I laid the paper down, stepped over to Gloria’s side and laid my arm over her shoulder. “No it doesn’t,” I said. “The important thing is that it’s all out in the open now and we can move on and do something about it.”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “We’re all here for you and somehow we’ll make it right. If this guy’s still alive and if he’s anywhere in the area, we’ll find him and make him pay for what he did to your father.”
Dean set his coffee cup down on Gloria’s desk and looked at Gloria. “And let’s hear no more about you shooting him down in the street,” he said. “We have to bring him in and let the courts deal with him. Okay?”
“And if he doesn’t want to come peacefully?” Gloria said.
“If it comes down to protecting ourselves,” Dean said, “we’ll blow his fucking head off.”
A single tear had run down Gloria’s cheek, but she forced a smile now. Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s get started on this thing before the trail gets cold.”
Apparently that’s all it took to break the tension of the moment and everyone laughed.
“Anyone have any ideas about where to start?” I said.
Dad chimed in. “How about if we start with the bar where Campbell was shot?” he said. “Someone there’s bound to know the shooter.”
“I don’t know,” Dean said. “We questioned everyone who was there that night. No one was talking. I think they were either unwilling to get involved, or they were afraid of this guy.”
“Yeah,” Dad said, “but enough time has passed now and someone might be willing to talk now. We have nothing to lose by asking.”
“How about if we split up into two teams?” Dad said. “Dean and I can take the bar and you two can start asking around some of the emergency rooms and private doctors to see if anyone remembers treating a gunshot wound to the thigh.”
“Any legitimate doctor would have been obligated to tell the police of a gunshot wound,” I said.
“And that means if this guy was treated, it may have been by either an unscrupulous doctor, or one that had lost his license,” Dean said. “It could even have been a veterinarian or someone with no medical experience at all. There’s a lot of ground to cover, so how about if we hit the road?”
The three of them all finished the rest of their coffee and I drained the last drop of chocolate milk out of my container before we hit the streets. Dad and Dean drove south toward downtown while Gloria and I began our search at the library. We found a phone book from four years ago and found a list of doctors in the area. Then we compared it to a list of current doctors. Three names stood out as being conspicuously absent from the newer phone book. We wrote down the information on those names and returned to our car.
“It doesn’t pay to waste time with emergency rooms,” I said. “This guy wouldn’t have gone to any of those. They’d have turned him in to the police. Let’s start with these three names and if they don’t pan out for us, we can always do the same with vets in the area. After that, I don’t know what we’ll do next.”
Clay parked his car in front of Smitty’s Bar on Olivera. He and Dean casually walked in and took a seat at the bar. The men sitting around in this place must have either been third-shifters who had just gotten off work, or they were career drunks. Dad held up one finger and a fat bartender in a dirty apron came over and laid two coasters down in front of them.
“What’ll it be, gents?” he said.
“Couple of beers,” Dean said, reaching for his wallet.
Clay laid his arm across Dean’s chest. “I got these,” he said.
“I’ll get the next round,” Dean said.
“Hopefully there won’t be a next round,” Clay told him.
Dean looked around the place. “I see what you mean,” he said.
The bartender set two mugs of beer in front of them and said, “Three bucks.”
Clay plucked three singles out of his wallet and laid them on the bar, unwilling to touch the bartender’s hand. The bartender walked away, dropped the bills into the open register and turned back toward the two new customers. Clay held up one finger, summoning the fat man back to where they sat.
“You want something else?” the bartender said.
“You look kind of familiar,” Clay said. “Have you worked here long?”
“I don’t work here,” the man said. “Mike Schmidt. I own the place.”
“Really,” Dean said, smiling. “How long have you owned it?”
Schmidt’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling before he announced, “Eight years next month. Why?”
“I thought that was you,” Dean said, feigning recognition of the man. “I was in here a few years ago when some guy held the place up. Do you remember that night?”
“Which night?” Schmidt said. “I’ve been held up five times in eight years, but never again.” He reached under the bar and produced a .38 revolver and laid it in front of us.
Clay held up his palms toward the man. “Whoa,” Dad said. “Put that thing away. Guns make me nervous.”
Schmidt turned toward Dean. “What about you?” he said. “Guns make you nervous, too?”
“Not as nervous as that night I saw that guy hold up this place,” Dean said.
“And when was that?” Schmidt said.
Dean pretended to be thinking and then offered, “Oh, I think this was about three years ago, maybe a little longer. There was some other guy in here who pulled a gun and shot the robber in the leg. All he got for his trouble was dead.”
“Yeah,” Schmidt said. “I remember that one. He should have shot first and asked questions later. He waited too long.”
“Is that what made you decide to get a gun of your own?” Clay said.
“Bought it the very next day,” Schmidt said.
“Didn’t you have to wait seven days before they’d let you have it?” Dean said.
