by Bill Bernico
Andy and the two cops rushed out to the road in front of the salvage yard and found two cars that had nearly merged as one. Steam shot out of the hood of one of the cars and the other glowed yellow from underneath. One of the cops directed traffic away from the mess while the other helped Andy pull the drivers out from the wreckage.
Simmons sneaked away from the scene and raced back to the crane. He quickly lowered the giant magnet onto the crushed block of metal and lifted it off the ground, swinging it to the other side of the crane. Then he replaced that block with a different block, setting it down in the same place before killing the crane’s engine and climbing back down from the cab. Simmons hurried back out to the street, making believe he’d been there the whole time.
Butler and Cunningham suddenly appeared on the accident scene, looking surprised but not overly concerned. After all, they’d seen both of these cars before parked just inside the salvage yard fence only minutes earlier. The two drivers were two of Simmons’ other employees, playing the part of accident victims. The time it took the two officers to pull the two drivers out of the cars and onto the curb, gave Simmons time to switch the crushed car cubes.
Red Butler hopped into the company tow truck and pulled the two cars off the street and back into the salvage yard while Leroy Cunningham began sweeping broken glass from the surface of the street. The area was cleared by the time Eric returned with the flatbed truck. He drove it into the yard and positioned it next to the crane. Simmons walked back to the yard with Butler and Cunningham. Eric summoned all three over and instructed Cunningham to get back into the crane and lift that mass of metal onto Eric’s flatbed truck. Cunningham did as he was told while Butler and Simmons helped strap the metal mass down to the flatbed’s frame.
At that point, Bud walked up to Eric. “Have you seen Elliott?” Bud said. “He was supposed to go to the office and bring someone back to take a window out of a car for me.”
Eric shook his head. “I just got back here myself,” he said. “Why don’t you ask these guys?”
Simmons stepped up. “You looking for your friend?” he said.
“Yeah,” Bud said. “I sent him back here to get a mechanic to come take a window out of a Toyota for me and he didn’t come back.”
“Sorry,” Simmons said. “That was my fault. He came to the office and told me about you and said to tell you he had to leave. Said something about going back into town. I just forgot to send a guy out to meet you, you know, with the excitement of the accident and all.”
“What accident?” Eric and Bud said, almost in unison.
“We had a fender bender out on the street a few minutes ago,” Simmons said. “No one was hurt, I guess, but I got involved with that and just forgot to tell you about your friend leaving.”
An alarm went off in Bud’s head. He turned to Simmons. “Did he say where he was going?” Bud said.
“Nope,” Simmons said. “Just that he had to get back to town.”
“How’d he leave?” Bud said.
“He drove,” Simmons said. “He told me he’d be back for you later.”
Bud fingered his car keys in his pocket. Elliott couldn’t have driven away. He played along, stalling for time. “Thanks,” he told Simmons. He walked Eric back to the flatbed and pulled him aside.
“What is it, Bud?” Eric said.
“Elliott couldn’t have driven away,” Bud said. “I drove and he came with me. I have the car keys. I don’t know why, but Simmons is lying and maybe Elliott is in trouble.”
“Let’s see if we can get Simmons back into his office,” Eric said. “Keep an eye on him and see that he doesn’t go near his gun.”
Eric turned and walked back to where Simmons was talking to the two officers. “Excuse me,” Eric said to the officers. “I need to talk to Mr. Simmons.” He pulled Simmons aside and said, “I need to see the paperwork on that Toyota that’s sitting on my flatbed. Let’s go back to your office for a minute.”
Simmons thought about stalling, but decided it would be better to just give the cop what he wanted and send him on his way. They walked back to the office, Bud following close behind. When they got inside, Simmons went behind the counter again and stopped in front of a filing cabinet. He pulled the top drawer open, fished around for a few seconds and then pulled out what looked like a car title stapled to several other forms. He turned and stepped toward Eric. Before he got to the counter, Simmons dropped the papers and stooped to get them. As his hand reached for the Smith and Wesson under the counter, Bud grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away. Bud scooped up the .357 Magnum and held it out of Simmons’ reach. “Is this what you were trying to get at?” Bud said, now pointing the gun at Simmons. “Where’s Elliott?”
