Looking for Chet Baker (21 page)

“Mr. van Lier, this is Mr.…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” I say for Dekker’s benefit.

De Hass glares for a moment but recovers quickly. “De Hass. Edward de Hass.”

“Yes, that’s it. And this,” I say, gesturing to my right, “is Inspector Dekker of the Amsterdam Police.”

It’s almost worth all the trouble just to see the expression on de Hass’ face. He shifts in his chair and suddenly becomes fascinated with the floor. Dekker nods at van Lier and stares at de Hass while I press on.

“I’ve explained to Mr. van Lier that I’m acting on behalf of the Baker family, and that we simply want to confirm that the account in question has been inactive for several years, and that any claim on that account, by any creditor, would have to be examined. I’ve cooperated fully with the police, since the account holder was not Dutch, and they have been very helpful in tracking down information.”

“Yes,” de Hass says. “My company is appreciative of that.” He smiles at van Lier, one businessman to another, but avoids looking at Dekker.

“Certainly,” van Lier says. He produces the two sheets and hands them to de Hass. “It’s a very old account, so I’ve taken the liberty of checking our records and made a printout of the last transactions.”

De Hass takes the sheets. He reaches inside his coat for his glasses and examines the documents van Lier has created out of thin air. He’s close enough for me to see the papers. Van Lier has made it look good; Chesney Henry Baker’s name appears at the top, then a series of numbers, the account identification. The second sheet is a notice of some kind. De Hass examines and reads through each very carefully.

“I’m sorry, I don’t read Dutch. What does it say?” I ask de Hass.

He glances up at me. “The account has been closed due to inactivity. The balance was used for bank charges.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” van Lier says. “As you can see, it’s been more than ten years.”

De Hass looks up. “And there are no other accounts?”

“No,” van Lier says. “I did a complete search of our records.” He steals a glance at me for approval of his improvising.

“I see,” de Hass says. “This is very disappointing.”

I hold up my hands and smile. “Sorry.”

“May I keep these, for our company records?” de Hass says.

“Of course,” van Lier says. “Those are copies.”

“Well, thank you.” De Hass stands up and shakes hands with van Lier, ignoring me and Dekker. He says something to van Lier in Dutch. The banker answers and smiles.

We get up, and I walk de Hass to the door, leaving Dekker and van Lier to compare notes. “Well, I found it, but that’s all there is.”

“Yes, very disappointing. Some advice to you, Mr. Horne.”

“Yes?”

“Stick to music. It’s much safer.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Now here’s some advice for you. You bother me or anyone I know, and Inspector Dekker over there will be on you so fast you won’t know what hit you.” I hold de Hass’ gaze for a moment. “And that will be much safer for you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares back at me, then glances over his shoulder at Dekker and van Lier, who are still talking. He pushes the large glass door open then and walks out, clutching the papers.

I turn back toward van Lier’s desk. He’s still standing, watching. I walk over but don’t sit down. “What did he say to you—in Dutch, I mean?”

Van Lier smiles. “He said he doesn’t like dealing with Americans.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch de Hass. He’s stopped in front of the large window by van Lier’s desk, looking in at us.

“Don’t look now, but we’re being watched. Keep smiling and shake my hand,” I say. When I look again, de Hass is gone. “You did fine. Fletcher and I both thank you.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I,” van Lier says. “It was rather exciting.”

“You don’t know how exciting. Thank you again.”

Dekker follows me to the door. “Mr. Horne, I…I…” He can’t finish the sentence. He turns and walks out, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

***

I’d packed the night before, so I’d planned to just come back, get my bag, and get a taxi to the airport. I hear Fletcher’s horn, but the minute I open the door, he comes flying out.

“Well? How did it go?”

“Like clockwork. I don’t think we have to worry about de Hass.”

Fletcher holds out his palm for me to slap, then does his little dance. “Well, come on. I have to take you to the airport,” he says.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can take a taxi.”

“No big thing, man. I’ll take you. I want to hear all the details.”

We share a cup of coffee, then Fletcher goes off to get dressed. There’s some minor tension in the air. I know Fletcher hates to see me go and is afraid I might not come back.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Fletch, don’t worry. I always make the gig.”

