by Bill Bernico
“This time think before you speak,” I said, waiting for an answer to my original question. He hesitated and I cranked up the pressure on his arm.
The man thought for a second before offering, “Sal Rocko.”
“Okay, why?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “He just told me to follow you and report back to him where you went. He didn’t say why he wanted to know. Honest, that’s all I know.”
I kept my grip on his arm but released his throat. I quickly patted him down and pulled a snub-nosed .38 from under his arm. I flipped the cylinder open and dumped the shells onto ground and threw the gun after it.
“You go back and tell Mr. Rocko that you didn’t get the information he wanted because I still have a few places to go yet and if I catch you following me again you’ll have more than just Sal Rocko to worry about. You do get my drift, don’t you?”
I released his arm and shoved him forward. He stumbled, trying to catch himself before he fell. He scowled at me and bent to reach for his gun. I kicked him in the stomach and he went flying across the alley.
“Uh uh,” I said. “Not ‘til I’m gone.”
I left him lying there panting for breath as I hurried back onto the street and disappeared into the crowd. I was sure that was one guy who would not be following me anymore today.
I slid into my Olds and tooled the car down the street. In a few minutes I pulled the car into a parking space at the curb and climbed out. Halfway up the next block I found the building I was looking for and stepped into the lobby. There was a row of elevators on the east wall. Across the hall was a door marked Stairs. I pressed a button with an up arrow and waited.
Patience was never one of my strong suits and within fifteen seconds I found myself in the stairwell taking the stairs two at a time. The office I wanted was on the second floor and I figured the exercise would do me some good.
The office of Izzy Goldstein was at the far end of the hall. I knocked with no response. I knocked again and waited. Still nothing. I tried the handle and twisted. The door yielded and I cautiously stepped into the outer office. The receptionist’s desk was vacant. Behind it and to the left there was a door stenciled in gold leaf that read, I. Goldstein and below it another line identified Mr. Goldstein as an auditor. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I twisted the handle of Mr. Goldstein’s office and pushed. The door opened and I stepped in, looking around as I entered.
The wall facing me was made up entirely of bookshelves with books, small-framed pictures and assorted knickknacks, probably arranged there by Mrs. Goldstein. In front of the bookshelf wall sat the largest oak desk I’ve ever seen. Behind it was a tall leather chair facing the wall. I had an idea what I might find but decided to look anyway. I stepped around the end of the desk and swirled the chair around toward me. The body, which I assumed to be that of Izzy Goldstein, flopped out of the chair and down onto the floor with a heavy thud. He lay on his back, his forehead sporting a fresh bullet hole where his left eye had been. I didn’t see the need to check for a pulse I was sure he didn’t have.
Instinctively I pulled the .38 that had nested under my arm and stepped back. The top two drawers of Goldstein’s desk had been flung open and emptied onto the floor behind the desk. Whoever gave Mr. Goldstein his ticket to the next world apparently found what they were looking for, since those were the only two drawers that had been disturbed. I quickly stepped away from the body and back into the outer office. It was still empty and I wasted no time in hurrying back to the stairwell and up one more flight. I opened the stairwell door a crack and peered out into the third floor hall. It was empty. I made it across to the elevator and pushed the down button. The door opened and I stepped in next to an old lady. I nodded politely and pressed the button for the lobby.
A moment later the doors opened and I stepped aside, allowing the old lady to exit ahead of me. I followed her out into the lobby, but once outside the building, the lady walked east and I walked west. I kept walking for another block and a half until I spotted the drug store where I knew I could find a pay phone. The booth was vacant and I stepped in, closing the folding door behind me. I dropped my nickel into the slot and dialed Dan Hollister’s personal number at the precinct.
“Hollister,” Dan said in that matter-of-fact tone he always used.
“Dan,” I said. “It’s Matt. I just came from Izzy Goldstein’s office. Someone ventilated his head and rifled his desk. You might want to send someone over with a mop.”
