NATALIE IS GONE when I wake up , but she's left me a note.
"Coop called, wants you to meet him at ten. Call you later," it
says. She's marked the note with a string of question marks. I
check my watch, grab a glass of juice, and jump in the shower.
When I get to Coop's favorite coffee shop, he's sporting dark
stubble and bags under his eyes and working on a second or third
cup of coffee in a back booth. His black Metro Team jacket is
wrinkled. "Lt. Dan Cooper" is embroidered on the front. His
gun pokes out from his belt holster.
"Wow, you look wonderful," I say, sliding into the booth.
"Don't start. I've had about three hours' sleep."
"I can tell." I signal the waitress for some more coffee. "So
what's up?"
Coop takes a breath and watches me add cream and sugar to
my coffee. "I need a favor from you," he says quietly.
"Sure, how could I refuse the Santa Monica Police? Hey, I
didn't tell you, I may be recording soon. Guy approached me the
other night at the Bakery." I watch Coop for a moment, waiting
for his reaction, but there's none. "Coop? Try to control your
enthusiasm." I can hardly get his attention.
"What? Oh, sorry, it's just this Rodman thing last night." He
pushes his cu  aside. "Tell me about this Bird guy- Charlie
Parker was his name?"
"Yeah, I told you, Bird was a nickname. What's going on,
Coop?"
"In a minute. The writing on the mirror. What does it mean
again?"
I shrug. "I don't know if it means anything. To a lot of people, 
Parker was an idol. That Bird Lives phrase started cropping
u after he died. People didn't want to believe he was gone,
I guess. That was a little before my time. Yours too, if you
remember."
Coop nods, and waves off the waitress approaching with a
pot of coffee. "Do you think there's any connection between him
and Ty Rodman?"
"Rodman wasn't even born when Bird died. Musically? No
way. Bird was a pioneer in bebop . He and Dizzy and Monk
changed the whole jazz scene. Rodman was a commercial success,
but I wouldn't call him a major jazz talent, and don't get me
started on that. The only thing Ty Rodman and Charlie Parker
had in common was that they both played the same instrument."
"What then?"
"The date, March twelfth. That was the day Bird died in
1955."
"Shit," Coop says. He takes out a notebook and en, flips
through some ages, writes something down, then looks up  at
me again. "What about January fifth or January twenty first?"
This time I stop the waitress by holding up my cu . She fills
it, and to Coop's annoyance, I order some breakfast.
I add cream and sugar and think for a moment. "No, those
dates don't ring a bell with me. Why?"
Coop looks around as if he's worried about somebody listening. 
"This doesn't go anywhere, okay?"
"Sure. What is it?" I've never seen Coop quite like this. Usually 
nothing flusters him. He takes his job very seriously, but his
offbeat sense of humor is his anchor. It's not there now.
Coop flips through his notebook again. "On January fifth, in
New York, a guitarist was found dead in his apartment. The
neighbors called the police because the music was laying so loud
that  pounding on the door didn't do any good. The CD layer
was on re eat, laying"- he checks his notes again- "something
called, 'Better Git It in Your Soul.' " He looks up from his note
book and frowns. "What kind of song title is that?"
"Mingus."
"What?"
"Charles Mingus, bassist."
"And?"
I shrug. "He worked with Bird, but he had his own band.
Major composer. I don't know when he died. Maybe ten years
ago or more. What's this all about?"

Coop ignores my question and presses on. "On January
twenty first, a piano layer was found dead in his car. Thanks to
an anonymous nine one one call, the tape layer was still running. 
Cassette called Birth o the Cool."
"Miles Davis, the trumpeter." I think for a moment. "Maybe
the piano layer just dug Miles."
Coop closes the notebook and frowns at me. "Maybe, but I
need to know for sure. There were no prints on the case or the
tape." He leans back in the booth and rubs a hand over his face,
through his short cropped hair.
"What's all this got to do with Ty Rodman?" The waitress
brings my breakfast, and I start in on French toast and bacon.
Coop watches me drench the toast with syrup. "How do you
do that? You never gain a pound."
"I burn it up  laying piano. So what about Rodman?"
"That's what we want to know." He puts his notebook away.