“Fuck that,” Schmidt said. “Ain’t no criminals gonna wait seven days to hold me up. I’d rather be judged by twelve than carried by six. Know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” Dean said. “I’m sure the police must have asked you at the time if you knew the assailant, but I’m kind of curious myself. Any idea why he picked your bar?”
“I don’t know,” Schmidt said, “and I don’t care, either. But if he ever shows his face around here again, it’ll be his last day on this earth, guaran-goddamned-teed.”
“Did you see the guy get shot?” Clay said.
“Sure did,” Schmidt said. “I was standing right next to the guy who shot him. Hell, if I’d been any closer to him, I’d have taken a slug or two myself. That was one brave guy. Brave or foolish.”
“Do you remember where the robber was hit?” Dean said.
“High up on his right…” Schmidt closed his eyes and tried to picture the event when it had happened. He gestured with his hand. “No, make that his left leg. Someplace above the knee. Yeah, I remember seeing him holding his leg with his hand. Blood was running out between his fingers.”
Dean turned to Clay. “Sounds like Campbell might have hit an artery,” he said. “The guy couldn’t have gotten very far in that condition.”
“Far enough to disappear,” Clay said and then turned to Schmidt. “He must have bled like a stuck pig.”
“That he did,” Schmidt said. “Left a trail on my floor and out the door. It stopped in the street.”
“Sounds like he had a ride waiting for him,” Clay said. “And someone’s car would have had a bloody mess to clean up after the driver dropped the shooter off someplace.”
Schmidt stopped wiping the glass he had in his hand and looked at Dean a bit suspiciously now. “Say, why are you two so interested in that guy anyway?” he said.
Dean shook his head. “No particular reason,” he said. “Thanks for the beers.” He slid off his stool and headed for the door with Clay right behind him.
&
nbsp; Schmidt called after them, “You haven’t even touched your beers.” But the two men were already several steps closer to their car. Schmidt grabbed the two mugs of beer and set them down below the bar, ready for the next unsuspecting patrons to walk in and order two beers. These two would see double duty.
Back at the car, Clay slid beneath the wheel and Dean slid in next to him. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Clay said.
“Depends,” Dean said, “on whether you’re thinking that the shooter may be dead and buried someplace and the guy we need to find is the driver.”
“Exactly,” Clay said. “Suppose we check car washes and car detailing places to see if anyone remembers cleaning a car with blood stains back then.” He pulled away from the curb and drove back toward Hollywood.
I let Gloria drive so I could check the list of missing doctors we’d made at the library. There were just three of them, but they were spread out on the map. One had an address in the Hollywood Hills. Another was listed in the Burbank area and the third one had an address on Waring Avenue, north of Melrose. We decided to check the closest one first in Hollywood Hills.
We drove north on Highland and picked up Mulholland Drive, winding through the foothills. The white and yellow house was perched on the side of a hill, its cobblestone driveway looking like it had recently been washed. Gloria pulled to the side of the road and we got out. We’d gone halfway up the driveway when Gloria suddenly gasped and jumped back. The woman who’d been bent over, tending her garden did the same.
“I’m sorry,” Gloria said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t see you there.”
“You startled me,” the woman said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Did you want something?”
I checked my list and said, “Is Doctor Henning at home?”
The woman looked at me and then at Gloria. She turned back to me and shook her head. “Chester died two years ago,” she said. “Why did you want to see him?”
“We were just checking a short list of doctors who were in the phonebook three years ago and who weren’t in the new edition,” Gloria explained.
“Well, that’s why he’s not listed in this year’s book,” the woman said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Thanks for your time. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Gloria and I turned and walked back down the driveway and got into the car. I crossed Chester Henning off our list and looked at Gloria. “I’d say the next closest one would be a Doctor Chalmers in Burbank,” I told her. “I guess we could just pick up the Hollywood Free to the Ventura and…”
“I know,” Gloria said defensively. “I’m from here, remember?”
“Pardon me,” I said. “You’re on your own.”
Gloria wound around down the mountain again and found the onramp heading north. She turned east on the Ventura and got off at Riverside Drive. North of the freeway lay a small, par three golf course. The house we were looking for overlooked the course from Walnut Street. Gloria parked on the road and the two of us walked up an inclined driveway, flanked by a three foot retaining wall covered with stucco. We stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. A moment later a middle-aged couple came to the door.
The man looked us over and decided we were harmless. “Can I help you?” he said.
I handed the man one of my business cards and said, “We’re looking for Stuart Chalmers. Might you be him?”
The man shook his head. “I’m afraid you have the wrong address,” he said.
I looked at my piece of paper and then back up at the man. “This is 1467 East Walnut, isn’t it?” I said.
The woman standing next to him tapped him on the shoulder. “Honey,” she said. “I think the man they’re looking for was the previous owner of this house. You remember Doctor Chalmers?”
The man nodded and then turned to me. “Doctor Chalmers used to live here,” he said. “But he obviously doesn’t anymore.”
“Any idea where I might find him?” I said.
