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

by Bill Bernico

  Vacation be damned. I’d rather work a juicy case like this any day.

  The address on Felix Chamberlain’s mug shot card was a cheap hotel on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue. According to its cornerstone, the Hotel Rector had been built more than twenty years ago. For less than two dollars a day, Felix had a place to sleep, eat, put on his make-up, stuff his bra and get ready to walk the boulevard in search of his next trick.

  It didn’t take much to get past the desk clerk in the lobby. He was asleep in a chair that had been pushed up against the back wall. If someone wanted his attention, all they had to do was ring the bell on the desk. I saw no need to disturb him and headed directly for the stairs. Chamberlain’s room was on the second floor in the back. I pulled his room key out of my pocket and let myself in, closing and locking the door behind me.

  It wasn’t much of a room, but then it wasn’t much of a hotel. The room consisted on a Murphy bed that was still pulled down, a single sink with a tarnished mirror above it and a set of drawers. The view from out his window afforded a spectacular panorama of the alley between the hotel and another apartment building to the east. There was one small closet next to the bed. It held nothing but two sets of clothes; one side held women’s clothes and one side held men’s. At first glance you’d think a couple lived here. The floor of the closet held two sets of shoes to go with the clothes. There was also a shelf that stuck out over the hanging clothes. There was nothing on it but a few boxes and three purses. The boxes held only stockings, underwear and several wigs of different colors. The purses were all empty.

  I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed. Again the same nothing as everywhere else. I stood back up and leaned on the footboard, bouncing that end of the bed as I thought. I decided that I was getting nowhere hanging around here and decided to check elsewhere. Before I left the neatness gene in me kicked in and I lifted the bed, intending to close it behind the door where it was stored. When I got the bed upright I saw it, wedged between the mattress and the spring frame.

  I carefully extracted it from beneath the spring frame and turned it over. It was a photo of a woman—a real woman—who looked uncannily like Felix Chamberlain in drag. The only difference I could see was the absence of a protruding Adam’s apple in the throat. It was a head shot so I couldn’t see the rest of the body or the outfit she was wearing. I turned it over again, looking for any information about the woman in the picture. There was no person’s name on it, just the photography studio information. I closed the bed in behind the door and tucked the picture in my pocket. This particular studio was familiar to me and it wasn’t far from here.

  I drove south on Western a couple of blocks and turned right on Sunset. Three blocks west I pulled up to the curb in front of a place called Photogenesis. I entered a reception room and found no one there. On the counter sat a small chrome bell. I tapped it twice and waited. A few seconds later a man in a rubber apron emerged, pulling off black rubber gloves and untying his apron string.

  “May I help you?” he said politely.

  “Maybe you can,” I said, handing him one of my business cards. “My name’s Cooper, Matt Cooper. I was wondering if you could give me some information on this woman.” I fished the photo out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  He gave it a cursory look and then turned it over. When he saw his business name stamped on the back, he turned it over again and looked a little longer at the woman’s face. He shook his head and took a deep breath.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” he said. “I mean I know it’s from my studio, but I take so many of these for starlet wannabes and such. You understand.” He handed the photo back to me.

  I held it up toward him and asked again. “Would you take one more look at her?”

  He plucked the picture from my fingers and stared at it.

  “How about this?” I said. “Picture the same features, same hair style, same clothes and same make-up, only on a man.”

  Without moving his head, his eyes shifted from the picture to me. “Say, what is this, some kind of gag?” He handed the picture back to me. “I’m kinda busy here. I don’t have time for…”

  “No gag,” I said. “I’m looking into a matter for a client and the trail led me to a room at the Rector, a man’s room. Your photo was there and it made me wonder if you’d seen either her or a man dressed to look like her.” I turned the photo over and pointed to a series of four numbers and pointed to it. “What do these numbers represent?”

  He looked down at the numbers and then back up at me. “It’s a processing reference number. Hey, wait a minute. Maybe I can help you. Wait here just a second.”

  He pulled a curtain aside and stepped into some unseen room, returning after thirty or forty seconds. He had a slip of paper in his hands.

  “Here it is,” he said, holding the paper. “The photo belongs to a Felix Chamberlain. I remember now. This was a special order. He brought in this full-length shot of this woman and asked if I could blow it up and crop it into a head shot. Don’t ask me why. We get all kinds here.”

  “But you’ve never seen the woman before, is that right?” I said.

  “Sorry I can’t help you with that part,” he said. “You want this guy’s address?”

  I turned for the door. “No, but may I have that photo?”

  He handed it over and shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

  I was no further ahead than before I’d found the picture. As for the original full-length shot, hell, Felix could have cut it out of a magazine or it could have been the picture that came with a new picture frame. My guess was that the original picture represented the look that Felix wanted to copy for his female persona.

  I drove back up to Hollywood Boulevard and found a drug store a few blocks west. I parked in front of it and went inside to use the pay phone. I called Mary in records and asked if she still had Felix Chamberlain’s file handy.

