by Bill Bernico
“Come in, Matt,” he said. “Take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
I sat across from him and watched as he sorted through the reports and evidence in front of him. After a minute or so he picked up a photo on his desk and shoved it toward me.
“This is the photo the Sanford girl had on her when she held up Mad Dog’s,” he said. “We’d like to talk to him but no one seems to know where he is.” He let it hang there for a moment and watched for my reaction.
“Sanford?” I said.
“Sheila Sanford,” he said. “Twenty-two, blonde, blue, five-four and a list of priors going back to juvenile court.
“Yeah?” I said.
Dan’s eyebrows rose and his lips pursed. “Thought you could use the work,” he said. “Think you can find him?”
“You’re askin’ me for help?” I said. “It’s not like you.”
“Forget it,” Dan said, snatching the photo out of my fingers and throwing it back down on his desk.
I smiled. It felt good to know I was needed, and having Dan as much as admit it was he who needed me made it an even sweeter moment to savor.
“Don’t look so smug,” Hollister said. “We wouldn’t be using you at all, except there’s a shortage of manpower around here since the budget cuts. You want the work or don’t you? There’s plenty of other gumshoes in town.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but none of them was there that night. Guess that leaves me.” I picked up the photo and shot one more smile at Dan just for good measure. “What you got so far?”
“Not a thing,” Dan said. “Just that photo. Nothing else.”
I tucked the picture in my inside pocket and stood. “Will noon be soon enough?” I said sarcastically.
“You find him by noon and I’ll eat your hat,” Dan said.
I snapped the hat off my head and looked at it. “You can start with the sweat band.”
“Get outta here, Cooper.”
I plopped the gray porkpie on the back of my head and left.
The photo didn’t offer much information about the man in it. He looked to be in his early twenties with dark hair and light eyes. His face was so plain his own mother couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. Behind him in the photo I could just make out the logo of a local gasoline company on a sign. It wasn’t much, but it was someplace to start. Someone at Magnum Petroleum might know the identity of the man in the photo.
I pulled up to the curb at Santa Monica and Vine. The phone book dangled from a cable beneath the phone. From the yellow pages I found that there were seven service stations with the Magnum name. I turned around to look up and down the street. No cops in sight. I ripped the yellow page from the phone book, folded it and tucked it in my pocket. No sense getting pinched before I started.
I decided to check the stations closest to the crime scene and work my way outward. The first station was located on the corner of Western and Santa Monica, just a few blocks from the phone booth. I pulled in beneath the canopy over the air hose as the bell sounded my arrival. A kid in a tan uniform came out to greet me. He had an orange rag hanging out of his back pocket. He was wiping his hands on another rag as he approached.
“Hi, Lenny,” I said as he approached.
He looked puzzled. “How did you know my…” and stopped to glance down at the nametag stitched on his pocket. “Clever. Fill ‘er up?”
I got out of my Olds and produced the photo of the man that was found on Sheila Sanford’s body. “Know this guy?” I said.
Lenny took the photo and studied it. His eyes squinted this way and that while his tongue flicked around just outside of his lips. He pushed it back at me. “Nope, can’t say that I do.”
I gave the photo back to him again. “Take another look, Lenny. See the Magnum sign in the background?”
Lenny looked again. “Yeah?”
“Know which station that might be?” I said.
He took another look, this time scrutinizing it for details. “Looks like it could be the one over on Sunset, a block or so this side of LaBrea.”
I took the photo away from Lenny and got back into my car. “Thanks, Lenny,” I said as the air bell announced my departure.
The station on Sunset was a carbon copy of the one I’d just left. The layout was the same and the kid who greeted me had the same tan uniform with his name on his shirt pocket. Lenny could learn something from this kid. He was even wearing his regulation cap and his hands were already clean. He looked like he might be afraid to get his clothes dirty. He was in the wrong profession.
I got out of my car and showed him the photo and asked if the man looked familiar. His eyes focused on the face for a few seconds before he handed it back to me. “Sorry,” he said, “never saw him before.”
“The station logo in the background,” I said, “it’s this place, isn’t it?”
He looked again and then at his surroundings. “Yup.”
“Carl,” a voice from behind him yelled.
“Gotta go,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t help more.” He disappeared into the garage.
I returned the photo to my pocket and opened the door to my Olds. As I was about to slide in behind the wheel, I glanced over at the house across the street from the Magnum station. There had been a face at the window, peering between pushed down slats. When I looked over there, the slats quickly closed up and the drapes folded over them. It was worth a shot.
I left the car at the station and walked across the street to the house with the nosy occupant. There were three steps up to the porch. Any one of them would have given me away if I were trying to sneak. My knuckles danced on the door panel and I could hear sounds coming from inside. The sounds didn’t seem to be coming any closer to the door and I rapped again. Still nothing.
I quietly jumped past the three steps down to the sidewalk and found my way around to the back door. A woman was making her way across the back yard to the garage. The service door closed and I heard a car engine turn over. The overhead door opened I found myself facing a woman in her mid-thirties. When she saw me she made a dash for the car. I beat her to the car door and held my hand on the frame.
