by Bill Bernico
“Where else would I be?” Dean said. “Your dad and I go way back.”
“I know,” I said. “And I appreciate you being here.”
“What are you going to do about the business?” Dean said.
I knew I could probably run the investigations business alone, but Dad had been very helpful during those times when it took a minimum of two people to get the job done. “I should be all right by myself for a while,” I said. “I can always bring in some temporary help if I need it. I’ll get someone to stay with Dad as long as he needs it.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Dean said.
Forty minutes later Dean and I entered Dad’s hospital room. He was sitting up in bed, an oxygen tube running around his head and under his nose. His color had come back and he looked a lot healthier that he had an hour ago. Dean and I approached the bed.
“How you doing, old man?” Dean said.
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” he said. “I feel fine.”
“Dad,” I said. “You had a heart attack.”
“Is that all?” Dad said. “Hell, for a minute there I thought it was something serious.”
“Clay,” Dean said, “You have to take this more seriously. You could have died.”
“But I didn’t,” Dad said. “It takes more than some old myocardial infarction to keep me down.”
“Still,” I said. “You’re going to have to change your ways if you want to dance at your granddaughter’s wedding.”
“What granddaughter?” Dad said. “You’re not even married yet.”
“Still,” I said, “someday you may have a granddaughter and you’ll certainly want to be there for the wedding, so you’d better take care of yourself. And I’m going to see to it that you do.”
“Bully,” Dad said, and then winked at me. “Oh, all right, I’m in your hands.”
“That’s more like it,” I said.
Dean and I stayed at Dad’s bedside for another half hour before the nurse came in and told us we’d have to leave. She reminded us that Dad needed his rest. We agreed, said goodbye to Dad and left the room.
Out in the hall Dean turned to me and said, “I have to get back to the office, but you be sure and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“I will,” I said. “And thanks for coming down.”
Dean drove back to the precinct and I drove back to my office. I sat behind my desk and suddenly the room seemed very empty without Dad there. I’d spent many a day alone in this office while Dad was off doing something else, but today there was a void that seemed to echo off the walls in this little office.
When Dad was released from the hospital after three days of observation, I hired a woman to stay with him at my house. She made sure he didn’t exert himself and saw to it that he ate properly and had everything he needed. For the next two weeks, I continued running the P.I. business alone and found it harder and harder to do certain tasks by myself. I decided that I’d put an ad in the paper to try to find some temporary help.
The ad had been running for two days without any responses. On the third day, my phone still had not rung but I did get a knock on my office door.
“Come in,” I said from my chair.
The door opened and a good-looking woman, perhaps thirty, came in carrying a manila folder and a folded newspaper under her arm. She closed the door behind her and I got up to meet her.
“Elliott Cooper,” I said, extending my hand.
“Gloria Campbell,” she said, shaking my hand.
“Won’t you have a seat?” I said, pointing to my client’s chair.
Gloria sat and folded her hands in her lap, the paper and the folder beneath them.
I sat behind my desk and took out my yellow legal pad and pencil. “So what kind of problem can I help you with today, Mrs. Campbell?” I said.
“It’s Miss Campbell,” Gloria said.
“All right,” I said. “What kind of problems brought you to Cooper Investigations today?”
Gloria gave me a strange look and then picked up the paper. “I don’t need a private investigator,” she said, laying the paper in front of me, open to my help wanted ad. “I’m here about the job you advertised in the Times. It says here you need some help for a while.”
I set my pencil down and sat up straight. “I’m sorry, Miss Campbell,” I said. “I probably should have been more specific with the ad. I don’t need a secretary. I’m looking for some temporary help with the investigations part of my business.”
“Yes,” Gloria said. “And I’m applying for it.”
“But I need a P.I.,” I said.
“I am one,” Gloria said, pulling her wallet from her purse and flipping it open to her P.I. license and identification card.
I looked them over and then up at Gloria, who was smiling now.
“You?” I said, somewhat taken by surprise.
Gloria nodded and softly said, “Me.”
“But…” I said.
“But you’re looking for a man,” Gloria said. “Is that it?”
“Well, I…” I said.
“Well, what?” Gloria said. “I’m licensed and qualified, in some cases better than any man. I’ll bet you’ve had cases where a woman could have gotten information that a man couldn’t. I’ll bet a woman could get into some places that a man couldn’t. And I’ll bet a woman works better as half an undercover couple than two men, unless you’re working undercover in San Francisco. Am I right?”
“I, uh…” I said. “I guess there’s something to what you say, but…”
“But you think I can’t handle myself like a man can,” she said. “Is that it? Well, let me assure you that I not only completed a course on the pistol range, I finished second in my class for marksmanship. I have a black belt in Tai-Kwon-Do and I can take down men twice my size. I’m professional and discreet and experienced.”
I pursed my lips, at a loss for words.
“And if that’s not enough,” Gloria said, “I’m a master at make-up and disguises. So, Mr. Cooper, what other objection might you have to hiring a woman?”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “I only have the one bathroom?” I said, pointing to my office bathroom and trying to lighten the tone.
