Free Looking for Chet Baker by Bill Moody Page B

first.”
    I nod and think for a minute. Do I really want to do that? File a missing person’s report? He’s right, of course. Ace could have just checked out and left. Were it not for the portfolio he left—no, hid—I’d have no problem with that beyond thinking it was kind of unusual. But it’s the portfolio that nags at me.
    “All right. Well, thank you for your time. There are a couple of things I can check on.”
    He stands up. “Not at all. Please let me know the results of your investigation.”
    “My investigation?”
    He does smile now. “The wrong word, perhaps. Pardon me.”
    “Oh, okay.” I stand up to go. “There is one thing. The musician I mentioned that died here several years ago. Chet Baker. Do you know if the detective in charge of that case is still working here?”
    “He died here in Amsterdam? When?”
    “Nineteen-eighty-eight, I believe. He fell from a hotel window. At least, I think he did.”
    He frowns for a moment. “Ah, the Prins Hendrik. The one with the—” He pauses for a moment, searching for the right word. “The memorial sculpture on the front of the hotel, yes?”
    “Yes, that’s the one.”
    “I was not here then, but I heard about it. The officer who investigated that case has retired now.”
    “Oh. Do you know if he’s still in Amsterdam?”
    “Yes, I believe so…but I would have to…do you wish to talk with him?”
    “Well, I don’t know. I thought perhaps my friend might have contacted him.”
    “Oh, yes, I see. I will make some inquiries. Where can I reach you?”
    “I’m at the Prins Hendrik also.”
    “Very well. I shall leave a message, then, if I find out anything.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Mr. Horne.” He gives me a thoughtful look.
    “Yes?”
    He seems to consider, measures his words carefully. “There’s a difference between disappearing and being missing. And, please, take no offense. You and your friend perhaps had a disagreement? Sometimes people simply don’t want to be found.” He shows me to the door. “Even friends do strange things at times.”
    “Yes, I guess they do.”
    I walk out past the desk again and stand on the front steps for a moment. Maybe Dekker was right. I guess you could call what happened in London a disagreement. Maybe Ace doesn’t want to be found—but when does not wanting to be found change to officially missing?
    ***
    I find the American Express office on the Rokin Damrak, not far from the Central Station, opposite the church, amid some department stores and other travel offices. I want to change some money, and I can make a call from there. I push through the glass doors and follow the signs upstairs. There’s a bank of kiosks to change money, and two pay phone booths on one wall. Not much business this morning. Two students with backpacks are cashing traveler’s checks, and a family of four is studying a map and talking about sight-seeing.
    I change some money at one of the windows and ask about the phones. “I need to call the States. Can I use one of those phones and charge the call to my card?”
    “Yes.” The teller indicates the glass-enclosed booths without looking up.
    I get in the booth and close the accordion door. There are signs in several languages for phone/credit card use. I start with international information for the number of UNLV in Las Vegas and copy the number down on my money change receipt. I take a deep breath and dial the number after inserting my card in the slot.
    “University of Nevada, Las Vegas.”
    “Yes, can you connect me with the English Department, please?”
    “One moment.” I listen to the hums and clicks, then another voice.
    “English department,” a female voice says. “How can I help you?”
    “Yes, can I speak to Professor Buffington, please?”
    “Professor Buffington is on sabbatical. He won’t be returning until next semester.”
    “Oh right, he did mention that. I’m a friend of his. Do you know where I could contact him?”
    “No, I’m sorry,