Dan and I ducked behind the Chevy, crouching and drawing our weapons. The photographer crouched behind the squad car, his hands shaking. Another shot rang out and the back window of the Chevy shattered. A third shot hit the street directly behind the Chevy. It ricocheted with a whine that trailed off. A forth shot hit the rear tire and the car settled down onto the pavement.
I peeked around the bumper, trying to find the source of the shots. Another bullet hit the ground just to the left of me. It was a brief glance, but I could make out a rifle flash coming from the roof of the apartment building across the street and down two buildings.
Hollister tried to look up over the windowsill through the car but another shot kept him pinned behind the car. I crawled past him and over to the squad car. I signaled to Dan who peered up over the window again to draw his fire. When the shot hit the left rear door, I made my move.
Dan returned fire with a quick volley of four shots. I grabbed this opportunity and scurried across the street, flattening myself up against the building. I carefully made my way around the back of the building and across to the next one. Now I was directly across the street from the building where the sniper had us pinned down. I could still see the Chevy and the squad car from where I was. Dan was still crouching and returning fire when he could.
I was at a vantage point that afforded me a view of the building across the street without being seen myself. I took advantage of that fact and scurried across the street and up to the front door. I waved to Dan and made sure he saw me before I continued. This was a three-story apartment building like so many others in the neighborhood. I eased the front door open and made my way down the hall. There was a stairway to the second floor. I cautiously climbed the stairs, my gun held up at my side. The second floor was clear and I continued up the stairs to the third floor. Again, no one appeared and I soon found myself at the end of the hall looking at a door to the roof.
I eased the door open and slowly crept up the stairs. I could hear an occasional shot coming from outside on the other side of the roof door. At the top of the stairs, I eased the door open and peered out. Through the crack I could make out the figure of a man lying on his stomach at the edge of the roof. I had to make my move now.
I flung the door open and yelled at the man, “Hold it right there.” I pointed my .38 at the figure. He quickly rose to his feet and spun around. He let loose with a barrage of six or seven shots that tore up the roof around my feet. I dropped and lay flat on my stomach. As he lowered the rifle at me I fired twice. Both bullets found their mark and the man dropped the rifle as he fell over backwards off the roof. In a second or two I heard the thud and ran over to the edge of the roof and looked down. The man lay in a clump, his body on the grass and his head on the sidewalk. A stream of red ran from his head, forming a pool on the cement.
Dan hurried over to the body and looked up at me, motioning for me to come back down. I headed back toward the stairway and hurried down to the street. Dan was standing over the gunman’s body, his service revolver still hanging at his side.
“You all right?” I asked, holstering my .38 under my arm.
Dan nodded his head and found himself at a loss for words. He knelt down and turned the body over to look at the face. It was Leo Bettencourt all right. Bettencourt’s eyes were fixed wide open and his chest had two holes near the heart where my bullets had torn into him. Here was a guy who had been tough enough to survive his first thirty-five years on the street as well as almost ten years in prison. He could have walked away from it all and gotten on with his life but revenge had eaten him up. He came out of prison with an agenda and a willingness to die for what he thought was a good reason. It wasn’t.
“I owe you one, Cooper,” Dan said, extending his hand.
It was unlike Dan Hollister to ever show appreciation or express gratitude, so I knew that his gesture was genuine. I took his hand and shook it once and released it. I looked back toward the Chevy where Jerry Burns’ body lay.
“I know,” Dan said. “Burns was a good man and I owe him my life. It’s gonna be hard to replace him.”
Dan and I walked back to the squad car. By now the street was filled with flashing red lights and uniformed cops. The neighborhood was alive with the buzzing of people curious to see what all the commotion was about. The random killing spree had come to an end and I was anxious to get back to my office and try to find some semblance of normalcy again.
The afternoon was warning up as I flipped on the desk fan. Its blades rotated briefly before the motor shut down with a groan. If this was normal, I guess I could settle for it. The alternative was too much to think about right now.
14 - Dead Ringer
I was with Franklin Reeger the day he died. That is, I was supposed to be with him. I was actually fifty feet away when a .44 magnum slug removed his face. My success ratio as a bodyguard was on the downswing and a dead client was never good for business.
We were walking east on the boulevard that Thursday night. The street was alive with movement. I wore my usual blue suit, red tie and gray porkpie hat. Reeger was dressed in his trademark brown pinstripe ensemble with a yellow tie and matching show handkerchief in the lapel pocket. He was an odd man, to say the least. He had money enough to own several tailor shops, yet all he ever wore was one of his several dozen identical brown suits.
Franklin Reeger was due in court Friday morning and it was my duty to see that he made it there in one piece. We passed the bookstores and coin shops and we were in the middle of the block when a dozen people exited a real estate office all at once. The crowd of people, mostly men in business suits, came between Reeger and me and before I could make my way past them, Reeger was fifty feet ahead of me on the sidewalk and still moving at a brisk pace. He was probably unaware that we’d become separated.
As he approached the entrance to the Hamilton Building I noticed someone dart out from the arched doorway and pull Reeger in. He disappeared instantly and I hurried toward the spot where he had stood just seconds earlier. As I approached, I heard a familiar sound like the sound a pebble makes hitting the water at high speed.