“Seriously,” Gloria said.
“None, I guess,” I said. “But if you have all these qualifications and a license and skills, why haven’t you opened your own investigation business?”
Gloria’s head dropped and she sighed. “I was in one with my father, until he was shot and killed last month. The business kind of fell apart after Dad died and I didn’t have enough collateral to get a loan from the bank to keep the business going without him.”
I remembered reading about one of my colleagues being killed not too long ago. The dime rolled toward the slot and dropped. “Was your dad by any chance Ross Campbell?”
Gloria nodded. “That’s Dad, or that was Dad,” she said.
She had my attention now. “I knew him, somewhat,” I said. “I think I met him at one of the P.I. conventions in Las Vegas a couple of years ago. I didn’t see you there, though. I think I’d have remembered you.”
“Dad went alone,” Gloria explained. “I had to stay here and keep the business going while he was gone.”
“Your dad was one of our major competitors,” I said. “More than once I’d lost a client to him.”
“And he mentioned your name more than once,” she said. “You ended up with some of our clients, too, so I guess it all came out even.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “So tell me, did you have to close up the office after Ross died?”
“Just last week,” Gloria said. “I tied up the almost all of Dad’s loose ends and locked the place up for the last time. It was strange not going in any more after all those years. I really miss it and I want to get back into it. So, Mr. Cooper, maybe we can help each other out here. What do you think?”
Without an
swering, I picked up my phone and dialed a number I’d become familiar with recently. “Hello,” I said, “This is Elliott Cooper from Cooper Investigations. Yes, I’d like to cancel my help want ad. Thank you. Just send me the bill.”
I hung up the phone and winked at Gloria. “All right,” I said. “We’ll give it a try.”
I stood up, as did Gloria. She extended her hand and said, “So, when would you like me to start?”
“Tomorrow morning?” I said.
“I was thinking more like right now,” Gloria said.
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” I said.
“It would be just another wasted day otherwise,” Gloria said. “So what can I do to get started?”
I didn’t have any cases pending and couldn’t really come up with anything for Gloria to do at the moment. “I’m afraid I don’t have a case right now,” I said, “but…”
Gloria handed me the folder she’d been carrying. “Maybe you could take on this case,” she said. “It’s the case Dad was working on when he died. He never got to finish it, but I swore that I would.”
I took the folder from her and opened it. Inside I found several photos and some other papers and forms. I sat back down behind my desk and took a closer look at the contents of the folder. A few minutes later, I looked up at Gloria, her face full of hope.
“Can you get your client to transfer this case to us here at Cooper Investigations?” I said.
Gloria reached into folder and produced a legal form that had been signed by the client. She handed it to me. “I already did that,” she said sheepishly.
I took the form from her and said, “You were pretty certain that I’d hire you, weren’t you?”
She just smiled and nodded.
I had everything I needed to begin on this case, or should I say to finish the case Gloria and her dad had already started. “All right,” I said. “Fill me in on what’s already been done so we don’t duplicate efforts.”
By the time Gloria explained everything that had already been done, I nodded, impressed with the professional steps that she’d already taken. Her case involved a man with a stolen guitar. The report went on to state that the owner did not want the police involved and all he wanted was his guitar returned to him.
I looked at Gloria. “What was so special about this particular guitar?” I said.
“He didn’t want to tell me at first,” Gloria said. “He was very evasive about details and just wanted Dad and me to find the guitar and get it back to him. Later, after Dad was killed, he confessed to me that the guitar that was stolen was a fake, a copy of the original. He said he’d sold the original and put the fake in its place, hoping the wife wouldn’t know the difference.”
“So it was the wife’s guitar?” I said.
“Right,” Gloria said. “Apparently her father had passed it down to her before he died and told her to put it away in a safe place.”
“Okay,” I said. “If it’s a fake, it can’t be worth much, so what’s the big deal with getting it back?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I got it. I snapped my fingers. “He had the original insured for big bucks,” I said. “And he doesn’t want the insurance company coming down on him when this fake one’s recovered, right?”
Gloria nodded. “He insured the original 1959 Gibson ES-335 for thirty thousand dollars.”
“Gees,” I said. “I had no idea guitars commanded those kinds of prices.”
“And that’s not even the most expensive one out there,” Gloria said. “If there’s a celebrity connection, that same guitar could bring five times that much.”
“See,” I said. “Even I can learn something new. So what happened to this woman’s guitar?”
A few years after she got it from her dad, the husband was hurting for money. He sold the original and replaced it with a Chinese knockoff that looked identical. He even went to great pains to have the same serial number branded onto the back of the headstock so it would match. At a glance, the thing could pass for the original, but anyone who knows anything about vintage Gibsons could tell in a minute that it wasn’t the real deal. He was counting on the fact that his wife wouldn’t know the difference.”