“Who?” Simmons said, playing innocent, and not very convincingly, either.
A stamping sound came from a back room and Eric and Bud exchanged glances. Eric turned to Simmons, his own .38 now trained on the man. “Watch him, Bud,” Eric said, walking behind the counter and into the back area. There he found another closed door. It was locked but he could hear more scuffling sounds coming from inside. Eric stepped back and put his shoulder into the door. It gave way and Eric found himself in another darkened room. He found the light switch and flicked it on.
Eric found me, still bound to the chair, my mouth gagged. Eric holstered his .38 and rushed to my side. He yanked the duct tape from my mouth and pulled the rag out. I immediately spit residue from the dirty rag onto the floor.
“Eric,” I said. “I heard everything and they got the jump on me. They did it, all right. The victim’s name is Jake something or other. Simmons is the guy behind all of this.”
“Are you all right, Elliott?” Eric said.
“I’m going to need a couple of bottles of mouth wash to get that oily rag taste out of my mouth,” I said. “But, yeah, I’ll be okay.”
Eric walked me out into the office. I stopped in front of Simmons and gave him the back of my hand across his face. “Hell of a racket you got going here,” I said. “You either killed Jake or you know who did and I’m guessing that this isn’t the first time you’ve disposed of a body in the crusher. And by the time that cube of metal goes into the furnace, there’d be nothing left of whoever got crushed inside the cube. How am I doing so far, Simmons?”
Simmons didn’t answer. He was still rubbing his cheek where I’d slapped him.
I turned to Eric. “Grab Butler and Cunningham,” I said. “They’re in on it, too. Hell, maybe this whole place is in on it.”
Eric and Bud walked Simmons back to the yard while I checked the filing cabinet for evidence. I found a manila folder in the back of all the other files. The folder held a dozen or more titles to cars and trucks. Unlike the titles in the other drawers that had SALVAGE stamped on their faces, these all had one thing in common. They had SCRAPPED stamped across the face of the title along with a handwritten notation in red. It said, ‘Special Handling’ beneath the stamped word. I can imagine what that meant.
By the time I returned to the yard with the manila folder, Eric and the two officers were leading Simmons, Butler and Cunningham in cuffs back to the black and white patrol car at the curb. Eric called in to the precinct for more backup and then walked over to where Andy was still examining the two crash victims. He stayed with them until backup arrived and then cuffed both of the drivers as well. All five men were transported to the precinct for booking.
Eric returned to the flatbed truck, taking a closer look at the cube up on the truck. “What is it, Eric?” I said, stepping up next to him.
“This cube isn’t dripping blood anymore,” he said. “I think I’m getting a picture of what happened here while I was gone. That accident out front was probably staged to get the two officers and Andy away from this area while Cunningham made his way back here to switch cubes on us. Look around. I’ll bet the first cube is still here, within reach of the crane.”
Bud and I spread out and found the first cube almost immediately. “O
ver here, Eric,” Bud said. “This has to be the one. Look at that little puddle of blood next to it. And I can still see traces of the blue paint from that Toyota. I’ll bet if you take a closer look at the cube on the truck, you’ll probably see a different color.”
“Good grief,” Eric said. “It’s going to take a month to sort out this mess. Would you both stop in at the precinct early tomorrow? I need to get statements from both of you. I have to get going if I’m going to be in on the interrogation of those five dirt bags. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“We’ll be there,” I said as Eric got into his cruiser and drove away. I turned back to Bud. “Still want that window?”
“Sure,” Bud said. “But they carted all the mechanics away.”
“How hard can it be?” I said. “Look, they even left their toolbox lying here. Pick it up and we’ll take that window out ourselves. And the best part is, after you get it out, you won’t have to stop at the office and pay for it. This one will be on the house, so to speak.”