“Cooper,” Dan said, “Why is it that the only times I hear from you is when someone turns up dead?”
“Would you rather I sent my business to the fourteenth precinct instead? I said. “I hear McGrath is climbing up the ladder towards the Captain’s position. A case like this could be just the ticket for him, don’t you think?”
“Skip it, Cooper,” Hollister snapped. “Where’s this office you’re talking about?”
“Sixth near Olive,” I said. “It in the Packard Building, second floor, 208 at the end of the hall.”
“And where are you?” Hollister demanded.
“Right down the block in the drug store,” I said. “Izzy’s phone was ripped out of the wall.”
“I’ll be right there, Cooper,” Dan said. “You be there when I get there. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
He hung up before I had a chance to complain. Six minutes later as I sat in an overstuffed chair in the lobby, Dan Hollister entered, flanked by two uniforms and Jack Walsh, the medical examiner. I got out of the chair and walked with Hollister to the elevator. The five of us got on and Dan pressed the button for the second floor. The elevator lurched with a grinding sound and ascended.
Hollister turned to me. “You didn’t say what you were doing in Goldstein’s office.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I didn’t.”
The elevator door opened and the five of us exited to the hall. I pointed and said, “Two-o-eight’s down this way on the right.”
Dan followed close behind me but stepped in front of me as we approached the door to the office. “You touch anything in there?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Found him, left the office and called you.” I played the scene in my mind before adding, “Oh yeah, I touched the back of his chair when I spun it around, but that was it.”
Hollister eased over to where Izzy’s desk sat, stepped around to the side and looked down at the man with the enlarged eye socket. He winced and turned away. He motioned with his head for the medical examiner. Jack Walsh knelt next to the body. He placed his black bag down next to him and snapped it open, pulling out a pair of silver tweezers. He leaned in close to the body and pulled something out of the dead man’s mouth. It looked like a piece of paper that had been chewed. Walsh laid the item on the desk and tried to open the wet ball with the tweezers and one finger.
It unrolled and he flattened it as he went. When he had it extended as far as it would go he turned to Hollister and gestured with his head toward the chewed mess. He stood next to Dan and waited for Dan’s assessment.
“What do you make of it?” Walsh said.
Dan stared at the markings on the paper, not sure if it was writing, drawings, printing or doodling. At the driest end of the paper he saw three numbers.
“Six, one, eight, or is that a three?” Dan said.
I stepped closer to take a look at the paper. “That’s a three,” I added. Six, one, three. Looks like that might have come out of a notebook. See the perforated edge on top?”
Dan bent over for a closer look. “Yeah, that was ripped out of a notebook like this one,” he said, retrieving his own notebook from his lapel pocket. His pages had that same perforation pattern across the top of the pages. He returned the notebook to his pocket and extended his hand over toward Jack Walsh.
“Let me have one of those little manila envelopes,” he told Walsh.
Walsh reached into his bag and withdrew the small envelope and passed it over to Dan, who
deposited the chewed paper into it, turned it over and labeled it with his pen. He handed the envelope to one of the officers. “Make sure this gets into the evidence bag when we get back to the office.” The officer nodded and slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket.
Dan stood again, brushing dust off his knees before turning to me. “All right, Cooper. Let’s have it. Why did you come to see Izzy?”
I stood fast and silent, like at marble lion outside the library.
“Cooper,” Dan reminded me. “This is a murder investigation. You hold anything back from me and I’ll prosecute you myself, if I have to. But I won’t have to, will I?”
He was right and client privilege notwithstanding; I knew I was so far out on a limb that I was beginning to feel like an overripe orange ready to fall.
“All right,” I said reluctantly. “Goldstein was an auditor.”
“No kidding,” Dan said, looking at the gold leaf letters on the office door. “You coming to the stuff I don’t already know?”
