I take it from him and look it over. It’s an offer for sale and the amount is mid six figures. I look up at Sergent. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” Sergent says. “Of course that offer is negotiable.”
“Of course.”
Sergent frowns. “Did you have a higher figure in mind?” he says cautiously.
“I had no figure in mind. Like I said, it’s not for sale.”
“But surely, Mr. Horne, you can’t—”
“Yes I can. There’s really nothing to talk abut. I’ve already rented the house and the new tenant has moved in.”
“I see.” Sergent gives me a disappointed sigh. “Well, will you just hang on to that, think it over maybe, and get back to me.”
“I can do that, but I’m afraid my answer will be the same.”
Sergent nods and closes his brief case. “Thanks for your time.” He heads for the door, pauses as if he’s going to say something more, then thinks better of it.
“Mr. Sergent.”
“Yes? Brent, please.”
“Okay, Brent. Call before you come next time.”
“Certainly.”
He goes out and I stand at the door for a minute watching him walk down the steep steps. He brushes past Dana, then turns, and gives her an appraising look.
“Who was that?” she says, nearing the door.”
“Some builder’s rep, wanting to buy the house.” I hand her the offer.
She takes it from me and scans over it then her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. $650,000?”
“They want to tear it down and build condos probably.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said it’s not for sale.”
“I may be cutting my own throat, but Evan, are you crazy? That’s a lot of money.”
It was. More than I’d ever seen or probably ever would see, and I admit I felt more than a twinge of temptation, but it didn’t feel right. Why hadn’t Cal sold it? He must have had similar offers over the years and I bet from the same people.
“I know but, I hadn’t even thought about it until he showed up. I’m just not comfortable with the idea, at least not now, so soon after Cal’s death.”
Dana nods but still looks skeptical, shaking her head. She sets the document down on the table.
“Where did you go anyway?”
“Oh just down to get some donuts.” She hands me a bag.
I look inside. “Mmmm chocolate. How did you know?”
“I watched you wolf down that sundae the other night, remember?”
“You are very observant. Okay, well let’s do these in. Coffee is already made. Then we have a boat to catch.”
***
There’s no easy way to get to Santa Monica from Hollywood. I could either go south to the Santa Monica Freeway, which meant a lot of traffic signals, or take Sunset to the San Diego Freeway. At this time of morning, I opt for Sunset.
We get lucky and make the drive to Santa Monica in record time. As I start down the steep incline of Santa Monica Pier fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, I begin to feel some misgivings about the whole thing. Maybe I should just skip this part entirely, make a U-turn and…
Dana touches my arm, sensing my thoughts. “It’s going to be okay, Evan.”
I nod and sigh and keep going. It’s less crowded than I thought and I manage to find a parking space in a lot by the merry-go-round. How many times had I ridden that as a kid?
We get out and I lock the car and start walking toward the end. The pier has always had a special feeling for me. I‘d spent a lot of time here as a kid. Riding the carousel, eating snow cones and hot dogs, even once jumping off on a dare. But not all the memories were good.
At the end of the pier, I catch sight of a man in a dark suit. There are several small boxes stacked near him. His tie flaps in the breeze and behind him, the water looks choppy. The sky is slate gray and getting darker. I catch his eye as we near. “Are you from the Society?”
He steps forward. “Yes,” he says. “Arthur Cummings.” He holds out his hand.
“Evan Horne,” I say. “This is my friend Dana Trent.”
He nods at Dana and checks off my name on a clip board he holds in one hand. “We’re waiting for one more person,” he says. He turns to the small boxes, picks one up and hands it to me. There’s a typed label with Cal’s name and the logo of the society. “If you’d like to join the others.” He indicates several other people standing nearby. “We’ll be underway soon.”
“Thanks.” We walk over and nod, exchange sympathetic looks with each other and wait. Nobody is talking much. I light a cigarette, glad I’d brought a jacket as the wind whips up. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that all that remains of Cal is in this small box.
