Copp In The Dark, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series)

by Don Pendleton

  COPP

  IN THE

  DARK

  Don Pendleton

  A Joe Copp, Private Eye Novel

  by the creator of

  The Executioner: Mack Bolan Series

  Reviews of Don Pendleton’s Joe Copp, Private Eye Series

  Kirkus Reviews: “Pendleton is the master.”

  Publishers Weekly: “Reads like an express train...a throwback to the vintage Spillane years...Pendleton knows how to keep us turning pages.”

  St. Petersburg Times: “Pendleton has a great new character in Copp. His style is fresh, the pace is brisk, and there are enough twists to please any mystery fan.”

  Library Journal: “Pendleton, author of the long-running paperback Executioner series, shows in his first hardcover that hardboiled writing can be insightful as well as action-packed.”

  Milwaukee Sentinel: “Pendleton is a master of action and dialog and ‘Copp’ is a taut detective story.”

  Booklist: “Action filled...Copp is a likable tough guy...An exciting, satisfying read.”

  Flint Journal: “Pendleton proves again he is the equal of Mickey Spillane when it comes to the hard-boiled mystery.”

  ALA Booklist: “This is the real thing, the hardcover debut of the author of the perennially popular ‘Executioner series’...the charm of the Executioner books.”

  Books by Don Pendleton

  Fiction

  The Executioner, Mack Bolan Series

  The Joe Copp Mystery Series

  Ashton Ford Mystery Series

  Fiction with Linda Pendleton

  Roulette

  Comics by Don and Linda Pendleton

  The Executioner, War Against the Mafia

  Nonfiction Books by Don Pendleton

  A Search for Meaning From the Surface of a Small Planet

  Nonfiction Books by Don and Linda Pendleton

  To Dance With Angels

  Whispers From the Soul

  The Metaphysics of the Novel

  The Cosmic Breath

  Copp in the Dark

  All Rights Reserved © 1990 by Don Pendleton

  Published with permission of Linda Pendleton.

  Originally published by Donald I. Fine, Inc

  ISBN: 1-55611-210-6

  First Kindle Edition, February 2010

  Donald I. Fine, Inc. First Printing Hardcover, 1990.

  First HarperPaperbacks printing, 1992

  BackinPrint/iUniverse Edition, 2000.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Linda Pendleton and Judy Bullard

  For all the splendidly talented people everywhere who keep live theater alive and well, and who give so much to so many for so little. Please keep on.

  dp

  “... And the world will be better for this, That one man, scorned and covered with scars, Still strove, with his last ounce of courage, To reach the unreachable stars!"

  —Song lyric, "The Impossible Dream" ("The Quest")

  Special thanks to George Champion, masterly voice of La Mancha on the Southern California stage, for his insights and valuable counsel

  COPP

  IN THE

  DARK

  CHAPTER ONE

  I heard a rustling movement and knew that someone had sat down behind me in the darkened lounge, but I had no other clues until she spoke in a soft little whisper almost at my ear. "Thank you for being so understanding."

  I understood nothing. The place had been closed for over an hour. A door had been left open for me at the far side of the building and I'd found my way along a maze of dimly lit corridors to keep an appointment in the dark with a person I'd never met. I had come out of simple curiosity, responding to a murky message left on my telephone answering machine and because the appointed place is at my edge of the L.A. area and I had nothing else to do at three a.m. anyway.

  It's a luxury hotel complex complete with several fine restaurants, a dinner theater and a lounge, various other diversions, and I knew the place.

  "Please don't turn around," whispered the voice in the dark. "If you do, I'll have to leave." Obviously my mysterious prospective client had been waiting for me in the dark, concealed somewhere inside, because I would

  have seen her if she'd come in behind me from the softly lighted foyer.

  I shrugged—for my own benefit, I guess—and said, Tm comfortable. What's up?"

  "I want to hire you."

  "I gathered as much. For what?"

  "What do you charge?"

  "Depends on what or who I have to do. What's the job?"

  "I'm in the show," she whispered. "In the cast, I mean, Man of La Mancha. At the dinner theater next door."

  I knew about it. It had been a long run, held over twice. Saw it myself. I'm no critic but... I liked it. Mostly kids trying to get a start in professional theater but a lot of talent and enthusiasm to make up for the lack of experience.

  That's a problem?" I asked her.

  "Well, it's getting to be. A lot of strange things... I think one of the cast is...

  I could almost see her in the mirrored wall but not quite, just a subtle shape in the darkness, an occasional movement of black on black as she tried to get her thoughts together.

  I sighed and asked her, "Why the big mystery, kid? Just lay it out for me. What's the problem?"

  "Well it's very delicate," she replied slowly, as though tasting her words carefully before letting them out. "And a lot is at stake. They're talking about keeping the cast together and taking this show on the road. A major booking agent is interested and the rumor is that several investors have come forward, so...”

  "So what's the problem?"