“Whoa,” I said. “What’s the hurry?”
Her hand darted into the pocket of her coat. Before she could bring it out again, I had hold of her arm and slowly pulled it away from her. Her fist was wrapped around a small revolver, probably a .25, with a walnut grip. I pried her fingers from around it and dropped it into my pocket.
“Let go of my arm, you son-of-a-bitch,” she said, kicking my shin.
I released my grip on her arm and bent down to rub my leg. “Is it me, or are you this friendly to everyone?” I said.
She tried the car door again with no better luck than the first time. I pushed her aside and reached through the open window and turned off the ignition. “You wanna step outside?” I said. “The air’s getting a little thick in here.”
I grabbed her by the arm again and escorted her out into the alley behind her house. She yanked away from me and straightened up again. Her foot arched back again as she tried to kick my other shin. I caught her off balance and pushed on her forehead. She sat down hard on the cement.
“Now,” I said, “You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on here?”
She folded her arms across her chest and looked away.
I produced the .25 from my pocket and her expression changed from anger to fright. She unfolded her arms and held her palms up toward me. “No,” she said, looking at the gun.
I looked down at the gun and laid it flat in my hand, shaking my head. “Don’t worry, lady, I’m not going to shoot you. I tossed the gun back at her and she caught it in her right hand. It took only a second for her to point it at me and pull the trigger. The gun clicked. She pulled the trigger again and again and again. Click, click, click. She looked at my hand. It was outstretched with the five shells for her .25 laying on it. I smiled.
“It only takes one hand to empty the cylinder on one of those things,” I said, dump
ing the shells back into my pocket. She threw the empty gun at me. I leaned to the left and it sailed past me. I grabbed her arm and helped her to her feet. “Now, you mind telling me what makes me the enemy?”
“I saw you talking to that kid at the gas station,” she said.
“So what.”
“So, I saw you showing him something—probably a picture. You must be another cop.”
“What makes you say that?” I said.
“They never stop bothering us,” she said. “I already told them I didn’t know nothin’ about the stick-up at the gas station.”
“Who’s this ‘us’ you’re talkin’ about?” I said.
She looked away and clamed up. I produced the photo from my inside pocket and held it in front of her face. She turned away from it.
“You know him, don’t you?” I said.
She said nothing.
“Look,” I said, “I’m not after him. I just need to know who he is so I can tell him about Sheila.”
“That tramp,” she snapped. “She’s the reason the cops are always buggin’ us.”
“Who’s the guy in the picture?” I said.
“My brother. But I tell ya, he didn’t have anything to do with that gas station job. It was Sheila.”
“Hey,” I said, “like I said, I’m not looking for your brother. I’m just following up on another case and came across this photo.”
“You got this from her, didn’t you?” she said slowly.
“No, I got it from the cop assigned to the case. It was on Sheila’s body when…”
“She’s dead?” the woman said, almost laughing.
“As a doornail,” I said. “Now who’s your brother? And by the way, who are you?”
“Who’s askin’?”
I produced my I.D. and shield and held them out for her to see. “Cooper,” I said. “Matt Cooper. I’m working independently to find your brother just to ask questions about Sheila. I know he wasn’t involved in her last holdup because I was there. Now, what’s his name and where can I find him?”
“His name’s Ray,” she said slowly. “Ray Brown. My name’s Lisa. Look, I’m sorry about all this.” She pointed to her surroundings.
“Forget it,” I said. “Where can I find Ray?”
“What’s gonna happen to him?” she said slowly.
“If he hasn’t done anything he doesn’t have anything to worry about, but I still need to talk to him.”
She hesitated before saying, “I’ll take you there.”
I closed the overhead garage door and escorted Lisa across the street to where my car sat at the filling station. She slid in beside me and pointed down the street. “That way,” she said.
I tooled my Olds west on Sunset and turned south when I got to LaBrea. A few minutes later she pointed to a side street and I turned again. We pulled up in front of a white clapboard house that had seen better days. Its shutters hung by a single hinge and the paint was peeling off everywhere. The grass had gone to seed and some windows were boarded up.
“This is it?” I said.
“Around the back,” Lisa said, showing me the way.
The back door was hardly a door at all. It simply leaned against the frame. I pulled it back and she led the way in. “Ray,” she called out.
A man emerged from the shadows holding a gun. It wasn’t pointed at me or anything in particular. He just held it casually, to let me know he had one. He appeared to be nineteen, maybe twenty, no older. “Lisa,” he said, “what are you doing here? And who’s this?”
“Ray, this is Matt Cooper,” Lisa explained. “He’s looking into Sheila’s death and…”
Ray’s eyes widened. “Sheila’s dead? How? When?”
“Three days ago,” I said. “She was shot sticking up a bar. She had this on her.” I held out the photo.
Ray looked at it briefly. “I didn’t have anything to do with that,” he said sharply.
“I know, Ray,” I said. “I was there that night. Unless you were waiting outside somewhere, I didn’t see anyone but Sheila.”
“I wasn’t,” Ray snapped. “I knew she was sticking up a few joints, but I had nothin’ to do with any of ‘em. Christ, I was trying to ditch her, but she wouldn’t let go. Why do you think I’m holed up in this rat trap?”