The box is dark maroon plastic with a flip top lid sealed shut with a notice stating the state of California’s regulations regarding disposal of remains. Inside, in a clear plastic bag, are the gray ashes of Calvin Hughes. There’s a label on the top with the Society’s address. I close the lid and look around for Dana. She’s gone over to the railing, her hair blowing all over, staring out over Santa Monica Bay.
A few minutes later, a woman rushes up, slightly out of breath and checks in with Cummings. He comes over with her. “Now if you’ll just all follow me,” he says, “we’ll be on our way.”
We follow him down a flight of steps to a ramp below the pier at water level and step aboard a small motor launch with bench seating in the back and a small enclosed area in the cabin. The motor is already running and the captain, a craggy faced man in a baseball cap is manning the wheel.
We all get aboard and find seats. I count nine people in all. The captain guns the motor, gets a nod from Cummings, and we pull away from the pier heading for the break in the bay.
With the wind and chop, the ride is pretty bumpy and a couple of people already look queasy. I begin to have second thoughts about this again as we clear the bay and head for the open sea.
Cummings stands by the wheel house, talking with the captain, his white hair blowing in the wind, hanging on to the side of the door, periodically checking on all of us.
We go probably a mile or two then the boat makes a looping turn. The engine slows and finally we come to a stop and idle, the boat rocking up and down. No sound but the water lapping against the boat and the low rumble of the engine. Instinctively we all took toward Cummings, awaiting his cue. I feel Dana’s hand on my arm.
Cummings bows his head for a moment, says something but his words are lost in the wind. He looks up then and smiles.
“Take your time ladies and gentlemen. We’re in no hurry.” One by one we stand up and get close to the side of the boat. I look down at the box. It weighs maybe five pounds. There’s a sliding top. I pull it back a few inches and see the gray ash. A woman next to me suddenly starts crying as she opens her box and holds it up. The wind catches the ash and blows it quickly away in a small cloud. I follow suit, numb, not quite knowing what to think. “Good bye, Cal” is all I can manage in a soft whisper, as Dana grips my other arm to steady herself in the rocking boat.
Everyone except one man finishes in about ten minutes. He just sits, unable to move. Cummings watches and moves toward him, talking quietly. The man doesn’t look at Cummings, but his head bobs up and down. He finally stands up and opens his box, Cummings’ hand on his shoulder, and flings it up in the air. Ashes and box fly, both whipped by the wind. There’s a small almost unseen splash as the box hits the water, then the man sits down again, his head in his hands.
Cummings gives the captain a nod and we start back. Nobody talks. Total silence except for the whine of the engine, the water crashing against the hull, a few squawking gulls until we get back to the pier. Cummings has a bag to dispose of the boxes and I wonder if they are used again. I start to put mine in the bag but at the last minute, I decide to keep it. A few other people cling to theirs. The final bit of ceremony is Cummings handing us a small card with the latitude and longitude of where the ashes were scattered.
Dana and I climb back up the stairs with the others. I walk over to the end of the pier and stare out toward the spot where we just were. Two men alongside me have fishing lines in the water and coolers filled with beer and bait. Finally, I turn back to where Dana is waiting and we walk to the car. We get in and I just sit for a moment, thinking, lighting a cigarette. The whole process has taken less than an hour.
“You okay?” Dana says.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I sit up and start the car.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
***
We’re both quiet during lunch at a Mexican restaurant in Santa Monica, sitting somberly, sipping margaritas, eating chips as we wait for our order.
After awhile, Dana reaches over and touches my arm. “Tell me to shut up if you want, Evan. But really, there’s nothing more you could do. Cal was sick a long time and he knew what was coming.”
I smile at her and nod. “I know. I guess my reaction is fairly normal, huh?”
“Of course it is. I only knew him a short time so I can imagine what it’s like for you.”
We order another margarita when our food comes and lapse into silence again as we eat. Finally, I push my plate aside. “I’m going back today, Dana. If I can’t get a flight, I’m going to try standby.”
