by Bill Bernico
“Well, good luck with your search,” Scott said. “I hope you find the guy and toss his sorry ass in jail.”
Elliott held the list up. “Hopefully he’s on this list. I’ll let you know if we catch him. Thanks again, Scott.” He and Matt returned to the car and checked the list again. The closest registered owner of an older Lincoln sedan had an address listed in Beverly Hills. Matt drove, while Elliott plugged in Matt’s GPS screen and punched in the coordinates. He occasionally checked the screen, telling Matt where to turn.
The address on the printout was for a house on Almont Drive. As Matt pulled up in front of the yellow stucco house he could see an old Lincoln sedan parked in the driveway, behind an ornate wrought iron gate. Matt parked at the curb and he and Elliott got out to take a closer look at the car. It was a black sedan with suicide doors and wide white wall tires. The two of them let themselves into the gate closer to the front door, walked up to the stoop and rang the bell.
A middle-aged man in a smoking jacket answered the door, a folded newspaper in one hand. “Yes?” he said. “May I help you?”
It was Elliott who spoke up. “We were just riding past and saw your Lincoln in the driveway.” He hiked a thumb at Matt and added, “We’re a couple of car guys and we were just wondering if the Lincoln was for sale.”
The man thought about it for a moment and said, “That would depend.”
“On what?” Matt said from behind Elliott.
“On whether you’re looking to drive it or fix it up,” the man said. “That one looks good, but it still doesn’t run. All it needs is…”
“Thank you,” Elliott said and turned to leave.
“I’d make you a very attractive price on it,” the man said to their backs.
“Thank you, but no. We’re looking for something we can drive,” Elliott said, letting himself and Matt out through the front gate.
Back in the car, Elliott crossed this name off his list and looked at the other two highlighted names and addresses. He looked over at Matt and said, “Head south. The next one is in Culver City. Just start driving. I’ll punch in the address and let you know where to go.” Elliott pressed the address into Matt’s GPS and waited for it to update itself before announcing, “Catch Robertson and take it south to Jefferson. When you get to Jefferson, I’ll tell you where to go from there.”
As they drove south toward Culver City Matt said, “Does Mom ever say whether or not she misses being in the business since I took over?”
Elliott swiveled in his seat to face Matt. “Whatever would make you ask a thing like that?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “She used to be pretty active in the P.I. business for a lot of years. I just wondered if she ever missed it or asked to help out.”
“Let me ask you something, Matt,” Elliott said. “I remember when you were younger; you used to like to ride your bike on that obstacle course in the park. You know, up and down the ramps, around in circles on just the front tire, trick riding with your friends. Do you miss that?”
“No,” Matt said offhandedly. “I outgrew that years ago and…” Suddenly he got the connection and looked over at his father. “Mom outgrew being a private eye? But that’s not like being a kid who outgrew his bike riding.”
“It’s more similar than you might realize,” Elliott said. “Life isn’t one long journey. It’s a series of short journeys strung together. Let me give you an example. Years after The Beatles broke up someone asked John Lennon when they were going to get back together. He asked the interviewer when he was going back to high school and the interviewer said that he wasn’t, that he’d moved on to other things and that high school was behind him.”
Matt nodded. “I get it,” he said. “You think someday I’ll outgrow wanting to be a private eye?”
“It’s called retirement,” Elliott explained. “Someday I’ll want to retire and turn the business over to you, and someday you’ll probably want to do the same. It’s all part of that long journey. Right now your mother is enjoying her free time at home and with her grandchildren. Oh sure, she makes noises every now and then like she’d like to get back into it briefly. But all I have to do is tell her I need her for a week straight on a tough case, and she finds all kinds of excuses why she can’t. She just wants to know the option is there.”
“I see,” Matt said. “And just when are you planning to retire and leave me holding the bag?”
“I didn’t think you considered this job to be holding any bag,” Elliott said. “I thought you liked your work.”
“I do,” Matt said. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the job and part of that is working with you. What kind of fun would it be on my own?”
“Again, I know where you’re coming from,” Elliott said. “When my father had his first heart attack and couldn’t work for a few months, I thought the business was going to fold and then I put the ad in the paper for temporary help and, well, you know the rest of the story.”
“Yeah, Mom answered the ad.”
“That’s right,” Elliott said. “And look how that turned out. So, if and when the day comes that I feel the need to retire, just put out your feelers and another partner will come along and ride with you on the next part of your journey. See?”
“But…”
“Turn here,” Elliott said. “Take Jefferson east down to Hayden Avenue and then turn left.”
Matt turned south onto Hayden Avenue. Elliott pointed to a large warehouse on his right and said, “Does this area look at all familiar?”
Matt glanced around at his surroundings and shook his head. “Nope, should it?”
“Think back fifty years,” Elliott said.
“You mean think back twenty-five years before I was born?” Matt said.
“Never mind,” Elliott said. “I’ll think back fifty years. Where that warehouse is standing now is where the Mayberry courthouse once stood.”
“The Mayberry courthouse?”
