by Bill Bernico
“Follow me,” Willoughby said, walking toward a door marked, ‘Stairs’. The three of us followed Willoughby down to the basement and through another door that was caked with dust, except for a single palm print above the handle. Willoughby entered first and was met by two of his employees, who seemed to be standing guard over something unseen around the next corner.
One of the employees handed Willoughby his flashlight. The beam pointed down to a body on the floor. It was lying between two shelving units. The man was lying on his back, his lifeless eyes staring off into space. Next to the body lay an empty plastic water bottle.
“I take it this is Simon Lucas,” I said, gesturing toward the man on the floor.
Willoughby nodded and said, “After I talked with you three at the coffee shop, I came back here and ordered my people to make a thorough search of the entire place, just so I could say that I tried. Half an hour ago one of the employees found him right there, just like you see him now.”
“Did you touch anything?” Clay said, shining one of the other flashlights around the body.
Willoughby averted his eyes away from mine and looked down at the floor.
“All right,” Clay said. “What did you do?”
Willoughby pulled a small notebook from his pocket and held it up, but just out of my reach. When I reached for it, he pulled it back even further. “He did have the original formula with him,” Willoughby said. “He apparently came down here to die. I can’t imagine what he thought he’d accomplish, but that’s what he did.”
“How would you know that, Mr. Willoughby?” I said.
Willoughby produced another slip of paper, unfolded it and handed it to me. I read aloud from the paper:
George, I’ve lived with my mistake for nearly twenty years and I can’t do it anymore. I deserved more but I foolishly signed away my rights to the soda formula for peanuts while you got rich. I hope you’re satisfied now.
“It wasn’t signed,” Willoughby explained, “but he had it on him and it’s in his handwriting.”
Willoughby pulled a small brown plastic bottle from his pocket and handed it to me. It was a prescription for sleeping pills and it was dated three days ago. The prescription was for thirty pills and the bottle was empty. “I guess he took all his pills and just came down here to die alone, in the dark. If it hadn’t been for his hand print on the door, we might not have even thought to look in here. This room hasn’t been used for quite a few years.”
“How sad,” Gloria said.
“The worst part,” Willoughby said, “was that, as I told you earlier, I was willing to renegotiate his contract if he’d only come back and talked to me. It finally dawned on me that I owed most of my good luck and fortune to that man.”
“Looks like it’s a little late for that now,” I said. “You know you’re going to have to call the police in on this now, don’t you?”
“I know,” Willoughby said. “But I can’t have my formula out of my possession, even for an investigation like this. Can we keep that part out of it?”
“You have Lucas’s suicide note,” Clay said. “That should satisfy the authorities. They don’t need to know about the notebook with the formula.” Clay turned to me and Gloria. “Agreed?”
Gloria and I exchanged looks and then nodded in unison. “Agreed,” we both said.
Willoughby turned to me. “I guess you’ll need to talk to the police too, won’t you,” he said.
“Why?” I said. “All we did was talk to some of your competitors. We had nothing to do with finding the body. And don’t you think it would be better if we weren’t involved? Otherwise the police will want to know why we’re here and what we were doing. That won’t do you or your company any good at all. I think we’ll just be going now, if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Willoughby.”
“Can I send you a check for your services?” Willoughby said.
Clay shook his head. “That would leave a paper trail for you in case someone feels like digging into this whole mess. Probably better for you if you pay in cash.”
“Let’s go up to my office,” Willoughby said. “I’ll take care of your bill and call the police. You can be long gone before they arrive.”
“Works for me,” Clay said.
Willoughby looked at his two employees. “Stay right here until the police arrive,” he said. “And don’t touch anything.”
George Willoughby opened the wall safe in his office, counted forty hundred dollar bills and handed them to Dad. Dad counted it out and the quickly looked up at George Willoughby. “Is this a mistake? There’s four grand here?”
“Not enough?” Willoughby said.
“Too much,” Dad said. “I explained to you when we took this job what our normal rate was and this is about six times what was owed to us.”
“Your services are one thing,” Willoughby explained. “You discretion is another. I trust you will keep this entire incident to yourselves.”
“You can count on it,” Dad said, folding the bills and stuffing them into his pocket. “Any time we can be of service, please feel free to call on us.”
Willoughby was dialing the police even as we were leaving his office. We quickly left the building and slipped back into Dad’s car and drove back to the Pizza Hut for the other two cars. Gloria got into her car and drove back to the office, leaving Dad and me sitting in his car.
“Looks like we’re out of work again, son,” Dad said.
“That it does,” I said. “I suppose this means that we’ll be free to talk with Henry about the book. We should be able to finish with the interviews in another day or two.”
“I’ll give him a call and see if he wants to talk to the three of us this afternoon,” Dad said. “He’s probably still got the hotel room booked for the rest of this week. I’ll meet you back at the office.”
I slipped out of Dad’s car and drove my van north, back to our office on Hollywood Boulevard. Gloria was sitting at her desk eating cold pizza out of the box.
