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

by Don Pendleton

  "No, I think, we should talk to him again," said Dobbs.

  "Forget it," I warned, "if it's going to be no different than the first time. Don't you guys really think you're just a bit too much? Who the hell do you hope to impress with the tough guy act? Talk sense to me and I can talk sense back. But if all you want is a rumble, well okay, I can do that too."

  "I think he can," Dobbs said ruefully.

  The other one sighed, took a deep pull from his cigarette and fixed me with a cold stare. "Some guys are just congenital assholes," he growled.

  I said, "Right, but I won't hold it against you if you won't hold it against me. Where's your witness?"

  "What?"

  "Don't tell me you're moonlighting as waiters because you need extra cash. Your witness. The understudy is doing the show tonight, or didn't you notice?"

  Harney did not take murderous eyes off me but his next statement was obviously directed toward his partner.

  “Take a look."

  We stood there and measured each other with our eyes at ten paces while Dobbs ran back inside the theater. The next words were his as he danced back into view and called from the doorway: "He's right! It's Lunceford!"

  Harney dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, said to me in a cold voice, "Later," and walked quickly back inside.

  But I could not wait for later. I had already reaffirmed my earlier decision. I knew that I had to become the cop in the case.

  I didn't know where else to go at the moment so I went back inside and watched the rest of the show from the back wall of the theatre. So far I'd apparently struck out twice in trying to return the retainer and still didn't know who I'd actually been talking with that night in the lounge. I was not getting any clues from the people on stage and there was no sign of Dobbs or Harney out front.

  The maitre d' brought me coffee during intermission and this time I accepted it. Patrons were milling around, trying to divide their time between fancy desserts and the rest rooms, lot of traffic back and forth past my position at the wall.

  At some time during all that, someone slipped the now worn envelope into my coat pocket. I didn't discover it until just before the curtain opened. The ten one-hundred dollar bills had been gathered up and neatly re-enclosed. There was also a scrawled note from "Elaine" which read: "Meet me at the stage exit after the show."

  The name Elaine Suzanne surfaced immediately from my earlier study of the cast file. Age twenty-four, graduate

  of UCLA school of drama, single, a background in half a dozen community theater productions in the L.A. area, now cast as Dulcinea, the object of Quixote's affection. I watched her closely during the balance of the play, a strikingly pretty woman with long black hair and dancing eyes, and now and then I did pick up a head movement, a gesture that could tie her to my whisperer, though nothing whatever in the voice. Of course, these people were trained 'm voices and could probably sound like most anything a role may require.

  As it turned out, she denied that she was the one when we met after the show. "We spotted you from the stage," she explained. "Judith thinks you're a nut. She insisted that someone return your money. I volunteered."

  "Why?"

  "Because I know you're not a nut. And we don't want you to give back the retainer. We want you to earn it."

  "By doing what?"

  "By seeing that nothing happens to Craig Maan. We thought you understood that."

  "Who is'we?"

  She gave me a riveting flash of eyes as she replied, "Some of the kids in the cast. We think it's a good investment."

  "Why all the hokey pokey? Why didn't you simply come to me and lay it out in a businesslike way instead of whispering in my ear in the dark?"

  "Because—no, you have it wrong, that wasn't me. Look, I chipped in and went along with the idea but I'm not the one who hired you."

  "Who is?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  "Can't? Or won't."

  "Both," she replied, raking me with those eyes. She seemed to realize just at that moment that we were walking through the parking lot. She planted her feet suddenly and asked me, "Where are we going?"

  To my car," I suggested.

  "No you don't," she said firmly. "I had nothing like this in mind."

  "What did you have in mind?"

  "I just wanted to keep you on the job."

  "I'm a bit confused," I told her. "I've already been fired. That's why I returned the fee."

  "I know, but that was before we got together and took a vote. We overrode that earlier decision."

  "What made you change your minds?"

  She said, "Because we got a commitment from Craig."

  "You did?"

  "Yes. He wasn't involved, at first. Now he is. And he says let's go for it."

  "So where is Craig now?"

  "Nobody knows," she said worriedly. "He came in tonight and got ready, then walked out a couple of minutes before the curtain. Some of the guys went with him, but I don't know where or why."

  "How many guys went with him?"

  “Three, all majors. I mean, it could have wiped us out. But Judith put it back together and I think we did all right. That's why she was so rude to you backstage. She was under a lot of stress."

  I asked, "Is Judith in on this?"

  "I can't talk about that. It's a secret pact. So please don't—"

  "Why all the secrecy?"

  "It could seem self-serving, couldn't it."

  I said, "Nothing wrong with that, kid. Especially now that Craig himself has joined you. Why would you suppose that someone wants him dead?"

  She looked around to make sure we were alone, then leaned closer to quietly tell me, "This is absolutely confidential, top secret, you must keep it to yourself. Craig is an undercover cop. A narc. Maan is not even his real name."

  I said, "Aw, come on!"

