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

by Bill Bernico

  “Dad,” I said, “we’ve already told you that neither of us has mentioned anything to anybody about your book. Have you told anyone?”

  “Of course not,” Dad said. “Except…”

  “Except?” I said. “Dad, think. Who else would know what you’re writing?”

  “The only other person I mentioned anything to about this book was Dean Hollister,” Dad said. “He and I were having lunch a few weeks ago and I mentioned something about this project and all he said was that it sounded like it could be an interesting book when I finished it. And I told him that I’d been in contact with a publisher. That’s it.”

  “And where were you two when this lunchtime conversation took place?” I said.

  I could see Dad’s mind working overtime, trying to remember the facts surrounding his lunch with Dean. “If I remember,” he said, “we were sitting in a booth at the Copper Penny in Glendale. Yeah, that was it, the one over on Colorado Boulevard.”

  “A booth,” Gloria said. “I don’t suppose you remember if anyone was sitting in the booth behind you, do you?”

  “I see what you mean,” Dad said. “You think someone could have overheard us?”

  “It would only take one pair of ears,” I said. “And if that’s the case, that person could have told another and another and pretty soon a dozen people know about it. One of those people could be the caller. Had you mentioned anything about the files you’ve already taken material from?”

  “Hell, I don’t remember,” Dad said. “Ask me about what happened in 1971 and I can fill you in down to the last detail, but ask me about yesterday, and I draw a blank. I guess my short-term memory isn’t what it used to be. You could ask Dean. He might remember what we talked about.”

  I made myself a mental note to see Dean when we’d finished here and then turned back to the piles of folders on Dad’s dining room table. I picked up the thirty-eight files and divided them between Gloria and me and Dad. We took them into the living room and found a comfortable place to sit.

  “Would either of you like something to drink?” Dad said.

  “Pepsi?” I said.

  Dad pointed at me and then turned to Gloria.

  “Johnny Walker on the rocks?” Gloria said and then added, “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll bring the drinks in. You having the usual?”

  Dad nodded and said, “Make it a double.”

  I watched as Gloria walked to the kitchen and pulled a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. Then she made herself a Johnny Walker on the rocks and set that next to the Pepsi. What surprised me, though, was when she made Dad a double White Russian and carried all three drinks back into the living room. I wondered how she would know what Dad’s ‘usual’ drink was or where he kept his liquor.

  “Thanks,” Dad and I both said when Gloria handed us our drinks.

  We started in on our respective folders in silence, only speaking if any of us found something to share with the others. Partway into the third folder in my pile I held up a form and showed it to Dad. “What about him?” I said. “Looks like he ended up doing a six-year stretch in San Quentin.”

  Dad took the form from my hands and studied it. He handed it back to me. “Nope,” he said. “He got out after four years and became a minister. I guess he found Jesus in jail.”

  “And what was he in for?” Gloria said.

  “The guy or Jesus?” Dad said and then chuckled.

  Gloria gave him a playful tap on the shoulder and said, “The guy, of course, silly.”

  Dad smiled at Gloria and something passed between them that I couldn’t put my finger on, so I let it go.

  “He went in for grand theft auto,” Dad said. “Normally he’d have drawn a sentence of a year, maybe two, but the grand auto that he thefted belonged to a city alderman with no sense of humor.”

  “Thefted?” Gloria said. “Did you make that up?”

  “Guilty,” Dad said, raising one finger in the air.

  I was starting to get an uneasy feeling and I wasn’t even sure why. I tucked the form back in the folder and moved on.

  Gloria stopped mid-way though one of the folders on her lap and held a paper in front of Dad’s eyes. “Anything here?” she said.

  Dad took the paper from her, looked at the front and back and then handed it back. “Nope,” he said. “He’s dead. Been dead for a dozen years at least.” He turned his attention back to his own stack of folders and I noticed that his eyebrows furrowed when he stopped on a certain page.

  “What is it, Dad?” I said. “Did you find something?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dad said. “But this guy ended up losing his business after I’d finished my investigation on him. I even sat through his trial and if looks could kill, I’d have been pushing up daisies long ago. But if I recall, he moved out of town and started over in Denver a few months after he was fired from the company. I can’t imagine him still holding a grudge after, what is it, sixteen years?”

  “What about this company he had?” I said. “What kind of company was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “I think they had something to do with making instrument clusters for airplanes or something along those lines.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “I remember now. This guy was in line for a huge government contract. I guess they wanted him to provide the Air Force and the Navy with instrument clusters for all their planes. That was supposed to be a multi-million dollar contract.”

  “What happened?” Gloria said.

  “His partner hired me to tail this guy,” Dad said, flipping through the rest of that particular file. “Here we are. His name was John Phelps and his partner’s name was Edgar Root. Root is the one who hired me to find out what I could about Phelps. Root suspected that Phelps was embezzling funds from the company account but couldn’t prove it. I followed Phelps for three weeks before I could get the goods on him. Apparently he was channeling funds from the company to a personal account in another name. Root got most of the money back in exchange for immunity for Phelps, with the stipulation that Phelps resign and take nothing from the company with him. In other words, in order to stay out of jail, Root got everything and Phelps got nothing. Talk about bitter.”

