“We got almost nothing from the bartender,” Clay said.
“Almost?” Gloria said. “What does that mean?”
“It means he didn’t know the shooter,” Clay said, “but we did get one piece of information I think could turn out to be useful. The shooter was hit in the thigh, as you remember. Well, the blood trail stopped when it got to the curb, so chances are he had a driver waiting for him outside. And with him bleeding that badly, he must have left a mess in someone’s car.”
“Are you suggesting we check the car washes and detailing shops?” Gloria said. “Maybe someone has a record of cleaning a car with blood on the front seat and floor. This guy would have left quite a mess.”
“Exactly,” Clay said. “Dean and I will start from the neighborhood nearest the bar and work our way outward. Why don’t you and Elliott start at, say, Melrose and Highland and work your way inward toward the bar? We’ll keep in touch by phone if any of us finds anything. Sound like a plan?”
“We’re on it,” Gloria said and closed the phone.
Gloria handed me my phone and I set it on the console between us. “What did they find?” I said.
Gloria told me about the blood trail and the possible bloody mess in someone’s car. I listened as I drove to Highland and Melrose. I stopped at the corner near a drug store and told Gloria I’d be right out. Inside, I asked a clerk if I could look at their phone book and jotted down the names and addresses of six car washes in the area they we were to cover. I thanked the clerk and hurried back out to the car with my list.
“If Dad and Dean are covering their area as quickly as we can,” I said, “we should overlap somewhere around Fountain and Vine. Let’s get started.”
The first three places we visited told us that they weren’t equipped to do detailing jobs like the one I described. They only washed the exteriors and vacuumed the insides. One of them did recommend an auto detailer on Santa Monica Boulevard near Cahuenga. It was nearly three-thirty when we made it there. My stomach was grumbling to remind me that I’d skipped lunch.
Gloria and I walked into the detailing shop and asked to see the manager. We were asked to wait in the lounge and a minute later a man in overalls stepped up to where we sat.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Your antenna broke off in the wash. Well, our sign clearly states that we’re not responsible for…”
“I held up one hand and stopped him. “We’re not here with any complaint,” I assured him. “My name is Elliott Cooper and this is Gloria.” I handed him a business card.
He looked the card over and then looked at me. His hard face softened. “Sorry,” he said, “but I get too many people trying to get me to pay for something on their cars that they broke themselves.” He stuck out his hand. “Marvin Sanders,” he said. “I own the place. How can I help you?”
“We’re looking into an incident from several years ago that involved a cleanup and detailing job,” I said. “The car we’re talking about would have had a lot of blood on the seat and on the floor. I’m not sure if it was the front seat or the back seat since I don’t even know what kind of car it was or who owned it. I was hoping you might remember a cleanup like that.”
“And this was how long ago?” Sanders said.
“A little more than three years ago,” Gloria said. “Sometime after May twenty-first.”
“Three years ago,” Sanders said. “Do you know how many cars come through here in just a week, let alone three years?”
“I can imagine,” I said, “but how many come through here with a bloody mess in them?”
Sanders snapped his fingers. “Now that you mention it,” he said, “we did have one like that. I remember because I thought it was unusual at the time. Some guy came in here telling me that he’s accidentally hit a dog in traffic and that he’d put the dog on the back seat and had taken it to the vet. He asked if we could clean up blood from his upholstery and carpet.”
Gloria’s face lit up. “Do you keep records from that long ago?” she said.
“I have to keep them for seven years,” Sanders explained. “You know, for tax purposes.”
“Do you think we could have a look at those records?” Gloria said, a puppy dog look playing on her face.
“I don’t see why not,” Sanders said. “It’s not like there’s any client/detailer confidentiality laws in play here, now is there?”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Sanders,” Gloria said. “Would you have a room where we could look through the record boxes?”
“I can do you one better,” Sanders said. “Everything on those invoices has been entered into our computer system. I can set you up in my office and open that database for you. Do you know your way around a database?”
“I should,” Gloria said. “We have one for our business records, too. Just lead me to it.”
Sanders took us both to his office and started his database program. We both looked away as he entered his password and opened the files we needed. He got up from his chair and stood aside while Gloria sat down in front of the screen.
“I have to get back to work,” Sanders said. “If you need anything else, I’ll be in the garage.”
“Thanks you so much, Mr. Sanders,” Gloria said.
Sanders left the room and Gloria jumped right in with the sorting routine on the screen. The screen showed a total of more than four hundred thousand records. She first sorted the list by date and isolated everything after May twenty-first. That narrowed the search down to a possible seventy-one thousand records.
“With this many records, this could take us the rest of our lives,” I said.
“Hold on, Elliott,” Gloria said. She clicked the search icon and selected the comments field, entering ‘blood’ in the search criteria. She got eleven hits and they all fell into line as neatly as a row of West Point cadets. “Eleven,” she said. “I think we can manage that in now time. And we can even narrow that down by date. Whoever had it cleaned wouldn’t have waited more than a week or two to have it done, otherwise it would have been permanent. So, let’s just check the date column and see what jumps out at us.
