Fade to Blue (19 page)

Greg’s house and the surrounding area is lit up like a football stadium for a night game. There are a dozen or more Metro police cruisers, lights flashing, and police in SWAT gear around the perimeter. A helicopter circles overhead. The reporter turns her head toward the house. The camera follows and zooms in closer.

“Do we know whose house that is, Kimberly?”

“Not yet, Keith, but we’ll keep you abreast of developments. Kimberly Fong, Action News. Back to you, Keith.”

“Thanks, Kimberly. You be careful out there.” The anchor smiles. “In other news…”

“She’s not there,” I say to Ace. “Or maybe she’s already gone.”

“Maybe her brother tipped her off.”

“I don’t think so. He’s too scared of her.”

“I hope she doesn’t know where I live.”

“No reason she would—”

We both stop then as the doorbell rings. Ace starts for the door then stops, looks back at me. I shake my head. We wait for another long moment.

“Mr. Buffington? FBI Special Agent Andrea Lawrence.”

I let out a breath and nod at Ace. He opens the door. Andie flips open her credentials. She looks past Ace, sees me, and steps inside. Ron Ardis is right behind her. Ardis nods to Ace and follows Andie in.

Andie meets my gaze and shakes her head. “She got away. We found an abandoned car on the freeway up behind the house we think was hers, but no prescription. We searched the house. There was nothing.”

Ace seems a little dazed. He shakes hands with Andie and Ron Ardis. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A drink?”

“Coffee sounds good,” Andie says.

We all sit around the dining table while Ace busies himself in the kitchen and gets coffee going.

“So what now?”

Andie shrugs. “We’ve got roadblocks set up. We’ll get her, Evan.” She puts a hand on mine and squeezes.

“Sure,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment.

We sit in silence for a couple of minutes until Ace brings the coffee and four mugs. Ace pours, then Andie’s cell phone breaks the quiet. She digs in her purse for her phone.

“Lawrence.” I watch her nod then stand up and walk away to take the call. We all watch her as she listens. “She’s where?” She listens again, longer this time. “I’ll be right there. Make sure that room is under guard.” She closes her phone and looks at us.

“Gillian is at Sunrise Hospital.

I’m already on my feet. “I’m going too.” Andie doesn’t even try to stop me. She just looks at Ace.

“It’s on Maryland Parkway, near Sahara,” he says.

We leave Ace bewildered, standing in the doorway, holding the coffee pot and the three of us pile into Ardis’ car and take off. I give Ardis directions to Sahara where he turns east toward Maryland Parkway.

“So what happened?” I sit in back, leaning forward toward Andie.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “A motorist found her walking along the freeway and picked her up. She was almost passed out with one of the inhalers in her hand. He called 911, and paramedics rushed her the hospital.”

Ardis makes the turn at Maryland and a couple of minutes later, he parks near the emergency entrance. There are cops on the door. Andie and Ardis flash their I.D.’s.

“Third floor,” the uniform says.

“He’s with us,” Andie says, indicating me.

We get in the elevator and punch the button for three. The corridor is swarming with Metro cops as we get off, three of them huddled around a room. Andie pushes through as a young doctor comes out. Before the door closes, I catch a quick glimpse of Gillian lying inert, attached to a monitor.

We walk away from the room with the doctor. “She’s stable,” he says. “I’m not sure what happened, but the inhaler she had was empty.” He looks at the three of us. “You say she’s an escaped prisoner?”

“Yes,” Andie says. “I don’t want anybody in there but you. We’ll have a police guard on the room. When can she travel?”

“We’ll keep her overnight at least,” the doctor says.

Andie nods. “Fine. We’ll have some Marshals here to transport her in the morning. Thank you, doctor.”

“I think it was Greg,” I say, once the doctor is out of earshot.

“What do you mean?”

“I think Greg switched the inhalers and put the empty ones back in the bag.

Andie smiles. “Bless his heart.”

The following morning, I awake feeling more rested and relaxed than I have in days. With Gillian back in custody, my mind starts to drift back toward Ryan Stiles and the movie project. Andie and I share coffee in Ace’s kitchen. Ace had left earlier, pleading an early class and papers to correct.

“I hope it’s not so long till next time,” he’d said.

“It won’t be, Ace,” I promised, but not sure he believed me. It was something I’d have to work on.

Andie has already been on the phone with Wendell Cook, reporting the previous night’s activities. All that remains is for word that the U.S. Marshals have arrived to transport Gillian back to prison. Andie and Ron Ardis are to oversee that transfer.

