The Cooperman Variation

FOUR

Outside in the narrow lot, I tried to quiz Vanessa about her delicate health, while she foraged in her bag for car keys. “I may look healthy, Benny, but I’m desperately run down. My bones are dissolving. My doctors tell me that I need six months with nothing to do but watch geraniums grow. Some tropical paradise without e-mail. Oh, wouldn’t I love it! Palm trees, bougainvillea!”

“Well, if that’s what the doctors say …”

“There wouldn’t be a designated parking place at NTC when I got back. Do you know how many names come off doors around there in a week, Benny?”

“But a needed rest for health reasons …?”

“Sudden death is the only excuse they understand, darling. And even that makes them angry this time of the year. When Harry Cassidy suffered a fatal stroke, the brass were sure he’d done it on purpose. Look! There’s a drugstore at the corner. Be an angel and get me some aspirin, Benny. I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed something for my head.” Vanessa pulled the car over into an empty space reserved for buses without waiting for my answer. I got out of the car and ran into the over-bright store to do as I was told. I bought a Kit Kat bar for myself, not knowing when Vanessa was going to call a halt to all this rushing around. When I got back, she ripped open the aspirin package while I wrestled with the top of the plastic bottle of mineral water I thought she might need to get the pills down. This accomplished, I continued to ask questions while she moved the car expertly through the heavy traffic.

“Do you suspect colleagues like Carter or Green of plotting against you? I mention them because their names are stuck in my memory.”

“Of course I do. They and everybody else in the place. Bill Franks. He’s head of Drama. Shotguns are his style. He likes to get a moose every fall. You know the type. But I don’t think he’s got the balls for it. And Nate Green’s out too, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“He’s dead, Benny. Don’t you read a newspaper? He died of a nasty cancer. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Hy Newman seems desperate,” I offered.

“Hy is dead and buried like Nate, only he doesn’t know it yet. He’s an old man. The network isn’t a home for tired artists, Benny. If it was, the floor would be littered with has-beens.”

“That’s a bleak picture, Vanessa. We all get to be has-beens.”

“I’ve no time to worry about that. Let Human Resources deal with it. That’s what they’re there for. I’m not the Salvation Army, and Hy Newman’s not my rehabilitation project. Let somebody else try to regenerate him. I’ve got to keep my ass moving fast enough so that I don’t become the next victim of the system. Hy knew two years ago, long before I came aboard, that the network was getting out of producing its own programs. Even the CBC’s getting out of that. Hy knows it as well as I do. We are all looking for independent producers to pioneer ideas and create series. That’s when I can be approached. We horse-trade and out of it come sweetheart deals. Everybody’s happy. That’s how it works today, Benny.”

A Volvo ahead stopped abruptly at a stoplight. Vanessa was quick with the brake, but not quick enough to avoid bruising the bumper. The owner, a small, dark woman with curlers under a bandanna, got out and looked for signs of the impact. Judging by her sour expression, she could find none. Still Vanessa’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She seemed to be bracing herself for the second impact of the trouble the woman was going to make. The woman didn’t. She returned to her Volvo, merely telegraphing a dirty look a moment before she slammed the door. By now, there was honking behind us. Vanessa leaned on her horn as well.

“How did television get to be so cut-throat? Why would anybody want to work in such an industry?”

“It’s something you understand, Benny, or you don’t. You either get off on the noise, the power games and the practice of cracking heads and breaking balls, or you get out. It’s like mountain climbing and skydiving, you have to have a head for it.”

“And you have?”

“Sure I do. One of the best in the business. Trouble is that I’m surrounded by memo-writers and buttoncounters. Like Ted Thornhill, the president and general manager. Ted’s the big cheese around here. The CEO. He controls people by tripping them up with paperwork. He breaks up viable working teams because he has nightmares about them riding into power on a wave of public popularity. He dreads the idea that a newsreader or sitcom producer could replace him. What he really wants isn’t big ratings or prize-winning programs, but quiet, drab, hide-in-the-corner schedules that nobody blasts or praises in the papers, the sort of programming the business community feels safe with.”

I nodded, trying to reconcile this voice with the Stella of old. Who would have thought that under that tightly buttoned blouse of a former high-school girl beat a heart of such unfettered ambition. The thought made it hard for me to sort out material she was feeding me. I attempted to weigh the threat to Vanessa in what she said about her professional colleagues and adversaries. At the same time, I was getting a better picture of the background of the world she inhabited. What I didn’t understand was “why?” Why did anybody put up with this kind of nonsense for thirty seconds? All the efforts of all these people came out the boob tube. So far I hadn’t seen anything to convince me that that was a misnomer.

