The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  “Tomorrow morning?” I said.

  “I was thinking more like right now,” Gloria said.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?” I said.

  “It would be just another wasted day otherwise,” Gloria said. “So what can I do to get started?”

  I didn’t have any cases pending and couldn’t really come up with anything for Gloria to do at the moment. “I’m afraid I don’t have a case right now,” I said, “but…”

  Gloria handed me the folder she’d been carrying. “Maybe you could take on this case,” she said. “It’s the case Dad was working on when he died. He never got to finish it, but I swore that I would.”

  I took the folder from her and opened it. Inside I found several photos and some other papers and forms. I sat back down behind my desk and took a closer look at the contents of the folder. A few minutes later, I looked up at Gloria, her face full of hope.

  “Can you get your client to transfer this case to us here at Cooper Investigations?” I said.

  Gloria reached into folder and produced a legal form that had been signed by the client. She handed it to me. “I already did that,” she said sheepishly.

  I took the form from her and said, “You were pretty certain that I’d hire you, weren’t you?”

  She just smiled and nodded.

  I had everything I needed to begin on this case, or should I say to finish the case Gloria and her dad had already started. “All right,” I said. “Fill me in on what’s already been done so we don’t duplicate efforts.”

  By the time Gloria explained everything that had already been done, I nodded, impressed with the professional steps that she’d already taken. Her case involved a man with a stolen guitar. The report went on to state that the owner did not want the police involved and all he wanted was his guitar returned to him.

  I looked at Gloria. “What was so special about this particular guitar?” I said.

  “He didn’t want to tell me at first,” Gloria said. “He was very evasive about details and just wanted Dad and me to find the guitar and get it back to him. Later, after Dad was killed, he confessed to me that the guitar that was stolen was a fake, a copy of the original. He said he’d sold the original and put the fake in its place, hoping the wife wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “So it was the wife’s guitar?” I said.

  “Right,” Gloria said. “Apparently her father had passed it down to her before he died and told her to put it away in a safe place.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If it’s a fake, it can’t be worth much, so what’s the big deal with getting it back?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I got it. I snapped my fingers. “He had the original insured for big bucks,” I said. “And he doesn’t want the insurance company coming down on him when this fake one’s recovered, right?”

  Gloria nodded. “He insured the original 1959 Gibson ES-335 for thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Gees,” I said. “I had no idea guitars commanded those kinds of prices.”

  “And that’s not even the most expensive one out there,” Gloria said. “If there’s a celebrity connection, that same guitar could bring five times that much.”

  “See,” I said. “Even I can learn something new. So what happened to this woman’s guitar?”

  A few years after she got it from her dad, the husband was hurting for money. He sold the original and replaced it with a Chinese knockoff that looked identical. He even went to great pains to have the same serial number branded onto the back of the headstock so it would match. At a glance, the thing could pass for the original, but anyone who knows anything about vintage Gibsons could tell in a minute that it wasn’t the real deal. He was counting on the fact that his wife wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “If I understand you,” I said, “this guy just wants to recover the fake Gibson and cancel his claim with the insurance company before they find it and have him thrown in jail for insurance fraud, right?”

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” Gloria said. "He also doesn't want his wife to find out that he switched guitars."

  “And this whole thing was important enough for someone to kill your father over?” I said.

  “Oh no,” Gloria said. “He wasn’t shot because of this case. He was in a bar one night when a man came in and tried to hold the place up. Dad pulled his .38 and told the guy to drop his gun. The guy just fired anyway and hit Dad in the chest. The guy got away with thirteen dollars and half a bottle of beer that was sitting on the bar. He also took one of Dad’s bullets in his thigh. The cops caught him an hour later and he went down shooting.”

  “I’m so sorry about your dad, Gloria,” I said. “Sounds totally senseless to me, but then aren’t all killings?”

  “A classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Gloria said.

  “All right,” I said. “So getting back to this guy and his missing guitar, have you come up with anything yet?”

