The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  Once inside, he was greeted by a young man in a sports coat and slacks. “Good morning, sir,” the man said. A small name tag pinned to his lapel identified him as Tim Tyler.

  “You must be Tim,” Clay said as he approached with his hand extended.

  “Tyler shook it and said, “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Clay said.

  “Well, then how did you…?” Tyler said and then glanced down at his name tag. “Clever, very clever.”

  “Tim,” Clay said, retrieving his I.D. and shield. “Who would I talk to around here about your R&D department?” He flashed the badge quickly and tucked it back into his coat.

  “That would be Terry Morgan,” Tim said.

  “And is he in?” Clay said.

  “She,” Tim said.

  “Pardon,” Clay said.

  “She,” Tim repeated. “Terry Morgan is a woman.”

  “Yes, of course,” Clay said. “Could I speak with her?”

  “What is this regarding, Mr…?” Tim said and waited for a response.

  “Cooper,” Clay said. “Clay Cooper, and it’s a confidential matter. So if I may speak with her…”

  “One moment, Mr. Cooper,” Tim said. “Let me check.” He disappeared behind one of several doors in that hallway. Two minutes later Tim returned and gestured for Clay to follow him down the hall. Tim opened the second door on the right and held it open until Clay was inside. “Won’t you have a seat? Miss Morgan will be with you in a minute.”

  Clay waited in silence as he scanned the room. It was surprisingly non-descript for a company worth tens of millions of dollars. Apparently they invested their money in their product and not in their office space. One wall sported painting of outdoor scenes. The painting didn’t look to be originals. On another wall were several plaques with different names on them, announcing to the world what each recipient had done to earn such an honor. The third wall had nothing but windows to the street. Clay could see his car from where he sat.

  Three more minutes passed while Clay waited for Terry Morgan to come in. As he stood looking out the window, the door behind him opened and a middle-aged woman in a blue business suit walked in. She made eye contact with Clay and then smiled. Tim hadn’t come back in with her.

  “I’m Terry Morgan,” she said. “Did you want to see me?”

  “Miss Morgan,” Clay said. “My name is Clay Cooper and we are looking into an incident that may or may not have affected your company. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Such as?” Morgan said.

  “Such as, have you hired any new employees in the past ten days to two weeks,” Clay said. “Or has anyone approached this company with any suspicious offers?”

  “Sounds serious,” Morgan said. “What would you call suspicious, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Without going into too much detail,” Clay said, “have there been any unusual inquiries into your R&D department’s procedures?”

  “Can you tell me what this is all about?” Morgan said.

  “I’m afraid confidentiality prohibits that at this time,” Clay said. “What we are looking into falls under the category of industrial sabotage, and as you are no doubt aware, Miss Morgan, that is a felony.”

  “Well, I can assure you that none of our employees is involved in such dealings,” Morgan said.

  “I’m not necessarily talking about your employees,” Clay said. “What we’re worried about may be from an outside source, and they may have targeted several soft drink bottlers in this area. What I’m asking of you is the same thing I’m asking of the other companies involved. I’m afraid that’s all I can say about this incident at the moment, unless I get clearance from higher up. I thank you for your cooperation, Miss Morgan. Please call us if you suspect anything at all.”

  I handed her one of my cards and she examined it. “You’re a private investigator?” she said, the tone in her voice a little more forceful now.

  I nodded. “Yes, but my firm has been retained to look into this before it becomes a matter for the police and possibly the FBI.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Cooper,” Morgan said.

  We stared each other down for a few seconds. She won and I turned to leave. “Thank you for your time, Miss Morgan. I’ll be in touch.”

  Clay left the building and returned to his car. He immediately pulled his notepad out of his jacket pocket and jotted down the essence of his conversation with Terry Morgan. Clay slipped the notepad back into his pocket and dialed Elliott’s cell phone.

  “Dad,” Elliott said upon answering, “what did you find out?”

  “I’m not getting a good feeling from my contact Excelsior Bottling,” Clay said. “I get the feeling she’s not being totally candid with me. She’s holding something back. I can feel it. How’d you do at the Bubble Bright Company?”

