me first, talked about it. He knows how important they are to me. I would have probably agreed it was better to not send them in the same package with the CDs, but again, it’s not knowing they’re safe, on the way, tucked into his computer bag.

I light a cigarette and stare across the water, my mind drifting back to Andie. Just when everything is starting to come together there’s that damn file. What was blacked out and who did it? I didn’t really think Andie had anything to do with it, and if it is from Rollins, it would be like him to pull something like this. But what could be so important? As Andie said, vetting Cal was a routine matter. He had no actual participation in the Gillian Payne case.

I look across the river. I can just make out the hotel Ace Buffington had stayed in when I’d come back from Amsterdam, remembering the last time I saw him, the ugly confrontation. My good friend, Ace, who’d sold me out to make his own escape. Can I trust anybody anymore, ever?

I’m sure Andie didn’t know about the file being mailed or else she’s missed her calling and should be in Hollywood, starring in independent films. But there’s that tiny, nagging doubt. I have to know.

I turn and start walking back over the bridge, but I’m not ready to go home yet. I turn the corner and go in the Pink Elephant Bar. It’s almost empty except for two guys at one end of the bar having a draft beer. A woman bartender is talking with the two guys. She looks up, sees me and comes down. I take a stool at the other end and order a beer. I’m about halfway through my glass, when Andie walks in.

“Evan!”

I turn and see her walking, toward me, my cell phone in her hand. She stops, a little out of breath.

“What’s the matter?”

“Cameron Brody. You left your cell phone. He just called.” She bends over her hands on her knees. “God I’m out of shape. I walked across the bridge looking for you. He has the tapes with him. It’s okay.” She hands me my phone. “Call him back. He’s waiting for his flight now.”

I grab the phone from her, go outside, pull out the small antenna, moving around trying to get a signal and dial.

“Cameron?”

“Hey, man. Sorry to freak you out about the tapes. Just seemed better to keep them separate from the CDs, right.”

I sigh with relief. “Yeah, just wish you had told me. I got the CDs today.”

“Good. Hang on a second. They’re making some announcement about my flight.”

I look at Andie. She’s come outside with me. I give her the okay sign.

“Evan? Flight’s been delayed two hours or more.”

“Okay. Call me when you get in.”

“Will do. If it’s too late, I’ll call you in the morning. I have to swing by my folks’ place, check on things. They’re out of town.”

“I’ll be waiting.” I press the end button and put the phone in my pocket. “He’s got them, but his flight is delayed. Probably won’t see him till tomorrow.”

She nods, looks at me. “Evan, I just can’t remember, about the file I mean. I can’t remember anything being blacked out and I certainly didn’t do it. It has to be Rollins. He’s just fucking with us.”

“What about Rollins? Why would he do this?”

“Nothing. He came around, called a few times using the shooting as an excuse to check on me, but nothing happened, Evan. Nothing. Not then or while you were in Amsterdam. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our relationship, and Rollins would be the last guy. This is just his way of getting back. He’s been jealous of you from the beginning.”

I look at Andie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so earnest. “I believe you.”

She looks up at me. “Do you? Do you really?”

“Yes.” I pull her to me. She slumps against me, her head on my chest.

“Thank God,” she says. “Let’s go home.”

I go back inside the bar and pay for my beer, then we walk back to the house.

Later, we drive into Guerneville, get a pizza to go at Mainstreet Station and have dinner on the deck in the last light of day. I feel the tension seeping out of my body. When it gets too cool for the deck, we go inside. I light the wood stove and tell Andie to hand me the file. I feed the pages into the fire one by one. Andie watches me, holding onto my arm.

“I’m going to take a long hot bath,” she says. “You can join me if you want.” She flicks her eyelashes in exaggerated flirtatiousness.

“I just might after I listen to these CDs.”

“Take your time,” she says and heads for the bedroom.

I go up to the loft with the CDs, plug in the head phones and sit back to listen. Buzz was right. They are clearer. Still not studio quality, but at over fifty years old, they are amazing. I turn up the volume and listen. It’s all there.

I hear Miles’ voice. “Hey, Cal, you taping this shit?” There’s some shuffling of paper, horns tuning up, then the band runs down “Move,” a fast, “I Got Rhythm” changes tune. They go over it a couple of times, then try John Carisi’s “Israel.” There’s starting and stopping several times as details of chords or notes are worked out under Miles’ directions.

“All right,” he says, “let’s try the one Cal likes.” There’s a pause, then they go into “Boplicity.” I listen to the music, the snatches of conversation, imagining myself sitting next to Cal at the piano. The sound stops midway through another tune and I load the second CD. It’s not as long as the first but I hear Miles say something to Gil Evans who must have come in late.