“That’s all the incentive I need,” Bud said, picking up the toolbox and walking back to the aisle where he’d found the Toyota sedan.
It took us the better part of an hour to dismantle the inside of the door panel, unscrew the parts holding the window glass in place and extract the glass. Bud handed me the glass panel and began packing up the tools. “What are you doing?” I said. “Leave ‘em lay. They’re not your tools.”
Bud realized what he was doing, looked at the tools in his hand and threw them onto the floor of the Toyota. “Yeah,” he said. “I want to get back and install this glass before something happens to it.”
“You want to do that all tonight, yet?” I said. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? After all, tomorrow is another day.”
Bud rolled his eyes but then had to laugh. I laughed with him, thankful for all that useless movie trivia floating around inside my head.
113 - Eight Grand Down The Toilet
It was Bud’s day off and business was slow. I hadn’t had a new client in several days and I was beginning to wonder if I might be wise to diversify and take on a sideline, like maybe a hot dog stand or plumbing. Hell, I already had the van. How much could a monkey wrench cost? Since I had zero knowledge of either of those professions, I decided to just wait out the dry spell and hope for the best.
I was sitting with my feet up on my desk, reading the morning paper, when my office door opened and a man in a three-piece business suit walked in and stood just inside the door. We exchanged glances and I slid my feet of the desk and folded my paper.
“Good morning,” I said, standing now.
The man glanced at the painted lettering across the window that faced Hollywood Boulevard. “Private Investigations, huh?” he said. “That would make you Mr. Cooper, I assume.”
“You assume correctly, sir,” I said, stepping over to greet the man and extending my hand. “And you are?”
“Looking for an investigator I can trust,” he said.
I swept my hand across the front of my body, ending with a gesture toward my client’s chair. “Won’t you have a seat?” I said. “And maybe we can talk about how I can assist you today.”
The man sat, unbuttoning his coat before sitting and pulling up on the pleats on his pants. I sat behind my desk, pulled out my yellow legal pad and pencil and laid them in front of me. “So,” I said, “How did you come to choose my business, sir?” I said.
“I found you in the yellow pages,” he explained.
“And you felt like you wanted to hire me based on my phone book ad?” I said. “I would think you’d want to know something about me and my company before entrusting your problems to me.”
“I think I know enough about you to make an informed decision,” the man said.
“Really?” I said. “You could tell what kind of man I am by the five lines in a small box ad?”
“Mr. Cooper,” he said. “You don’t think for a minute that I’d randomly pick your name from the phone book and leave it at that, do you?”
“Well, I,” I started to say.
“Your name is Elliott Clayton Cooper,” the man said in a monotone voice. “You’re thirty-four years old, married with two children, Matthew and Olivia. Your wife is the former Gloria Campbell, a former private eye herself. Your father, Clay ran this business before you and his father, Matt ran it before him. Cooper Investigations has been in business in this same office since 1946. Your grandfather, Matt, was an L.A. cop before he opened this business and a Chicago cop before coming to California. How am I doing so far?”
“I, uh,” I stuttered.
“Matt Cooper died in 2002 and Clay ten years later,” he said. “You have strong ties to the Los Angeles Police Department and your success rate for cases you take is an impressive ninety-three percent. Is that enough information for you?”
“What did I have for breakfast yesterday?” I said, semi-sarcastically.
“Oatmeal and toast,” he said without missing a beat.
It wasn’t the correct answer, but I still gave him points for spontaneity. “All right,” I said. “So you know almost everything there is to know about me. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I still don’t even know your name.”
“J. Taylor Wentworth,” the man said. “And for now that will have to do until we talk a little about whether or not I want to confide in you.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Wentworth,” I said. “How do you want to work this? Shall I ask you a series of questions, like a game show, hoping to find out what I need from you in bits and pieces, or would you rather just tell me all at once?”