The woman turned to her husband and said, “I don’t remember what happened to Mrs. Chalmers, but the doctor had a stroke a couple of years back and he had to go into a nursing home. That’s why they were selling this place. Poor man, now he just sits there all day staring out the window.”
I crossed Chalmers off my list and said, “Thank you,” and turned to leave. Gloria followed me back to the car.
“Strike two,” she said as we got back into the car. “Now where?”
“Get back on the Hollywood Freeway,” I said. “We have to get down to Melrose Avenue just east of Highland. I’m sure you know the way.”
Gloria turned her head and winked at me. “I could have been a cab driver,” she said, “if I hadn’t run into you first.”
“You mean I stood between you and a promising career as a cabbie?” I said. “Sorry.”
Half an hour later Gloria turned west on Melrose and then north again just before we reached Highland Avenue. This neighborhood didn’t look like the kind of place any respectable doctor would live, but that’s the address that was listed in the phone book three years ago. Gloria pulled up to the curb and killed the engine.
“How’d you like to stay with the car while I check this out?” I said. “I don’t feel good about leaving the car unattended.”
“That’s a good idea,” Gloria said, “but how about you stay with the car and I’ll check out the house? I might be able to get a little more out of some old guy than you could. Okay?” Gloria left the keys dangling from the ignition and exited to the street. She had taken only a few steps when she turned back and leaned down at the driver’s window. “What was this guy’s name?” she said.
I checked the slip and said, “Fischer. Albert Fisher.”
“Got it,” Gloria said. She crossed mid-block and walked up to the front door of a pink stucco ranch with a red tile roof and a wrought iron fence around its perimeter. She rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened a moment later and a guy in his late fifties or early sixties answered stared out at her. “I already have one,” he said.
“One what?” Gloria said.
“One of whatever it is you’re selling,” the man said.
“I’m not selling anything,” Gloria explained. “Are you Doctor Fisher?”
The man stopped closing the door and took a closer look at the stranger on his stoop. “No one’s called me doctor for several years. How do you know me?”
Gloria handed him one of her cards. “We’re looking into a murder from three and a half years ago,” she said. “Our research turned up your name and I was wondering if I could just talk to you for a few minutes?”
“A murder?” Fisher said. “I don’t know anything about any murder. Who got murdered?”
“It might be better if we talked inside,” Gloria said. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors sticking their noses into this, would you?”
“No, of course not,” Fisher said. “Please come in.” He gestured toward the living room. Won’t you have a seat?”
Gloria studied her surroundings on the way into the living room. Fisher saw something in her eyes.
“I know,” he said. “Not what you’d expect from a doctor, is it?”
Gloria waved him off. “Oh, no, I wasn’t…”
“Young lady,” Fisher said, “take my advice and don’t get involved with gambling. This is how you could end up. I got in too deep and lost nearly everything I had. This place is just a rental. They took my house when I couldn’t pay. My wife left me and I’m just scraping by on my retirement fund. And that won’t last long at this rate. The clinic where I worked requested that I leave and they gave me the option of taking early retirement. I took it, rather than risk negative publicity because of my addiction.”
“Sorry to hear that, Doctor Fisher,” she said. Gloria sat on the edge of a tan sofa and pulled out a notepad and pen. “Doctor Fisher, the man who was killed three and a half years ago was my father.�
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Fisher sat down in a wing-back chair and leaned in toward Gloria. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But how can I help?”
Before he died,” Gloria explained, “Dad was able to get off one shot of his own. He hit the man in the upper thigh. My partners and I are just doing routine checks with some of the area doctors to see if they remember treating anyone with a gunshot wound to the thigh. This guy took a bullet to the upper thigh, near the groin.”
“I’d have had to report a wound like that,” Fisher said. “I may have been a gambler but I never broke any rules when it came to my practice. If left untreated, a wound like that would prove fatal in a matter of minutes. He’d bleed to death unless he got immediate help.”
“So you didn’t personally treat anyone like the man I described,” Gloria said. “Would you know of anyone who might not have as high a standard and who might have treated him on the quiet?”
Fisher shook his head. “None of my colleagues would treat a wound like that without reporting it,” he said. “Do you know for sure that this man is even still alive?”
“No I don’t,” Gloria said. “But no unidentified bodies turned up during that period or I’d have heard about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Fisher said. “I don’t think I can help you.”
“Well, thank you for your time, Doctor Fisher,” Gloria said. “You take care now.” She got up and turned toward the door.
Fisher walked with her and opened the door for her. “I hope you find your father’s killer,” he said, and closed the door.
Gloria hurried back to the car to find me sitting behind the wheel. I gestured toward the passenger seat and she got it. She told me what she’d learned on our way back to the office.
“I wonder how Clay and Dean made out,” Gloria said.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but if their luck is anything like ours, I’m afraid we’re stalled at step one.”
“Maybe not,” Gloria said. “Let me call Clay first and see if they dug up anything we can use,” Gloria dialed Dad’s cell and waited. “Clay,” she said. “How are you and Dean coming along on your end?”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 262