“Goldstein was auditing the books for my client’s dead husband’s company,” I said. “This guy’s partner may have embezzled funds from the company assets and was trying to cover it up before the audit. My client asked me to look into the audit and the auditor to make sure it was on the up and up.”
“And you found out what?” Dan said.
“Nothing,” I answered, looking down at Izzy Goldstein. “When I got here, Izzy wasn’t in a talkative mood. It was just another dead end.”
“Are you thinking that the partner did this?” Dan said.
“How’d you know there was a partner?” I said.
“You just told me,” Hollister said, smiling.
I fell for the oldest gag in the world. I shrugged. “I don’t know anything at this point. I’m still just in the clue sifting part of my investigation and this little setback is just that—a setback. I have to go back to my client and dig a little further.”
Dan tossed his head toward the office door. “Go on,” he said, “get out of here, but check in with me tomorrow morning. I want to go over a few things with you.”
I said nothing further and made my exit without fanfare. My client had more answers whether she knew it or not and I meant to get them from her. Later that afternoon I called Bernice Williams from my office phone and asked if she could meet me here in half an hour. She told me she couldn’t and asked if I could possibly come to her home on Beverly Drive. I told her I could be there in forty-five minutes.
The house was everything I’d pictured, and more. The driveway was a hundred yards of winding asphalt, flanked by flowers that would put any botanical garden to shame. It ended at the front door, which had thick, ornate columns on either side of a one-step cement stoop. I parked behind a large black Lincoln, got out and rang the doorbell. The chimes sounded like they had the actual Big Ben clock inside. The front door opened a foot or two and a man in a tuxedo peeked out at me.
“May I help you, sir?” He said in a voice regal enough to be royalty.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Williams,” I said. “Is she in?”
“Is she expecting you?” he said.
I nodded and took one step toward him. He held fast to the door and glared at me.
“I’ll tell her you’re here,” he said, and closed the door again.
A minute later Bernice Williams appeared and opened the door all the way and stepped aside.
“Please, Mr. Cooper,” she said, “won’t you come in?”
“Thank you,” I said, removing my hat and stepping inside. The massive door closed behind me and the man in the tuxedo appeared again as if from nowhere.
“Geoffrey,” Bernice said, “please take Mr. Cooper’s hat. We’ll be in the study. Bring us a some tea, if you would.”
“Very good, madam,” Geoffrey said, and disappeared with my hat.
Bernice led the way as I followed her into what I assumed to be her study. She invited me to sit on a sofa better suited to be on display in a museum. It turned out to be more comfortable than it looked. She sat opposite me in a chair that I noticed had ball and claw feet. Between us sat an ornate coffee table with a glass top.
“Well, Mr. Cooper,” Bernice began. “What did you learn of my husband’s death?”
I looked over her shoulder at a large portrait of an older man who looked seriously stern. He wore an army uniform from the turn of the century. It sported several medals and ribbons. The hat was tucked neatly under the man’s arm. I looked back at Bernice.
“Well, since I initially spoke with you I’ve been followed by some thug on my way to see the auditor, who turned up dead in his office.”
“Oh my,” Bernice said, pressing two fingers to her lips.
“I haven’t found Duncan Davenport yet,” I said. “That was going to be my next stop. Is that what you called me here to find out?”
“Well, that and one other matter,” Bernice said.
The door to the study opened and Geoffrey entered, carrying a silver tray with a fancy silver pot, a creamer, a sugar bowl and two cups. He set the whole thing down between us on the coffee table and stood straight up, as if he had a stick in his jacket.
“Will there be anything else, madam?” Geoffrey said, waiting as patiently as a military man for his orders.
“No thank you, Geoffrey,” Bernice said. “That will be all for now.”
Geoffrey said nothing but bowed a polite, shallow bow before leaving.
Bernice picked up the teapot and poured two cups and set the pot down again.
“Cream, Mr. Cooper?” she said.
“No thanks,” I said. “Just a little sugar.”
She dropped two lumps into my cup, grabbed a third with her tongs and looked at me.