He smiles. “Okay. Give me ten minutes,” he says.

“Sure, we got time.”

I get the rest of my things together—one small carry-on bag and Ace’s portfolio. I pause at the piano, hope I’m going to see this old upright again soon, and play the first eight bars of “Oleo.”

“You ready?” Fletcher says.

It’s nearly an hour’s ride to Schipol Airport. I give Fletch a complete rundown of the bank scene and have him laughing most of the way. When we pull in to departures, he stops the car. “I’m not going in,” Fletcher says. I get my bag out of the back, and he comes around.

He holds out his hand. “Get this over with quick, and let me know when you’ve got a return flight. I’ll pick you up.”

“Thanks, Fletch. See you in a few days.”

“I hope so,” he says. “We’ve got some music to play.”

I watch him drive off, then go inside to check in. Darren has gotten me a window seat, and I plan to kill time by sleeping as much as possible on the long flight—over ten hours, and that puts me into San Francisco in midafternoon.

I spend the flight enduring two movies, three meals, and two snacks but no cigarette. Instead, I get up periodically and walk the aisles. I drink coffee, pick at the meals, try to read, but keep seeing the same words over and over. I even skim through the articles in the portfolio again, thinking that this is what started it all.

When the films run, I get some headphones but doze through most of them, not even sure what I’m watching. Finally I give up altogether and fall asleep the rest of the way until I hear the pilot tell us we’re on the final approach to San Francisco. It seems to take forever to clear customs and passport control, but eventually I’m standing outside, breathing in San Francisco’s cool spring air and having my first cigarette in thirteen hours. Maybe I could quit.

Shaking off the jet lag, I go back into the terminal and call Coop from a pay phone. “Hey, Coop, you just lounging around eating doughnuts?”

“Evan? Hey, where are you?”

“San Francisco. Got a little business up here, then I’m heading back to Amsterdam.” I fill him in on Fletcher, the upcoming gig, and my beef with Ace. “He sold me out, Coop.”

“Are you sure? Doesn’t sound like Ace.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Just have to tie up some loose ends and let him know where we stand.”

There’s some silence on both ends as we think about it. I take a deep breath then.

“Coop, you have a number for Andie?”

He laughs. “I knew you were going to call one of them. Just didn’t know which one. My money was on Natalie. Frankly, I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.”

“Hang on a minute.” While he’s away, I tell myself this may be a dumb thing to do, but that’s never stopped me before, and it’s something else I have to do. When Coop comes back, he says, “Okay. Got a pager number, that’s all.”

Yes, I think, maybe she’ll be too busy to answer. But I write it down in my book. “Thanks, Coop. On the way back maybe I’ll stop through L.A.”

“I doubt it. Hey, don’t be too hard on Ace.”

“Bye, Coop.”

I hang up the phone and walk outside for another cigarette, watching cars and buses pulling up, dropping off, picking up, people waiting impatiently for rides, remembering when Andie and I arrived here, what now seems like ages ago. The FBI car and agents waiting for us, Andie driving us into San Francisco, the Travelodge, the unlocked door.

Then I go back in and dial Andie’s pager, punch in the numbers of the pay phone, and wait. I decide to give it fifteen minutes, but it takes only five for the phone to ring. I let it go. Two, three rings, then pick it up.

“Lawrence.” Strong, businesslike voice, probably annoyed at interrupting whatever she’s doing, wondering what somebody wants on a Monday afternoon.

“I thought all you agents were special?”

“Oh, my God—Evan?”

“Yes, how are you?”

“Where are you?”

“SFO. Just flew in from Amsterdam. I’ve got some business here, and—”

“Are you free? Can I see you? Oh, my God.”

“Well, sure, I guess that’s why I’m calling.”

“I live fairly close to the airport. I’ll pick you up. What airline?”

I tell her, and she says she can be there in thirty minutes. “Evan, I’m so glad you called. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“So am I,” I say, but she’s already gone.

While I’m waiting for Andie, I arrange for a rental car, to be picked up tomorrow morning. I take a map they give me and go outside, find a seat on one of the concrete benches, and study my route to Margo Highland’s home in Monte Rio, north of San Francisco. Maybe a two-hour drive, it looks like. I just hope Ace is not gone already.