  “Just the mug shot card, but it’s still here on my desk,” she said. “Haven’t had time to file it yet. Why?”

  “Do you have any information about where he worked,” I said.

  “Hold on a second, Matt,” Mary said. “Let me check something. I’ll be right back.” A minute or so later she returned to the phone and said, “You still there, Matt?”

  “Still here and still waiting,” I said. “What’d you find?”

  “I had to go back to his original folder. Looks like Chamberlain worked at an exclusive woman’s store in Beverly Hills. It’s a place called Mr. Beauregard’s on Rodeo Drive.”

  She gave me the address and the contact name from Felix’s file. “Thanks, Mary. What would I do without you?”

  “Let’s hope you never have to find out,” she said, chuckling.

  I hung up the phone and got back behind the wheel of my Chrysler. Beverly Hills was a pretty good drive from here. I wondered why Chamberlain would live so far away from his work.

  Forty minutes later I found Mr. Beauregard’s store and parked a few door down from it. The stores on this street had merchandise costing way more than I could ever afford. And chances are the items that they sold on Rodeo Drive were not much better quality-wise than a similar item sold out of the Army-Navy Surplus store in Hollywood. It was all in the buyer’s perception, apparently.

  Once inside the store I could see why the prices here were higher than everywhere else. They had to pay for all the fancy furnishings and ambiance. Customers here would never think of pulling anything off the rack and holding it up against themselves to make a decision. Oh no. They had high-class models that came to you and showed you what the clothes looked like walking around. The place stank of pretension.

  A young man in a tailored suit approached me with a worrisome look on his face. I guess he could tell by looking at me that I wasn’t one of the Beverly Hills elite with money to burn.

  “May I help you, sir?” the young man said.

  “Maybe you can. Is Mr. Beauregard in?”

  He l
ooked at me like I’d just stepped off a cattle boat. “I’m sorry,” he said bluntly. “There is no Mr. Beauregard. I’m Mr. Fishler. May I help you?”

  I looked puzzled and then looked up at a large neon sign that shone brightly with the store’s name before looking back at Fishler.

  He caught my drift and added, “There was a Mr. Beauregard many years ago but he died and his son sold the store to me with the understanding that I could keep the name. After all, people around here have become accustomed to shopping at Mr. Beauregard’s since the turn of the century. It was just good business practices to keep the name.”

  “So this is your store then?”

  He sighed. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “In so many word, I guess,” I said. “Well, then, could I have a few minutes of your time?”

  He twisted his wrist and checked the time on an expensive gold watch. “I have exactly two minutes so let’s make this fast. Follow me.”

  He walked me to an office in the back of the store and closed the door behind us. He gestured toward an overstuffed leather chair while he took a seat behind his mahogany desk. “Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

  I pulled the picture of Chamberlain as a man out of my pocket and handed it over to Fishler. “Did this man work here?”

  Fishler took the picture from my fingers, examined it and handed it back to me. “Don’t you mean does he work here? The answer is yes but it’s his day off. What’s this all about?”

  “Well,” I said, “It looks like you’ll have to advertise for more help. Mr. Chamberlain won’t be back.”

  “And why on earth not? Has he found employment elsewhere?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Fishler. He’s dead.”

  Fishler flinched in his seat. He was genuinely surprised with the news. “My word, what happened to him?”

  I twisted my wrist and looked at my stainless steel wristwatch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fishler, but my two minutes is up. Thank you for your time.” I got up to go and that made Fishler rise from his seat as well.

  “Please won’t you sit down, Mr.…I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”

  I handed him one of my cards. “It’s Cooper, Matt Cooper and I’m looking into Mr. Chamberlain’s death in co-operation with the Los Angeles police.”

  “Was he hit by a car or how did he die?”

  “It looks like murder,” I said. “And the trail leads here.”

  Fishler’s eyes widened. “Certainly you don’t think I had anything to do with his death, do you?”

  “I don’t know at this point. I’m just following leads and gathering information.” I remembered the woman’s photo that I found in Chamberlain’s room and handed it over to Fishler and waited for a response.

  “So you knew about Felix’s…” He took another look at the photo and looked up at me. “Wait a minute. This isn’t Felix. Who is this?”

  “So I knew about Felix’s what?” I said. “Exactly what was his job here, Mr. Fishler?”

  Fishler hesitated for a moment, not sure if he wanted to share what he knew with me.

  “He’s dead,” I said. “You won’t be betraying any confidentialities by tell me.”

  “I guess not,” Fishler said. “Felix was one of our models, like the one you saw when you came in. Our models wear the clothes that customers are considering for purchase. It gives them a better idea of how the garments will look on a person and not just on a hanger on a rack.

  “And what does that have to do with what you said about me knowing something about him?” I was growing impatient.

  Felix was a valuable employee in more ways than one,” Fishler said. “He could model the men’s line as well as the women’s and that meant one less person that I had to hire. And when you showed me this photo, well, I immediately thought of Felix modeling our women’s line. It looks just like the way he looked when he made himself up like that.”

