Fade to Blue (16 page)

“I know, it’s just, I’m going to be like a prisoner, and for how long?”

“I did insist on one thing. We’ve arranged for you to have an electric piano. It comes with headphones so nobody will hear. You can practice, even work on the movie music if you want. You’re going to be as comfortable as possible.”

I know she’s right but the prospect of isolation for an unknown amount of time is not appealing. Andie wraps her arms around me and kisses me. “It won’t be for long. I promise.”

The door opens and Wendell sticks his head in. “It’s time, Evan. We have to go.”

I leave Andie standing by Wendell’s desk, her eyes on me, wondering when I’ll see her again. I follow Cook out into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind me.

Chapter Sixteen

We take the elevator to the basement parking garage. I stand between Wendell Cook and Coop, my mind swirling with questions now. I want to go back upstairs and say something more to Andie but it’s too late. Another black SUV pulls up and two men in dark suits and muted ties get out, but leave the engine running.

The driver is about my size with sandy hair and deep blue eyes. The passenger is short and stocky with close-cropped dark hair. They both look me over as Wendell steps forward.

“Evan, this is Special Agent Kevin Hughes,” Cook says, nodding to the driver, “and Ron Ardis.” I shake hands with both men. “You’re in their care now, Evan. Everything goes through me, so if you have any questions, well…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Hughes and Ardis both nod earnestly, their special agent faces on. Ardis opens the rear door. When I start to get in, I see my bag is already on the seat. I feel Coop’s hand on my shoulder. “Hang in there, sport,” then he shuts the door and steps away. I sit back and look out through the dark-tinted windows, watching them all confer for a minute, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. They check their watches, then Cook steps back and nods.

Hughes gets behind the wheel and Ardis joins him in the passenger seat. We pull away and head up the ramp out of the garage into the bright sunshine. Ardis looks back at me over his shoulder. “You okay back there, Mr. Horne?”

“Sure. It’s Evan.”

“Enjoy the ride.”

Hughes merges with the Wilshire traffic, then makes a U-turn at the first light and goes back west toward the 405 Freeway. I catch Hughes’ eyes in the rearview mirror as he accelerates up the onramp. Ardis is checking the side mirror. He glances at Hughes. “Clear,” he says. Hughes nods and relaxes a little, leaning back, loosening his grip on the wheel as we merge with the freeway traffic.

Ardis turns back toward me. “Agent Cook said it’s okay for you to smoke. Just crack the window a bit.”

“Thanks.” I dig out my cigarettes and light one. I lower the window a few inches. “Do I get to know where we’re going?”

Ardis faces forward again now. “You’ll know when we get there.”

Hughes catches my eye in the mirror again. “Procedure.”

I finish my cigarette and lean back, my head against the seat, and wonder at the day’s events. I’d hardly had time to work up my anger at the script meeting before Andie carted me off to the Bureau offices. It settles over me now like a blanket tucked around too tightly, wrapping itself around my mind, inescapable, and beyond my control.

Grant Robbins and Ryan Stiles had both known I would never have agreed to being a part of a screenplay that would dredge up memories of one of the worst experiences of my life. But they had been clever, establishing trust, letting me in, then slipping in the binding contract, the payment, and now there was no way out. I wonder now what they’ll do when I don’t show up for the next meeting, what they’ll think when they can’t get me on the phone.

Ryan will try Andie. Robbins will use whatever contacts he has, and I’m guessing there are many. I hadn’t been able to talk to Andie about it, but she’ll either be unavailable or, if pressed, tell him she doesn’t know where I am. He and Robbins will both conclude I’m bailing on the whole project and look for an alternative, a way to get me back in the fold. And how long will I be unavailable?

I open my eyes as I feel the car slow when we merge onto the Ventura Freeway heading west. Somewhere in the San Fernando Valley or farther. Palmdale? Barstow? Farther still? Las Vegas? Not if that’s where Gillian was spotted. They wouldn’t take me closer would they? Unless—I don’t want to finish that thought.

The car speeds up again as the traffic thins and we pass though Van Nuys, Encino, Reseda, Woodland Hills. Eventually, we exit just beyond Agoura Hills and come to a collection of gas stations, a strip mall, fast-food restaurants, and finally, a good-sized Business Suite Hotel perched on a hillside overlooking the freeway.

