Free Looking for Chet Baker by Bill Moody Page A

sit on a wooden bench, talking quietly. One seems to be comforting the other. The small reception desk is manned by a young officer in a light blue shirt with gold epaulets on the shoulders and dark blue pants, looking through some papers. He glances up when I approach the desk.
    “Ah, excuse me. I’d like to talk to someone.”
    He looks like he’s not quite sure how to respond. “Yes?”
    “Yes. It’s about my friend. I think he is missing. Well, I don’t know if he’s missing, but—”
    “A moment, please.” He picks up the phone and talks briefly in Dutch with someone, then hangs up. “I’m sorry, my English is not so good. Wait, please. Someone is coming.”
    “Thank you.” A couple of minutes later another, older officer comes out, looks at me. He’s short, stocky, looks to be late fifties, and dressed in civilian clothes—dark pants, white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and a tie loosened at the neck.
    “Yes, can I help you? I’m Inspector Dekker.”
    “It’s about my friend. He was staying at the Prins Hendrik Hotel.” I can see he’s trying to figure out what I want, whether I’m just a nuisance or really have a problem. “Look, can we go somewhere and talk?”
    Dekker looks around, then nods. “Yes, of course. Come this way, please.” I follow him down a corridor to an office not much bigger than a closet. Beyond his office, I can see the corridor opening onto a larger room with several uniformed policemen. “Sit down, please,” Dekker says.
    There’s barely room for Dekker’s desk and the chair I sit down in opposite him. His desk is cluttered with papers and files that nearly hide a telephone. Peeking out from behind a stack of heavy binders is a framed photo of a woman and a teenage boy. I look at Dekker and wonder where to start, but he beats me to it. “May I see some identification, please? Your passport.”
    “Oh, sure.” I take out my passport and show it to him. He looks it over and glances at me a time or two.
    “And why are you in Amsterdam? Tourist?”
    “No, I’m a musician. I’m playing at the Bimhuis.” I think I catch a slight smile, but I’m not sure. “This isn’t about me, it’s about my friend.”
    “Yes, I understand. Your friend is in trouble? What is his name, please?”
    “Charles Buffington.” I spell it out for him, and he writes it down. “Well, I don’t know if he’s in trouble or not.” I explain my concerns about Ace having checked out of the hotel without leaving a message for me. He listens patiently, letting me get it all out before asking any further questions. “So, that’s it. I just wondered if the police can check on it.”
    He nods and glances at my passport again before handing it back. “Mr…Horne, is that how you pronounce it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Your friend is a tourist, yes?”
    “Yes. Well, he’s doing some research here. About the musician who died in Amsterdam some years ago. Chet Baker.” There’s no recognition of the name in Dekker’s face.
    “Do you have some reason to believe something has happened to your friend?”
    “Well, no, I mean I don’t know. I’m just concerned.”
    “I understand. But perhaps your friend just left.” He holds his hands up and shrugs.
    “Well, I know that’s possible, but it doesn’t seem very like him to do something like that.” I wonder for a moment if I should tell him about the portfolio, but there’s nothing to wonder about. Of course I should, but I decide not to for now.
    He glances at his watch. He’s obviously got more important things to do than listen to me. “Since he did leave the hotel, and he owes no money and left no message, I don’t see what we can do. I could perhaps suggest the American consulate. Unless your friend is officially missing, I’m afraid there’s nothing much we could do for you. I’m sorry.”
    “What do you mean, officially missing?”
    “I mean a report filed officially, but I suggest you exhaust other possibilities