“You okay?” Andie asks. She studies my face and squeezes my hand. “It’s all over now.”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just going to take awhile for all this to sink in.”

Andie’s phone rings. “Lawrence.” She listens, nods, and says, “I’ll be right there.” She looks at me. “Marshals are here. You want to come watch?”

We drive to the hospital. Again there are several uniformed Metro cops and two men in blue windbreakers with U.S. Marshals stenciled in yellow letters on the back. I watch out the window as Andie and Ron Ardis shake hands with the marshals.

Minutes later, Gillian is wheeled through the glass doors outside. With the marshals and Andie and Ron Ardis looking on, two Metro cops help her out of the wheelchair. She keeps her eyes down as the marshals handcuff and shackle her, then walk her the few brief steps to a dark station wagon where she’s placed in the back seat.

I get one brief look at her face as she turns toward the hospital. Was she looking for me? She’s pale and drawn and doesn’t look scary at all now. Across the street in his car, I catch sight of Greg Sims. My eyes return to the marshal’s Car. When I look back, Sims is gone.

Andie signs some forms, hands them back to one of the Marshals and the car pulls away. Only then do I step outside.

Andie turns to me. “See? I told you.”

“Yes you did.”

We drop Ron Ardis at the airport. We all get out of the car. Ardis and I shake hands. “I probably won’t see you again,” he says.

“I hope not. Nothing personal.”

Ardis grins. “I know. Hey, maybe I’ll come hear you play sometime.”

“Do that.” And just like that, it’s over.

Andie and I get back in the car. She drives up Tropicana and crosses the Strip after a long wait at a traffic light. I watch the hundreds of people out already and wonder what they’d think if they knew a serial killer had been recaptured and carted off back to prison.

We pick up I-15 headed for Los Angeles. I lean back in the seat and feel the morning sun on my face. I close my eyes and doze off. When I wake up, we’re cruising up the Baker grade, the Las Vegas valley disappearing in the side mirror. I glance over at Andie. I can’t see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses. She feels my eyes on her, lifts up the glasses for a moment, looks over, and smiles.

“Go back to your nap. We’ll stop in Barstow and have breakfast.”

When I wake up again, she’s pumping gas at a busy truck stop. Cars and big rig trucks are everywhere. I’m suddenly famished. We pull over and park at the adjacent coffee shop. We find a booth and order coffee. Andie opts for orange juice, scrambled eggs, and toast. I go for the trucker’s breakfast— eggs, sausage, hash browns, and a side order of pancakes.

Andie watches me wolf it all down as she pushes aside her still-half-full plate.

“Not worried about your figure, are you?”

“Should I be?”

“I don’t think so. I caught Ron Ardis looking at your ass a few times.”

“And?”

“I can hardly blame him.” She smiles big, but her expression changes quickly. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad we’re driving back. We have to talk.”

“Oh, those are the four words men don’t like to hear.” I study her for a moment.

“It’s about Ryan Stiles.”

Back on the road, Andie is quiet at first. I crack the window open a few inches and light a cigarette. “So, what about Ryan Stiles?”

“What you told me about the meeting with his mother, the story she told you about the night Darryl McElroy died. It got me thinking, made me curious about why she would confide in you.”

“You said you thought she was just being a protective mother with a guilty conscience. She needed to tell someone.”

“I still think that’s true, but I think there’s more.” Just after Victorville, Andie signals and exits the freeway, taking the Pearblossom Highway. It’s a two-lane strip, full of dips and curves, but less traveled, a shortcut to the north end of the San Fernando Valley.

“I got a look at the police report. I wanted to see if there was something more, you know, reading between the lines.”

“And?”

“It’s just too perfect, like it was sanitized and all in Ryan’s favor.”

I run that over in my mind for a few moments. “You think Ryan, Manny’s Car Wash, the Malibu police are all involved in keeping Ryan clean.”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just not satisfied, no matter what he told his mother. It’s just too pat.”

I look out at the desert whirling by as Andie negotiates the curves and dips of the highway. “What is it you want me to do, Andie? I’m committed to scoring the movie. I signed a contract. They paid me part of the fee already, remember?”

“I know,” she says. “My preference would be you pay back the fee and walk away from the whole thing, but I know you won’t do that.” She lifts up her glasses and looks over at me. “Will you?”

“No. I want to see it through to the end. I want to do this, Andie.”