“Well, at least the façade of the Mayberry courthouse,” Elliott explained. “This used to be the RKO Desilu backlot then. They filmed The Andy Griffith Show right here.” Elliott pointed across the street at another structure that looked more like an office building. “Walker’s Drug Store stood about there.”
“That takes one hell of a vivid imagination to see Mayberry among all this,” Matt said. “So what are we doing here, giving your brain a shot of nostalgia?”
“Not quite,” Elliott explained. “The second address on the list is on this street. Keep going a little further.” At the end of the block Elliott spotted a company sigh with just three initials. “Turn in here,” he told Matt.
They parked in the lot and got out. Elliott looked all around him and then turned back to Matt. “Do you know where we’re standing now?” he said.
“No,” Matt said, “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“We’re standing on the very spot where Tara once stood.”
“Tara?”
Scarlett O’Hara’s mansion in Gone With The Wind. It stood on this end of the RKO lot right about where we’re standing.”
Matt snapped his fingers. “Damn, and me without my camera,” he said sarcastically.
Elliott ignored him and checked the address with the one on his printout. The address listed belonged to the company with the three initials and it also listed an individual’s name next to it. Elliott and Matt walked into the office and tapped the bell on the counter. A woman came out of a back room and smiled when she saw the two men standing there.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” she said in a pleasant voice.
“Yes,” Elliott said, glancing at his list. “We’re looking for a Mr. Denning. Is he here?”
“Mr. Denning is out of the country at the moment,” the woman explained. “He won’t be back for another week or so. Can anyone else help you?”
“Can you tell me if Mr. Denning still owns the 1966 Lincoln sedan?” Elliott said.
“Oh yes,” she said.
“That’s his pride and joy. He babies that car and never lets anyone else drive it. He’s very fussy about that car.”
“When did you say he left town?” Matt said.
The woman looked in her appointment book and then back up at Matt. “Ten days ago. But if you’re thinking about buying the car, it’s not for sale. We’ve had quite a few people stop by here and ask if it was for sale, but Mr. Denning just won’t part with it.”
“Thanks you for your help,” Elliott said. “Sorry to have bothered you.” He and Matt returned to their car and Elliott looked at the last of the highlighted names on his printout. Without further comment, he punched the third address into the GPS and when the refreshed screen appeared, he told Matt to go back they way they’d come and head west.
“You know where to pick up Normandie going north?” Elliott said.
“Hey,” Matt said. “If I wasn’t a private eye, I could have been a cab driver. I know this whole county like the back of my hand. That’s why I told Chris I didn’t need that GPS thing.”
“But you kept it anyway,” Elliott said.
“Well, you gotta keep the peace,” Matt explained. Half an hour later Matt turned north onto Normandie and followed it north to the Hollywood Freeway. He turned toward his father and said, “You will tell me when I have to turn, won’t you?”
Elliott gestured ahead of him. “Just keep going,” he said. “Your turn won’t be coming up for another mile or so.”
“How about you just give me the address and then you can sit back and take a nap?” Matt said.
“Okay, Mr. cab driver,” Elliott said. “Find the fourteen hundred block of Normandie and let me know when you get there.”
“Fourteen hundred block,” Matt said. “That would put us somewhere between Sunset and Fountain.”
Elliott clapped three short claps. “Very good. Let me know when you get there.” Elliott settled back into the folds of his seat and closed his eyes.
Three quarters of an hour later Matt glided to a stop in mid-block and shook Elliott’s shoulder. “We’re here,” Matt said.
Elliott sat upright and looked at his surroundings and then back at his printout. “Take a left at the next corner,” he told Matt.
Matt turned west on DeLongpre and halfway down the block Elliott told him to turn into the parking lot and stop. “Right there,” Elliott said. “See it?” He pointed at a long, black Lincoln sedan parked farther down the row.
Matt stopped behind the car and the two of them got out for a closer look. They each walked around one side of the car, giving it a close inspection. “Over here, Dad,” Matt said and pointed into the back window when Elliott came around to his side. “Take a look in there.”
In the back, on the floor, Elliott could see what Matt was so excited about. It was a small, one-gallon red plastic gas can with the spout still attached. Elliott stepped away from the car and walked around to the back to make a note of the license plate number. He returned to where Matt stood and said, “Let’s go see if this guy’s home, shall we?”
The two of them walked around to the front of the Lincoln, heading toward the entrance to the apartment building. Matt stopped and turned toward the car. “Look at that,” he said, pointing to a foot-long scrape on the left front fender. “This has to be the car.”
Elliott and Matt walked to the front of the apartment building and stepped just inside the lobby. They were facing a battery of mailboxes, each with a name tag on it identifying the occupant of that apartment.
“Where do we start?” Matt said.
Elliott pointed to a door opposite the mailboxes. “We’ll start with the manager,” he said and knocked on the door.
The door opened and a man in slacks and a tee shirt stood there with three day stubble on his face. “We ain’t go not vacancies,” he said and began to close the door again.
Elliott held the door with his hand until the man peeked around it again, this time his face showing a bit of anger. “Look,” he said. “I told you there ain’t no apartments for rent here so go bother someone else, will you?”