“Because the rent is right?” I said.
Ray sat down on a crate and laid his gun on the floor. He breathed a long sigh and rested his elbows on his knees and laid his head in his hands. His body convulsed and he sobbed. His sister stood beside him and hugged his head.
Ray wiped his eyes, regained his composure and walked toward the door that leaned in the frame. He pulled it back and let it fall to the floor. He looked back at Lisa. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I looked at Ray, then at Lisa, and back at Ray. “Can you stop down at the morgue? There’s a sergeant Hollister who’ll need you to do a positive I.D. on the body. He’ll want to ask you a few questions and you’ll be free to go.”
Ray assured me that he would stop to see Hollister. Lisa gave me a quick hug and thanked me for helping to return their lives to normal.
Three days later I met with Dan at his office. He told me how Ray had stopped by to clear up the loose ends in the Sheila Sanford case. It had seemed like a waste of a human life the way Sheila had ended up. But then again in a city of millions, there had to be some people who were simply destined for fame and success. Some would be destined for obscurity. And still others, like Sheila Sanford, were destined for nothing more than a slab at the morgue. That’s life.
16 - You Can Bank On It
Albert Powell rose from my client’s chair, handed me a check and shook my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “You did a splendid job, very thorough. I appreciate all your help and I hope this will cover all I owe you.”
I looked at the check. My services for the past few weeks totaled just over four hundred dollars and some change. The check was for five hundred. I looked back up at Powell and smiled. “This is most generous, Mr. Powell. Thank you very much. If I can ever be of service to you in the future, be sure and give me a call.”
“I hope I won’t need to hire a private investigator again, Mr. Cooper. But if I do, it’s good to know you’re here.”
“Any time,” I said, showing him to the door. His footsteps faded down the hall as I returned to my desk and made out a deposit slip for the amount of the check. I slipped my jacket over the .38 in my shoulder holster and pulled a Back in 10 Minutes sign out of my desk drawer. My bank was less than two blocks away and I would still have time to deposit it in my account if I left right away. I hung the sign on the outer door and locked up.
It was Saturday and the bank was open until noon. I still had twelve minutes and that left me plenty of time to get there and complete my transaction. Normally I’d walk the two blocks but I wanted to make sure I’d get there with time to spare so I took my Olds. I found a parking space a few doors south of the bank and hurried to the front door.
There were four windows, each with a person waiting for the teller to help them. I decided the closest window would move as fast as any of them and took my place behind a man in a dark suit. Even though the line I was in was only two people long, me being one of the people, it didn’t seem to be moving at all and I was getting nervous. It just wouldn’t do to have my own check bounce if I didn’t get this check into my account immediately.
The clock on the wall said eleven fifty-six as I folded and unfolded my deposit slip and the check. I hoped the guy in line ahead of me wasn’t taking care of any mortgage business or refinancing his car. The clock ticked away and in a moment the two hands came together at the top of the clock. It bonged that majestic Westminster sound twelve times before it fell silent.
The guy ahead of me stood motionless as the teller hurried about her duties. I tapped him on the shoulder just as the teller shoved a bag toward him. “Pardon me, but are you going to be very much longer?” I asked.
He turned towa
rd me slowly and that’s when I saw the gun. It was a snub-nosed .44 with a silencer attached to the end of the barrel. I instinctively threw my hands up and backed away, not eager for a confrontation.
“Easy there,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I don’t want any trouble. Just take your bag and go.” I knew it would be easier and safer for the other customers if he just walked out and I let the police deal with him on the outside. Inside the bank there was just too much of a chance that someone could get hurt and I damn sure didn’t want that someone to be me.
A woman at the next window finished her business with the teller and turned toward me. When she saw the gunman and the gun, she screamed and the rest of the customers immediately turned toward us. The man with the gun panicked and quickly stepped back, waving the gun in the air.
“Everybody down on the floor—NOW.” He waved the gun again and pointed with it to the floor. Everyone, including me, quickly laid down on the floor and spread their arms out in front of them—everyone, that is, except the lady who’d screamed. She just kept screaming. The gunman hurried over to her and grabbed her by the coat collar and threw her to the floor. She hit the floor with a thud as the air rushed out of her lungs.
“Shut up!” He screamed, pointing the gun at the woman. She cried hysterically and tried to get up but the gunman laid the barrel of his gun across her head and she flopped down on her face and lay still. The gunman turned to the rest of us.
“Anybody else got any cute ideas?” He said. “Now just all of you keep your mouths shut and keep laying there until I’m gone and no one else will get hurt.”
He backed away from us and eased his way toward the side door. He’d almost made it to the door when another door on the other side of the room opened. I could see bathroom fixtures inside as the man emerged from it. He wore the uniform of a bank guard and when he saw the gunman he quickly reached for his sidearm. The gunman squeezed off two rounds in rapid succession. The shots sounded with a slight thud as each one found its mark in the guard’s chest. He dropped over on the floor and was most likely dead before he’s stopped falling. His gun never cleared leather.