There were just three that fit the time frame. The one that interested us was dated May twenty-fourth, three years ago. Gloria opened the single file and read the comments section. It said:
Customer stated he hit a dog and carried it in his car to the vet. Extra charge for cleaning blood from upholstery and carpet. Most blood came out. Small stain on front seat back was too set in to remove. Customer signed off on detail.
We checked the customer name field and saw that the car’s owner was a man named William Claude Dunkenfield with an address in Hollywood. I jotted that name down on my notepad, along with the car’s license number.
“This has to be our guy,” I said.
“Well,” Gloria said, “just in case he isn’t, I’m printing out this entire list to take along.”
“All seventy-one thousand?” I said.
Gloria was about to clarify her statement when she looked at me and saw the mischievous look on my face. “Yeah, right,” she said. “No, just these eleven.” She hit the print button and a single sheet of names rolled out of the printer. She folded it three times and stuck it in her pocket.
Gloria closed the database and we returned to the garage to find Sanders. We thanked him for his cooperation and told him we’d recommend his services to our friends.
“Thanks,” Sanders said. “I can use the business. Glad I was able to help. I hope you find the guy you’re looking for.”
We got back into the car and I immediately dialed Dad’s phone. Dad answered right away.
“Elliott,” Dad said. “Having any luck?”
“A little,” I said. “How about you and Dean?”
“Nothing so far,” Dad said.
“Well, Gloria and I think we may have found the car and its owner,” I said.
“Really?” Dad said. “What did you find?”
I opened my notepad and said, “We just came
from a car wash and detailing place on Santa Monica. The owner there let us go through his customer database and we found eleven records of blood cleanup over the past three and a half years.”
“That’s great, Elliott,” Dad said. “You want us to help you track down those eleven customers?”
“It gets better,” I told him. “We narrowed that down to just one guy who had the right kind of blood stains and who fell into the right time frame. I copied down the customer’s name and address. We’re going over to that address now.”
“What’s this guy’s name?” Dad said.
I looked down at my notes and said, “Dunkenfield. William Claude Dunkenfield, over on Las Palmas.”
The phone went silent for a moment and then I could hear Dad laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“You won’t find him,” Dad said. “And chances are the address won’t exist, either.”
“How would you know that?” I said.
“Did you forget who you’re talking to?” Dad said. “I am the movie and TV trivia king. Do you have any idea who William Claude Dunkenfield is, or was?”
“Huh?” I said, totally baffled now.
“That was the real name of W.C. Fields, my little chickadee,” Dad said. “He never gave one an even break, either.”
“Never gave what an even break?” I said.
“A sucker,” Dad said. “And that’s what he made out of the car wash guy when he left that name and address. Any other ideas?”
“At least we know what kind of car it was,” I said. “It was a blue 1986 Oldsmobile sedan. That should narrow it down somewhat.”
“Great,” Dad said. “A twenty-seven year old car that may or may not still be on the road. If it ended up in some scrap yard, we may never find it.”
“Then I guess we’ll meet you back at the office,” I said. “I’m about all in for today.”
Dad hung up and I turned to Gloria. “Dead end,” I said. “The guy used a phony name and address.”
“I heard you tell Clay that you knew what kind of car it was,” Gloria said. “That’s something, anyway.”
“The car could be long gone,” I said.
“But not the license number,” Gloria said, a wry smile covering her face.
“You’re right, Gloria,” I said. “This guy can leave a fake name and address, but he couldn’t disguise the plate number. You’re a genius. Let’s go check at the DMV and see whose name really comes up.”
“I can see you need me,” Gloria said. “You know what a red tape zoo that place can be. It could be hours before we get what we need out of those robots.”
“You have a better idea?” I said.
“Let’s see,” Gloria said, stroking the imaginary beard on her chin. “Who do we know who has access to police records, vehicle records, mug shots, plate numbers?”
I snapped my fingers. “Dean, of course,” I said. I passed my phone to Gloria and pulled away from the curb. “Call him right now,” I said. “Tell him to skip the office. We’ll meet them both at The Gold Cup on the boulevard. I’m starving and we can do this over lunch from the booth.”
Gloria called Dean and arranged for them to meet us at the coffee shop in fifteen minutes. We settled into a booth near the street side window and gave the waitress our orders before getting down to business.
“Would you call your contacts at the twelfth precinct, Dean?” I said. “See if you can get some information on this license number. It was on an ’86 Old sedan.” I turned my notepad around and laid it in front of him. “The guy may have left a phony name and address, but we can at least find out who owned that car.”
Dean called Eric Anderson, the man who took over Dean’s job as lieutenant after Dean had retired. Dean gave Eric the information, along with his cell number and asked Eric to call him back with that information.
“Let’s give him a few minutes,” Dean said. “Meanwhile, here comes lunch.”
The waitress brought a tray with four meals on it and set it on a stand near our booth. We all got our meals and immediately started in on them. We were half finished with our late lunch when Dean’s cell vibrated on the table top. He picked it up and listened.
“Thanks, Eric,” Dean said. “I owe you one, pal.” Dean closed his phone and wrote a name and address on my notepad and pushed it back at me. “There you are. At least that was the owner three and a half years ago.”