Elliott held up his badge and I.D. card, careful to obscure the part that identified him as a private investigator. He held it up long enough for the manager to get a quick glance at the badge before folding it closed and dropping it back into his pocket. “I can talk to you here or I can talk to you downtown,” he told the manager.
“Oh, for Christ sake, come on in,” the manager said. “What is it this time?”
“I can see you’re no stranger to trouble, are you?” Elliott said, letting himself into the apartment. Matt followed close behind. “Can I have your name?”
“Clifford,” the manager said. “Doug Clifford, and no, I ain’t the drummer for that old rock band, either.”
Elliott jotted his name in his notepad and said, “I’m looking for the owner of that old black Lincoln sedan parked in the lot. Records tells me that he lives here. Now who is he?”
Clifford pulled a small journal off the shelf and laid it on the kitchen counter. He opened it to a page near the middle and ran a finger down the column. “Leroy Jacobs,” he told Elliott. “Lives in number twelve on the far end of the building.”
“Describe the man,” Elliott said, pulling out a notepad and pen.
Clifford took a deep breath and began with, “He’s about your height, maybe a little shorter, but stockier.”
“How old would you say he is?” Matt added.
“Probably late twenties, early thirties,” the manager offered.
“What about his hair?” Elliott said.
“He’s got plenty of it,” Clifford said.
“No, I mean what color is it?” Elliott said.
“Red,” Clifford said. “Almost as red as that guy who was on that CSI: Miami show. I forget his name.”
“David Caruso,” Matt said, filling in the blank for Clifford.
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“Would he be home now?” Elliott said.
“Should be,” Clifford said. “He just got here ten minutes ago and he made enough noise to raise the dead when he come in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clifford,” Elliott said. “We’re going to pay Mr. Jacobs a visit now and I wouldn’t try calling to warn him if I were you.”
Clifford held up two hands, palms out. “Not me, brother. I mind my own business. You can take him away for all I care.”
Elliott and Matt left Clifford’s apartment and soft-footed down the hall to apartment number twelve. They each took up a position on either side of the door before Elliott knocked on it with the barrel of his .38. Matt had his gun down by his side. They could hear someone moving around inside and a moment later the apartment door opened, revealing a man with a full head of red hair.
“Leroy Jacobs?” Elliott said, stepping into the doorway and producing his badge.
Jacobs backed up into the apartment, a quizzical look playing on his face. “What do you guys want?” he said. “I ain’t done nothin’.”
“Is that your Lincoln sedan in the parking lot?” Matt said, still holding his gun at his side.
Jacobs looked back and forth between Elliott and Matt before offering. “Yeah, that’s my car. So what?”
“Anyone but you drive it lately?” Matt said.
“What are you getting at?” Jacobs said.
Elliott stepped up to Jacobs, almost nose to nose. “He asked you if anyone else had driven your car lately. Now, unless you want to spend the next seventy-two hours in the lockup, I’d suggest you cooperate with us. Now, for the last time, did anyone else drive that care recently?”
Jacobs let out his breath. “Sonny had it earlier this week for a while, but he brought it right back again.”
“How do you know Sonny?” Matt said. “And what’s his real name?”
Jacobs wiped his sweating upper lip. “I know Sonny from work. He and I both work at the same car wash on Santa Monica.”
“And what is Sonny’s real name?” Matt repeated.
“I don’t know,” Jacobs said. “I only know him as Sonny.”
“And you let someone you barely know use your car?” Elliott said.
“I didn’t exactly let him use it,” Jacobs explained. “I left my keys on the kitchen counter and he must have taken them when he left here. I didn’t notice until after he was gone that my keys were missing. But like I said, he was back here with it right away and even offered to pay me for the gas he used.”
“Speaking of gas,” Matt said. “Why do you have a one gallon gas can in your back seat?”
“I don’t,” Jacobs said. “It might be Sonny’s, but I don’t even own a gas can.”
“Didn’t you smell it when you drove the car?” Elliott said.
“I ain’t left the apartment in the last three days,” Jacobs said. “I ain’t feeling too good lately.”
Matt stepped around to face Jacobs directly. “Where does this Sonny live?”
“Beats me,” Jacobs said. “I never been to his place and he never said.”
“If you wanted to get in touch with Sonny, how would you do it?” Matt said.
Jacobs’ eyebrows furrowed. “I’d just call him, like anyone would,” he said, as if the answer was obvious.
“Suppose you call him now and tell him to come over right away?” Elliott said.
“What do I use for a reason?” Jacobs said.
“I don’t know,” Elliott said. “Make something up. Tell him you’re still not feeling good and you’d like him to drive to the store to pick something up for you. Tell him he can use your car for the next few days if he’ll do this favor for you.”
Jacobs glanced back and forth between Elliott and Matt again before agreeing to call Sonny. He picked up a cell phone from the kitchen counter, flipped it open and dialed the number. A few seconds later he said, “Sonny, it’s Leroy. Look, I still ain’t feelin’ worth a damn. Could you pick up a few things for me at the store? You can use my car. Yeah. No, I need it right away. Look, if you’ll do this for me, I’ll let you borrow the car until I’m feeling better again. Gee, thanks. You’re a pal. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Jacobs closed his phone and laid it back on the counter.