“You never did finish about Hy Newman, Vanessa. A burnt-out producer with a chip on his shoulder might be just the sort of villain we’re looking for.”

“Hy certainly could get frustrated enough. I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t see him making a mistake like that, though. He’s so meticulous. He’d look first and then shoot. We’re searching for someone who shoots without looking.”

It was quiet in the car, which was filling up with smoke from the cigarette interposed between Vanessa’s scarlet lips. When I rolled down my window, she shot me a look. “This isn’t a criticism, Vanessa, it’s just a need for air. Ever since I gave up the habit, I’ve become supersensitive.”

The sharp look mellowed, and she grinned at me in a lopsided way that only Stella could carry off. “Benny, I always could talk to you. I’m glad to have you with me while this is going on.” She patted my knee for a moment and then abruptly removed her hand to bang on her horn. “That son of a bitch! Did you see that?” A green Volkswagen I thought I’d seen before was still behind us after we’d been on the road for ten minutes. It distracted me from seeing a Japanese compact come up on the inside and pass Vanessa just as she began to move into the inside lane herself. It had been a near thing. The other driver looked scornfully over his shoulder and took the next right-hand turn.

This moment of excitement interrupted the beginning of a sobering reflection: in the past, Stella Seco had had so little to do with me that the idea of her always being able to talk to me, while flattering, was plainly untrue. But, as I said, the thought was interrupted and I didn’t get back to it for some time.

“Tell me about your life, Vanessa. Away from the bright lights, I mean.” She seemed to slouch over the wheel as though the helium in her balloon was leaking.

“My life, if you can call it that, is not much of a life. My everlovin’ husband, Jeff Cutler, is effectively estranged, loving it and living in Vancouver. He takes time out in La Jolla because he adores the mussels at George’s at the Cove on Prospect. He can’t stand my company. That’s not fair. He didn’t see enough of me to decide that. And, as with most modern married women, my ambitions will never be satisfied by a lifetime of lowering toilet seats. Jeff never did understand this crazy business. Or the insane hours involved. Since he left, I live alone. The place is cleaned by Lydia, who also buys my groceries. She leaves cooked meals behind her in the freezer. She also looks after my laundry and sends the bills to the miracle accountant who makes my life possible. He handles all of my business affairs: taxes, parking tickets and charity. There’s a woman at Holt Renfrew, Benny, who puts clothes on my back and looks after me in that department. If I say a word against her taste, I’m afraid she’ll quit. She holds me hostage.”

“She’s doing a good job.” I said it because Vanessa had paused to take a breath in her monologue. I meant it, too. She was well turned out for her job. But then, Vanessa provided the building blocks for Holt Renfrew to work with. And the accountant paid the bills at the end of the month.

“All that sounds organized and shipshape, Vanessa. Are there any complications in this arrangement? What about your family? Is all well there?”

“Poppa and Momma are both dead. Even with me newly back from the grave, my sister still isn’t speaking to me. She thinks I did it to frighten her. We haven’t spoken since Momma’s funeral six years ago.”

“I should get her name, just to check her out.”

“Benny, you must be kidding! You think Franny’s out to get me?”

“I’m just looking at the possibilities. Could you give her number to Sally for me? Anything I’ve left out? What about your private, unscheduled activities?”

“Are you asking me if I have sexual encounters, Benny?”

“Those aren’t the words I would have picked,” I said, feeling my collar growing smaller.

“Why, Benny, you’re blushing!”

“Damn it, I have to know it all if I’m going to do my job. What’s the use of telling me all this other stuff if you’re withholding this … this other stuff.” I was tripping over my words in some confusion. Vanessa kept her eyes on the traffic, but she was smiling at my awkwardness.

“You met that boy who brought the car around?”

“Yes,” I said. “George, the animator.”

“Doesn’t he look a threat?”

“Ask me when I know him better. Does he come with a last name?”

“Brenner. Doesn’t that ripple with muscle tone?”

“How serious is it?”

“He’s ambitious and young, I’m well placed and not unattractive. It works out for both of us. Believe me, I have no long-term interest in George Brenner. We keep it simple. He really is a very talented computer animator, you know.”

