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you know her?”
    “I don’t, but she worked for Cal and that’s good enough for me.”
    “I suppose,” Andie says but not very convincingly.
    “Andie, I found something in the house.” I tell her about the note and photo, how it was taped to the drawer. “Wrap your FBI mind around that.”
    There’s a few moments of silence. “Jesus, I don’t know. That’s weird.”
    “When you guys were checking out Cal, was there anything about him being married, having a child.”
    More silence. “I don’t remember,” Andie says. “That was awhile ago. I’ve seen so many case files since then.”
    “Well could you check? There has to be a reason for him to have left this for me.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. I don’t think we dug that deep. We were just kind of vetting your friends.” I sigh. I didn’t like it then and I don’t now. It was a subject neither of us had talked about.
    I look through the window and see the pizza guy waving to me. “I gotta go, Andie. My pizza is ready. I’ll call you but let me know if you come up with something, okay.”
    “I will but who knows, Evan, it may mean nothing.”
    “You don’t really believe that.”
    “No, I guess not. Call me. I love you.”
    I walk back up the hill thinking about the note, the photo, and wondering most of all about one thing.
    Who had been standing just out of the frame when that photo was taken?

Chapter Three
    I get Coop to meet me at a small noisy diner in Santa Monica. It’s close to police headquarters, the court house, and a favorite of cops. When I arrive Coop is already in a booth, reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee in front of him. There are several uniformed cops at the counter, others in plain clothes in booths, and a few suits who I guess to be assistant district attorneys. Public defenders probably have their own hangout.
    Coop looks up as I approach the table. “Jesus, what happened to you?” I’d hardly slept the night before and I guess it shows. Dana and I had sat up talking about Cal till very late, and after the pizza and a few drinks, she got me to open up about my accident that had prevented me from playing, and to recount my previous stints as a reluctant detective. I hadn’t talked as much to anyone since my sessions with the FBI psychologist after the Gillian Payne case. Not even to Andie. Dana is a good listener.
    The memories came flooding back. Lying on the coast highway, my wrist shattered, the rehab, starting to play again, trying not to let things slip away. Starting over in a shopping mall in Las Vegas and helping my friend Ace Buffington dig into the past about Wardell Gray’s murder in 1955. The only good thing to come out of that was meeting Natalie Beamer, but that had gone bad too eventually.
    Then, just when things seemed to be going my way, getting a record contract, it was Danny Cooper who wanted my help. I became a conduit between the FBI and a deranged woman bent on some insane revenge for her brother’s failures.
    Andie Lawrence came out of that one, but Natalie was gone. Then escaping to Europe, playing again only to be side tracked by Ace’s disappearance in Amsterdam and following in the ghostly footsteps of Chet Baker and sadly, discovering Ace was not quite who I thought he was. Do you really ever know anybody?
    And here I am, many miles and murders further, coming home to find the one person, with the exception of Danny Cooper, I had some kind of real connection with, dead and gone but leaving me yet another mystery to solve.
    I don’t know how long I went on but when I had looked up at Dana, all she said was, “Well, your life certainly hasn’t been boring.” The rehash had left me edgy and restless. I found myself angry at the note and photo Cal had left. Angry at Cal, for dying, angry for knowing me well enough that I’d have to pursue this wherever it took me.
    Coop grins at me as I slide in opposite him. “You and Dana get acquainted?”
    “Oh fuck off, Coop. She’s a