She nods. “I know, and I want you to do it too, but…”

“What?”

“Just promise me you’ll be very careful working with Ryan.”

“And?” I know there’s more.

“And keep your ears open. Ryan trusts you. He might feel in a confessional mode himself. If he’s totally clean, if what he told his mother is the real story, it will never come up.”

“And if not?”

“He might slip up.”

“How?”

“I think his mother told him she talked to you.”

At the end of the Pearblossom Highway, Andie merges onto 14 and eventually the Ventura Freeway. Despite my protests to Andie, I have my own reservations about Ryan Stiles and his mother, and Andie has fueled my curiosity.

As we head into the valley, I’m surprised when she exits and stops in front of the hotel I’d escaped from. I look at her in surprise.

“The room is still good. I have to go into the office, catch Wendell up on everything, and write up my report. I’ll meet you back here later.” She leans across and kisses me. “Go,” she says. “Don’t be mad, okay?”

I get out of the car and watch her drive away.

Chapter Nineteen

In the days following Gillian Payne’s capture, I go back to Monte Rio for some welcome downtime. It takes Andie a few days to finish up her report before she resumes her regular assignment back at the Bureau’s San Francisco office. I relish the solitude, immersing myself in long walks along the river with Milton—who I’d bailed out of the kennel—listening to music, and getting back to the piano.

I contacted Grant Robbins and told him I needed a little time. “I understand,” he’d said. “I can imagine.” Then he completely changed the subject, and brought me up to date on the movie project. “We have a new script. I think you’ll find it much improved. Ryan is excited about it and we both look forward to seeing you again.”

“That’s good. I look forward to seeing the script.” He made no mention of my abrupt exit and absence since our last meeting. I don’t know how much Wendell Cook told Robbins or for that matter, if he even talked to him, but I detect a decidedly different tone to Grant’s voice.

“We’ll be ready to start shooting very soon. We’d like to have another meeting with you before principal photography begins, if it’s convenient.”

Principal photography. The magic words. “No problem. I’ll make it.”

My first order of business is to find a home for Milton. I’d thought about it a lot. He was Cal’s dog. I’d grown attached to him, but he was never really my dog, and I was going to be gone even more now the movie was underway. But when I stop by the kennel to broach the subject with the vet, Carrie, it’s easier than I expected.

“I was almost hoping you’d say that, “ Carrie says. “I’ll take him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve gotten kind of attached to him myself, and you can visit him anytime you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Milton is no trouble at all. He’s just a sweetheart.” She reaches down and pats his head.

I shrug and hand over the leash to Carrie, kneel down, and look into Millton’s big sad eyes. “Okay, pal, you’re in good hands. Thanks, Carrie.”

When I get back to the house, Andie is already there, puttering around the kitchen. She’s in her big white terry cloth robe, fresh from the shower. “You’re not cooking are you?”

“Hey, I can make a salad and heat things up with the best of them.” She opens the oven door and looks inside. “I got one of those bake-at-home pizzas. About ten more minutes.”

“Sounds good.” I sit down at the table and watch her toss the salad.

She stops for a moment and looks around. “Where’s the puppy?”

I tell her about leaving Milton with the vet.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m going miss him, too.” She brings the salad and two beers to the table. She stands in front of me, her hands on her hips. “So, did you talk to the Hollywood brain trust?”

“I did, but first tell me about Gillian.”

“Hang on.” She goes back to the stove, retrieves the pizza, and brings it to the table. I cut it up into slices and we dig in. “Not bad, eh?”

We both finish our first slice and lean back for a moment. “Okay,” Andie begins. “Gillian is back in maximum security and isolation, where she will stay. No privileges, no special favors, nothing, and that’s how it’s going to stay. We’ve heard the last of her.”

“Good to know,” I say, feeling the relief surge through my body. “What about Wendell Cook?”

Andie grabs another slice. “He’s happy. He’d like to give you some credit for her capture publicly, but I told him you probably don’t want it.”

“I don’t. In fact, after this conversation, I don’t want to talk about Gillian again.”

Andie nods. “Wendell knows that, but he’ll probably give you a call.”

“What about her brother?”

“Nothing. We figure he’s been through enough with a sister like Gillian.”

“Good. He deserves some peace.”

Andie finishes her second slice and takes a long pull of beer. “Now, let’s hear about Hollywood.”

I bring her up to date about my conversation with Grant Robbins. “They want me to see the new script, and shooting starts very soon. I’ll have to go back to L.A., probably next week.”

