She looks up, holds up one finger, talks for a minute or so, then hangs up.
“Thanks for your time,” I say. “Just one more thing. Can I get copies of these two articles?”
“Of course.” She takes them from me and goes off to another room. She comes back in a few minutes and hands me the copies. “I’ll refile these,” she says. “I hope you found what you were looking for.”
“We’ll see,” I say. “I don’t suppose I could borrow that tape, check it out for a couple of days?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “That is not permitted. You can see it anytime, but we don’t let material out of the building.”
“I understand. Well, thanks, Helen. You’ve been very helpful.” I start for the door, then turn back. “You can do me one last favor.”
“Yes?”
“If my friend comes back, tell him I was here.”
***
I walk back to the hotel, replaying those film images in my mind. The interview with the detective sticks out the most. He seemed emphatic that Chet Baker’s death was an accident, a fall from the window, possibly under the influence of drugs. Given Chet’s history, that seems more than possible. But Chet thinking he could fly? I don’t think so. Chet could fly, but only with a trumpet to his lips.
At the hotel I pause for a moment, looking again at the sculpture. Only you know for sure, Chet. And you’re not talking. When I go inside, two men at the front desk turn toward me. One is the policeman I talked to at the station, Inspector Dekker. “Ah, Mr. Horne,” he says. “We were just looking for you.”
I notice then that the other man is carrying a plastic bag. “Yes. Anything wrong?”
“This is Sergeant Vledder.” He nods toward the other man. “I’m not sure.” He pauses and looks around. “Perhaps we could go to your room and talk?”
“Yes, sure.” I don’t like the sound of this, and I’m already starting to regret my visit to the police station. As we ride up in the elevator to my room, I keep eyeing the bag in the other policeman’s hand. I unlock my door and invite them in. The maid has already done the room. I glance at the closet, thinking about Ace’s portfolio in there.
“So what’s this about?”
Dekker motions to Vledder for the bag, opens it, and pulls out a dark brown suede jacket. “I wonder if you recognize this or have seen it before.” He holds it up. It’s large, and I know immediately it could fit Ace. I try to picture it on him. “Where did you find it?”
“You do recognize it.” He watches me closely. “It could be your friend’s jacket?”
“Well, I’m not sure. It seems to be the right size. He’s a big man.”
“This was found in one of the coffeehouses, in a booth. It was turned in to the proprietor by a customer, and he called the police.”
“What makes you think it’s my friend’s?” But even as I say it, I know it’s Ace’s jacket.
“These.” He reaches into the inside pocket of the coat and takes out several business cards, with a rubber band around them. He shows me one. It has the red University of Nevada logo, “Charles Buffington, Ph.D., Department of English,” and Ace’s office number.
I sit down on the bed and look at the card, stalling, not wanting to consider what this might mean. “Isn’t it unusual for this to happen? Why was it turned in?”
“It’s hard to say. The coat is obviously an expensive one. The owner is possibly looking for a reward. Or perhaps he is just being honest. It does happen occasionally. Even in Amsterdam.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s quite all right. You do recognize the business cards.”
“Yes, they are my friend’s.” I look at the coat and cards again. “Any ideas?”
“No, I’m afraid not, except—” He glances at his partner. “It was found at one of the brown houses, where marijuana may be legally consumed. Is it possible your friend perhaps indulged?”
I laugh. “Ace? No, I don’t think so. Two glasses of wine is
“Thanks for your time,” I say. “Just one more thing. Can I get copies of these two articles?”
“Of course.” She takes them from me and goes off to another room. She comes back in a few minutes and hands me the copies. “I’ll refile these,” she says. “I hope you found what you were looking for.”
“We’ll see,” I say. “I don’t suppose I could borrow that tape, check it out for a couple of days?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “That is not permitted. You can see it anytime, but we don’t let material out of the building.”
“I understand. Well, thanks, Helen. You’ve been very helpful.” I start for the door, then turn back. “You can do me one last favor.”
“Yes?”
“If my friend comes back, tell him I was here.”
***
I walk back to the hotel, replaying those film images in my mind. The interview with the detective sticks out the most. He seemed emphatic that Chet Baker’s death was an accident, a fall from the window, possibly under the influence of drugs. Given Chet’s history, that seems more than possible. But Chet thinking he could fly? I don’t think so. Chet could fly, but only with a trumpet to his lips.
At the hotel I pause for a moment, looking again at the sculpture. Only you know for sure, Chet. And you’re not talking. When I go inside, two men at the front desk turn toward me. One is the policeman I talked to at the station, Inspector Dekker. “Ah, Mr. Horne,” he says. “We were just looking for you.”
I notice then that the other man is carrying a plastic bag. “Yes. Anything wrong?”
“This is Sergeant Vledder.” He nods toward the other man. “I’m not sure.” He pauses and looks around. “Perhaps we could go to your room and talk?”
“Yes, sure.” I don’t like the sound of this, and I’m already starting to regret my visit to the police station. As we ride up in the elevator to my room, I keep eyeing the bag in the other policeman’s hand. I unlock my door and invite them in. The maid has already done the room. I glance at the closet, thinking about Ace’s portfolio in there.
“So what’s this about?”
Dekker motions to Vledder for the bag, opens it, and pulls out a dark brown suede jacket. “I wonder if you recognize this or have seen it before.” He holds it up. It’s large, and I know immediately it could fit Ace. I try to picture it on him. “Where did you find it?”
“You do recognize it.” He watches me closely. “It could be your friend’s jacket?”
“Well, I’m not sure. It seems to be the right size. He’s a big man.”
“This was found in one of the coffeehouses, in a booth. It was turned in to the proprietor by a customer, and he called the police.”
“What makes you think it’s my friend’s?” But even as I say it, I know it’s Ace’s jacket.
“These.” He reaches into the inside pocket of the coat and takes out several business cards, with a rubber band around them. He shows me one. It has the red University of Nevada logo, “Charles Buffington, Ph.D., Department of English,” and Ace’s office number.
I sit down on the bed and look at the card, stalling, not wanting to consider what this might mean. “Isn’t it unusual for this to happen? Why was it turned in?”
“It’s hard to say. The coat is obviously an expensive one. The owner is possibly looking for a reward. Or perhaps he is just being honest. It does happen occasionally. Even in Amsterdam.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s quite all right. You do recognize the business cards.”
“Yes, they are my friend’s.” I look at the coat and cards again. “Any ideas?”
“No, I’m afraid not, except—” He glances at his partner. “It was found at one of the brown houses, where marijuana may be legally consumed. Is it possible your friend perhaps indulged?”
I laugh. “Ace? No, I don’t think so. Two glasses of wine is
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