Dana just nods, avoids my eyes. She leans back in the booth and sighs. “You want to get home, see Andie. I understand.”
“Well, yes. I—”
Dana gets up quickly and heads for the ladies room. “I’ll be right back,” she mumbles.
I get the check, pay it, and stand outside smoking, waiting for her. When she comes out she’s more together and smiling.
“Okay, I’m ready,” she says.
We drive back to the house without talking, the radio playing, both of us lost in thought. Inside I call Southwest and get reasonable assurance I can get on standby to Oakland at four. I check my watch and start gathering up my things.
“Can I drop you off?” Dana is watching me throw things in my bag.
“Well, no. I have the rental car to return.”
“Oh, right. Well, I guess we’ll say goodbye here then.” She looks away and shakes her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”
“No you’re not.” I walk over and hug her. “Thanks for being here and thanks for taking care of Cal, and thanks for taking over the house.”
She nods, then her arms go around my neck. She leans back, looks at me and kisses me lightly. “You take care of yourself.”
“I will. And you call me if you need anything. Promise?”
She nods. “Now get out of here.”
I grab my bag and turn and go out, jogging down the steps. I get in the car and look up the steep stairs. Dana is standing at the top, looking down, waving.
I wave back and pull away, wondering not if I’ll see her again, but when.
At Burbank Airport, I return the rental car and check in with Southwest. Still looks good for standby the attendant at the gate tells me.
“Stay close,” she says, as she types into the computer. “We’ve had a few cancellations so you’re in luck.”
“Thanks,” I say and go looking for coffee.
Now that I’m here at the airport, I’m anxious to get back, see Andie and hope I can get her to dig a little for me on Cal’s background. If anybody can find Jean Lane, it should be the FBI.
I pace around the gate waiting for the plane to arrive, drinking coffee and wishing I could slip outside for a quick smoke. Finally the arrival announcement is made and I watch the passengers getting off in Burbank. A few minutes later, boarding begins. Another ten minutes passes, then the gate attendant calls me and four other passengers on standby.
Before boarding, I make a quick call to Andie and leave a message on her voice mail, hoping she’ll get it before I arrive in Oakland. I turn off my cell and grab the first available seat. I doze off once we’re up, miss the drink service. When I look out the window, we’re already on final approach into Oakland.
Hurrying through the terminal, I finally make the baggage claim exit and scan the cars lining up for Andie. But getting out of a car and walking over is not Andie but a man in a dark suit, who I know immediately means trouble. Ted Rollins, another agent who worked with Andie on the Gillian Payne case in L.A—I’d clashed with him from the start. Rollins had disapproved of me being involved in the case and even more so, when Andie and I started to hit it off.
His face is grim as he comes up.
“What?” I say, setting my bag down and digging for a cigarette.
“I’m here to pick you up,” Rollins says. “Car’s over there.”
“What happened?” Rollins is maddeningly laconic.
“It’s Andie,” Rollins says quietly. “She’s okay but she was involved in a shooting this morning during a bank robbery. She’s going through debriefing now.”
“Dammit, Rollins, is she okay?”
Rollins smiles. “She’s fine but the bad guy isn’t.”
We get in Rollins’ car. He swings into the traffic flow, ignoring the security guy’s hand waving as a light drizzle starts to make the street wet and send people scurrying for cover, dragging bags, holding briefcases and purses over their heads. Before I can ask him anything, his cell phone chirps. He stabs at a button.
“Rollins. Yeah, he’s right here.” He listens for a moment. “About forty minutes depending on the traffic.” He listens again, glances over at me then says, “Right, I’ll tell him.” He turns off the phone and slips it in his coat pocket, his eyes straight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel as we snake out of Oakland Airport and onto the access road for I-880.
“Well? Tell me what?”
“That was Andie’s supervisor,” Rollins says. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“The hospital? You said Andie—”
“I said she was okay. I didn’t say she wasn’t injured. She’s out of surgery and doing fine.”
I shake my head and smile. “Nothing much has changed has it Rollins?” I dig for my cigarettes and light one.