  "No, really, that's why all the hush-hush. There's a price on his head. That's why he didn't want to take the show out."

  "Or that's the story he gave you," I suggested.

  "Why would anyone lie about a thing like that? And who wouldn't want to be the star of a hit show, unless . . . ? He only did it part-time, but he was really committed to it."

  "When did he tell you this?"

  "Just today. Well, there had been hints before that. I mean, some things just didn't jell."

  I took her arm and said, "Come on."

  She went along toward my car, but definitely under protest. "Where are we going?"

  "To find Craig."

  "I'd really rather not."

  "Me too," I said, "but I guess I have to. Unless you'd rather I just go home and forget it."

  But I guess she didn't fully commit herself to it until I'd seated her in my car. I went around and slid in beside her, kicked the engine, and asked, "Okay, where to?"

  She bit her lip and said, "I guess we should try my place first."

  "Your place?"

  She nodded her head in confirmation. "Craig is my husband."

  I gave her a hard look and replied, "The resume for both of you says single."

  "I know. We were secretly married a month ago."

  "Why secretly?"

  She turned fidgety eyes to me and said, "That's none of your business. But I expect you to respect it and not go blabbing it around, none of this."

  Hell, I wouldn't blab it, none of it.

  Didn't even believe it, not any of it.

  But it was damned good theater, and I was hooked. Yeah, I was really hooked.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a small but nice garden apartment less than ten minutes from the theater, all units at ground level with parking just outside the door.

  Enroute, Elaine seemed to warm up a bit and began telling me about a series of "incidents" involving Craig Maan which just seemed too "queer" to be accidents. The trouble had begun two weeks earlier and just a few days after the investor group had come forward with their offer to produce the show for a national road company.r />
  As she told me about it, a new scenario began forming in my mind—not the one she was painting for me but an alternate explanation of the events. In fact, if I had not already known about Dobbs and Harney and their interest in Craig Maan, I could have easily believed that the guy was a total phoney and spinning fanciful and self- aggrandizing stories to his friends for his own amusement. I have known people to do that, for no other reason than that it made them feel more important and interesting, if only to themselves.

  "He was involved in two hit-run car accidents," she explained, "and he was shot at on the freeway. The police

  called it a random shooting. Can you believe that? Then his apartment caught fire while he was asleep in it and—"

  "His apartment?" I interrupted. "Don't you two live together?"

  "I told you our marriage is secret. Of course we don't live together. We talked about him moving in with me while his apartment is being reconditioned but then we decided it would be best if he just bunked around with the guys."

  I said, "Did he bunk around with the guys for your honeymoon too, or is that also none of my business?"

  "It's also none of your business."

  "When was the fire?"

  "Last weekend. Then on Tuesday, the day we all decided something had better be done to put a stop to all this, he was shot at again."

  "Where?"

  "In the parking lot outside the theater."

  "So there would be witnesses to that."

  "No. Craig had stayed behind to have a talk with the backers. He met them in the lounge after the show. Everybody had left the theater area by the time that was finished. I guess his car was the only one left over there at the time. So there were no witnesses. But the hotel security men heard the shot."

  "Have you seen his apartment since the fire?"

  "I have never seen his apartment."

  I said, "Come on now, Elaine. You've been working opposite the guy for months, you say you married him, yet you've never seen his apartment?"

  "I don't even know where he lives," she confided. "The address on his employment file is a fake."

  "You checked that out?"

  "Yes, I checked it out. I know what you're thinking, Joe, because I've thought it all myself. Craig has always been very mysterious about his personal life. I used to think he was just being theatrical or whatever, until today when he broke down and told us all about it."

  "You're saying that you married the guy without knowing anything at all about him?"

  "Well let's not talk about that, but yes I did. Leave it at that, please. Just find out who is behind all these attempts on his life, or at least try to keep him safe until we leave this area."

  I said, "Do you know how nuts this all sounds? Have you been to the police?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Craig would have come unglued. He told us about each of these incidents in the strictest confidence. We assumed that the police already knew about it. After all, I mean, he's a cop himself."

  "Have you seen the damage to his car?"

  "Yes."

  "Bullet holes and all?"

  "Yes."

  "Any reason to wonder, at any time, if maybe Craig was just... you know, being dramatic?"

  "Well yes, I already told you that I never knew whether to believe him or not, until just the past few days. He was always so mysterious and ... well, sure, I wondered about it."

  "So why, suddenly, are you buying everything?"

  "Well... we saw you get shot at."

  "You did?"

  "We saw the bullet holes. And the pictures in the paper."

  "What did Craig say about it?"

  "It scared him bad. He thought they'd actually been after him—mistook you for him, I mean."

  "So you told him the truth about me then."

  "No. Not until today. He'd already made up his mind about the show. He'd decided to bow out. I think he'd made up his mind to just leave town very quietly. We didn't think it would serve any purpose to tell him about you, not until we saw you this afternoon before the matinee."

  "Why did that change anything?"