Andie studies me for a moment. “You okay with this?”

“I’ll know better when I meet with them, but yes, I’m okay. Kind of anxious to get working on it.”

“Just remember what I said about Ryan. I’m still looking into that.”

“I won’t forget.”

“There’s one other thing.”

I look up at her. “What?”

“I don’t know what the arrangements will be while the movie is shooting. I’ll visit the set if I’m invited, I’ll visit with you, but I won’t stay at Ryan’s house again.”

I nod. “I didn’t think you would. I’m not sure I want to, either.”

When I arrive at LAX, I scan a group of waiting drivers in dark suits holding name placards, expecting to see one for me. Instead, I see Coop, dressed in jeans and a jacket holding a card with my name on it.

“What’s this?” I say, grinning at him.

“Just trying to blend in.”

“Your limo is outside?”

“No, but my car is parked at the curb on police business.”

“Works for me.”

Outside, Coop leads me to a late-model silver Audi. He grins and shrugs when I look at him. “One of the perks for my position as security consultant. Mr. Robbins is a generous man. I thought a BMW or Mercedes would be too pretentious.”

“Wouldn’t want that would we?” We throw my bags in the trunk, leave the airport, and head into Santa Monica. “Where are we going first?”

“You have a reservation at the Marriott. Soon as you’re checked in, they want you at a meeting.”

“You taking me there, too?”

“No, they’re sending a car for you.” Coop looks over and grins. “You’re getting star treatment, pal.”

I wonder why they’re laying it on so thick. When I start to ask Coop, he reaches behind him on the back seat and plops a magazine on my lap. “Guess you haven’t seen this.”

It’s a copy of
People
and smiling on the cover is Ryan Stiles. Inside is a story and more pictures of Ryan. I scan over the article. It’s about Ryan’s movie that includes a few sentences about Darryl McElroy’s death and Ryan’s brief involvement.

When I turn to the next page, I see a photo of myself. It’s from a CD cover taken a few years ago, and a second photo of Ryan and me at a piano in Ryan’s living room in Malibu. The caption reads: Ryan and jazz pianist Evan Horne. I don’t remember anybody taking it, unless it was Melanie.

“That might get you some gigs,” Coop says. “Hey, maybe you can autograph it for me.”

When we pull up to the entrance of the hotel, a bellman takes my bags inside. “Let’s catch up later,” I tell Coop. “Maybe have some dinner.”

“You got it. Give me a call.”

At the front desk, I get checked in with more than the usual greetings from the manager. “Mr. Stiles’ company made your reservation. Anything we can do during your stay, Mr. Horne, just let us know.” He hands me a key card and a message slip. I’m to be picked up in thirty minutes.

The room is a seventh-floor mini-suite on the ocean side of the hotel. I open the drapes and look down on Santa Monica Bay and the path along Ocean Avenue, usually busy with joggers and people walking their dogs. The mini bar is well stocked, and there’s a carton of my brand of cigarettes on a side table. They seem to have thought of everything.

I hang up a few things, grab a bottle of water, and go back down to the lobby to wait for my ride. While there, I call and leave a message for Andie, telling her where I am. Outside, I have a smoke and take in the breeze from off the Bay. Just as I finish, a Lincoln Town car arrives. The driver, a young blond guy in a dark suit and tie, waves off a bellman and walks over.

“Mr. Horne?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Jerry. If you’re ready.” He opens the door for me and I get into the backseat.

“I’m Evan. So what do you do, Jerry? Besides drive, I mean.”

He smiles at me in the mirror. “Like everyone else in L.A., this is temporary. I’m an actor. You?”

“Musician. I’m here to score a film.”

“No shit. Oh, wait a minute. For Ryan Stiles’ new pic, right?”

“Right, but don’t tell anyone, Jerry.”

“Too late for that,” he says. “It’s been on TV.”

At the studio in Culver City, Jerry stops at a security gate while a guard checks my name off a list he has on a clipboard. He waves Jerry through and we stop at the Sidney Poitier building.

“Here you go.”

I get out. “Is this where I tip you?”

Jerry smiles. “All taken care of, but you can put in a word for me with Mr. Stiles if you want.”

“I’ll try but I don’t think it would carry much weight.”

“You never know.” He waves and drives off.

I go inside and give my name at the desk to a gorgeous dark-haired girl who directs me to meeting room twelve with a big smile.