Rollins looks sharply over at me. “This is an official FBI car,” he says. “That means no smoking.”
I roll down my window halfway. “I’m not in the FBI. Guess you’ll have to charge me.”
Rollins shakes his head. “Nothing has changed with you either. Still the smart ass jazz musician.” He rolls his own window down and waves his hand at the nonexistent smoke.
I first met Ted Rollins when some looney tune started knocking off smooth jazz musicians and leaving jazz related clues at the crime scenes. When the killer had struck in Santa Monica, Danny Cooper’s territory. I agreed to help, but only as an observer, and only because it was Coop asking to help the FBI. So I did.
My involvement had gotten deeper with subsequent murders and that’s when I’d met Ted Rollins, as well as Wendell Cook and Andie Lawrence.
Rollins felt I was a waste of time. The FBI didn’t need a musician in the mix, he’d argued, but he’d been overruled and then acted like it was my doing. I helped Andie work up a profile and we spent more time together. Then, when the killer actually contacted me, the FBI made me a conduit. It had been a terrifying experience and Rollins had made it worse with his constant harassing that increased when Andie and I hit it off so well. Rollins had a thing for her, I realized, and he saw me as both a threat and a nuisance.
It had turned out well, all things considered, but Rollins never got over it and I can see now, he’s in the same mode, loving the control, making me ask for information, like he’s in charge.
I think about all this and finish my cigarette, flipping it out the window on the I-880 freeway under Rollins’ disapproving gaze. “Hey, I didn’t want to get your FBI ashtray dirty,” I say. Rolling up the window, I turn slightly facing him. “What did happen?”
Rollins is silent for a moment, gauging I suppose, how much to tell me but probably realizing Andie will tell me everything eventually. “You knew about her being on this bank detail, right?”
“Yes, but believe it or not, she doesn’t talk much about her assignments.”
Rollins nods. “Yeah, she’s a good agent.” He changes lanes, following the signs for San Francisco and heads for the Bay Bridge maze. “I don’t know the whole story, but the bureau has had these two guys under surveillance for some time. We knew they were getting ready to roll on one and this morning they did. We let them in the bank and started to move in when one panicked, spotted a car or something. I’m not sure.”
“Andie was one of the first ones moving in as one of them came out of the bank with a shotgun. He opened fire immediately, hit Andie but, she caught him on the way down and the rest of us moved in.”
“Jesus.” I watched the traffic, trying to visualize the scene.
“She was lucky, far enough away so the blast only caught her in the leg. Lot of blood, looked worse than it was.”
“They get both guys?”
“Yes, we got them. The other guy just threw himself down on his stomach and yelled at us not to shoot him. Nobody in the bank was hurt either so it was a good show.”
I look at Rollins. “A good show?” He just nods, as we snake through the maze toward the toll booth and finally get through and onto The Bay Bridge. The traffic in the city is not quite so bad and we make it to the hospital in less than the forty minutes Rollins estimated.
At the admitting desk, Rollins flashes his badge and we’re directed up to the third floor where a nurse tells us Andie is in recovery and wants to know who I am, if I’m a relative.
“We live together,” I tell her, noticing Rollins almost flinch.
The nurse nods. “You can see her briefly in about an hour. I think the doctor is still around if you want to talk to him.”
“Yes, I would. Thanks.” She picks up the phone and dials. “I’ll see if I can get him.”
Rollins turns to me and hands me a ring of keys. “We brought her car here,” he says. “I got things to do.”
“Thanks for the ride.” Rollins turns and heads back for the elevator. I turn to the nurse. “Where is the cafeteria?”
“Basement. Coffee is terrible but it’s hot,” she laughs. “Doctor Muckle is already there. Dark curly hair with a white patch. Can’t miss him.”
“Thanks.”
I share the elevator with an orderly and patient on a gurney headed for surgery and find my way to the cafeteria. Grabbing a sandwich and large coffee, I scan the cafeteria and find Dr. Muckle at a corner table, eating soup and crackers.