“If I understand you,” I said, “this guy just wants to recover the fake Gibson and cancel his claim with the insurance company before they find it and have him thrown in jail for insurance fraud, right?”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” Gloria said. “He also doesn’t want his wife to find out that he switched guitars.”
“And this whole thing was important enough for someone to kill your father over?” I said.
“Oh no,” Gloria said. “He wasn’t shot because of this case. He was in a bar one night when a man came in and tried to hold the place up. Dad pulled his .38 and told the guy to drop his gun. The guy just fired anyway and hit Dad in the chest. The guy got away with thirteen dollars and half a bottle of beer that was sitting on the bar. He also took one of Dad’s bullets in his thigh. The cops caught him an hour later and he went down shooting.”
“I’m so sorry about your dad, Gloria,” I said. “Sounds totally senseless to me, but then aren’t all killings?”
“A classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Gloria said.
“All right,” I said. “So getting back to this guy and his missing guitar, have you come up with anything yet?”
Gloria looked at me. “I’ve put out a few feelers and checked some of the resale sites on the web. I have my computer set to alert me if something like this comes up for sale. I’ve also checked the ads in the paper under Musical Instruments and I’ve asked my contact at The Times to let me know if anyone places an ad for such a guitar. I’m constantly monitoring the trade magazines for ads in them. It’s not as likely that I’ll find one there, since the readers of those magazines would be a lot more knowledgeable than the average person on the street. It would be harder to pass off a fake to that crowd. No, he’d have to try to sell it to a collector just starting out who might not know all the things to look for when buying a vintage guitar.”
“So where does that leave us?” I said. “I mean, what can we do at this point?”
“Keep looking,” Gloria said.
“Have you suggested to your client that he buy another Chinese knockoff and have the same serial number put on that one and just forget the whole case?”
“I did,” Gloria said, “but the big name guitar manufacturers came down hard on the Chinese factories since then and they no longer produce copies. At least, if they are, they’re not selling them online or through the trades.”
Well then,” I said, “it looks like we may have to take a pro-active stance and advertise that we want one and see who crawls out of the woodwork.”
“Way ahead of you, Mr. Cooper,” Gloria said.
I stopped her right there. “If we’re going to work together,” I said, “you’re going to have to call me Elliott. Even my dad doesn’t like to be called Mr. Cooper. His dad was Mr. Cooper.”
“Very well, Elliott,” Gloria said. “And please call me Gloria.”
I gave one quick nod. “Okay,” I said. “Now that that’s out of the way, go on with what you were saying.”
“I said I’m way ahead of you, Elliott,” Gloria said. “I took out several ads in the newspapers, trade magazines and several places online. I’m just waiting for responses from anyone.”
“Have you thought about ads offering a reward for information about this guitar?” I said. “Some people might not be musicians but might know of someone who knows someone.”
Gloria retrieved a pen from her purse and flipped open a notepad and jotted down my suggestion. “I’m on it,” she said, and then looked at the folded laptop on my desk. “You have Internet access with that?” she said, pointing to my laptop.
I looked over at the laptop and then at Gloria. “Sure,” I said. “You need to look at something?” I passed the laptop over to her.
Gloria flipped it open and clic
ked on the Internet icon on the desktop. “I just wanted to check my e-mail and see if anyone responded to my inquiries yet,” she said. She opened her e-mail and found just one response. The heading of the e-mail said, ‘Gibson 335’. She opened the e-mail and read it aloud. “I may have what you’re looking for. The serial number on the one I have is S932101 and above that it says, Made in U.S.A. It is a vintage sunburst color and comes in a plush-lined case. Please contact me at…” and he gave his e-mail address at the end of the message.
“Bingo,” Gloria said. “Sounds like this is the guy who ended up with the fake Gibson,” Gloria said, typing in her response to the man. “Serial number checks out, even though that’s as phony as the guitar.”
I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk. “And you needed me because?” I said.
“I have to admit,” Gloria said, still typing on the laptop, “that they aren’t all this easy. Well, I don’t have to tell you that, now do I? We’re still going to have to negotiate the return of the guitar from this guy. As soon as he e-mails me back with an address or contact place, we can go and get the guitar.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I said. “So cut and dried.”
“Sometimes it can be,” she said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. If this guy knows what he has or if he gets wind of how bad we want it, it could get sticky.”
“What’s your client willing to pay for its return?” I said.
“He’s willing to go as high as a grand if necessary,” Gloria explained.
“And what’d he sell it for?” I asked, genuinely interested.
“He didn’t,” Gloria said. “This is the one that was stolen. He sold the original 1959 Gibson for twenty-eight five.”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s right,” I said. “You did say that the fake was stolen. I got the two guitars mixed up. So, what can we do in the meantime?”
“Are you hungry?” Gloria said, looking up at the wall clock.
It was almost one o’clock and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Yeah,” I said. “I could go for some lunch.”
“Great,” Gloria said. “How about if we walk over to The Copper Penny on the boulevard?” she said. “They make a mean BLT.”