“But he won’t gain anything at the network if you … uh, leave, one way or another?”

“No, he’ll go on parking cars and making out until his looks go. He dreams of surfing in San Diego. Isn’t that sweet? He is a dear, though, and very thoughtful.”

“Could he be reporting to one of the heavies in your life?”

“About what? I don’t discuss programming with him. We don’t even watch TV together.”

“Who’s your boss, Vanessa? Who are you responsible to?”

“That’ll have to wait, Benny. Here we are.” She drove between the fat granite pillars on the curved driveway and the young animator was there to take the car underground. Vanessa slipped him a golden smile as he moved his lithe, athletic frame behind the wheel and was gone in a squeak of brakes and a belch of exhaust.

“Rule one,” Vanessa told me, was “never talk in the elevators. They’ve got them wired. One reporter was fired on the spot for talking about the Blue Jays’ selling a third baseman before it was announced.”

“Is your office any safer?” I asked in a whisper as we headed down the corridor on the twentieth floor.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Benny. Of course, I don’t trust Sally. She comes with the space, like the air conditioning. Her loyalties go with the twentieth floor. I don’t know who she’s talking to.”

“I want you to get someone to move your desk, Vanessa. When your door is open, I can see you behind your desk from the elevator. Nice target. Nice furniture. What’s her full name?”

“Sally’s?”

“Who else have we been talking about?”

“Sally is Mrs. Gordon Jackson. She lives in Richmond Hill, north of the city.”

“Good,” I said, making a note. Vanessa slipped out of her jacket and slid it over the back of her chair. “What’s next on your schedule?”

“One hour and a half from now a meeting’s taking place down the hall. All of the people under me will be there, except for those out of town or in a body cast. Wanna meet ’em?”

“I guess I’d better. What are you up to in the meantime?”

“I’m having a massage, and you’re cordially not invited.”

* * *

Before paying a courtesy call on the cops in charge of Renata Sartori’s murder investigation, I phoned home, left word with my answering service and had a laugh with Frank Bushmill about where my much-needed holiday had taken me. At least it wasn’t Buffalo. I gave him my number at NTC in case he needed to get in touch.

I had never visited 52 Division, City of Toronto Police, before. I was impressed by the brightness of the place: lots of glass and windows and overhead lighting. Glass brick from the sixties or earlier. The man at the reception desk looked more like a hotel clerk than a desk sergeant. I told him that I wanted to see Staff Sergeant Jack Sykes, who was in charge of the Renata Sartori case. I had my name taken and was shown where I could sit down and wait.

I had not researched many of last year’s periodicals when I heard my name called in a brisk, metallic voice. I closed the magazine, immediately forgot what I had been reading in it and got to my feet. Watching me was a body that could have belonged only to a big-city policeman. He stood six foot two and was carrying about seventy pounds of extra weight around his waist, which even a heavy belt couldn’t disguise. This effect was strengthened by his narrow hips and tiny butt. His hair was straight and sandy, tending to fall across his right eye. Blue eyes and a firm jaw set in a ruddy face completed the first impression. He held out his hand and showed a double row of even, friendly teeth.

“Mr. Cooperman. Glad you dropped in.”

“Staff Sergeant Sykes?” I asked.

“Boyd,” he said and amended it to “James Boyd,” giving me the feeling I’d heard the combination before. “Jack’s on the phone; with luck he may be finished by the time we get there.” He turned and left the reception area without looking over his shoulder. I followed him to a room at the back without getting a glimpse of holding cells or suspects in handcuffs. It must have been a slow day.

Sykes’s door stood open. He was leaning back in a swivel chair, in some danger of overbalancing. He was still on the phone, but waved James Boyd and me into the room. In front of him lay a thick Toronto phone book, with “VICE” written in felt pen along the open edge. The desk was a mess of paper. I liked him already.

“… Go look it up in the transcript of the trial. Don’t ask me. Listen, Sheldon, I’m a working stiff, okay? Why don’t you go down to the Police Museum and talk to Les Mayhew. He knows all that ancient stuff. He was there, which I wasn’t.” He cupped his hand over the phone and said he’d be with us in a minute. I could see that he had long ago grown tired of this call. “Sheldon, you get credit on the cover for writing your books, right? In your past three books did I see a word about the time I’ve given you? What I’m saying is go write your book. I told you all I know about the case.” There was a long pause, while Sheldon tried to pin him to the line for another minute. Sykes held the phone away from his ear and sipped cold coffee from a cardboard container. When the dregs had gone, he interrupted his caller: “Sheldon, buy me lunch next week and I might remember something new, but right now your time is up. I got a desk full of problems and that’s what I’m being paid for … Sheldon! … Shut up, Sheldon! Call me at home … Mr. Zatz, here’s how it is: I’m busy Tuesday next week and Friday, but lunch is clear on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. I gotta go.” He banged down the phone and swivelled straight in his chair.

