I jotted notes in my booklet and looked back at Vivian Holcomb. “You said you knew three of the victims, Mrs. Holcomb. Can you tell me about them?”
“I was coming to that,” she said. “When Dale and I met last December, we needed a random way to select other class members to be on the reunion committee. We were sitting in her living room with the yearbook open to the index. She pointed out to me that my name was eighteen places above hers and that we were both eighteen when we graduated so we decided to count up from my name another eighteen spaces and pick whoever was at that position in the index. It was Peter McMasters.”
“And you just kept selecting more committee members based on their names being eighteen places above the previous name?” I asked, trying to piece together the circumstances.
“Yes,” she answered, trying to keep her composure.
“How many members did you finally decide on, Mrs. Holcomb?”
“There were six of us altogether. Me, Dale, Peter, Bill Langley, Herb Jenkins and Bobby Hobart. Back in high school we decided we needed a dozen but after we picked the first six, that seemed like enough.”
I jotted more notes down and looked up at her. “Wait a minute. I got my invitation from Lila Stewart, that is, Lila Robinson. Her name wasn’t spaced eighteen from any of the other victims.”
“I know,” Vivian explained. “She was an afterthought. When we ran into each other in January, I told her about the reunion plans and she insisted on helping. She volunteered to mail the invitations.”
“Where does Michael Reinhart fit into all this?”
“Matt, there’s something about Michael that you ought to know,” she offered.
“Do you mean that thing with Rita Hargrove and the accident?”
She nodded.
“Dale told me all about it. Care to add anything?” I waited for a response.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Like why he’d want to see you all dead, for starters,” I said impatiently.
Vivian hesitated and looked to her husband for some sort of sign of approval before continuing. “Well, when Michael killed Rita . . . “
“So you think so, too.” I blurted out.
“Everybody did. That’s why when we got our committee together we all agreed that Michael Reinhart would not be getting an invitation to the reunion. Nobody liked him and we all still knew in our hearts that he’d killed Rita.” Her voice started to quiver and she paused.
I scratched my head and looked over my notes again. “Something doesn’t add up here. In the first place, could he have known that everybody else got an invitation and he didn’t? Second, would that be enough to drive him to this? And third, how would he know who was on this reunion committee?”
“Matt, Michael was disturbed enough before Rita died. After he killed her and nobody at school would have anything to do with him, he just snapped. He was in trouble with the law off and on for the next few years and became a really spooky guy, always keeping to himself. You know, a loner.”
“And the list of committee members?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Matt. He could have overheard it from any one of the members,” she guessed.
“Vivian,” I said, “There were a dozen names that fit the eighteen space pattern from your yearbook index. Ten of those people are dead, yet you say you only had six people on this reunion committee you formed.” I explained to her how the rest of the victims’ names fit the pattern.
“Maybe he knew about Dale and me and just kept picking names until he had his dozen. Hell, for all he knew there were going to be a dozen. Nobody updated him on our plans since high school.”
I rose from my seat and pocketed my note pad and pencil. “Sergeant Hollister is having your house watched until we catch this guy. You should be safe but if you hear or see anything suspicious, don’t hesitate to call us.”
I left there feeling like a Stradivarius. I was being played. Not so much by Vivian Holcomb but by Dale Peterson and my old flame, Lila Stewart.
For the next few days things seemed to quiet down and I got a chance to catch up on my paper work. I read everything I could find about each of the victims and the three surviving committee members. I also dug up all I could about the Rita Hargrove “accident.”
The lull in the action was short lived, though. April 3rd was a Thursday. I got a call from Dan Hollister. He wanted to see me in his office right away. “Our boy’s been spotted,” Dan said, pointing to the wall map in his office. “The Peterson woman called and said she thought she saw him following her into a store downtown this morning. She sounded pretty scared, Matt.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “What about Lila Stewart and Vivian Holcomb? Any word from them?”
“No. I’ve radioed dispatch to notify the patrol at the Stewart and Holcomb houses to look in on them. I’m waiting to hear back from them.”
Dan slid the filing cabinet drawer open and withdrew a folder. He sat behind his desk and opened it. I walked around behind his desk and looked over his shoulder at the contents of the folder. The top document included a picture of Michael Reinhart from his high school days. Under that was a more recent picture.
Dan didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular, rather he seemed to be passing the time, waiting for word from dispatch. I stopped peering over his shoulder and returned to my seat on the other side of Dan’s desk when the intercom buzzed. It was the desk sergeant relaying word from the squad car parked across the street from Lila Stewart’s house. Officer Burns had reported that everything there was normal and peaceful.
Ten more minutes passed and still no word from the car assigned to the Peterson house. Dan rose from his seat and motioned to me with his head.
“Trundle will be okay,” I assured him. “He’s probably in the house now and got carried away talking to Dale.”
“I hope you’re right, Matt. Officer Trundle is capable enough, but this Reinhart character’s clever. I should have assigned a pair of officers to each house.” Dan hung the red light from the rear view mirror and sped up, his siren wailing into the late afternoon air. I followed close behind in my Olds.