  “But the woman is not someone you know. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s just a picture Felix looked at to get inspiration for his own make-up job. Sorry.” He handed the photo back to me.

  “Do you remember selling clothes like these to anyone lately?” I said.

  Fishler’s eyes shifted to mine with something akin to disgust. “Those clothes did not come from our line. You might try Sears or Penney’s”

  I rose from the chair and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fishler. I can show myself out.”

  I wasn’t even out the door when Fishler hit the button on his intercom. “Miss Atkins, would you get me the employment agency at once?”

  Another dead end, I thought. I got in my car and headed back toward Hollywood. My internal clock was telling me it must be close to lunchtime because my stomach began to rumble. I spotted a drive-in restaurant along the way and pulled my car into one of the stalls. A few seconds later a young lady in a short skirt and white blouse walked up to my window and took my order and then disappeared inside.

  As I sat there waiting for my order, a police car pulled into the stall on my left and the cop who was riding shotgun rolled his window down. I looked over at him.

  “Cooper,” Dan Hollister said. “I thought that was you. We saw you a few blocks back and followed you in here.”

  “I was just going to call you when I got back to my office,” I said.

  “Yeah? You find out anything on Chamberlain?”

  “Only that he kept a neat room at the Rector and where he worked, but so far nobody knows anything I can use.”

  “So now what?”

  I didn’t have time to answer him when his radio squawked. He held up one finger to halt my answer and listened.

  “Car eight, come in.”

  Hollister grabbed the microphone and pressed the button. “This is car eight, go ahead dispatch.”

  “Car eight, see the man about a shooting. Seven one three five Sunset Boulevard, code three.”

  “Car eight, copy that.” Hollister turned to me. “Gotta run, Matt.”

  The cop who was driving backed out of his space and pointed the patrol car toward the street. They sped away, the siren wailing.

  Without waiting for my order, I backed my Chrysler out and followed Dan as he sped up the street and turned onto Sunset. There was already another black and white there when we pulled up to the curb. Two officers were standing at the curb talking to a third man who appeared visibly shaken.

  Hollister walked up to the officers and asked, “What do we have here?”

  The cop gestured toward the sidewalk that led to a side door of the house they were standing in front of. On the three-step porch lay the body of a woman, her legs on the porch and the rest of her spilling down the steps. Her hands were out in front of her as if she’d tried to break her fall. It wouldn’t have helped. There was a large hole in her back.

  Hollister automatically pressed two fingers into the woman’s neck, looking for a pulse that wasn’t there. He looked back up at the cop.

  “You the first one on the scene?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You touch anything?”

  “No sir. This is how we found her.”

  “What about him?” Hollister said, pointing to the man that the cop had been talking to at the curb.

  “A neighbor,” the cop said. “He called this in and we met him at the curb.”

  “And what’s his story?” Hollister said.

  “Not much to tell. Says he heard a shot, looked out his window and saw the deceased lying right there where she is now and then called us.”

  I stepped around Hollister to get a better look at the victim. Hollister stopped me.

  “What are you doing, Cooper?”

  “Just wanna get a better look at her, Dan,” I said. “There’s something familiar about her, at least from what I can see from here.”

  Her head was on it side and I contorted my body so I could view her profile from another angle. She looked like someone I’d seen somewhere
but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Don’t move her until Walsh gets here,” Hollister said.

  As if on cue, Jack Walsh’s car pulled to a stop behind mine, and a moment later Jack was kneeling beside the woman’s body.

  “Well, the C.O.D. is obvious,” Walsh said, looking at the gaping hole in the woman’s back. “Another gunshot victim. I’d say late twenties, early thirties. She live here?”

  The cop nodded and turned his notepad around so Walsh could read what he’d written.

  “Let me see that, would you?” Hollister said, copying the information onto his own notepad. He turned to the cop again. “You find any I.D. on the victim? A purse, maybe?”

  The man who had been talking with the patrolman when we arrived overheard us and walked over to where we stood.

  “This is her house,” he said. “She usually carried a purse when I saw her. It should be here somewhere.”

  Hollister looked to Walsh and Walsh nodded. Hollister and Walsh gently moved the body to one side, revealing a small purse under the body. Hollister pulled it out from under her and laid her back down again. He rummaged through the purse and came up with a driver’s license.

  “Thelma Horn,” he said, reading from the license. “Twenty-nine.” He looked at Walsh, who shrugged.

  “Pretty good guess,” I told Walsh. I looked back at the body again and asked Walsh if we could turn her over again so I could get a better look at the face.

  “Can you wait a minute until my guys get here with the stretcher?” Walsh said.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Hollister fished out a door key and stepped over the body, slipping the key into the lock. The door opened and Hollister stepped inside with Walsh and me close behind. The door opened to the kitchen, which led to the dining room and eventually into the living room. There were artfully arranged statuettes on a shelf filled with other small knick-knacks. On the wall next to the front door hung a painting of a small boy in a straw hat, fishing off a covered bridge. A collie sat at the boy’s feet.