“Two’s plenty,” I said, picking up my cup and sipping.
Bernice dropped the third sugar cube back into the silver bowl, took a sip from her cup, set it down and looked up at me.
“Mr. Cooper,” she began, “I’m afraid I’ve put you through an dreadful inconvenience with this whole matter.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Williams,” I said.
Without missing a beat she said, “I’d like to pay you what I owe up to this point and forget the whole matter. How much do I owe you?”
I set my cup down on the table. “Forget the whole matter?” I said, puzzled. “Why? We’ve had one death since I started looking into it, not to mention the seven people shot on the bus, and your husband. Why do you want to quit now?”
“My reasons are of no concern to you, Mr. Cooper,” she said coldly. “Let’s just say I’ve had a change of heart and wish to let the matter rest. Now, how much do I owe you for your services?”
“Mrs. Williams,” I said, “the police aren’t going to let this matter rest. You can bet they’ll be up here to see you before the day is out. What will you tell them?”
“Mr. Cooper, they weren’t all that interested when I initially asked them for help with my husband’s death. And they are obviously not getting anywhere with the deaths of those other unfortunate bus passengers. Why would they suddenly care now?”
“Look,” I said, “just because you didn’t get satisfaction four or five weeks ago doesn’t mean they’re still not looking into the whole matter. Sometimes it takes time for leads to pan out, but since there is no statute of limitations on murder, they will never give up looking. This seems awfully out of character for you, especially since you were so gung-ho to have me find your husband’s killer.”
Bernice stood. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Cooper, but I’ve made up my mind. I don’t wish to pursue this matter any further. You needn’t send me an itemized bill for your time. You may simply keep the hundred-dollar retainer I paid you yesterday. Good day, sir.”
With that she pulled a satin rope next to the mantle. A few seconds later the door to the study opened and Geoffrey entered.
“Please get Mr. Cooper’s hat and show him the way out,” she said, her voice sounding more like an order now
.
“Yes, madam,” Geoffrey said, extending his arm toward the door. “This way, sir.”
Geoffrey led me out of the study, handed me my hat and had me standing on the front stoop before I could even voice an objection. The large front door closed with an echo and I stood there alone with my thoughts, totally bewildered by the events of the past few minutes. I was out of work less than a day before it had begun.
I tooled my Olds back down the long, winding driveway and back onto Beverly Drive. I was just beginning my trip down the street when I spotted another car in my rearview mirror. It had just rounded the corner onto Beverly and then made a quick turn up the Williams driveway. I quickly parked my car at the curb, got out and ran toward the large iron gate just as it was closing. I’d managed to slip inside just before it closed, locking out the rest of Los Angeles.
The car was out of sight, beyond the first curve of the driveway and I was able to run up the driveway, keeping out of site of the car. Staying under cover I squatted near the end of the driveway and watched as the car stopped at the front door and a man in a gray suit emerged and walked up onto the front stoop. He rang the bell, the door opened and Geoffrey let him in without further ado.
That was my cue to soft foot it up to the house. Keeping low, I eased myself over to the study window and carefully peered around the corner, trying to see the occupants. Mrs. Williams was still in the study when the man in the gray suit entered. She motioned to the sofa I’d occupied earlier and the man sat. I couldn’t hear what either one was saying, but they didn’t appear to be strangers and from the looks on their faces, it looked like a friendly conversation.
It was also a short conversation. Within two minutes, both parties had apparently said what they needed to say. The man rose, nodding to Bernice before Geoffrey appeared to show him out again. I stepped away from the window and hurried back down into the cover of the foliage alongside the driveway. I made it back to the iron gate and waited for the car to appear. When it did, the gate opened again and the car slid out onto Beverly Drive again and was gone around the corner just as I stepped between the two closing halves of the gate. I got back in my car, made a quick U-Turn and made another left turn at the corner. The car was still in sight and I followed at a respectable distance.
