by Bill Bernico
Outside I could hear the squeal of tires and the slamming of car doors. The gunman looked out the front door and caught the movement of two uniformed officers taking their places on either side of the front door. He turned and ran for the side door and flung it open. A shot from outside rang out and tore at the doorframe next to the gunman’s head. He quickly slammed the door shut again and bolted it. The realization that some teller must have hit the silent alarm struck him like a carefully thrown snowball.
From my vantage point of the floor I could see him running back into the bank lobby. There were only two doors out of the bank and he realized he was trapped now with no way out. I could almost see his wheels turning as he stopped in his tracks and rubbed his head with the gun barrel.
From the position I was in, with my hands stretched out over my head, I couldn’t get to the .38 in my holster without attracting his attention. Besides, I wasn’t in a very good position to do any shooting. There were too many people around me who might get hurt. If only he would get us up off the floor to move us or use us as hostages, I might have a better chance to get at my gun. There was nothing I could do but bide my time, waiting for my opening.
The phone on the manager’s desk rang. It went on ringing until the gunman couldn’t stand the sound any longer and picked it up. He didn’t say anything. He just listened.
The voice on the other end said, “This is Sergeant Hollister of the L.A.P.D. Who am I speaking to?”
The gunman hung the phone up and hurried to one of the windows and edged around it to look out. There were several black-and-white patrol cars parked at an angle to the curb. He could see policemen crouched behind the open doors with their guns aimed at the bank. On the roof across the street he spotted a man with a rifle peeking over the edge of the roof. A man with a shotgun crouched behind a mailbox.
The gunman pulled back away from the window and slapped his body flat up against the wall. He looked around him, hoping to find the answer that wasn’t there. I tried not to look at him directly.
The phone rang again and kept ringing. The gunman crawled over to one of the tellers on the floor and dragged her across the floor toward the desk. “Answer it,” he said.
The woman got up on her knees and reached for the receiver, pulling it down on the floor next to her. She held the handset to her ear and waited. The voice on the other end was the same as last time. The gunman nodded at the woman and held his head next to hers so he could hear what was being said.
“Hello,” she said in a weak, nervous voice.
“This is Sergeant Hollister of the L.A.P.D.,” the voice said. “Who am I speaking to?”
The woman looked sideways at the gunman. He nodded again.
“This is Dorothy Rowe.”
“Dorothy,” Hollister said, “is everyone all right in there?”
The gunman grabbed the phone away from her and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. He whispered to her, “Tell him everyone’s just fine.” He handed her back the phone and listened in again.
“Everyone’s just fine,” she said, her voice wavering.
Hollister hesitated before adding, “How many other people are in there with you?”
The gunman grabbed the phone again and slammed the handset down on the cradle, pushing the woman back onto the floor. The phone immediately rang again. He picked it up and yelled into it, “Back off copper or these people are gonna get it. You understand me? I’ll kill ‘em all. Now just get in your cars and drive away.”
Hollister kept his voice calm. “No one wants to see anyone, including you, get hurt. Now just come out of there before this thing gets out of hand.”
The gunman thought for a second. “I’m coming out alright. I’m coming out with a hostage and you better not try anything or he’s dead meat. Got it?”
“Come on out and I promise you no one will shoot,” Hollister said. “I give you my word.”
The gunman hung up the phone and crawled over to where I lay and nudged me in the shoulder with his gun. “You. Get up and come over here.”
I followed him over to the corner. He held his gun on me and stayed a safe distance away from me as he spoke. “You’re gonna walk me outta here, see?” He unscrewed the silencer from his gun and. He held the snub-nose .44 up in front of my face. “I’m gonna have this in my pocket and if anything goes wrong, you’ll be the first to get it.” He slipped the gun into his pocket.
“You won’t get away with it,” I said. “No one ever does.”
“I will,” he said. “And you wanna know why? ‘Cause I’m going out first and you’re gonna walk behind me. Get it? They’ll think you’re the gunman and I’m the hostage. And when I get far enough away from the commotion I’ll make a break for it and they’ll shoot you. Pretty funny, huh?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed the gun in his pocket and eased me over to the door. He looked back one more time and handed me his money bag. “Just stick your finger in my back and put one arm around my neck and walk real slow, got it?”
I got behind him and before I slipped an arm around his neck. I slipped my .38 out of its holster and stuck in softly in his back.
“Now just walk out of here real slow,” he told me. “And remember I’ve got the gun.”
He eased the front door open and we walked out in tandem. When we hit the street, I could see Hollister. He looked at me and a strange expression crept onto his face. I slowly shook my head and winked and his face eased up a bit.
“Just keep walking,” I said to the gunman, “and no one will get hurt.”
“Ooh, that’s good,” he whispered. “A touch of realism. I like it.”
I moved the .38 from his back to a spot behind his ear and pulled the hammer back. The cylinder rotated into position and it was obviously a sound the gunman was familiar with because he froze in his tracks.
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s a real gun and you’re about to lose the top of your head unless you do as I say, got it?”