“Never agree to sit on a panel with writers. They get your name and you never breathe an easy breath again.” Boyd sat down and I took the chair he’d left for me. I presented my warrant card to him, which he assessed, nodding. He passed it across the desk to Sykes, who let it sit there without picking it up. Sykes was a big man too, but he handled the belly weight better than his partner. His muscles hadn’t begun their migration towards fat yet and he looked like he could throw me across the room if I asked him to help with a little plotting problem I was having. There was a patch of red fuzz above his forehead where his hair should have been. It looked like a dying plant in a shining vase. He was wearing a blue suit that had been tailored by a computer program that misfired. His tie looked like an enlarged tongue lolling on the right side of his green shirt. I figured that he was colour-blind and living alone. He didn’t say anything for a moment as he settled his hands behind his neck and relaxed back in his chair. The chair wheezed like an expiring sea lion. I wondered why he’d bothered to take his hat off. Except for that, Sykes looked like a movie cop from the 1940s. Something out of Hammett or Chandler, Leonard or Ellroy.

“So, you’re Cooperman,” he said at length, disappointing me with the clichéd introduction. Sheldon Zatz, whoever he was, was on to something in Sykes. You could fill up a lot of pages just describing the way he sat there drinking his cold coffee. I nodded and showed some teeth.

“And you’re in charge of the Sartori case,” I said, moving things in the direction of my preoccupations.

He said nothing, but he was running me through his assessment apparatus. I could imagine him sucking a toothpick. “Jim, this is the guy from Grantham that Chris Savas is always talking about.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s the one who does the Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade bit in Grantham. Population 1,280, right? No offence, Mr. Cooperman, but we’ve been getting whiffs of the legend from the Greek.”

“Cypriot, not Greek, sergeant. He makes a good case for the difference.”

“Whatever,” he said. “You worked these mean streets once before too, didn’t you? Something about a murder over a rare book?”

“That was a few years ago.”

“Yeah. Up in the Annex. I remember it now; you assembled all the suspects in a bookstore and pointed the guilty finger. Chuck Pepper told me about that. Right out of an Agatha Christie movie for television. You like private-eye movies, Mr. Cooperman?”

“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Savas told me you answer a question with a question. How is he? Has he made inspector yet?” For two minutes I brought them up to date about Chris Savas and his present status in the Niagara Regional Police. When I’d finished, Sykes shook his head as if I’d just asked him a question. “You know,” he said, “after all the shit going down in Grantham these days, I don’t know why a freelancer like yourself gets in his car and drives to Silver City looking for work. You know what I mean? When those tapes turned up under the false ceiling in the Medaglia case, after the place had been searched a dozen times, I mean, don’t you want to hide your head or something?”

“Are you making a soliloquy, Sergeant, or was that a question?”

“Don’t get me wrong. You weren’t on that case probably, being a rent-a-cop, but when there’s that much shit going down, a little brushes off on everybody whether they’re involved or not.”

“Like you collected in the Wentworth case?” I asked. “Kids are always getting their livers poisoned, aren’t they, when bad nurses are allowed to roam the floors of the Rose of Sharon Hospital at night.”

“There’s no crap on my boot, Cooperman,” Sykes said, straightening and getting his motion seconded by a groan from the chair. “The inquiry cleared us completely, or did your lips turn blue before you’d read that far? The papers are never so happy as when they’ve got a cop to hang out to dry, peeper.”

“Why don’t you tell me how you manage traffic lights and colour-coded index cards? Party games tire me. Why don’t we cut out the dancing around?” I got him with the colour-blindness: he blinked like a sports czar with his hand caught in the pension fund.

“What are you doing in my town, Mr. Cooperman?”

“I’ve been hired to keep somebody from getting killed.”

“Oh? So, you’re a bodyguard now! Next week it’ll be the secret service.”