  Gloria looked at me. “I’ve put out a few feelers and checked some of the resale sites on the web. I have my computer set to alert me if something like this comes up for sale. I’ve also checked the ads in the paper under Musical Instruments and I’ve asked my contact at The Times to let me know if anyone places an ad for such a guitar. I’m constantly monitoring the trade magazines for ads in them. It’s not as likely that I’ll find one there, since the readers of those magazines would be a lot more knowledgeable than the average person on the street. It would be harder to pass off a fake to that crowd. No, he’d have to try to sell it to a collector just starting out who might not know all the things to look for when buying a vintage guitar.”

  “So where does that leave us?” I said. “I mean, what can we do at this point?”

  “Keep looking,” Gloria said.

  “Have you suggested to your client that he buy another Chinese knockoff and have the same serial number put on that one and just forget the whole case?”

  “I did,” Gloria said, “but the big name guitar manufacturers came down hard on the Chinese factories since then and they no longer produce copies. At least, if they are, they’re not selling them online or through the trades.”

  Well then,” I said, “it looks like we may have to take a pro-active stance and advertise that we want one and see who crawls out of the woodwork.”

  “Way ahead of you, Mr. Cooper,” Gloria said.

  I stopped her right there. “If we’re going to work together,” I said, “you’re going to have to call me Elliott. Even my dad doesn’t like to be called Mr. Cooper. His dad was Mr. Cooper.”

  “Very well, Elliott,” Gloria said. “And please call me Gloria.”

  I gave one quick nod. “Okay,” I said. “Now that that’s out of the way, go on with what you were saying.”

  “I said I’m way ahead of you, Elliott,” Gloria said. “I took out several ads in the newspapers, trade magazines and several places online. I’m just waiting for responses from anyone.”

  “Have you thought about ads offering a reward for information about this guitar?” I said. “Some people might not be musicians but might know of someone who knows someone.”

  Gloria retrieved a pen from her purse and flipped open a notepad and jotted down my suggestion. “I’m on it,” she said, and then looked at the folded laptop on my desk. “You have Internet access with that?” she said, pointing to my laptop.

  I looked over at the laptop and then at Gloria. “Sure,” I said. “You need to look at something?” I passed the laptop over to her.

  Gloria flipped it open and clicked on the Internet icon on the desktop. “I just wanted to check my e-mail and see if anyone responded to my inquiries yet,” she said. She opened her e-mail and found just one response. The heading of the e-mail said, ‘Gibson 335’. She opened the e-mail and read it aloud. “I may have what you’re looking for. The serial number on the one I have is S932101 and above that it says, Made in U.S.A. It is a vintage sunburst color and comes in a plush-lined case. Please cont
act me at…” and he gave his e-mail address at the end of the message.

  “Bingo,” Gloria said. “Sounds like this is the guy who ended up with the fake Gibson,” Gloria said, typing in her response to the man. “Serial number checks out, even though that’s as phony as the guitar.”

  I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk. “And you needed me because?” I said.

  “I have to admit,” Gloria said, still typing on the laptop, “that they aren’t all this easy. Well, I don’t have to tell you that, now do I? We’re still going to have to negotiate the return of the guitar from this guy. As soon as he e-mails me back with an address or contact place, we can go and get the guitar.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” I said. “So cut and dried.”

  “Sometimes it can be,” she said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. If this guy knows what he has or if he gets wind of how bad we want it, it could get sticky.”

  “What’s your client willing to pay for its return?” I said.

  “He’s willing to go as high as a grand if necessary,” Gloria explained.

  “And what’d he sell it for?” I asked, genuinely interested.

  “He didn’t,” Gloria said. “This is the one that was stolen. He sold the original 1959 Gibson for twenty-eight five.”

  I snapped my fingers. “That’s right,” I said. “You did say that the fake was stolen. I got the two guitars mixed up. So, what can we do in the meantime?”