I set my hamburger down on the plate and picked up the notepad. “Ray Simmons,” I said, picking up one of the fries off my plate and biting into it. “Ray doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to have four visitors this afternoon.” I turned to Gloria. “And you try to remember if and when we find him that he was not the shooter, just the driver, so don’t go all Dirty Harry on him.”
I could see that Gloria was getting antsy in her seat. Half her lunch was still untouched in front of her and she kept looking out the window onto Hollywood Boulevard.
“You might as well finish your lunch,” Clay said. “None of us are going anywhere until we finish ours. Simmons will keep for another hour. Go on, eat.”
Gloria nibbled a few more fries, but left the rest of her hamburger. It took the rest of us another six or seven minutes to finish our lunches.
I signed and patted my stomach. “Just what I needed,” I said. “Anyone want dessert?”
Gloria punched me in the arm and pushed me out of the booth.
“I guess not,” I said and stood alongside the booth, helping Gloria to her feet.
I left the money for the meals on the table along with the tip. The four of us returned to our cars and stood there on the street for a moment. Dean looked at Gloria. “How about if we all ride together?” he said, opening his back door.
Gloria and I slid in behind Dad and Dean. Dean was as familiar with the city as Gloria was and immediately started west on the boulevard. He headed south on Cahuenga and turned west again on Romaine Street. The house we were looking for sat behind a row of neatly trimmed hedges in the sixty-five hundred block. We all got out of Dean’s car and took up positions on all four sides of the house. Dean took the front door and rang the bell.
A man of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty answered the door in his bare feet and a white, strapped tee shirt and slacks, with the belt dangling in front of him. “Yeah?” he said. “What do you want?”
“Ray Simmons?” Dean said.
“Who’s asking?” the man said sarcastically.
Dean held up his I.D. card, being careful to cover the ‘Retired’ stamp with his thumb.
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” the man said.
“Are you Raymond Simmons?” Dean repeated.
“Yeah, so what?” Simmons said.
“We’d like to talk to you,” Dean said.
“Who’s we,” Simmons said. “You got a mouse in your pocket?”
“We can do this the easy way,” Dean said, returning his I.D. to his pocket and exposing the .38 that hung under his arm. “Or we can do this the hard way. What’ll it be, Ray?”
Simmons sighed and stepped back. “Come on in,” he said.
Dean turned his head away and whistled a sharp, shrill whistle. Gloria, Dad and I soon joined him on the stoop and followed him into the house. Dean turned to Simmons. “Anyone else in the house with you?” he said.
Simmons shook his head. “Nope,” he said.
“You don’t mind if we see for ourselves, do you?” Dean said.
“Go ahead,” Simmons said. “You ain’t gonna find no one.”
Dean gestured to the three of us and we made a quick search of all the rooms. Simmons was alone. We took up our positions again next to Dean.
“Sit down,” Dean said to Simmons. Simmons obeyed like a trained dog. “We’re here about your car,” Dean said. “The blue 1986 Oldsmobile sedan. Do you still have it?”
Simmons gestured with his head toward the door. “Outside,” he said. “Up on blocks. It hasn’t run for more than a year, so whatever you t
hink it is I did, you’re wrong.”
I got up and left by the front door and around to the side of the house where the Olds sat up on blocks. The doors weren’t locked and I checked the front seat for the blood stain. It was there, just where the detailer’s notes said it would be. I hurried back inside and sat down again. “That’s the one,” I said. “Still got the stain on the front seat back near the seat belt buckle.”
Simmons looked a little more nervous now. He swallowed hard and looked around the room.
“How’d you get that stain on your front seat, Ray?” Dean said.
“I don’t remember,” Simmons said.
“Try harder,” Dean said. “It could mean the difference between life without parole and the gas chamber, so think before you speak.”
Simmons broke down. “It wasn’t me,” he said in a hurried, frenzied voice. “I didn’t shoot him. Someone else in the bar did. He jumped in my car and I just drove away from there, that’s all.”
“Who was the guy in your car?” Gloria said, standing now, her fists clenched.
I grabbed Gloria’s hand and pulled her back down onto the sofa.
“Who was he?” Gloria barked again.
Simmons looked at Dean, who nodded slowly. “Better tell her,” he said.
“That was Joey,” Simmons said.”
“Joey who?” Dean said.
Simmons looked around him again, as if expecting a magic door to appear and open in front of him. “Rhodes,” he said. “Joey Rhodes. I swear I didn’t shoot him.”
“We know you didn’t,” Clay said. “But we know who did.”
Simmons let out a deep breath he’d been holding and lowered his head.
“Look, Ray,” Dean said. “We’re not here to bust you for the holdup at the bar. We know that was Joey’s doing. You may still be held as an accomplice for being the getaway driver.”
“What getaway driver?” Simmons said. “I didn’t know what Joey was doing in that bar. We just stopped there and he said he was going in for a pack of cigarettes and to wait for him. When he came out holding his leg I didn’t know what happened. He jumped into the front seat and just told me to drive. I had to do what he said. He was pointing that gun at me. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a gun.”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 263