  "Look, a chance like this comes once in a lifetime. It's very important. To me and to a lot of other people."

  "So I still don't-"

  "I think someone is trying to kill our star."

  "Come on."

  "No, really, a lot of strange things have been happening."

  I sighed again as I silently cussed myself for being lured out in the middle of the night by a theatrical imagination. "I get five hundred a day plus expenses," I said heavily. "So how much of my time can you afford?"

  She slid a long white envelope over my shoulder as she replied, "We took up a collection. There's a thousand dollars here. Well get more as we need it."

  I turned around at that point, struck my lighter and peered at her in the flickering light as I asked, "Why all the mystery?"

  She was trying to cover up, leaning back from the flame of the lighter with both hands at her face, in obvious alarm and suddenly very angry. "Put that out!"

  I had only a glimpse, a brief impression of dark beauty and flashing eyes, before she knocked the lighter from my hand and ran out.

  I was cussing out loud as I found the lighter and lit it again. The envelope was lying on my table and, yeah, ten one-hundred dollar bills were inside it.

  I should have walked away and left it there but I wasn't sure she'd be back and I didn't want a wasted collection from hardworking kids on my conscience so I put it in my pocket and retraced my steps through the maze to the outside door, intending to return the money at the next performance of La Mancha.

  Someone trying to kill their star! It's a tough business, I knew that, and I could understand the anxieties when that "once in a lifetime" break seems to be materializing, but I also knew that kids like these so
metimes become so

  steeped in drama that they can lose touch with the real world—and I just wasn't buying the melodrama.

  But then I stepped outside and instantly changed my mind about all that.

  A gun boomed from somewhere among the parked cars and a bullet plowed into the bricks beside my head. I reacted instinctively, diving for cover behind the low wall of a walkway and staying as flat as I could get while five more sizzling rounds powdered the cement above me, all entirely too close for any kind of comfort. An engine kicked somewhere out there and a car tore away on screaming rubber while I was still cowering in the dust.

  There was no thought of pursuit. I don't routinely wear a gun and I didn't even have one in my car.

  I was just glad to be alive and still healthy.

  Totally in the dark, sure, but reaching toward the light with all the brain I had left.

  It was to be a damned long and painful reach... through melodrama to end all melodrama . . . and through a darkness unlike any I'd ever known. My name is Joe Copp. I've already heard all the wise remarks about the name, so spare me. I have been a cop of one kind or another all my adult lifetime and I'm crowding forty. I should have learned by now, you're saying, how to do it right and stay out of trouble. Maybe so, but I guess I never had that as my first priority. As a result, I bounced around a lot, one detail to another, one force to another—maybe trying to find superiors who'd be willing to let me do the job my way. Never did, so recently I've been my own boss, a private businessman, Copp for Hire—but not that much has changed, I still have a tough time doing it my way.

  Like this case.

  It started in the dark and damn near ended there. Pull up a chair, if you have a minute, and 111 tell you about it. Ever dream the impossible dream, like the man from La Mancha? Ever hold one in your trembling hands and know that it's suddenly becoming very possible? Ever willing to kill for it?

  Some people are.

  Oh yeah. Some people would kill for that dream.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The local cops were on the scene that night almost before I could brush the powdered cement off my clothing. I played it dumb and told them nothing about the mysterious meeting in the hotel lounge, told 'em I thought maybe I'd surprised kids trying to pilfer from the parked cars and they bought the story for the moment. Still, that took some time so it was nearly five o'clock before I got home. I keep an office in my bedroom and the big bed was very inviting but I paused beside the answering machine as a conditioned reflex that can't be avoided any time I've been away.

  There were two new messages, recorded about twenty minutes apart. The first was from a Minnesota area code and urgently requested that I call back at the earliest moment, no name given. The other message was delivered in the whispery voice I'd already heard twice before, and all it said was: "Sorry for the quick exit but you forced it. I'm glad you didn't get shot. Get to work but be very careful and please be discreet. I’ll call again tonight."

  I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, wondering about the strange-quotient of the night's events. If the gunplay had been merely a ploy to guarantee my

  interest, then the player was either a hell of a good pistol shot with a lot of self-confidence or a hopeless asshole who got lucky and didn't kill anyone with his dumb game. All six shots had been no more than an inch off the target. On the other hand... and what about the second dumb phone call? What was I supposed to get to work on?—and how more indiscreet can you get than six pistol shots in a theater parking lot at three a.m.?

  I undressed and sat on the bed to return the call from Minnesota. I got an answer on the first ring from an older masculine voice with a definite midwestem sound to it. This is Roger Johansen. Thank you for calling, Mr. Copp."

  I casually inquired, "How'd you know it was me?"

  An embarrassed little laugh preceded the explanation. "This is a pay phone. Didn't want my wife to hear any of this and get her hopes up again for nothing."

  "Hopes for what?" I asked, wondering how long the guy had been prepared to stand at a public phone and wait for a call from a stranger two thousand miles away.