"C'mon, hurry up . I can't tell you anymore, but I want you to
look around Rodman's dressing room again."
"For what?"
"I won't know until you find it."

ON THE RIDE to Santa Monica Civic, Coop is silent, intent
on driving, except for one question. "Can you find out about
these dates, the ones I mentioned?"
"Yeah, I guess. I'll call Ace, but why?"
Coop doesn't answer, which means he'll tell me when he's
ready. He pulls into the parking lot near the stage door, flashes
his badge at a security guard, and we go inside.
There's some banging and voices coming from the stage
area, probably a crew setting up for the next show. In Rodman's
dressing room the blood stains have dried on the carpet, and the
mirror has been cleaned. Coop shuts the door behind him and
leans against it. "Take a look around, a careful look."
I stand in the middle of the room. "What am I looking for?"
"I don't know, maybe you'll see something we missed."
I've been in hundreds of dressing rooms, but this is different.
It feels creepy being here when less than twenty four hours ago,
Ty Rodman was lying dead on the floor. I s end fifteen minutes
going over every square inch of the room, but I don't see anything
out of the ordinary. Except for the saxophone case lying open on
the countertop, everything of Rodman's is gone, including his
smashed horn
Coop answers my questioning look. "Oh yeah, I'm supposed
to pick that up . Couldn't get the horn back in the case."
There's nothing there either. The interior of the hard fiber case is 
lined with a blue, velvetlike material that the alto
saxophone would normally be nestled in. It looks like Rodman
has taken it out to lay, but no more notes will come out of his
horn.
I turn back to Coop. "Can I touch the case?"
"Yeah, no prints on that."
I unsnap the inside compartment. There's a small package of
Rico No. 6 saxophone reeds. I pick it up , but something else catches
my eye. It's wedged in the corner. I reach in and pull it out.
"What have you got?" Coop moves closer to see what I have
in my hand. It's white, about four inches long. Coop elbows me
aside and carefully picks it up by the edge. He holds it up , and we
both look at it for a moment.
"Bird feather," I say.
COOP  DR O P S  ME off back at the coffee shop to get my car.
I get out and lean in the window. Coop is frowning at the
feather, now tucked in a plastic bag on the dashboard. "You
know, that might have just been Rodman's good luck charm
or something."
Coop gives me a look. "Sure. You don't talk to anybody
about this, understand."
I put up my hands in surrender. "Whatever you say."
"I'm serious," Coop says.
"I can tell."
"Good. Check out those dates for me as soon as you can."
Then he's gone.
I drive back to my lace, stopping only to pick up a newspaper. I scan 
the story on Rodman's murder and call Ace Buffington
in Las Vegas. This is something I want out of the way as soon as
possible. I get Ace's voice mail, leave a message.
While I wait for him to call back, I read the story carefully.
There's obviously nothing about a feather, since I just found it,
but neither the damage to Rodman's horn nor the writing on the
mirror is mentioned either. Coop must have seen to that. There's
a publicity photo of Rodman, dressed in a white suit, holding his
horn in front of him, smiling at the camera, and a sidebar listing
his records. Six CDs, all gold.
Ace calls back in half an hour, s uttering and muttering
about the UNLV English Department.
"One meeting after another," he says. "They all think literary criticism 
stopped in 1950, and the chair s ends more time in
a bar than his office. Now what can I do for you? Are you coming
to Las Vegas?"
"Not a chance. You and that town are trouble for me, but
you can do me a favor for a change."
"Sure. I bet it's about Ty Rodman's murder."
"How'd you know?"
"It's all over the papers. He was scheduled to do a concert here 
next month, not that I'd go. Smooth jazz- isn't that what
they call it now?- is not my thing."
"Nor mine. Listen, get out your jazz reference books and see
if you can find anything significant about these dates: January
fifth and January twenty first. Oh yeah, and March twelfth."
"That was yesterday," Ace says.
"Boy, you Ph.D.s don't miss a thing, do you?"
"Okay, smart guy. I'll get right on this and call you back."
"Thanks, Ace. Just leave a message if I'm not here."
"Evan, you're not getting involved in anything, are you?"
"Not if I can help it."