It took less than ten minutes to reach Peterson’s house. Dan pulled up in front, parking his car behind the black and white. It was unoccupied. We approached the house and knocked on the front door. No one answered. Dan motioned me around the back while he waited on the front stoop. We both entered the house about the same time. It was quiet. Too quiet.
Our paths crossed in the kitchen and still no sign of anyone. Dan checked the bedrooms downstairs and I quietly climbed the stairs to the second floor. With my .45 leading the way, I carefully opened each door, scanning the room side to side.
The bedrooms were empty and I needed only to check the bathroom. As I reached for the door knob, I heard a creaking sound behind me and whirled around, pointing my gun into the face I met.
“Easy, Matt,” Dan said.
“You wanna get yourself killed?” I shouted, shaking at what I’d almost done.
“There’s no one here,” Dan said.
I took a quick look in the upstairs bathroom and found it empty. “Upstairs is clean, too.” I holstered my weapon and followed Dan downstairs. “What the hell’s going on here, Dan? Where’s Trundle?”
“I don’t know. He checked in at 4:00 and everything was fine. Now it’s 6:30 and he and Peterson are gone. You tell me.”
We were about to leave when I noticed a door partially concealed behind another door that was standing open. “You check this one?” I asked Dan.
He looked back at me with a look that was his answer. We both drew our guns and opened the door. It lead down to the basement. I flipped the switch for the light over the stairway. It was still dark with only one other bulb at the far end of the basement.
Dan scoured one end and I checked the other. It was empty. Dan walked over to where I was standing. We looked at each other with wonder. As we were about to leave, something shiny on the floor caught
my eye. I bent down for a closer look. It was a ring, still attached to the finger on the hand that protruded ever so slightly from under the pile of coal in the coal bin.
Dan and I clawed at the lumps of coal, throwing them away from our discovery. When enough of the limb was uncovered, we could make out the pattern of blue cloth and we knew what the rest of the bundle would reveal. It was officer Trundle.
We took hold of the arm and pulled until the body emerged from under the black mess. With all the coal dust that covered him, officer Trundle was barely recognizable. He’d been shot once squarely between the eyes.
Dan and I rushed upstairs to the phone. Dan called the station and arranged for the detectives and lab crew to meet at the Peterson house. I had my own leads to follow and left Dan there.
The sun hung low in the sky and I had a feeling, a hunch I had to follow. Lookout Point sat high above the city in the Hollywood Hills. With any luck I could be there in a few minutes.
My Olds wound its way up the steep road to Lookout Point where lovers usually whiled away the evening hours in their cars. It was all but deserted tonight. I parked on the wide gravel shoulder and got out to look over the area. I appeared to be alone.
The parking area wound around a protruding stone face to another place where only the most ardent privacy seekers dared take their cars. It was a tight squeeze and maneuvering in this area was tricky. I looked over this area as well and had concluded that either no one was here or that I might be too late.
I turned back toward my car and began walking when a dim light caught my left eye. It was down the steep embankment about two hundred feet and barely noticeable among the trees and bushes. It was a car and the light I saw was from the broken tail light.
I looked around for some sort of path or foothold to lead me down to where the car came to rest. Before I could descend the hill, I heard a shuffling noise behind me. I whirled around with my .45 drawn, expecting trouble. What I saw were the satisfied faces of three women staring back at me. It was Dale Peterson, Lila Stewart and Vivian Holcomb.
Not sure what to think I was reluctant to holster my weapon. It was Lila who broke the silence. “Matthew, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask all three of you the same thing,” I asked, “but it’s pretty obvious once you piece it together.” I jerked my head in the direction of the wreck at the bottom of the ravine. “I take it that’s Michael Reinhart down there.” No one spoke. They just looked at each other, trying to decide which one would answer.
Lila stepped toward me, looking at my .45 with apprehension. “Put that thing away, Matt. We’re not criminals.”
I slowly deposited my gun in its receptacle and waited for her to continue.
“I mean, it’s not like he didn’t have it coming,” she said. “Look at all the misery he’s already caused.”
Vivian took her place alongside Lila and added, “Matt, if Lila and I hadn’t come along, Dale would have been next.”
Matt looked to Dale for a response. “Yeah, just what did happen at your house? Hollister and I found officer Trundle there, shot dead. How is it you managed to come out of it with your life?”
Dale breathed in with interrupted, convulsed breaths, trying not to cry as she spoke. “When he broke in I just ran. I hid upstairs and I could hear him fighting with officer Trundle in the living room. A few seconds later I heard a shot. I was so scared.”
“That’s about the time Lila and I got there,” Vivian said, filling in the gaps. “Dale called me and told me what she knew and what was happening. I called Lila and when we all got done comparing stories we knew what we had to do.”
Lila jumped in, “Vivian and I drove over to Dale’s house and were just walking up the front walk when we heard the shot. We crouched at the window and looked in and saw Michael Reinhart dragging that poor officer down the basement steps. The front door wasn’t locked and when we saw him go upstairs we went in.”
“Are you out of your minds?” I said. “This guy could have wiped all three of you out and not blinked an eye. What were you thinking?”