In a little less than thirty minutes, Andie’s car skids to a stop. She jumps out, waves off one of the security guards, and ignores the “This is a loading zone only” announcement over the PA system.

“I can’t believe it,” she says, running over as I stand up. She gives me a big hug, and we both look at each other. She’s in jeans, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Her hair is a bit longer than I remember, and she looks great. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” She takes hold of my arm and walks me to her car. I throw my bag in the back as the parking security guy comes over to lecture Andie for leaving her car unattended. She digs in her purse and flashes him her FBI badge. “Back off.”

He stops in his tracks, glances at me, and puts his hands up. “Hey, no problem,” he says, and backs up several steps.

Andie looks at me and smiles. “Hey, it comes in handy sometimes.”

We get in the car, and Andie roars off.

***

On the drive from the airport, Andie keeps stealing glances at me, making small talk but avoiding any serious questions, as if she isn’t sure where to begin. I don’t either, and for a minute, I wonder if this isn’t a mistake. We try to overcome the awkwardness, but it’s going to take a while. I briefly go over the past few months and try to get her talking.

“So how long have you been in San Francisco?”

“Since right after L.A.,” Andie says. “I wanted a transfer and to get away from profiling for a while after…So this came up, and I jumped at it.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Bank robbery detail.”

At a stoplight, her elbow on the door, she rests her head on her hand and looks at me. “So how are you, really?”

“I’m okay. I talked to a shrink in New York, one of your people. She was good, talked me through a lot of things.”

Andie is nodding, still looking at me, when the light changes. The car behind us honks. She glares into the rearview mirror and stomps the accelerator.

“Andie, I haven’t called or talked to Natalie since I left.”

I watch her face relax. “I didn’t want to ask,” she says. “I was afraid to.”

“I know.”

She makes a sharp right up a steep incline, pulls into the driveway of a small apartment complex, and parks. “Are you hungry?”

“As long as it’s not on an airline tray. What I really want is a hot shower.”

“Okay. I’ll run out and get a few things and throw something together here. You can shower and take a nap.”

“I’m not going to argue with that.”

We go inside, and she shows me around. I recognize some of the things from her L.A. apartment—the books, prints, and the ever-present laptop on her desk. “Not much of an improvement, huh?” she says.

“I imagine you don’t spend much time here anyway.”

“More than you think. Well, towels are in the bathroom, then take your pick, bed or couch. I’ll be back soon. Make yourself at home.”

The minute she’s out the door, I strip off my clothes and stand under the hot water for ten minutes, feeling it wash the jet lag away, marveling at the varieties of shampoo Andie has. I get into some jeans and a T-shirt and stretch out on the couch. I don’t hear her come back, nor any of the noises she’s making in the kitchen, until I open my eyes. She comes over and sits on the arm of the couch, watching TV with the sound down.

I watch her for a few minutes, glad now that I called. “Hey, how long have I been out?”

She turns and smiles. “About an hour. Feel better?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I swing my legs off the couch and sit up, trying to get reoriented. “Now I’m hungry.”

She stands up and goes to the kitchen. “About five minutes,” she says.

I go in the bathroom, run cold water on my face, and start to feel human again. Andie is setting the table when I come out. “How about a beer?”

“Sure.” I watch her bustle around the kitchen and bring the food to the table.

“Nothing special,” she says. “Just some pasta and a salad.”

“Sounds good.” I sit down and take a long pull on the beer. Andie joins me, and we clink bottles.

“I can’t believe you’re sitting here,” she says.

“Neither can I. My mind is still in Amsterdam.”

“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?” She fixes me a healthy plate of pasta and points to a couple of bottles of salad dressing. She eats and listens; I eat and talk, telling her about Ace, the gig, and Chet Baker.

She dabs at her lips with a napkin and shakes her head. “You and dead jazz musicians. Just can’t resist, huh?”

“I’m beginning to wonder. I would never have gotten into this if it weren’t for Ace disappearing.”

“It’s going to be hard. You’re old friends.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So, how long are you staying?” Her eyes meet mine.