We stopped walking and I felt his right hand move in his jacket.
“Just bring that hand out nice and easy—and empty. Understand me?” I pressed the gun into his neck.
His hand came out of his coat pocket without the gun. He raised both hands above his head. I whispered in his ear, “Now lay down and spread your hands out wide—real wide, and don’t you move a muscle.”
He lay down in the street and I knelt beside him. “Next time you take hostages, you better frisk them.”
Hollister and several officers rushed us and one of them stepped on the gunman’s right hand while Hollister pulled the gunman’s left hand behind his back and cuffed it. The officer stepped off the man’s right hand and Hollister slipped the other end of the cuffs onto it and pulled him to his feet. I reached into the gunman’s pocket and withdrew the .44 and the silencer. I handed both to Hollister along with the money bag.
“Inside,” I said. “He killed the guard and pistol whipped one of the customers. Better get an ambulance over here.”
Hollister hurried over to his prowl car and radioed the information in to the precinct. They dispatched an ambulance to the scene immediately.
“Cooper,” Hollister said, “I’m usually not that happy to get involved with you, but I tell ya, right now you’re looking pretty damned good to me.”
I backed away, holstered my .38 and held my palms up toward him. “You’re not gonna kiss me, are you, Dan?”
Hollister just shook his head. “Come on, Matt. You can give your statement downtown and afterwards I’ll let you buy me a beer.”
I pulled the linings out of both pants pockets and shrugged. “Looks like you’re buying. I never got the chance to cash my check.”
Hollister hesitated then nodded. “Let’s go. I’m buying.”
I’d have to make sure to be there at the bank Monday morning when they opened. I didn’t want the cops coming down on me for any bounced checks.
17 - The Last Stop
It was cool that M
arch morning in Los Angeles. I’d just opened the office and hadn’t had my first cup of coffee yet when the phone rang. I left the ring of keys dangling in the door lock and took a seat behind my desk.
“Cooper Investigations,” I said, holding the phone in one hand and slipping out of my jacket with the other. I laid the jacket across my desk.
It was a woman on the other end. Her voice sounded strained and tired as she tried to drag the words from her throat.
“Mr. Cooper,” she said, “I need to talk to you about a serious matter. May I come up right now, if you’re not too busy?”
“Sure,” I said. “Do you know where my office is located?”
“Yes I do,” she said.
“How long do you think it’ll take you to get here?” I asked.
“Would a minute be too soon?” she said. “I’m in the phone booth on the corner just outside your office.”
“Well then, come on up.” I said, hanging up the phone and quickly slipping back into my jacket. I buttoned it over the .38 that resided under my arm and straightened out the fabric.
You’d think potential clients could have the decency to at least wait until I’ve had my coffee before they unload their troubles on me. I was planning on doing some serious foot dangling, but now that would have to wait.
Less than a minute later the outer office door opened and a shadow fell across the glass door separating it from my inner office. The door opened and a young woman, perhaps thirty, entered. I sized her up and decided I liked her, at least what I could see of her from behind my desk.
“Mr. Cooper?” the woman said, not sure if she had the right office.
I stood up, nodded, invited her in with a wave of my upturned palm and showed her to the customer chair. I offered her some coffee but she declined. I poured myself a second cup and sat in my chair.
I sipped from the coffee cup and then said, “What can I do for you, Mrs...”
“Williams,” she said. “Bernice Williams.”
I leaned back in my chair, unbuttoned my coat and smiled my best smile. “Well, Mrs. Williams, how may I help you?”
She exhaled, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. A few seconds later she opened them and looked into my eyes. “It’s my husband, Mr. Cooper. You see, he was killed six weeks ago and I can’t get anyone to look into his death. You’ve got to help me.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Williams,” I said. “How did he die?”
Her eyes darted nervously around the room before she spoke. “He was shot—on a city bus. He...”
“Was he one of the seven people that was gunned down over on Western and Sunset last month?” I asked.
She lowered her head and closed her eyes. A short while later she looked up and nodded faintly.
“Oh, Mrs. Williams,” I said, “I am sorry to hear that. That was tragic and senseless. From what I understand, the police still have that case open, don’t they?”
“That’s what they say, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “But they’re trying to tell me that some crazed gunman got on at Sunset, opened fire and then hopped off. Just like that.”
My eyebrows furled upward. I’d heard that same thing from Dan Hollister, my source on the L.A. police department. “You have information to lead me to believe that it wasn’t just like that?” I asked.
She hesitated for a moment. “Like I told Sergeant Hollister,” she said, “the other six people were killed to cover up the real target—my husband. The others didn’t have to die. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She seemed weary from the ordeal. “Sergeant Hollister said there was not much more he could do for me, but he suggested that maybe I should come and see you. Does that make any sense?”
“No,” I said, “but I understand what he means. Sometimes when the cops’ hands are tied by legalities and loopholes, they turn to me. I’m not as restricted as they are and I can sometimes turn up things that they can’t. I can go places that they can’t and I can say and do things that wouldn’t be proper procedure for the police. Do you understand? I’m not bound by the same set of rules that they are.”