“Gil, listen to this chord on the bridge.” Then to Cal, “play that minor seventh, Cal.”

I listen to what seems the end. Miles Davis, Gil Evans, Gerry Mulligan, Max Roach on drums, and Calvin Hughes, my father on piano.

I listen for another thirty seconds or so, but that must be it. I turn off the player and sit for a minute in the dark, letting the sensation of all this wash over me, then I go down stairs to the bathroom and peek in.

Andie, her head back against the edge of the tub looks up at me. “Come on, baby, the water is still warm.”

***

I wake up early and slip out of bed. Andie mumbles something and turns over, falling back to sleep immediately. I make some coffee and take it out of the deck. The morning is crisp and clear, the night moisture still on the trees as I dial Cameron Brody’s cell phone number. No answer. I listen to it switch over to voice mail and leave a message for him to call me as soon as he can.

Okay, relax, I think. He’s probably turned it off, still asleep, charging the phone. Something. But by the time Andie gets up there’s still no word.

“He probably got in late, still asleep,” she says, echoing my thoughts, but it’s nearly noon before he calls.

“Evan?” Just the way he says my name tells me something is wrong.

“What is it?” There’s a long pause before he answers.

“Oh shit, man.”

“What?”

“They got my phone, my computer. The tapes were in the computer bag.”

“Are you serious? Who?”

“I sat it down for a minute to pay for some coffee, turned around and it was gone.” I flash back on him doing the same thing when we ran into Otis James in New York.

I grip the phone tighter and sigh. “Where are you now?”

“I’m at my folks place in Tiburon.” He gives me directions I scribble down quickly. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m sorry, Evan.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

***

It takes us over an hour to get through San Rafael where the traffic is backed up for the Richmond Bridge. We finally break through, faster now, through Corte Madera and the turnoff on 131 to Tiburon. Following Cameron’s directions we climb up the hill into an estate area of multimillion dollar homes. There are speed bumps, no trespassing notices, and alarm company signs in practically every yard as I look for the house number.

“Jesus,” Andie says, looking at the houses. “Who is this guy?”

I find the corner house and park in front. We open a huge wooden gate and walk up to the front door and ring the bell. Andie looks around, peering in the window. “I don’t see anybody,” she says.

We walk around the side of the house, down some steps, past a garage. Perched on the slope in back is a small guest house or studio of some kind. From where we’re standing, we can see both the city and the Golden Gate Bridge partially shrouded in fog.

“In there,” I say, pointing to the guest house. We drop down another level to a flagstone sidewalk. Cameron must have seen us coming because he’s standing in the door way.

He sticks out his hand. We shake and I introduce him to Andie. He nods at her, shaking his head. “I feel so stupid. Come on in.”

He looks like he hasn’t had much sleep, as he flops down on a couch under a window that duplicates the view of San Francisco and the bridge.

“So what happened?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. It happened so fast, no more than a few seconds.”

Andie stands looking at him. “Somebody from the flight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has to be, unless you were farther in the terminal.”

“That’s right,” Brody says, “but I’d cleared the gate. I was almost to the street. I stopped for coffee, set the bag down for a second.” He shrugs. “When I turned around it was gone.”

“Well, could be anybody then. Laptop theft is common these days,” Andie says. She looks at me, sees my growing disappointment. “I’m sorry, Evan. He won’t see it again.”

She turns to Cameron, all business now. “What else was in the case?”

“Laptop, my phone, some papers, business cards…the tapes.”

“What numbers are on the cards?”

“Home, cell number, ASCAP office, and this one.”

“Who lives here?”

“My parents,” Brody says. “I crash here sometimes, but I have an apartment in Berkeley. Just got tired of living at home.”

Andie looks out the window again. “Why? Jesus, what a view?”

I look at Andie. “Got any ideas?”

“No. He didn’t see who did it. If it had been in arrivals, we could check the passenger list, but—” She pauses a moment. “Maybe it was someone on the flight. Maybe they followed you off the plane, waited for the right moment and—”

“Can you do that,” I ask Andie, “check the passenger list?”

Cameron buries his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“Not your fault,” I say, but I know I’m not convincing. The three of us don’t speak for several moments, then the phone rings on the desk and breaks the silence.

Cameron lets it ring several times before picking it up. “Yeah?” He sits up straighter, looking at us, his eyes wide. “Who is this?”

Andie looks at the phone, presses the speaker button and motions to Cameron.

“I said, are you missing something,” the high pitched, flat, monotone voice says, like something computer generated.

“Yes,” Cameron says.

“What are you missing?”

“My laptop computer.”

Andie circles her hand in the air, signaling Cameron to keep him talking.

“What else are you missing?” Each word is deliberate, slow, measured.

“Some papers, business cards, tapes,” Cameron says.

“What is on the tapes?”