  “Are you hungry?” Gloria said, looking up at the wall clock.

  It was almost one o’clock and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Yeah,” I said. “I could go for some lunch.”

  “Great,” Gloria said. “How about if we walk over to The Copper Penny on the boulevard?” she said. “They make a mean BLT.”

  “Yuck,” I said. “The only thing about a BLT that appeals to me is the B. The L is for rabbits and the T is disgusting.”

  “Oh,” Gloria said. “You’re one of those fussy eaters, aren’t you?”

  “‘Fraid so,” I said. “It would take greater minds than ours to understand my food rules. Even I don’t fully understand why I like or dislike certain foods.”

  “So I take it you’re not a salad eater, either,” Gloria said.

  “Again,” I said. “Rabbit food. I didn’t fight my way to the top of the food chain to eat plants. I’m a carnivorous animal. Give me a steak any day.”

  “So you don’t eat vegetables, either?” Gloria said.

  “There’s where the goofy food rules come in,” I said. “The only veggies I eat are potatoes, corn and wax beans—not green beans, just the yellow wax beans. I’m sure I couldn’t tell the difference in the dark, but since I never eat in the dark, I stick with the yellow wax beans.”

  “O-kay,” Gloria said, stretching out the O. “This ought to be an interesting lunch. Shall we?” She pointed to the door.

  We walked the block and a half to The Copper Penny and took a booth at the window, facing the boulevard. I ordered a hamburger and fries and Gloria ordered the bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich and a cup of coffee. I had a glass of water with mine.

  “You’re not a coffee drinker, either, are you?” Gloria said.

  “Never liked the taste,” I said.

  “Let me guess,” Gloria said. “You don’t smoke or drink, either. How am I doing so far?”

  “Right on the money,” I said. As for smoking, I inhaled one puff years ago and got so dizzy I wondered what it was that lured people back for a second puff. Never tried it again. With alcohol, I just never got into the taste of any of it. I’m not knocking people who drink, it just isn’t for me. What about you?”

  “I have an occasional drink,” Gloria said. “Sometimes with a meal or when I’m out.”

  “And smoking?” I said.

  Gloria shook her head and waved it away, as if the thought of it was more than unpleasant. “Not for me,” she said. “Like I always say, kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray.”

  “And when was the last time you licked an ashtray?” I said, laughing.

  Gloria had to laugh at that one herself. “Good point,” she said.

  The waitress brought our food and we continued our conversation between bites.

  “Are you from around here originally?” I said.

  Gloria held up one finger, swallowed the bite she’d taken from her BLT, washed it down with some coffee and nodded. “Glendale,” she said.

  “Well, that’s practically Hollywood,” I said. “Why is it our paths haven’t crossed before?”

  Gloria pulled a small piece of bacon off her sandwich and nibbled on it. “I’ve seen you before,” she said. “But we’ve never officially met.”

  “Really?” I said. “Where’d you see me before?”

  “I was in that restaurant a while ago when the waitress got shot through the window,” Gloria said. “You and an older guy were sitting in the booth talking.”

  “That was my dad, Clay Cooper,” I said. “No kidding, you were there that night?”

  “Sure was,” Gloria said. “I was sitting on the other side of the room with my dad. We hung around for a while afterwards but we never said anything to anyone there. I guess we were just curious to see how it ended.”

  “Didn’t end so well for Sandy,” I said.

  “Sandy?” Gloria said.

  “The waitress,” I explained. “She lived, but that had to be one painful, memorable night for her.”

  “No kidding,” Gloria said. “I didn’t look over your way until I heard the shot and the breaking glass. I was looking right at your booth when the second shot came through the window, though.”

  “Small world, isn’t it?” I said.

  “And gettin’ smaller all the time,” Gloria said.

  We finished our lunch and went back to my office, or should I say our office. When we got back, I sat behind my desk and Gloria stood in front of me, looking around her.

  “Didn’t you tell me you and your dad shared this office?” Gloria said.

