Cooper By The Gross (All 144 Cooper Stories In One Volume)

by Bill Bernico

  The car continued down the street toward Sunset and turned left again. He was heading back to Hollywood. I stayed with him, making a mental note of his license plate number. I lost him when he turned north at Highland Avenue and I was stuck at the light. I banged my steering wheel with my palm and cursed my bad luck.

  I stayed on Sunset for another few blocks before turning north and then east two blocks later onto Hollywood and back to my office. The license number was still fresh in my memory when I pulled my Olds to the curb and pulled out my notepad. I wrote the number down with a brief description of the car. When I got back to my office I called Hollister at the precinct.

  “Dan,” I said. “It’s Matt. I need a favor.”

  “Oh, you need a favor,” Dan said sarcastically. “And just why should I do you a favor, Mister Private Detective?”

  “Forget it,” I said dismissively. “I just had this wild notion that you wanted to solve the Goldstein case, not to mention those seven poor souls who got theirs on the bus last month.” I said nothing further and waited.

  “Cooper,” Dan snapped. “What do you have?”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “Do I get that favor or not?”

  Dan thought for a moment. He knew from past experience that as much of a pain in the ass as he considered me, that nine times out of ten I could actually help his cause. “Okay, what do you want?” he said.

  “I need the name that goes with a license number,” I said. “It may not mean anything yet until I look into a little further, but it could just be the link we need to tie the Goldstein killing up.”

  Hollister paused again. “Go ahead, give me the number.”

  I gave him the number and description of the car. I held the phone for a minute or two while he checked it. I set the phone down, slipped out of my jacket and draped it across my chair. When I picked up the phone again I could hear Dan yelling now.

  “Cooper, you still there?” he said louder this time. “Cooper?”

  “I’m here,” I said. “What’d you find out?”

  “The plate belongs to one Duncan Davenport on Highland Avenue. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “It might,” I said. “Give me a day or so to run it down and I’ll get back to you, I promise.”

  I hung up the phone before Hollister could insist on knowing what I knew. Why would Davenport be at the Williams house when it was clear that Bernice Williams suspected him of murdering her husband? And from the look of the cordial conversation they were having, it seemed like they may have come to some sort of agreement.

  It took me less than a day to find out what I needed to know about Duncan Davenport. Before he was Ernie Williams’ business partner he owned and operated a chain of supermarkets in L.A., if you can call three stores a chain. He held the stores for six years before selling out to one of the larges, better known chains.

  With the money he made from those stores he was able to finance his next venture—one racehorse—one very expensive racehorse. Between race winnings and stud fees, Duncan Davenport had amassed quite a fortune. Apparently he’d grown tired of the racing business because less than a year later he’d collected a very large check from the insurance company when his horse mysteriously turned up dead of some sort of poisoning. The insurance investigators were never able to connect him with the death of his horse, but the word on the street was that he had it done while he was conveniently out of town with an airtight alibi.

  With nothing to do to keep him occupied now, Davenport ended up spending much more time at the track than when he actually owned the horse. And he was in the habit of betting big. His low seven figure net worth quickly dwindled down to the low six-figure range before he found Ernie Williams and bought into his investment business. Davenport knew that investments meant rich clients and rich clients could be a source of easy money whenever he needed it. It didn’t take him long to dig himself into another hole that he couldn’t crawl out of.

  Ernie Williams had suspected Duncan Davenport of dipping into their clients’ accounts and had decided to get rid of him, even if that meant having to buy him out. When Williams announced his intentions to his partner and that he had called in auditors, Davenport knew that it was just a matter of time before he’d be spending the better part of the rest of his life behind bars. At that point, Williams’ life wasn’t worth a plug nickel.

  But why, with all that had gone on between Davenport and his partner, would Bernice Williams entertain any ideas of collaborating with him in any scheme? If I wanted the answer to that major question, I knew I’d have to do a little digging into Mrs. Williams’ background. I’d also have to look into some of her husband’s clients and that wasn’t going to be easy. The fast-paced Hollywood set was not about to open up to me very easily. But I had to get on it before any more leads turned cold. Bernice’s background would have to wait a little longer until I could get my foot in the door with a few actors, directors and producers.

  The one advantage I had was that I was pretty tight with someone who really mattered to this group of people—a film critic. That’s where I’d start, with Bertie Stein, whose words in her daily gossip column could literally make or break a potential star. I called and got right through to her.

  “Matt,” Bertie said cheerfully, “Where on earth have you been keeping yourself? Why, I don’t believe I’ve seen you since that thing with the runaway girl from Wisconsin. How did that turn out?”

  “Good to hear your voice again, too, Bertie,” I said. “That girl went back to Wisconsin. And I noticed that a few of the people involved in that fiasco ended up in your column. Come to think of it, I never see their names in any of the trade magazines anymore. You must be doing your job.”

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Bertie said.

  “Boy, you get right to the point, don’t you?” I said.

  “I have to,” Bertie said. “Time is money in this town.”

  “Time and publicity,” I corrected her.