“Excuse me, doctor. I’m Evan Horne. You just operated on the FBI agent with the gunshot wound.”
He looks up. “Yes.”
“We’re not married but I guess I’m the closest thing to next of kin. We live together.”
“Oh, I see. Well, sit down, please.”
I sit down and unwrap my sandwich and add cream and sugar to my coffee as Dr. Muckle finishes his soup. “The wound was largely superficial,” he says, pushing the bowl aside. “Some blood loss but she’ll be fine with plenty of rest. She’s a lucky young woman. The shot wasn’t a direct hit.” He shakes his head and frowns. “In broad daylight, right in San Francisco. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”
I just nod, imagining the scene, Andie on the ground, bleeding, waiting for paramedics.
“I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you,” he says. “Couple of prescriptions to fill for pain and see she takes it easy.”
“I will. Thank you, doctor.” I get up and take my coffee, go up to the lobby, through the main entrance and outside. I find a space on a concrete wall in the circular driveway. There are several nurses and doctors in scrubs drinking coffee, talking and smoking. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel so bad when I light up in front of a hospital.
I get about half the sandwich down when my cell phone rings.
“Evan? It’s Dana.”
“What’s up,” I say, more sharply than I intended.
“I just wanted to make sure you got back okay. Is something wrong? You sound funny.”
“Sorry, little chaotic here. Andie was shot this morning during a bank robbery attempt she was working on.”
“Oh my God, is she okay?”
A couple of the nurses turn and look at me. I walk a few feet away. “Yeah, I think so. I haven’t seen her yet. She’s in recovery now.”
“Well that’s good. The other reason I called is that developer guy that was here, Brent Sergent, called me, wanted to know about the house. I told him it was your business, I’m just a tenant and—”
“Are you serious? I told him I would call him. Look if he calls again or comes by just refer him to me. Don’t let him in the house. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh I will. Don’t worry. He’s kind of creepy. Asked me to lunch to talk about it.”
“Don’t go. How’s Milton?”
“He’s fine, but I think he misses you. He kind of wanders from room to room, looking. I’m sure he wonders where Cal is.”
“He’ll get over it. Listen, I have to go but I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure. I hope Andie is okay.”
“Thanks, Dana. Bye.” I press the off button and pace around for a minute thinking about Brent Sergent. Then I dial Coop’s work number and get transferred to his office.
“Coop, it’s Evan.”
“I was just going to call you,” he says, “maybe have dinner, tonight?”
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I got a standby flight. I’m already back in San Francisco.”
“Ah, quick getaway.”
“Yeah, well I walked into it here.” I tell him about Andie and the bank robbery.
“Hmm, sounds like she was lucky,” he says with typical cop coolness.
“I haven’t seen her but it sounds that way. But that’s not why I called. Dana just called me. A developer came by yesterday, making an outrageous offer on Cal’s house. I told him no and not to call or come by again, but he called Dana, hit on her about it.”
“Uh huh. And?”
“He’s from a company called, Erwin, McCullough, and Bowers. Know anything about them? Brent Sergent is this guy’s name?”
“I’ve seen their billboards around town. They have offices in Santa Monica too.” He pauses a moment. “There was something about them in the paper fairly recently, but I can’t remember now what it was.”
“Can you run it down for me? I’d like to put some heat on this guy.”
“Well begging you to take money and calling Dana isn’t exactly a crime.”
“I know. I’d just like to know who I’m dealing with.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up. My best to Andie.”
“Thanks, Coop.”
***
Leaning over Andie’s bed, I kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes flutter for a moment then she focuses on me. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.” She manages a weak smile. “I’m so sleepy.”
“Got you drugged up huh?”
“Yeah but I’m not complaining.” She smiles again. “Did somebody pick you up?”
“Yes, my old buddy Ted Rollins.”
“Oh God, I bet you enjoyed that.” She shifts in the bed and pulls the covers back. Her left thigh is swathed in bandages. “Nice huh?”