  “But he brought it on himself,” I said. “What did he expect?”

  “Well,” Dad continued, “Phelps agreed to Root’s proposal but demanded that the details of the case remain sealed. He didn’t want details like that getting in the way of his starting another business. You know how banks are when it comes to financing business deals.”

  “And you think Phelps got wind that you were writing this alleged tell-all book and panicked?” Gloria said.

  “Makes sense,” Dad said. “He’d have a lot to lose if the book ever came out.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but he wouldn’t be mentioned by name, would he?”

  “Of course not,” Dad said. “But I wouldn’t have to fictionalize what kind of company I was writing about. I wouldn’t have to name the company, either, but it is kind of a specialty item that they make. It wouldn’t take an Einstein to figure out who I was talking about. All they’d have to do is put in a little time researching public records or talking to other parties who were involved. And when the truth got out, Phelps could kiss another business goodbye.”

  “So it looks like we’ll be starting this investigation with Phelps,” I said. “Does this mean we’re going to Denver?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dad said. “Chances are he’s back in town and that he’s watching me from someplace safe. How about if we start asking around town first? Gloria, would you check with some of the local banks to see if he has inquired about securing a loan for working capital? Elliott, I’d like you to check with the phone and utility companies. See if there are any new accounts in his name or any new company names. I’m going to have a talk with Dean Hollister over at the twelfth precinct. You kids go on ahead. I’m taking my own car.”

  I grabbed the Phelps folder and look
ed at Dad. “I’m taking the file,” I said. “I’ll make copies and get the originals back to you later today.” I turned to Gloria. “Let’s go find this bastard.”

  We left Dad sitting there in his living room and I drove Gloria back to the parking lot behind our office. On the way back I turned to her and said, “Gloria, how did you know what Dad’s usual drink was?”

  “Huh?” Gloria said.

  “Back at Dad’s house, you offered to get our drinks,” I said. “And you asked Dad if he wanted his usual. How would you know what his usual was?”

  “I don’t know,” Gloria said offhandedly. “He probably mentioned it someplace and I just remembered what it was.”

  “I thought of that,” I said. “But then how did you know where he kept his liquor?”

  “In the liquor cabinet,” Gloria said. “Isn’t that where you’d expect to find liquor? Say, what is this, some kind of third degree?”

  I held up one hand. “I’m just curious about how you knew both of those things, that’s all,” I said. “No need to get so defensive.”

  “Well,” Gloria said. “Your voice was a bit accusatory and I don’t like it.”

  “Forget I even mentioned it,” I said. I dropped her at her car and left again without further comment. I couldn’t let something like this cloud my judgment when I was supposed to be concentrating on finding whoever it was who was threatening Dad. There’d be plenty of time later for a more in-depth talk with Gloria.

  Gloria drove to the main branch of the Los Angeles Trust Bank downtown and was lucky enough to find a parking space almost in front of the building. She stuck a quarter in the meter and walked inside. It was a large bank in an older building that looked like it could have been held up by the likes of John Dillinger when it was new. Gloria walked up to the first open teller window she saw.

  “May I help you?” the teller said, showing a big smile.

  “Yes,” Gloria said. “Can you tell me who’s in charge here?”

  The teller thought for a moment and then said, “Our head teller is…”

  “Higher,” Gloria said. “I’m looking for a manager or a president, someone like that.”

  “You probably want to talk to Miss Chalmers,” the teller said. “Just turn around and her desk is straight across the room.” She pointed to a large desk behind a thigh-high partition of wooden spindles.

  “Thank you,” Gloria said, turning around and stepping up to the desk.

  Sitting behind the desk, Gloria found a middle-aged woman in a gray business suit, her hair tied up behind her head and a no-nonsense look on her face. The nameplate on her desk identified her as Anita Chalmers.

  “Excuse me,” Gloria said. “I asked for the person in charge here and the teller over there told me to come and talk to you. Are you the president of this bank?”

  “Not quite,” Chalmers said. “That would be Mr. Woodcock. I’m his personal secretary. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I really need to see Mr. Woodcock,” Gloria said. “It’s a confidential matter and it’s pretty urgent. Would you tell him I’m here and that I need just a few minutes of his time?”

  “He’s a very busy man,” Chalmers said. “Are you sure you can’t talk to me about it?”

  “Only if you can authorize my looking through your records,” Gloria said.

  “I’m not sure that even Mr. Woodcock could do that,” Chalmers said. “Confidentiality, you know.”

  Gloria pulled out the leather case holding her badge and I.D. and held it so Miss Chalmers could see it. “Someone’s life may depend on my request,” Gloria said. “Now would you at least tell him that I’m here?”

  Miss Chalmers held one finger up, turned around and knocked twice on the large mahogany door before opening it and stepping inside. She returned in less than a minute and nodded to Gloria.

  “Mr. Woodcock will see you now,” Chalmers said. “Right this way, please.”