  Bertie laughed her little girl laugh.

  “I was wondering if I could stop up and see you,” I said, getting to the point of my call.

  “I’ll do you one better,” she said. “I’ll let you buy me lunch. Shall we say noon at Ciro’s?”

  “You got it, kid.” I said. “See you then,” and hung up.

  Ciro’s had been the hot spot for the Hollywood crowd since it opened in 1940 and anybody who was anybody made it a point to be seen there. Gossip columnists Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons had regular tables there. It was their main source for material for their gossip columns.

  I still had two hours to kill and decided I could best use that time at the public library. I parked half a block away and walked into the library armed with just my notepad. If I found myself cornered, I could always fight my way out with my sharpened #2 pencil. The archives I sought were located in the basement and with a little digging I was able to come up with past issues of the newspaper from a dozen years ago. I paged through the volumes of papers, keeping an eye out for anything I thought I could use. Half an hour into my search I came across a picture of a younger Bernice Williams posing with Todd Simmons. I’d seen his face up on the big screen a dozen times in some of my favorite movies. He had been Hollywood’s favorite leading man back then.

  The caption below the photo read, “Todd Simmons smiled for the camera before announcing his engagement to Bernice Richards, seen on his left. The two plan an April wedding next spring.”

  So Ernie Williams wasn’t her first husband, I thought. She had to have been the connection Williams needed for his investment company. This was too convenient even for me to swallow. I made a note of the issue, date and page of the article and moved on to the following spring’s paper.

  In the middle of March’s issues I came across a photo of just Todd Simmons. The caption read, “Todd Simmons’ latest movie, The Archer Memorandum, opened this week to rave reviews.” The article below the picture went on to say, “Simmons, as you may
recall, was supposed to have been married this April, but plans have changed and it appears that Todd is once again Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor.”

  It looked like Ernie Williams had been Bernice’s first husband after all. And her engagement to Simmons had been short-lived but beneficial, at least in the long run.

  I tucked the papers away on the shelf again and headed back upstairs and out to my car. Ciro’s was still a fifteen-minute ride from here and I didn’t dare keep Bertie Stein waiting. I eased my Olds to the curb and got out. I opened the door to Ciro’s and it was pretty dark inside. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted and I had trouble finding my way to the hostess.

  “May I help you?” the hostess said.

  “I’d like a table,” I told her.

  “Do you have a reservation, sir?” she said, looking down at the reservation book lying open on the oak podium.

  “No,” I started to say, “but I…”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll need a reservation before I can…” She didn’t get to finish voicing her objection.

  Bertie Stein appeared from around the corner and motioned to the hostess. “He’s with me, dearie.”

  “Yes, of course,” the embarrassed hostess said, extending her arm and gesturing toward the dining room. “Right this way.”

  I followed her back to Bertie’s table, pulled Bertie’s chair out and then sat opposite her. A waiter appeared out of nowhere with two bound menus, handing them to each of us.

  “May I recommend the house wine this afternoon, sir,” he said.

  Bertie waved him off and I decided it was too early in the day for me as well.

  “Not today,” I said to the waiter. “Give us a minute, will you?”

  He disappeared and I set the menu down on top of Bertie’s.

  “Do you know what you want?” I said.

  “Just a salad for me,” Bertie said. “I can’t stay that long. I’m meeting Rex Grayson in an hour, so how about if we just get to it?”

  “Works for me,” I said. I motioned for the waiter and told him to bring just a salad for Bertie and a ham on rye for me.

  “Very well,” he said and left immediately.

  “So, Matt,” Bertie began, “what was it you wanted to see me about?”

  “Duncan Davenport,” I said, as if that explained everything.

  “What did you want to know?” she said.

  “He ran with this whole Hollywood crowd,” I explained. “And quite a few of them were clients at his investment firm.”

  “So I’ve heard.” She said.

  “Well, the other day his former partner’s widow comes to see me,” I said. “ She wants me to look into his death last month. So I’m hot on the trail when she calls me over to her house on Beverly Drive and tells me she’s dropping the whole matter.”

  The waiter brought Bertie’s salad and my sandwich and set them in front of us.

  “Will there be anything else, sir,” the waiter said almost robotically.

  “Nothing, thanks,” I said, and turned back to Bertie.

  “Why do you suppose she wanted to call it off?” Bertie said, digging a fork into her salad and stabbing several green leafs.

  “That’s what I wondered,” I said. “So I hung around after she’d dismissed me and guess who comes driving up her driveway right after I left?”

  Bertie chewed a mouthful of salad and just shrugged and shook her head.

  “Duncan Davenport,” I said, taking a bit of my sandwich.

  Bertie swallowed, took a drink from her water glass and said, “Kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “The very guy she thinks killed her husband shows up at her house and there they are talking just as cordially as you please. What could he possibly have said to her to cause such a turnaround as that?”

  “So, where do I come in?” Bertie said. “Why did you need to see me?”