“Mr. Cooper,” Wentworth said, “I don’t consider levity an admirable trait. What I have is serious business that needs to be taken seriously. Am I clear, Mr. Cooper?”
“Crystal,” I said. “Now how about we stop all this dancing around the bushes and get right to the heart of your problem, Mr. Wentworth. Just what is it you want from me?”
Wentworth sat erect in the chair and straightened what he presumed to be a crooked tie around his throat. “Mr. Cooper,” Wentworth said in that no-nonsense voice of his, “I would like you to come and work for me at Wentworth Industries.”
I held up a palm. “Let me stop you right there, Mr. Wentworth,” I said. “I’m perfectly happy right here, carrying on the family business. I have no desire to stand at a punch press making widgets eight hours a day, fifty weeks a year.”
“Well,” Wentworth interrupted, “You wouldn’t really be an employee of mine. I would just like you to assume the role of an employee. I believe the term you would use is undercover.”
“Oh,” I said. “And just why would I be doing this? You think maybe an employee of yours might be pilfering widgets?”
Wentworth sighed. “No, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “What I’d want you to do is to get close to the other employees. Make yourself one of the guys, so to speak. Gain their trust and find out what they’re saying about me and my company. And, of course, I’d want to know if any of them is divulging company secrets.”
“Paranoid?” I said, not caring one way or the other if I got his business.
“Call it what you will, Mr. Cooper,” Wentworth said. “But it is imperative that I get certain information and this seems to be the only way. Are you interested in the job, or not? If not, just say so and I’ll find another operative. If you are, well, then, tell me and we’ll set the wheels in motion.”
There has to be more to this than you’re telling me,” I said. “Do you really care what your employees think of you or your company? And as far as company secrets go, I think the whole world already knows what makes a toilet work. They’ve operated pretty much unchanged since they were invented. You do your business in the bowl and water flushes it away. As far as I know, they still work like that. No secret there.”
“You’re very astute,” Mr. Cooper. “Actually there is another matter that needs attention, but I don’t want to put ideas in your head in the event that they
are just rumors. If what I suspect is true, you’ll find out soon enough and I’m sure you’ll know what it is when you come across it. That’s all I can say about it at this time.”
“And just how soon would you expect me to start this undercover job, Mr. Wentworth?” I said. “After all, I do have a partner and if I’m going to be away from the office for an extended period, I’d have to make arrangements with him to be here.”
“I was thinking you could start tomorrow morning,” Wentworth said. “And as for your partner, Mr. Burke is not to know about any of these arrangements. I insist on the strictest of confidentiality. I can’t take any chances that our arrangement plans would fall into the wrong hands.”
“I think we can trust Bud,” I said. “After all, he used to be…”
“A sergeant with the Burbank Police Department, I know,” Wentworth said. “I still don’t want this conversation going any further than the two of us, do you understand?”
“And if I decide not to take this job?” I said.
“I think you’ll take it,” Wentworth said. “Your usual fee is two hundred dollars a day plus expenses. I’ll double that. How does fifty dollars an hour for your time strike you?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “Fifty dollars an hour times two thousand eighty hours a year, that comes to an annual paycheck of right around a hundred four thousand dollars a year. Hmmm.”
“Sounds ideal,” Wentworth said, “But you won’t be there a year. I figure you should be able to weasel your way into that crowd within a month or less. Four weeks at two thousand dollars a week would mean an eight thousand dollar paycheck for your services. That would buy a lot of toys for Matt and dog food for Daisy, wouldn’t it?”
My eyes furrowed.
“That’s right,” Wentworth said. “I even know about your dog, Daisy. I am thorough, if nothing else. That’s how I’ve amassed my fortune, by knowing all there is to know about anyone I hire. So, do we have a deal, Mr. Cooper?”
“Eight thousand dollars,” I said. “Doesn’t sound like there’s any incentive for me to get the information you need faster than a month, is there? I mean, I get you what you need in two weeks, I’d be cutting my own throat to tell you before the month is up, wouldn’t I?”