  Miss Chalmers led Gloria into a large office with beautiful dark wood trim everywhere. In front of a large picture window Gloria saw the biggest desk she’d ever seen. She wondered how they even got it through the door she’d just entered. Chalmers gestured with an open hand toward Gloria and said, “Mr. Woodcock, this is Gloria Campbell from Cooper Investigations.” She turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Paul Woodcock stood and extended his hand to Gloria, who took it and gave it three short pumps. “Won’t you have a seat, Miss Campbell,” he said.

  Gloria sat in a plush leather chair facing Paul Woodcock’s desk and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  “So,” Woodcock said, taking his seat again, “I’m sure Miss Chalmers explained about our customers’ confidentiality. I don’t know how much information I can give you. What is it you’d like to know?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to see anyone’s records in particular,” Gloria said. “What I’d like to know is whether or not anyone or any company has come to any branch of this bank looking for an unusually large sum of working capital. You know, like a line of credit.”

  “And just why do you need that information?” Woodcock said suspiciously.

  Without naming Phelps, Gloria told Mr. Woodcock all the other details leading up to the threatening calls made to Clay. She explained how she and Clay and Elliott had narrowed the suspect down to just one man. Mr. Woodcock listened intently and waited until Gloria had finished before he spoke.

  “Miss, Campbell,” Woodcock said, “As long as no actual names are being revealed here, I think I can tell you that yes, we do have one business customer who has recently applied for a line of credit with our bank, but that’s all I can tell you. You understand, of course.

  “Of course,” Gloria said. “You’re just doing your job. Can you tell me how much the line of credit was that this business customer applied for?”

  Woodcock shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Campbell,” he said. “That part, I’m afraid, is confidential.”

  “Fair enough,” Gloria said. “By the way, Mr. Woodcock,” she said. “If our business, Cooper Investigations, wanted to apply for a line of credit, could you do that for us?”

  “Certainly,” Woodcock said. “How much would you need?”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t need any more than that last customer got,” Gloria said. “I’m sure we could squeak by with that amount.”

  “I’m sure you could,” Woodcock said, “but what would a private investigator need with five hundred thou…” Woodcock stopped in mid-sentence. He knew he had been had. He blushed and looked at the floor momentarily.

  Gloria held up both hands, palms toward Mr. Woodcock. “I didn’t hear anything,” she said. “And if I did, I would be sure to keep it in the strictest of confidences. Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Woodcock.” Gloria rose from her seat, nodded politely at Paul Woodcock and turned to leave.

  “Miss Campbell,” Woodcock said, “Thank you for your discretion. It could mean my job if that information got out.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Woodcock,” Gloria said, and then turned back toward the bank’s president. “You know, Mr. Woodcock,” she said. “As long as you’ve let this much of the proverbial cat out of the bag, and as long as I swear on your dead mother’s eyes that I’d never reveal…”

  “My mother’s very much alive, thank you,” Woodcock interrupted.

  “And as long as this is, as I’ve told you, a life and death matter,” Gloria continued. “I’m sure I could be persuaded to absolutely keep this to myself if…” She paused, though about the wording for the sentence to follow and continued. “If you could somehow let me know the name of this customer.”

  Woodcock shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Campbell,” he said, “but that’s where I draw the line. I can’t tell you the customer’s name and you know it.”

  “No, I guess you couldn’t,” Gloria said. “But you could leave the file open on your desk and then suddenly feel the urge to turn away and look out you
r window. That way, my lips would be sealed and you would not have told me the customer’s name. As far as you’re concerned, you have no idea how I got that information. On the other hand, if the information slips out of my mouth and the bank examiners would happen to ask me, well, I guess I’d have to tell them…”

  Paul Woodcock thought about his options for a moment and then cocked his ear toward the window. “Did you hear that?” he said, turning toward his window. “Sounded like a car accident.” He stared out the window, his back to Gloria and the file that lay open on his desk.

  Gloria leaned over Woodcock’s desk, saw the customer’s name, straightened back up and then joined Woodcock at the window. “I don’t see any car accident,” she said. “I’d better get going. Thanks for your time, Mr. Woodcock.”

  Without further comment from either of them, Gloria let herself out of Paul Woodcock’s office and walked straight back to her car.

  Clay parked in the parking lot behind the twelfth precinct and walked down the hallway that was so familiar to him. Dean wasn’t in his office so Clay roamed the adjacent halls, heading toward the front door. The desk sergeant recognized Clay.

  “Clay Cooper,” the sergeant said. “Good to see you again. How’s the old ticker?”

  Clay patted his chest. “Sound as a dollar,” he said and then realized that the economy was not in the best shape these days. “That is, sound as a Euro. They’re doing all right over there, aren’t they?”

  “Beats me,” the sergeant said. “I have enough trouble keeping track of where my paycheck goes every week. What’s up?”

  “I’m looking for Lieutenant Hollister,” Clay said. “Know where I can find him?”

  The desk sergeant glanced down at his duty roster and ran a finger down the page. “He should be in the lunch room,” he told Clay.

  Clay glanced at his watch. “Lunch at nine forty-five?” he said.

  “Special meeting,” the sergeant said. “It goes until ten, so if you want to hang around and wait for him, I’m sure it would be all right.”