  “Because,” I said pointing a finger at Bertie, “I need to get together with some of Davenport’s Hollywood clients and I figured if you could introduce me to them, it could save me a lot of time and effort. Whaddya say?”

  “But why would you even want to take this to the next step?” Bertie said, her brow furrowing. “I mean, you’re off the case, so why bother?”

  “You know,” I said, “the best way to get me to dig deeper into any case is to try to get me off the case once I’ve started. Now it’s a matter of personal curiosity. Besides, I told Sergeant Hollister I’d help him out on another killing that I think could be connected to Ernie Williams’ death.”

  I took another bite of my sandwich.

  “Do you have a list of Davenport’s clients?” Bertie said.

  I reached into my coat pocket and produced a hand written list and passed it across the table to her. “Do you see anyone on there that you could connect me with?” I said.

  Bertie scanned the list and handed it back to me. “Almost all of them.”

  I spread my hands. “So? Can you arrange a meeting?”

  “Just one?” she said, taking another forkful of salad.

  “One should do it,” I said. “I thought maybe we could get four of five of them up to my office and compare notes for starters.”

  “Hoping to find out what?” Bertie said.

  “I’m not sure at this point,” I said. “I just thought I could rattle a few cages and see what shakes loose. Can you arrange it for me?”

  Bertie hesitated before concluding, “You’re gonna owe me big time. You know that.”

  I nodded and smiled. “And I’ll even pay for lunch.”

  “Terrific,” she said. “A whole salad. That won’t break you, will it?”

  “Like you said,” I told her, “I don’t have a paying client any more, do I?”

  “I’ll make a few calls,” Bertie said, “and get back to you.”

  I dug a business card from my shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Call me here when you have something. You’re a doll, Bertie.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, rising from the table.

  I threw enough money down on the table to cover the lunch and tip and walked Bertie back outside.

  “You need a lift?” I said.

  Before she could answer, a long, black Lincoln pulled up in front of the restaurant and the rear door opened, as if on cue. Bertie smiled and stepped into the back seat, closing the door behind her. The back window rolled down and she stuck her head out.

  “One of the perks of my job,” she said as the car pulled away.

  I drove back to my office and pulled my notes from the library out of my coat pocket and laid them out on my desk. I wasn’t sure why I should try to make sense of this whole matter or why I should even care if my client didn’t, but I had nothing else going on right now and I had to keep busy, even if only for myself. A couple of hours later and I was so tired I couldn’t see straight. I decided that whatever else there was to uncover about this case could wait until tomorrow. I left all the notes laying right there on my desk and locked up.

  I slid into my Olds and paused, not sure where I wanted to go. I sat there for a few more seconds when my passenger door opened and a familiar face slid in beside me.

  “Drive,” the voice said.

  Without responding, I yanked the shifter down into first gear and pulled away from the curb.

  “Mind telling me where we’re going?” I said.

  “Just drive,” the voice said. “I’ll let you know when to turn.”

  I drove on for a few more blocks.

  “Turn right here,” the voice said.

  I turned, but could no longer remain quiet. “Look,” I said impatiently, “either tell me where we’re going or get out.” I pulled the car to a stop and swiveled in my seat toward my passenger.

  Bernice Williams turned toward me. “I suppose you want an explanation. Well, I guess you’re entitled.”

  I pursed my lips, nodded and waited for more.

  Bernice took a deep breath and exhaled s
lowly. “You probably want to know why I dropped the case, don’t you? Can’t say that I blame you.”

  “It had crossed my mind,” I said.

  “Ernie and I were only married for little more than a year when he was killed,” Bernice said. “I know that may seem like a long time, but in a whole lifetime, that’s just the blink of an eye. Know what I mean? Anyway, I loved him and all, but I will get on with my life.”

  “What about the justice you wanted?” I said. “Duncan Davenport is looking more and more like your husband’s murderer. Don’t you want to see him brought to justice? And there’s the business end of it. Now that Ernie is gone, the business belongs to you.”

  “And Duncan,” Bernice said. “He still owns half.”

  “And it’s beginning to look like he embezzled a big chunk of the assets,” I said, “and then tried to cover it up by killing, or having Ernie killed. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

  “Yes, it does,” she said.

  “And there’s Davenport himself,” I said. “I saw him at hour house the day you fired me. What was that all about?”

  “You saw that?” She said surprised.

  “I’m a trained sleuth,” I said. “It’s my business to know. Did he threaten you if you wouldn’t lay off the case?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “He had called me earlier that day and asked if he could come out and see me. Said he had news about Ernie and the business.”

  Over my shoulder I heard a tapping on my driver’s side window. I turned to see a uniformed patrolman, his knuckles dancing on the glass. I rolled the window down and turned toward him.

  “Let’s move it along,” he said. “There’s no parking in this block, can’t you read?” He pointed to a sign on a post just ten feet in front of where I’d stopped.

  I nodded dismissively and said, “Sure thing.” I pulled the shifter down, looked over my left shoulder and pulled away.

  “Well,” I said, trying to pick up the conversation where we’d left off, “what did Davenport have to say?”