“You know,” Gloria said, “we ought to get a small microwave oven for the office. Cold pizza is not so appealing.”
“Put it on your list,” I said. “Next time we go shopping you can pick one out and I’ll bring it up here. I suppose we’ll need some kind of small table to put it on, too.”
Dad came in a few minutes later and looked down at the pizza box. “I almost forgot about that,” he said, reaching for a slice. He took a bite, chewed and said, “Have either of you called Henry Mandell to see if we can get a head start on the interviews this afternoon?”
“I’ll try him now,” I said, reaching for the phone on my desk.
Henry answered his cell phone and said, “Henry Mandell.”
“Henry,” I said. “It’s Elliott Cooper.”
“Yes, Elliott,” Henry said.
“Listen, Henry,” I said, “we finished the case we were on and have the rest of the afternoon free in case you’d like to get started on the final interviews.”
“You finished that case already?” Henry said. “You just started that this morning, didn’t you?”
“It took an unexpected twist,” I told Henry. “At any rate, we’re all free and at your disposal.”
“Splendid,” Henry said. “I’m in the office right now. I can meet you all back at the hotel in twenty minutes. Can you make it?”
“We’ll see you there,” I said and hung up the phone.
Within half an hour the three of us were sitting on the sofa in Henry’s hotel suite. He had moved the overstuffed chair across from us. He started the digital recorder and set it between us on the coffee table. Henry flipped several yellow pages over the top of his yellow pad and looked up at us. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to do something unusual to begin with, but this isn’t the way it will appear in the book. It’s purely for background information that I can refer to later. What I’d like to do is make a list of important dates and their significance for future reference. Let’s start with you, Clay. Could
you give me your father’s birth date?”
“Let me think,” Clay said. “Dad always told me that the easiest way to remember his birthday was to remember Jimmy Cagney’s birthday and add twelve years. So that would put dad at July 17, 1911.” Clay smiled, proud of himself for remembering.
Henry made a note of it on his pad and said, “And do you recall the date that he died?”
“That one’s cemented in my memory,” Clay said. “September 5, 2002.”
Henry jotted that date and description on his notepad and looked up at Clay again. “And your birthday?” Henry said.
“July 5, 1950,” Clay said.
Henry continued with his questions regarding dates and the three of us filled in the missing information for him. Henry turned to me this time and said, “So what happened with your case this morning? Is that something that could make for good reading in the book?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “The client pretty much solved it on his own and paid us for the little time we’d spent on it. Case closed, nothing exciting, nothing to report. Sorry.”
“That’s too bad, Henry said. “Suppose we go back and touch on some of your older cases? Would any of you like to jump in and get the ball rolling? And please, if any of you has something to add, just feel free to jump in and add what you remember. Clay, would you care to talk a little about your mother and that whole thing surrounding her death?”
“I don’t suppose it would hurt to air that part of my life again after all these years,” Clay said. “Hell, it was thirty-eight years ago. I was fifteen when it happened. Mom and Dad were walking home from the movies that night. They cut through the park and three guys jumped them. They left Dad for dead and killed Mom right there in the park. By the time Dad was well enough to leave the hospital, Mom had already been buried. That always bothered Dad that he wasn’t there for the funeral.”
“Not to be insensitive,” Henry said, “but that’s the kind of thing that sells movie tickets.”
“I think Dad would be proud to know that his legacy would live on in a film like this,” Clay said.
“So,” Henry said, “who has something interesting to add to the book?” He turned to Gloria. “I told you I’d get back to your part of this saga when all three of you were present. Now’s your chance to add to the book and movie.”
“Can I tell you a little about my father?” Gloria said.
Henry paused a moment and then said, “This project was supposed to follow the Cooper family tree, but go ahead. Let’s hear how it sounds. There may still be a place for your story if it’s relevant.”
“It’s relevant, all right,” Gloria said. “Especially the part of my father’s death. If he had not died, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you about it. I wouldn’t be part of Cooper Investigations and I wouldn’t be Elliott Cooper’s wife and the mother to the fourth generation Cooper to become a private eye.”
“That’s if he wants to follow in my footsteps,” I said.
“Right,” Gloria said. “Excuse me, Henry, I didn’t mean to sound so excitable or annoyed or however it was I sounded.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Gloria,” Henry said. “Please, go on with your story about your father.”
Gloria shifted in her seat on the sofa and then said, “Well, as you know, my father also had a private investigator business. And now that I think about it, if Matt does decide to get into the business when he’s old enough, that would mean that he has that kind of lineage from both parents, not just the Cooper side. Tell me that doesn’t spell audience appeal.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Henry said. “Please, tell me more.”
“Well,” Gloria said, “this was about three years ago. Dad and I had an office here in Hollywood and we’d had some modest success in the business. We were on a strange case, trying to find a stolen 1959 Gibson ES-335 guitar.”
“Didn’t you tell me that you and Elliott were on a case like that?” Henry said.
“Yes,” Gloria said. “It was the same case. If you remember, I had told you that Dad and I never got to finish that case and when Elliott hired me, I brought him the case and we took care of it. It was our first case together.”