I finished my coffee, threw the paper cup in the waste can and came around to her side of the desk, lifting one leg and sitting on the edge. “But why go to such extreme measures just to get one guy? It would have been easier for someone to wait until they got him alone. This way the whole thing got dragged into the spotlight. That’s no way to stay low profile. And who’d want to kill your husband in the first place?”
“Duncan Davenport,” she said without hesitation. “He hated Ernie—that was my husband’s name. He even said he’d kill him if he could.”
I sat up a little straighter now. She had my full attention. “Why?” I said. “And before we go any further, who is Duncan Davenport?”
“Duncan Davenport was my husband’s partner,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a tissue. “He was angry because Ernie was buying him out.”
I retrieved a pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket, pulled the small red ribbon from around the top of the pack and ripped the foil paper off the top. I slapped the pack against my flattened hand, causing three cigarettes to protrude from the opening. My lips pulled one of them out and I struck a match, sucking at the flame until the end of the paper glowed. I held the pack out toward Mrs. Williams. She politely declined and I took a seat at my desk again and returned the pack to my coat pocket.
“What business was your husband in, Mrs. Williams?” I said, blowing smoke out through my nostrils.
“He and Duncan ran a brokerage firm,” she said. “They handled investments for a lot of important people. Some of them were from that Hollywood crowd. You know, actors and directors and such.”
I drew in on the cigarette and held it for a moment before letting the smoke shoot downward out of my lips. My chair creaked as I leaned back.
“I still don’t see why that would be reason enough for Davenport to kill your husband,” I said. “All he had to do was open another office under his own name and get on with his life.”
“Yes, I suppose that would have been simplest,” she said. “But before Ernie finalized the transaction he had arranged for auditors to come in and look over the books.”
The two fingers that held the cigarette bobbed up and down and generally pointed in her direction. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Some of the accounts were short and Davenport got nervous.”
“Almost a quarter of a million dollars short,” she said. “The auditors didn’t come in until after Ernie had died. That’s when they found the shortage.”
“And how does Davenport explain the missing money?” I said.
“That’s just it,” she said. “No one knows where he is. He disappeared the same afternoon Ernie and the rest of those people died on that bus. I’d say that makes him look pretty guilty, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded, took one last drag from the cigarette and ground it out in my ashtray. “And just what is it that you want me to do for you, Mrs. Williams?”
“Well,” she said, repeatedly opening and closing the clasp on her purse, “I’d like you to find Duncan Davenport and the missing money. Otherwise Ernie’s estate will be responsible for returning the money to the investors.”
“Ernie’s estate,” I said, pointing in her direction. “Meaning you.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” she said. “A debt like that would ruin me. I just don’t have it.”
“But you do have enough to pay me?” I said.
She frowned, not sure whether to take me serious or not. I saw the discomfort in her face and changed the subject.
“Mrs. Williams,” I began, “what if I find him but there’s no money left or he won’t tell if or where he has it? Then what?”
“If you can at least find him, Mr. Cooper, we can deal with the money later.” She sighed heavily and returned her stare to me.
“I get twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses,” I said. “And I get a hundred up front. I’ll let
you know if it’s gonna be any more than that. I can start today.”
She rose from her chair, unclasped the purse she’d been holding and withdrew five twenties and laid them on my desk. “Please, Mr. Cooper, you’ve got to find him before the end of the month. That’s when the auditors are coming back to finalize the accounts.”
“That’s only nine days from now,” I said, looking at the calendar part of my desk blotter. I pulled my desk drawer open, withdrew a receipt book, wrote a receipt for the retainer and handed it to her. I picked up a pad of paper and a pen and handed them to the woman. “Leave me a phone number and address where you can be reached. Here’s my number,” I said, handing her one of my business cards. “I’ll be in touch.”
Bernice Williams scratched her name, phone number and address down on the pad, turned and without further comment left my office. I heard her high heels tapping down the hall until it was silent again.
I was grateful for the work and even more grateful to have something to put into my checking account. I tucked the hundred into my wallet, dropped it into my coat pocket and locked up the office. I had a suspect to find and the day wasn’t getting any longer. My Olds was parked around the corner from my office and I walked at a brisk pace.
I could sense his presence more than see it. The metropolitan street was crowded with mid-day shoppers and commuters but the man following me stuck out like BVDs on a sumo wrestler. I hurried around the next corner and stepped into the alley, into a recessed doorway and waited. The man stepped past me and I slipped my forearm around his neck and pulled. He gasped for breath as I held him there in front of me with his toes barely touching the cement.
“All right,” I demanded, “Spill it. Who hired you to tail me?”
Gurgling sounds were all the man could muster. I loosened my grip on his throat but kept a firm hold on the arm that I had twisted up behind his back. He took a deep breath.
“I can’t,” he started to say, but I pulled my arm back and lifted again. He kicked his feet violently, trying to stand. I loosened up again and let him breathe.