  “Well,” I said. “Not full-time. Most of the time Dad worked out of his house. He didn’t spend as much time here as I do. Why?”

  She looked around again. “Just wondering where he sat when he needed to work,” she said.

  Then it dawned on me. “Oh yeah,” I said. “You’re going to need a workspace, aren’t you? I’ll have another desk and chair brought in this afternoon. Meanwhile, you can pull your chair up to this desk and work off the end.” I pointed to the right end of my desk. “Might be a bit cramped for your knees, but it’s only for a few hours.”

  My phone rang and I grabbed it, sitting back in my swivel chair. “Cooper Investigations,” I said. “Uh huh. Sure. I can do that. When did you want to meet?”

  I wrote down the address the caller had given me, thanked him and hung up.

  I turned to Gloria. “Looks like you can work on this side of the desk for a while,” I said. "I just got a call to talk to a guy about another case. I shouldn’t be gone too long. Make yourself at home while I’m out.”

  “Can we do two cases simultaneously?” Gloria asked.

  “Not a problem,” I said. “Sounds like you almost have the guitar case wrapped up. No pun intended. You just have to wait for the guy to e-mail you about the exchange or sale or whatever you work out with him.”

  “Go on,” Gloria said. “I’ll be fine here until you return. If you like, I can make a call and get the desk and chair delivered. That’s one less thing on your plate.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That would be great. I gotta run now. You can just take down any messages if the phone rings. See you later.” Gloria took the seat behind my desk, flipping open the laptop just as I left the office.

  I met with my potential client and decided against taking the case. He wanted me to do something that went against my standards and was borderline illegal, so the meeting I had with him was a short one. I got back to the office an hour later. The door was unlocked and when I walke
d in, I found the office empty. Gloria was gone and there was a small desk and matching chair against the north wall. On my desk blotter, I found a sheet from my yellow legal pad with a note from Gloria. It said that she’d gotten an e-mail from the guy with the guitar and she was going out to check on it. It also said she’d call me if she needed my help.

  I took my seat behind the desk again and waited. An hour and a half passed with no word from Gloria. There was nothing I could do, since I didn’t even know where she’d gone. Then I remembered the laptop. I flipped it open and got into the e-mail section. The last e-mail received was time-stamped a little more than two hours ago. It gave an address where Gloria was to meet the man with the guitar. He’d instructed her to bring twelve hundred dollars and to come alone.

  I had no idea if Gloria could even lay her hands on that kind of money or where she’d go for it if she could. I jotted down the address on my notepad and stuck it in my pocket. I left the office and hurried down to my car in the parking lot behind my building. The address in my notepad was about two miles away on the west end of Hollywood, just the other side of LaBrea.

  Now that I thought of it, I had no idea if Gloria even owned a car. I’d never seen one. She’d walked into my office. We’d walked to lunch, and now that she’d gone, I wouldn’t even know her car if it was parked right in front of me. In front of the house that matched the address that I had, I saw a Toyota Corolla parked at the curb and wondered if that could be Gloria’s. Maybe it was the Dodge minivan parked ahead of the Toyota.

  I walked up the walk and up the steps to the porch and rang the bell. No one answered. I tried knocking and got the same results. I stepped off the porch and walked around the back of the house. I tried knocking at the back door and still I got no answer. There was a garage around the back of the house, facing the alley. I walked over to it, peered in the side window and spotted a bright red Jeep convertible inside. The rest of the garage was dusty and dirty, but the Jeep was spotless and shiny. Something was wrong with this picture and I decided to look into it further.

  I tried the utility door on the side of the garage. It was locked. The overhead door was padlocked along the side. I went back to the utility door and threw my shoulder into it. It gave and I almost fell inward onto a dirt floor. I righted myself and took a closer look at the Jeep. I walked around to the passenger side and reached in to open the glove box. Inside I found the registration card. It was made out to Gloria Campbell and I got a shiver up my spine.