Hughes pulls into the underground parking garage and parks near an elevator. “Here we are,” he says. “Let’s go.”

We all get out and ride up to the top floor. Ardis produces a key card, opens the door, and goes inside. I feel Hughes’ hand on my arm. We wait for Ardis to come back. “Clear,” he says, then we go in and Hughes shuts and locks the door.

It’s well appointed with a sitting room, a flat screen television, small couch, and a couple of chairs and a table. There’s a mini-fridge and a coffee machine on a table. A sliding glass door leads to a tiny balcony. Ardis quickly draws the drapes closed. Through connecting shuttered doors, I can see a bed and the bathroom. I stand waiting as they check out everything. They both come back and motion me toward the table.

“Have a seat,” Ardis says. “Time for the rules.” He takes off his jacket and loosens his tie. Hughes does the same. “Okay, one of us will be with you at all times. We’ll do rotating shifts. As per instructions from Director Cook, your needs will be reasonably met. The telephone has been removed so don’t bother looking for it. The hotel has a health club if you feel like some exercise, and there’s a pool as well, but you don’t go to either alone.”

He takes out a sheet of paper and glances at it. His checklist. “There’s a restaurant here for all meals, or we can order in the room.” He looks up at me. “You are not to answer or open the door for any reason. There’s a big parking lot out back so you can get some air, take a walk, but again, one of us will be with you.” He glances at Hughes then back to me. “Any questions?”

“Sounds like fun. How did you two get so lucky?

“Just our turn,” Ardis says.

“Oh, there is one thing. Cook promised me a piano.”

“Coming tomorrow. Kevin will bring it back when we change shifts.”

I know there are other things I want to know, but for now they can wait.

“Okay, that’s it for now,” Ardis says. “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

I smile at the irony and go in the bedroom. I toss my bag on the bed and take out the copy of the script, the couple of changes of clothes, and put my shaving things in the bathroom. I may have to go shopping. There’s a pad and pen on the table near the bed. I start to make a list of things I want. There’s a clock radio on the nightstand. I turn it on and get the jazz station going while I write. I can hear Ardis and Hughes talking quietly in the sitting room, then the door closes.

Ardis sticks his head in. “I’ve got the first shift. Kevin will be back in the morning. You need anything right now?”

“No, just thinking of a few things.”

Ardis glances at his watch. “We’ll go eat about six. That okay with you?”

“Sure. I’m going to stretch out for awhile.”

Ardis goes out and pulls the shutter doors closed. In a couple of minutes, I can hear the television. I finish my list and lie down, thinking how exciting it’s going to be to have dinner.

When I open my eyes, I glance at the clock. I’ve been asleep for almost an hour. I get up and go in the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and wander into the sitting room. Ardis is lounging in a chair, the TV, sound low, tuned to CNN.

I sit down in another chair and light a cigarette. “I can go out on the balcony if this bothers you,” I say.

“No, it’s okay. Too much exposure out there.”

“Aren’t we overdoing it a little?” I can’t believe anybody could possibly know where we are.

Ardis shrugs. “Maybe, but we have our orders.”

We watch the news for awhile until the stories start repeating. “Hungry?”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

Ardis puts on his jacket and adjusts his gun. We ride the elevator down to the lobby and go into the restaurant. A hostess seats us, but not before Ardis chooses a table facing the entrance. The other diners appear to be business types, with a sprinkling of women at some of the tables. Ardis orders a club sandwich and iced tea. I opt for a salad and fish and chips.

I watch Ardis, his eyes all over the room for a couple of minutes till he’s satisfied there’s no one posing a threat. He relaxes a little and leans back. “So, what’s it like living with an agent?”

“Do you know Andie Lawrence?”

“Not really. We’ve never worked together, but I’ve heard good things about her. I think she’s a favorite of Wendell Cook.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

“No, not at all,” Ardis says quickly.

I smile. “I’m just messing with you. Look, would it be violating any Bureau rules if you call me Evan and I call you Ron?”

“No, I guess not. It’s just kind of weird, this assignment I mean.”

“Have you done this before?”

Ardis nods as the waitress brings my salad and refills our water glasses. “Couple of times babysitting a witness for trial, but first time I’ve been assigned to protect one of the good guys.”

I look up. “What do you mean?”