  “They wouldn’t even let me into the building, let alone talk to me about anything,” I said. “Have you heard from Gloria?”

  “Not yet,” Clay told me. “I’ll try her number when we hang up.” Clay paused for a moment.

  “Are you still there, Dad?” I said.

  “Just a minute,” Dad said. “There’s someone watching me from that window across the street. Whoever it is is in that same room that I just left. I’ll talk to you later, Elliott. I’m getting away from this place.”

  Clay pulled away from the curb and headed back toward the office. He dialed Gloria’s cell and waited. Six rings later Gloria answered.

  “What’s up?” Clay said. “You usually answer within two rings.”

  “I had to pull out of traffic,” Gloria explained. “I’m in the parking lot at the supermarket. What did you find out?”

  “My contact wouldn’t tell me anything,” Clay said. “And Elliott’s trip was a bust. They wouldn’t even let him in the building. How’d you do?”

  “Well,” Gloria said, “I didn’t get thrown out. That’s something anyway. But after talking to my contact, I got the feeling that either he really didn’t know anything or no one had approached him. Either way, I think mine was a dead end. Where are we all meeting?”

  “There’s a Pizza Hut near Beverly and Normandie,” Clay said. “Know it?”

  “I’m sure I can find it,” Gloria said. “But why there?”

  “I’m thinking it’s probably the most centrally located place for all three of us,” Clay explained. “I’ll see you there in twenty minutes. I’ll call Elliott back and let him know.” Clay closed his phone and drove south toward Beverly Boulevard. From what he’d learned so far, it seemed like all three of them were chasing a ghost. Simon Lucas may have had plans for the soda formula, but it didn’t look like they included the neighborhood competition.

  I was the first to arrive at the Pizza Hut. Their lot was almost empty, but then again it would have to be a slow time for them. It was well after the lunch crowd and too soon for the dinner customers to start showing up. I walked in and found a booth near the window so I could watch for Gloria and Dad. Gloria pulled into the lot a few minutes later and Dad followed shortly after that.

  Dad found the booth with me and Gloria in it, sitting across from each other. We were both sipping from our Pepsi glasses when he walked up and slid into the booth next to Gloria.

  “Did you order already?” Dad said.

  “I did,” I told him. “I just ordered us a large pizza and three Pepsis. Yours is coming.”

  While we waited for our food, Dad jumped right in with his findings. “You couldn’t get in,” he said, looking at me. He turned to Gloria. “And I got a bad feeling about the place I visited. And it sounds like your trip was for nothing as well. I’d say we’re not doing too well.”

  “Maybe it’s just the nature of the business,” I said. “After all, there are literally millions of dollars at stake with all these soft drink companies. I remember reading somewhere how much soda Americans consume every year. The money they take in could support quite a few sma
ll countries, so it’s no wonder we’re getting stonewalled. So what are we going to do next? Lucas is not at home, he hasn’t been to the competition, as far as we know and he not back at work for Willoughby.”

  No one said a word for a few moments. “Jump in any time now,” I said. “Anyone?”

  My phone vibrated in my pocket and I fished it out. “Elliott Cooper,” I said. “Yes. No, we all just came back from… Well, no I hadn’t heard. Really? When? We’re on our way.” I closed my phone and slid out of the booth just as the clerk brought our pizza.

  Dad turned to the clerk and peeled off a twenty dollar bill and handed it to the kid. “Could you put that in a box to go?” he said. “We have to leave.”

  “Where are we going?” Gloria said.

  “Over to Willoughby’s factory,” I said. “They found Simon Lucas and Willoughby wants to talk to all of us. How about if you both ride with me? I can bring you back her for your cars when we’re finished.”

  “I don’t want to sit in the back of that rolling stakeout you call a van,” Gloria said.

  “Neither do I,” Dad said. “Let’s take my car. I’ll bring you two back here afterwards.”

  Dad drove us to the Willoughby Bottling Company and pulled into the parking lot. George Willoughby met us at the front office and summoned us over with a crook of his finger.

  “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.

  Hen
ry 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.