I turned to Boyd and asked, “Is it the audience that gets him excited, or is he always like this?” Boyd opened his mouth as though about to utter, but closed it when Sykes stood up, letting his height, looming above me, play the cheap menace trick. I tried not to look intimidated, knowing all the time that he could chew me up in little pieces and swallow me without choking. I tried to look bored. “Why are you acting the heavy in this, Sykes? Didn’t I come to you? Didn’t I show my credentials? Didn’t I do the diplomatic thing? What do you want from my life? I’m just trying to make a living.” Sykes and Boyd exchanged looks. I waited. In his own good time Sykes moved my credentials across the desk towards me. Taking my time from him, I put them away in my wallet.

“Okay, if you’ll cut the crap, I will. I was just trying to see how you bounced. No offence. Saves time in the end. So, the Moss woman has hired you? You buy her story that she was the intended victim?”

“She hired me, didn’t she? That must say something. She’s scared that whoever killed Renata Sartori was really after her.”

“Yeah. We’re back in the movies again. But you could just as easily be a blind. You could be window dressing.”

“I didn’t come here to argue with you, Sergeant. You know a lot more than I do. This is my first day on the job. You’ve got a two-week hop on me and resources I can’t even imagine. If you think she did it, you must have good reasons. Since she’s not out on bail or in the lock-up, you can’t make a charge stick yet.”

“She had the motive, the opportunity, and we found the spent shotgun shells in her locker. Now, in my book, that puts the fancy wrapping paper around the package.”

When your eyeballs suddenly leap out of your head, there is hardly anything you can do to avoid looking like an animated cartoon of a cat being hit on the head by a large mallet. I took out my handkerchief and blew my nose loudly. I tried to work it out. I wanted to think. I thought of England, remembered the Maine, to help my breathing return to normal. I was smart enough not to speak. I nodded twice to give a sage indication of the assessment Jack Sykes had just made of the evidence pointing to Vanessa’s guilt. Of course, the whole scenario hit me all at once. Vanessa hadn’t told me because I might not take on her little problem. Shotgun shells found in her locker! She was damned right I would have stayed at home cultivating my non-existent garden. I was blazing mad at my own stupidity and more than a little upset by my old friend Stella Seco. I attempted a smile.

“You’ll have to convince me about the motive. She’s looking for people shooting down on her from above, not shooting up from below. I’ve seen her in action. She can handle the little guys without resorting to weapons larger than a pink slip. Opportunity? I thought she could demonstrate that she was out of town.”

“Conveniently out of town.”

“And I’m the convenient dodge to put you off. She hires me to show that she couldn’t possibly be the guilty party. Everything is looking suspicious because it’s convenient for your suspect. It’s one of those ‘if you thought that I thought that you thought that I thought’ routines. You can’t collar her with ifs.”

“You just see if I can’t.” He reached into the bottom right-hand drawer of his dull grey desk and lifted out a plastic freezer bag. Inside lay two used red shotgun shells. He threw the bag at me, and I picked it up. To me one shotgun shell looks like another, but I tried not to show it.

“You found these in her locker, right? Where do they get off having lockers in fancy offices like hers?”

“I wondered that too. She says that there are sensitive documents that need overnight protection a little stronger than your average filing cabinet or desk. I know that a locker closed with a-” Here he paused long enough to retrieve a second plastic freezer bag from the same drawer. “-combination lock isn’t Fort Knox, but you have to admit it’s safer than-”

“Where you keep your evidence, for example,” I said.

“During working hours, Cooperman. During working hours.” Again he tossed the bag towards me and again I examined it through the plastic. It was an ordinary combination lock that, by the look of its broken shackle, had been cut off by powerful bolt cutters.

“You’ve tried the combination of this lock against the combination you got from your suspect?”

Sykes looked me straight in the face and said, “Sure we did.” It was one of his little white lies. I could read that much in his partner’s face. Boyd didn’t say much, but he provided lots of information without troubling his vocal cords.

“Where did all of this take place, Sergeant?”

“You better call me Jack like everybody else or they won’t know who you’re talking about. You’re Sam, is that right?” For a minute I thought he knew about my brother who works across the street from NTC in one of the hospitals.

“‘Ben’ or ‘Benny’ will do nicely. And you get ‘Jim,’ is that right, Sergeant Boyd?” I asked, turning towards him. He nodded. The three of us took a breath and waited for the second act to begin on an even keel. Only it couldn’t start yet, because I had to hurry back to NTC to meet some of the possible villains in this case. And I wanted to speak to my damned client about omissions in her story.