“You have to admit it’s different. You were stalked by a serial killer, you went undercover and helped bring her down. Plus, you’re not a cop or an agent. You’re a jazz pianist.”

“Yeah, there’s that.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“This may be a stupid question, but are you famous?”

I smile. “Hardly.”

Ardis seems a bit flustered. “I’m not much of a jazz fan, so you could be and I wouldn’t know. My girlfriend is though,” he adds quickly. “She took me to a jazz club recently. I kind of liked it.”

I finish my salad. “Who was playing?”

Ardis looks a way for a moment, trying to remember. He snaps his fingers. “Jarrett. Keith Jarrett.”

“Your girlfriend has good taste. He’s one of the best and he is famous, at least in the jazz world.”

The waitress brings our order then and we both dig in. “So why are you?”

“What?”

“A jazz pianist.”

“Why are you an FBI agent?”

Ardis smiles. “I love it. Can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“There you go.”

We finish dinner and coffee then Ardis calls for the check and signs for it. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” We get up and head for the exit. “How about that walk in the parking lot. I’d like to get some air.”

We go down a corridor that leads off the lobby to an outside exit door. Ardis opens it and steps outside, scanning the lot, half-filled with parked cars. “Okay,” he says.

It’s dark now. I can see the lights from the freeway and the surrounding area. I light a cigarette and walk the perimeter a couple of times with Ardis at my side. It feels good to be outside and stretch my legs. Halfway around the second lap, Ardis’ cell phone rings. He puts up his hand for me to stop as he answers.

He listens, makes a couple of monosyllabic answers, ending with, “Right, no problems.” He closes the phone and looks at me. “Just checking in.”

We walk back toward exit the door. I watch Ardis constantly scanning the parking lot. He seems anxious to get back inside, but I’m in no hurry. It’s only been one afternoon and evening, but already I’m feeling restless and not at all eager to go back to the room.

Ardis tries the handle but it’s locked. There’s a small sign that says, locked after 8 p.m.
PLEASE USE ROOM CARD
. Ardis swipes the key card and we go inside, through the lobby, and take the elevator back up to the room. Just as he did when we arrived, Ardis opens the door and goes in first, leaving me in the hallway, then motions me in. He hangs the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on the outside handle, shuts the door, turns the lock, and adds the chain.

“Okay,” he says, taking off his coat. “Let’s see what’s on TV.”

***

I spend over an hour going over my copy of the screenplay, trying to absorb my apprehension at reliving on paper an experience I’ve been trying to forget. There are plenty of scenes with Ryan’s character, Chase Hunter—is that a name for a jazz pianist?—playing in a club, a recording studio, even a big finale concert. The downside is the emphasis on Chase’s suddenly developing detective skills. They even have him carrying a gun by the last act, and involved in a shootout with the bad guy.

I stare at the pages until the type blurs when I hear Ardis call out.

“Hey, come look at this!” I go into the sitting room and find Ardis on his feet, staring at the TV.

It’s the entertainment segment of a cable news program. A young blonde with perfect hair, perfect face, and perfect smile looks into the camera.

“…in what’s been shrouded in secrecy, our sources have confirmed that Ryan Stiles’ new project is a gritty mystery with Stiles portraying a jazz pianist investigating the murder of his singer girlfriend’s brother. The role marks a departure for the action hero and promises a new serious side of this young star.” She tosses it back to the male anchor. Both of them framed now.

“Sounds exciting,” he says, “but can Ryan Stiles really play the piano?”

“Not to worry, Bob. To add to the authenticity, a real jazz pianist, Evan Horne, was hired to tutor Stiles. Horne spent weeks at the star’s Malibu estate. Horne will also handle the music score chores. In other news, pop singer Prince will…”

“You are famous,” Ardis says. He clicks off the TV and looks at me. “Not good,” he says. “Not good. I better check in.” He opens his phone and punches in some numbers. “This is Special Agent Ardis. I need Wendell Cook.”

I sink down on the couch, listening to Ardis’ voice fades as he goes out on the balcony. No, not good at all. This little gem has Grant Robbins prints all over it. He wants me out there publicly, but has no idea what he’s done. The news will be picked up by all the media and the internet by morning. All Gillian will have to do is pick up a paper, a magazine, watch the news, or turn on a computer. It doesn’t matter where she is.

Gillian Payne now knows how to track me down.