“We were thinking that Dale was next unless we did something right then,” Vivian said. “Lila stood under the stairway to the second floor while I made a noise in the living room. A few seconds later Michael stood at the top of the stairs staring down at the front door. He had his gun out in front of him and started to come down the stairs.”
Lila jumped in with her portion of what happened next. “When he got down to where I was hiding, about ten steps from the bottom, I just reached between the rails on the stairway and grabbed his ankle and he tumbled the rest of the way down. Vivian grabbed his gun while I smacked him in the head with my shoe.” She sounded almost proud of her accomplishments and showed it in her expression.
Dale had composed herself enough at this point to help finish the story. “When I heard Lila and Vivian calling out to me, I ran to the stairway and there they were, sitting on top of Michael.”
“And the three of you managed to drive him out here in his own car,” I said.
“Yes,” Dale replied. “He was out cold the whole trip. We parked his car at the edge of the cliff and put him behind the wheel. We released the hand brake and put the car in gear. Vivian and Lila got behind the car and braced themselves. Before they gave it a shove, I slapped Michael in the face and he came to just long enough for me to spit in his face and tell him ‘good riddance’.”
“One last shove and it was all over but the crying,” Vivian added. “And believe me, he cried all the way down.”
“So you don’t even know if he’s dead yet,” I said. “And you were all going to just walk away?”
“Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Cooper?” Dale said. “Just like he did to Rita twenty years ago today.”
I pondered the idea for a few seconds. I admit I had to smile at the thought of Reinhart’s fate. “And just what do you think will happen to you three now?” I added.
“What do you think should happen to us, Matt?” Lila asked, looking to me for sympathy.
“You’re going to leave it on my shoulders, are you?” I asked, looking at the three faces. I thought for a minute and looked over the cliff and then back at the women. “I know what I should do,” I said.
The three women looked at me, waiting for a sign, a smile, anything. Their eyes widened in terror as I pulled my .45 from its holster and aimed it in their direction. I squeezed off three rounds in rapid succession. The women winced and squinted their eyes closed, waiting to feel the slugs tear into them. After what seemed like an eternity, they all opened their eyes and looked at me. My .45 was still pointing in their direction, smoking.
Their surprised faces quickly shifted from me to the pile behind them. It was Michael Reinhart. He’d somehow managed to survive the tumble down the ravine and had crawled back to the parking area, his face and hands bloody from the crash and the climb. In his right hand he clutched a revolver.
“I don’t suppose any of you bothered checking his glove compartment,” I said.
“Oops,” was all any of them could think to say.
I holstered my .45 and held my arms out in a big semicircle. The three of them gathered in tightly and we hugged hard. It was as if they didn’t ever want to let go.
I released them and stepped back, “see you all at the reunion?”
06 - Cold Cash
I figured today to be just another slow Saturday. I figured wrong. Sunlight fell across a corner of my office and slowly slid down the wall. I sat with my feet outstretched on top of my desk, leaning back in my wooden swivel chair. I had my fingers locked behind my head. My eyes were fixed on my guest across the room. He was short with brown eyes and a friendly face. He was the quiet type. He looked back at me and neither of us said a word.
I watched as he walked back and forth, nervously sizing up the room. He was having trouble settling down and didn’t want to sit. He paced some more. I had a snack sitting out and he edged closer to it with every
step, circling it, not sure if he wanted some.
“Go on,” I said, almost in a whisper, “Help yourself.”
He paced some more, cautiously moving closer. He smelled it briefly and took a bite. SNAP!
“Gottcha, you little bastard,” I said, a defiant smile filling my face. I lowered my feet, lifted the trap by the edges, held it over my wastebasket and released the spring. The mouse fell into the can with a muted clang. His little feet twitched once more before he fell silent and still. I pulled the spring back, set another snack in place and hooked the latch, ready for my next guest.
“Let’s see if Mama wants to come join you, shall we?” I laughed triumphantly and set the trap back in the corner near the sofa leg. I had to try to keep this family together and my waste can was as good a place as any for a family reunion.
I was washing my hands at the sink when a shadow fell across my office door. The handle twisted a half turn and the door opened. This time a real guest occupied space in my office with me. It was Sergeant Dan Hollister, one of L.A.’s finest.
He wore a gray double-breasted suit, buttoned up all the way with a white shirt beneath it. A splash of red leaked out between the lapels and a gray pork pie hat sat high on his head. His steel gray eyes scanned the room briefly before he settled in my client’s chair. He looked like he meant business. He looked like he wanted to share that business with me.
Dan made himself comfortable while I dried my hands. I rolled my sleeves down and returned to my swivel chair. Dan produced a large manila envelope and slid a photo out of it. It was a morgue photo of an old gentleman, sixty or so with the typical four-day stubble of a skid row bum. A corner of the man’s mouth was stained with a brown substance. It looked like chewing tobacco. His mouth hung open in a gaping yawn and I could see his teeth, or what used to be teeth. Now they were just brown and yellow stubs. He threw the photo on my desk and it slid to a stop in front of me, right side up.
“Didn’t know you went in for these high society types,” I said.
“Name’s Hugh Grossman.”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 21