“Doc says you were lucky.” Her eyes close briefly then open again.
“What? I’m sorry I can’t stay awake.”
“That’s okay, you need the rest. Look I’m going to run down to Monte Rio, pick up some things and I’ll be back this evening okay? You need anything? They say they’re going to keep you for a couple of days.”
“Yes, I—” Her eyes close again.
On the way out, I pass the nurse and tell her when Andie wakes to tell her I’ll be back later this evening and write down my cell phone for her.
“She’ll be out awhile,” the nurse says. “You go do something.”
I find Andie’s car in the parking lot after a lengthy search, having forgotten to ask Rollins where it was parked. It’s another tan Ford Taurus sedan. I gas it up and head for the Golden Gate Bridge and the long haul up 101 to River Road, thinking more about Andie, Brent Sergent, and everything I’d covered in L.A.
By the time I make the River Road turnoff for Guerneville, it’s dark, but at least there’s no traffic as I cruise through Guerneville and continue another four miles to Monte Rio. The post office is already closed so no chance to pick up any mail. I cross the little bridge to Bohemian Avenue and turn into my place.
Inside it’s stuffy from being closed up for a week, so I go around opening windows and airing it out. I put on some music, Keith Jarrett’s
Kolon Concert
, and rummage around in the fridge for something to eat, but decide in the end to get some Chinese takeout from a place a couple of blocks away.
I eat and watch the news, smiling as I pick the peas out of the fried rice. It makes me think of Dana and I decide to call her later.
I get up, stretch, and go out on the deck for some air before I call the hospital. The nurse on Andie’s floor tells me she’s been given more sedatives. “She said to tell you not to bother tonight,” the nurse says. “She’s had enough visitors today already.”
“Oh, who was there?”
“Mr. big shot FBI man. Rollins, I think he said his name was. He’s a bit annoying.”
I laugh. “I know what you mean. Please tell her I called and I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Will do.”
I make some coffee and take the phone out on the deck to call Dana.
“Hey, it’s Evan,” I say when she answers.
“Hi. What a nice surprise. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I saw Andie. She’s knocked out with drugs now.” I sketch in what Rollins told me about the shooting, the bank robbery attempt, and Andie’s scheduled recuperation.
“Wow, your girlfriend leads a dangerous life.”
“Yeah, I guess she does. So what are you up to?”
“Trying to make some headway on the thesis. I’ve been looking at this computer screen for twenty minutes and only typed two words. It’s not going well.”
“No, how come?”
“I don’t know. I’m just…distracted I guess.”
“How so?”
“Well this has been quite week for me. Getting my own place, getting a dog now, and,” she pauses a moment, “meeting you.”
“Dana–”
“No, don’t say anything. Just let me, I don’t know, absorb things, okay?”
I laugh. “Okay. I’ll let you get back to your thesis.”
“Evan, can we just talk awhile?”
“Sure.” I hear some clicking sound.
“There,” she says. “That’s better. I just shut down my laptop.”
We talk about everything. Music, grad school, her thesis, old boyfriends and girlfriends, and of course, Cal. But I realize she knows much more about me than I do about her. Forty minutes goes by before I hang up the phone.
I sit in the darkness a long time, smoking, thinking, drinking coffee, listening to the sounds of the night, wishing I could just stay here. I’ve gone from Venice Beach to Amsterdam and now to a redwood forest on the Russian River.
What’s next?
***
When I check my box at the little post office just off the Northwood golf course, there’s nothing much in the way of mail. I get back home, pack a bag for the stay at Andie’s. I’m almost out the door when Coop calls.
“Hey, Sport, I got little info on your developer friends.”
“Shoot.”
“Erwin, McCullough, and Bowers are a big high pressure outfit. Shopping malls, condos, planned communities, that kind of thing. They’re not exactly paragons of virtue though. There was an incident a few months back where some construction workers and a couple of unions picketed one of their job sites, claiming unfair practices, cutting corners on building materials, that kind of thing. They were even taken to court but nothing was ever proven.”