In less than five seconds, I stood at the doorway of the Hamilton Building and looked down at what was left of Franklin Reeger. The sound I’d heard was a .44 magnum with a silencer. It had left a hole as big as my thumb where the bullet had entered at the back of his head. Where it had exited, just below his nose, I could have stuck my fist in and wiggled it around before touching anything solid. Franklin Reeger would have to miss his court date. He had a previous engagement with the undertaker and it looked like I’d have to cross bodyguard off my list of services.
The entryway was dark and ended with a large double door that sat atop six cement steps. There were two sets of four mailboxes on the walls on either side of the door. The overhead light was out and the door was locked. Reeger lay on his back on the third, forth and fifth steps. I knelt at his side, my .38 still hanging at my side.
A small crowd had gathered around to stare at the corpse. They quickly disbursed when they got a look at what used to be a face. What was left of the crowd parted and two uniformed officers stood looming over the scene. One of them scanned the crowd and the surrounding streets and the other one had his service revolver aimed at me.
“On your feet,” he said, nervously. “And keep ‘em where I can see ‘em.”
I did as I was told and the officer moved forward.
“Turn around,” he said. “Hands on the wall.”
I complied as his left hand ran up my legs and down my sides. His hand stopped when it came to the .38 under my left arm. He scooped it out and spun me around almost in a single motion, his police special still aimed at me.
“Let’s see some I.D.,” he demanded.
I carefully lowered my right hand and fished out my wallet, flipping it open to my shield and the Photostat of my license. I held it out in front of me and the officer grabbed it, stepped back and read it.
“Matt Cooper. Anot
her gumshoe, eh? Who’s he,” he said, pointing with his gun at Franklin Reeger.
“Name’s Reeger, Franklin Reeger,” I said.
“And what’s he to you?”
“He was my client,” I explained. “I was hired as a bodyguard.” Looking down at Reeger, I realized how stupid that sounded under the circumstances.
“You’re not very good at it, are you?” the officer said.
Before I got a chance to use one of my sarcastic lines on him, the crowd parted again and Sergeant Dan Hollister approached us. Hollister was a tall man, just over six feet with straight brown hair brushed back tight against his head. His cold brown eyes scanned the body and then shot over toward me. The officer handed my wallet to the sergeant, who immediately threw it back at me. I clumsily caught it with both hands.
“Cooper,” he said wearily, “I might have known if a body would turn up that you wouldn’t be far away.” He turned to the officer and gestured toward me with his head. “Give ‘em back his gun.”
I holstered my .38 and returned my wallet to my suit pocket and straightened myself up. Hollister had that look he’d always had during roll call back when I was still on the force. I knew what he was thinking and what he would say next, but didn’t give him the chance.
“Save the smart-ass comments, Hollister,” I said. “I’ve heard ‘em all before. I don’t need to be reminded how I screwed up on this one, all right?”
“Let’s have it, Cooper,” he said. “How, who, when, why, the whole ball of wax. You know the routine. Com on, spill it.”
“You can see the how,” I said. “A hollow point slug to the back of the head. The when was five minutes ago. The who could be any one of a dozen people. And the why is obvious. Someone didn’t want to see Reeger make it to court tomorrow morning. You want me to write up your report for you, too?”
“Can it, Cooper,” Hollister snapped. “Franklin Reeger’s dead. You were hired to guard him and right now I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when the D.A. comes looking for you. He’s not going to be happy with you.”
“I figured he might,” I said. “I still don’t know why you just didn’t put Reeger into protective custody until he was due in court.”
The D.A. was a man named Lawson and he didn’t come looking for me—at least not right away. It had been four days since I lost Reeger to the assassin with the quiet .44 and I was at a loss for leads when Dan came through my office door. He didn’t bother coming all the way in. He just stood there, leaning in, and crooked his finger at me.
“Let’s go, Cooper,” he said.
I said nothing and left my office behind Hollister. He drove me to the county morgue; a place I knew better than I wanted to. Dan walked me over to where a storage door was open and a drawer was pulled out. The body of an old man lay on it, staring at the ceiling.
Dan gestured toward the body. “His name is Stewart Powers. “Sixty-seven years old, widowed, he used to work on the railroad as…”
“Why do I need to know all this?” I asked. “I’m busy with the Reeger case. Can’t this wait?”
“It could if Powers was just another random victim,” Dan said. “Now, if I may continue.”
I nodded impatiently, folded my arms across my chest and listened.
“Mr. Powers lived at 6734 Hollywood Boulevard, above the Army Surplus store near Highland. Now does it ring any bells, Cooper?”
The connection clicked. “Yeah,” I said, “right across the street from the Hamilton Building.”
“And what does that tell you?” Dan said.
“ That he must have seen something and someone must have seen him taking it all in,” I said.
“Right,” Dan said. “He was found last night by a neighbor who got worried about him. Coroner figures he’s been dead about three days.”
“Time fits,” I said. “You suppose anyone else in that building might have seen anything?”
“If they did, they won’t talk now,” Dan said. “Not after this.”