Henry flipped though his pages and found Gloria’s initial reference to this case. “I do remember you telling me about that. Don’t know what I’d do without my notes and the digital recorder.”
“Anyway,” Gloria said, “Dad was shot and killed while we were on that case. Dad’s killer has never been found. You think something like that doesn’t eat away at me every day? It does, let me tell you.”
Henry snapped his fingers and pointed at Gloria. “A thought just occurred to me,” he said. “What if the three of you took up the search for Gloria’s father’s killer?”
“That would be a police matter,” Clay said. “Typically private investigators wouldn’t be involved in tracking down killers, unless…”
“Unless the police had given up,” I said. I turned to Gloria. “Do the police keep you updated on any progress they might make?”
“They called a few times,” Gloria said, “and some detective stopped by those first two months just to let me know they were still looking into it. But I haven’t heard a word now in almost three years. It crosses my mind every now and then, but I’ve been so busy with work and family that I just never pursued it.”
“Now keep in mind,” Henry said, “that I’m not necessarily talking about the three of you actually getting out there and finding this elusive killer. No, what I had in mind was talking a little artistic liberties and including such a story in the book and movie. That’s one more thing that the book-buying and movie-going public loves—happy endings. Would you mind if I had one of our ghost writers work up some sort of outline for a story like that which we could include in the Cooper story?”
“Can I get back to you on that?” Gloria said. “I’d like to think about it some more before I give you my answer.”
“Take a few days if you need it,” Henry said. “When we’re finished here today the ghost writer and the editor will probably be working off my notes and recordings for a month or more. Could you let me know by the end of the week?”
“I’ll have an answer for you one way or the other by Friday,” Gloria said.
“That’ll be great,” Henry said.
The three of us sat there for another ninety minutes answering questions, relaying stories and anecdotes about the investigation business. He provided Henry with all the dates and facts that he had asked for. It was coming up on five-thirty before we finally wrapped it up and thanked Henry for his time. He assured us that he’d be in touch if he needed any further clarification on any of the interviews. And he told Gloria that he’d check back with her by Friday for her answer.
Dad and Gloria and I left the hotel and all crawled into Dad’s sedan. He sat there for a moment, not starting the engine or saying anything to either of us. Then he turned to Gloria in the front seat next to him and said, “So what do you think?”
A frown played on Gloria’s face. “About what?” she said.
“About the three of us getting out there and looking for your father’s killer,” Clay said.
Gloria shot me a look and then stared at Dad. “Are you serious?” she said. “The police have given up. What do you think we’ll be able to do that they can’t?”
“All that aside,” Dad said, “what do you think about the idea itself? I mean, if there’s even the slightest chance that we can do it, would you be willing to give it a try and drag up some old feelings that you might not like?”
Gloria took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She slowly nodded her head. “Oh, if only we could find that son-of-a-bitch,” she said. “I owe Dad that much.”
Dad turned in his seat and looked back at me. “What about you, Elliott? Are you game? Wouldn’t you like to find Ross Campbell’s killer and be able to put the real story into the book and movie?”
“The thought
had crossed my mind when Henry talked about fabricating that part,” I said. “And we just did get that nice little windfall from George Willoughby to carry us through while we look for him. Count me in.”
“It’s settled then,” Dad said. “First thing tomorrow we start digging into the Campbell case. And one more thing just occurred to me.”
“What’s that, Dad,” I said.
“Dean Hollister would have still been the lieutenant when that case came across his desk,” Dad said. “I’ll just bet that didn’t sit well with him at all to have to retire and leave that case unsolved. I’ll bet he’d jump at the chance to join us in our search.”
“Give him a call,” Gloria said. “Ask if we can all stop by and see him.”
Dad fished his cell phone out of his coat and flipped it open. He found Dean’s home phone number in his address book and selected it. The phone rang twice before Dad heard the familiar voice he’d known most of his life.
“Hollister,” Dean said.
“Dean,” Dad said, “am I interrupting anything? Dinner? Your favorite TV show? Sex?”
“No, no and don’t I wish,” Dean said, laughing. “What’s new with you?”
“Are you decent right now?” Dad said. “I have a couple of people with me who’d like to see you, if you’re free.”
“Well,” Dean said, “I’m not free, but I am affordable. What did you have in mind?”
“I’m sitting here with Elliott and Gloria,” Dad said. “We were wondering if we could stop by and see you for a few minutes, if you’re not too busy.”
“I just have to slip into some pants and a shirt,” Dean said. “Sure, come on over. You do remember where I live, don’t you?”
“Has it been that long?” Dad said. “I didn’t mean to neglect you, buddy. We can be there in fifteen minutes. Go get those pants on.”
“See you then,” Dean said and hung up.
Dad folded his phone shut and turned to Gloria. “Let’s go see Dean,” he said, starting his car and pulling out into the traffic. We made it to Dean’s house in less than ten minutes. Dad hadn’t even had a chance to knock on Dean’s door when it swung open and Dean stared back at us, a wide smile playing on his face.