Ryan, Grant Robbins, and two other men are seated at a conference table. They all stand when I walk in. Ryan comes over and gives me a hug. “Welcome back, dude.”

“How you doing, Ryan?”

“Much better now,” he says, clapping me on the back.

Robbins shakes hands. “Really good to see you,” he says. Dennis Mills and Sandy Simmons are already seated. I shake hands with both of them.

“Looking forward to working with you,” Simmons says. He has dark curly hair and a beard and a slender lean body that makes me think he’s a runner. Clark is shorter, more compact. Both are dressed casually in jeans and sport shirts.

We all sit down then and Grant Robbins looks around. “Well, gentlemen, let’s begin.”

We all open our copies of the screenplay. I’d read it through quickly on the flight to L.A. after Robbins had overnighted a copy to me. It was greatly changed. There was no specific mention of my previous adventures, but they had kind of used parts from all of them, and made up the rest. It wasn’t enough for me to really mount a major protest.

In fact, I found myself detached now. Maybe it was being pushed back into things when Gillian resurfaced. Words on paper didn’t come close to reliving the experience until her recapture, and Robbins’ words did even more to make me feel removed.

“We’re going to rely on you to help with the music scenes, Evan. We want those absolutely as authentic as possible.” He glances at both Simmons and Mills. They both nod their agreement. “We’d like you on the set for those scenes, and of course, more if you want.”

I look around the table, see them all looking at me expectantly, as if I’m the one they have to please. It’s not like I’m Quincy Jones or some other well-known film composer. I don’t quite get it, but I nod. “That’s what I’m here for, and of course the music,” I add.

There’s almost a collective sigh of relief, then smiles and nods from everyone.

“I told you, man. Evan is cool,” Ryan says. He gets up. I see he’s about to leave. “Well, you don’t need me for anything else.” He points a finger at me. “Thanks for being here, dude.” Then he’s gone.

Robbins smiles and takes Ryan’s exit with ease. “So let’s look at the opening, page one.”

I’d read this scene on the plane a couple of times and I liked it.

“Tell Evan your idea,” Robbins says to the director.

“All this is happening over the opening credits,” Simmons says. “What I’d like is for you to be playing until Ryan’s face comes into view, then we digitally cut in from your hands to Ryan. We stop there, Ryan takes your place at the piano and the scene continues as outlined. It’s easier than you might think. You won’t be seen, just your hands on the keyboard.”

“What do you think, Evan?” Robbins wants to know. “Can’t be more authentic than actually having you playing, can it?”

“No, I guess not.” It takes me by surprise but I don’t see any reason not to go along. I have no doubt the technical side of it can be easily handled. I shrug. “Yeah, sure. Fine with me.”

“Great,” Robbins says. “The transition will be seamless. You’ll see.”

Again there are more smiles and nods, as if they were uncertain I would agree. Simmons and Mills close their scripts and get to their feet, clearly by plan. They both shake hands with me again.

“Look forward to working with you,” Simmons says.

“Likewise,” Mills chimes in.

Then they both leave. I look at Robbins. He smiles at my obvious surprise.

“Little overwhelming, eh? We’re not shooting in sequence, so you have plenty of time to come up with that opening music.” He studies me for a moment. “Maybe you’ve already been working on it a little?”

“Yeah, actually I have.” I’d been listening to a lot of music. I wanted something specific, something striking that would be playing whenever Ryan was on screen. I remember Quincy Jones using two bassists for the two killers in
In Cold Blood.
So far I was leaning toward something between Benny Golson’s tune “Killer Joe” and Herbie Hancock’s “Dolphin Dance.”

“I’m working up a theme for Ryan and variations, motifs of it when he’s in the scene.”

“Excellent,” Robbins says. He glances at his watch. “I’d like to show you the jazz club set. It’s almost complete, then I’d like to talk with you about a few things.”

“Lead the way.”

Robbins and I ride over to one of the sound stages in a golf cart. In one corner half a jazz club is being finished. It’s open on one side but the rest is all there. The stage, a grand piano, two walls with photos and posters, and about ten or fifteen round tables and chairs. There are some workmen still busy with final touches. On a tall ladder, a technician perches, adjusting spotlights facing the stage.

“It’ll look bigger on film,” Robbins says as we wander around. Yes, Hollywood. The great illusion. “Go ahead, try the piano.”

I sit down and play a few chords on the Yamaha grand, surprised at the volume. “Wish all the pianos were like this.” I stop when I hear one of the workmen hammering. Robbins watches me taking in the set.