“I’m going back there anyway,” I said. “Someone knows something and I’ll get it out of them.”
“You keep me in the loop, Cooper,” Dan said. “You hear me? I wanna know everything you find out.”
I left the morgue determined to find out who killed Powers and what might have happened to Reeger. The building at 6734 Hollywood Boulevard stood seven stories tall and was located directly across the street from where Franklin Reeger couldn’t seem to save face. As the stone carving on the top floor testified, the building was erected in 1891 but in the fifty-six years since, it had fallen to neglect and indifference. What had once been an elegant office building now housed several dozen transients whose landlord obviously had no interest in maintaining the building. That might cut into his profit margin.
The names on the mailboxes in the lobby yielded no clues for me, except that there was one other apartment on Powers’ floor that faced Hollywood Boulevard. It was occupied by one Oscar Block. The elevator had long since quit working and by the time I’d made the third floor I was noticeably winded. No doubt about it, I was out of shape.
I found Oscar Block in room 324, the room that faced Hollywood Boulevard. My knuckles danced across the door in a staccato rhythm. From the other side of the door I heard a weary voice. “Who is it?”
“Name’s Cooper,” I said. “I’m looking for Oscar Block.”
There was a few seconds of silence before the voice answered, “Not here. Go away.”
“Mr. Block,” I said, “I’m not from the police or the D.A. or any city agency. I’m a private investigator looking into Stewart Powers’ death. Can I have a word with you?”
“I don’t know nothin’,” Block said. “Go away.”
“Mr. Block,” I continued, “we could do this whole thing through the door and take a chance that your neighbors might hear me, or…”
Before I could finish my sentence, the door opened a crack and a tired, craggy face peered out. The door opened wider and an old man in his sixties stepped back and allowed me to enter. He quickly closed the door behind me, sliding the chain lock back into place and throwing the deadbolt into the locked position.
I walked over to his front window and peered down. From this vantage point I could look down on the entrance to the Hamilton Building. The stairway where Franklin Reeger once laid was plainly visible from here.
I turned back toward the old man. “Mr. Block, I can’t say I blame you for being scared after what happened to Mr. Powers. But if they killed him because of what he saw, there’s nothing saying they wouldn’t come after you if they thought you saw just as much. You might as well talk to me and then I can arrange for protection for you. Otherwise, it’s just a matter of time before they come looking for you.”
Block thought for a moment, wandered over to the window and looked down at the street. The sights and sounds of the events three days prior came back and he visibly shook. “All right,” he said. “But you gotta get me out of this rat trap. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I keep thinking I hear voices in the hall.”
“I have connections downtown,” I said. “We’ll get you into someplace safe.”
Block hesitated again before opening up to me. “I thought I was seeing double,” he said. “Or maybe they was twins or something. It was eerie, I tell you.”
“What happened?” I asked, taking a spot next to Block at the window.
“There was three guys standing in that doorway,” he said, pointing to the doorway of the Hamilton Building. “Two guys all in black and the one with the fancy brown suit. First thing I know, this other guy comes along and gets pulled into the doorway, then BLAM, the guy in black lets him have it in the head.”
“What guy?” I said.
“The guy that was already in the doorway,” he said. “They shot him and left him there. Then they took the second guy, the one that they grabbed as he was walking past, through the door and disappeared. Then you come along, then the cops. That’s all there is.”
&nb
sp; “Let me get this straight,” I said. “The two guys already in the doorway shot the third guy who was already in the doorway?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Right after they pulled the guy in off the street. He was dressed just like the guy that was waiting in the doorway.”
My mind raced with the possibilities and then it became clear. I faced Block and said, “Lock your door when I leave. Don’t open it unless the man identifies himself as Sergeant Dan Hollister. Got it? I’ll send them right over, and thanks, Mr. Block.”
I left Oscar Block twenty dollars richer than I’d found him. He didn’t even wait until I’d left the building before he ventured out of his apartment. I headed for my car and he headed for the corner liquor store. I hoped he had enough sense to go straight home with his bottle and lock the door. I guess everybody has their priorities. I made it back to Hollister’s office in twenty minutes.
“Nobody bothered to check those things because of the time slot,” I said. “He was only out of my sight for ten seconds, tops. Still it’s enough time for someone to kill a ringer and leave him where I found him.”
“That’s wild, Cooper,” Dan said. “Even for you. If that’s the case, where is Reeger and why go through all this just to throw us off? They could just as easily have plugged Reeger in that doorway and been done with it.”
“They weren’t sure what he knew and what he was about to tell,” I said. “They had to find out where they stood and what he’d already spilled, and leaving that ringer dead on the stoop bought ‘em a little more time.”
Hollister thought about that prospect for a moment and sat behind his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed Jack Walsh at the coroner’s office. Dan arranged to hold Reeger’s body another two days while this new angle was investigated. That afternoon Dan stopped by my office and drove me to the morgue to display his findings.
“Fingerprints confirm what you suspected.” Dan said, showing me a picture of a guy who looked somewhat like Franklin Reeger. “The stiff’s name is Ernie Phillips, a ringer for Reeger.”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 45