  "Our son has been missing for more than six months now. Not a word from him and we've had no idea where he is. I had a call last night from California, a very mysterious call that sounded like one of these computerized voices. I was told that my son is in Southern California and that you could find him for me. Do you know anything about that?"

  He sounded like a decent man. I sighed as I told him, "There are ten thousand missing kids from the midwest in Southern California today, Mr. Johansen, and another ten thousand will be arriving shortly. I don't know how you got my name but I don't do that kind of work."

  "Then you are not the one who called me?"

  "Absolutely not," I said.

  "Well, this is very puzzling. I hope it is not just another cruel hoax. The inference was that you already know something about my son and perhaps could put me in touch with him."

  I said, "Sorry."

  "I don't understand the mentality of anyone who would do something like this."

  "Me either," I assured him—then I had a second thought. "How old is your son, Mr. Johansen?"

  "He's barely twenty-one. Dropped out of school in Chicago earlier this year and simply vanished. We haven't heard a word."

  "Were you estranged before that?"

  "Somewhat, yes. I've been paying for a degree in chemical engineering. We found out at the beginning of his senior year that he's actually majoring—or was—in theater arts. Things became a bit sticky after that."

  To myself I said, "Uh oh."

  To the worried father I said, "Send me a package, Mr. Johansen." I gave him the address and asked for recent photographs, names and addresses of known friends, a personality profile and any other items he could quickly lay hands on. "Send it by overnight mail," I added.

  "Then you do know something."

  "I might. Might not. But it's worth a shot to me if it's worth a hundred an hour plus expenses to you. Send me a five hundred dollar retainer and I’ll bill you for the rest."

  "I'm not a rich man, Mr. Copp. How much will this cost?"

  "That will be up to you," I told him. "I’ll report daily and you can tell me when to stop."

  "I understand. And I’ll get the package off to you right away. "

  I put the phone down and immediately rolled between the sheets. There was probably no connection between the man in Minnesota and a whispery voice in the dark, I told my waning consciousness, and I wouldn't charge the man or fan false hopes unless a connection did develop very quickly.

  On the other hand...

  I went to sleep on that other hand, and I must have been very deeply asleep because it seemed like no more than an instant later—though the bedside clock was showing a few minutes past eight—when a very insistent finger on the back doorbell rousted me. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and cinched it about my waist, then staggered to the door and opened it.

  Two guys flashing federal credentials pushed inside and closed the door.

  I said, "Shit!" and staggered on to the kitchen to put the coffee pot on.

  I've had enough experience with feds to know that they are never quick to leave. I think they're all frustrated lawyers because they love to talk like they're examining a hostile witness in court, and they love to catch you in a lie before they get to the point of the examination.

  So I put the damn coffee on and settled in as comfortably as possible dressed in a damp towel.

  Meanwhile one of the feds is regarding me with a blank stare from the doorway and I guess the other is looking about the house—for what I really didn't care.

  I'd placed three coffee cups on the table and pulled out a couple of chairs in an inviting fashion. They both joined

  me at the table a couple of minutes before the coffee was ready. We just sat there and looked at each other—both sides, I guess, waiting for the other to speak first.

  Hell, I
'd played those dumb games myself. I could wait. I did, until I poured the coffee, then I told them, "It's on the house."

  These two guys looked like twin brothers. Dressed alike, combed their hair alike, even wore the same expression on their faces. The one to my left said, "Thanks, I really need this."

  The one on my right winked at me and sampled his coffee with cautious lips. I winked back and poured down half a cup just for show and tried to hold back the tears as it scalded my throat clear to the esophagus.

  "You're a tough guy, Joseph Copp," said Left with a little smile.

  I shrugged and tested the voice with a weak, "It's a tough business."

  Right chuckled softly and said, "I though P.I.'s hid in closets and snapped pictures of cheating wives."

  I chuckled too and replied, "You think that's not tough?"

  Left said, "He's not that kind of P.I. Are you, Joe?"

  "Whatever pays the bills," I replied pleasantly, lying in my teeth. I do not do divorce cases, I do not do insurance cases, I do not do missing kids or irresponsible fathers or any kind of civil court stuff. I usually do what I damn well choose to do, and sometimes the bills don't get paid.

  "What's paying your bills these days?" asked Right.

  "Maybe I'm paid up a couple months ahead. Maybe I'm on vacation. Maybe you've got no right to ask. Did you show me your search warrant? I don't recall asking you guys inside."

  "He's right," Left said chidingly to the other. "You can't ask a man in Joe's position to violate the sacred trust of his clients." He took a pull at his coffee. "Not even if it's going to save him a whole lot of trouble."

  "Not even if it loses him his license," agreed the other in mock serious tones.

  These guys weren't acting like any FBI people I ever knew. I told them, "I think I forgot to look closely at your credentials. Could I see them again, please."