  "We had to tell him. He thought you were a hit man and he was going to run right then. So we told him. We thought he'd be mad about it, but he wasn't. He went out and checked on you. He has access to the police files, you see. And that reassured him very much. So much that he had a complete change of heart. When he came in tonight to dress for the show, he told me that he'd decided to stay and fight back. He wasn't going to let anyone stand in his way. Then thirty minutes later he walked out. So I don't know what. . . nobody knows, we're totally mystified."

  "Did you see him walk out?"

  "Sure, we all saw him."

  "So he went under his own steam."

  "I guess so. The other guys went after him. Nobody came back and it was curtain time. So ..."

  So, yeah.

  We'd been sitting outside her apartment during the final half of that conversation.

  We went inside then, and Elaine turned on the lights.

  Craig Maan was there, seated on the couch.

  Waiting for us in the dark, you might say—still made up for the stage but now totally naked and tighdy bound hand and foot—but I guess he hadn't minded any of that for long.

  His throat had been slashed from ear to ear, and he'd been dead for quite awhile.

  I silently apologized for my alternate scenario, and for all the uncomplimentary things I'd been thinking about the

  guy-

  A dream had ended there, yeah . . . and maybe a nightmare or two.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Since the crime scene was located in an unincorporated area of San Bernardino county, the police response was by the sheriff's department—and I happened to have a nodding acquaintance with the detective in charge of the initial investigation, guy named Art Lahey.

  I took him aside and told him the circumstances as I understood them but cleaned up a bit for the sake of credibility, and suggested that he notify the FBI. I pointedly named special agents Shenks and Osterman, and Lahey took it all down.

  Elaine was in a mild state of shock. She went that way at the first sight of the corpse and I had taken her back out to my car even before phoning in the find. Then I'd gone back inside to call it in and to look around on my own before the cops arrived. There was no sign of a struggle, no sign of forced entry, nothing apparently out of place or even disturbed. Except for the area around the couch, which was of course a bloody mess, the whole place was neat as a pin. There was only one bedroom and a small combo kitchen-dining-living room, tiny bathroom, but all very nice and feminine like an ad in Good Housekeeping.

  She lived there alone, yeah, that much was obvious—no masculine articles of clothing or toiletries, nothing like that.

  The responding patrolmen immediately evicted me to the front lawn and secured the scene with yellow tape, then we stood around and waited for the homicide response while I provided them with the data necessary for their patrol reports. I'd filled out several thousand such reports myself during a fifteen year police career, so I knew what they needed and that's all I gave them. The rest would keep for the detectives.

  I was glad to see Lahey. Some of these guys can be real jerks sometimes but Art Lahey is a highly intelligent and coolheaded cop. We'd brushed official elbows a few times over the years and it had never been an unpleasant experience.

  I went through the whole thing with him—all he needed to know at the moment, that is, including the angle on the U.S. Marshals—but to no great detail. It was obvious that Elaine Suzanne was in no condition to be questioned. I wanted to get her away from there, and I promised Lahey that I would produce her on demand. I pointed out that she had been virtually in my sight and on stage in front of hundreds of people throughout the evening, therefore she could not be a viable suspect.

  He agreed and allowed me to take her away.

  By then it was past midnight. I ran her by a friend of mine who
practices medicine the old-fashioned way. She checked her out and gave me a few pills, told me to put her to bed and let her sleep it off. Elaine had said not a word to me since the discovery of the corpse in her living room, and I'd left her alone too, but she did talk a bit with

  the doctor—"I'm fine"—"I’ll be okay"—"Thank you"—that sort of thing.

  As we returned to my car, I asked her, "Where would you like to go?"

  She replied in a monotone, "I don't know."

  "Any family in the area?"

  "Not anymore."

  I sighed. "You can stay at my place tonight if you'd like."

  "Okay," was all she said to that offer, and without any noticeable enthusiasm.

  Don't know why I felt responsible for the kid, I just did. Well, she was sort of a client, I guess. A piece of an ex- client anyway. I still had the retainer. Dawned on me that I had failed. I shrugged it away. I'd never actually agreed to do anything, had been trying to return the money, had been jailed, fired, and sort of re-hired, but I'd never actually been given an opportunity to succeed or fail in anything. So why should I feel that I had failed anyone? I decided that I hadn't and that felt better, for a moment anyway.

  I'd become involved in other lives, though, and it was never easy for me to insulate myself from people and their problems. Craig Maan, or whoever, was dead, sure, but the dead are never the problem. Death is the end of problems. It was fairly easy for me to let the dead go. My troubles were always with the living. I knew that, and I knew that I was opening myself to troubles but I couldn't just turn this kid out onto the street in the middle of the night and I knew damned well that she didn't want to go home even if she could, not with the dried blood of her dead "husband" dominating that small apartment.

  So I took her to my place.

  I live in an unincorporated area, too, but in L.A. county. Bought a house up in the hills overlooking the San Gabriel and Pomona valleys, did it at a great time before the development pressures became intense out that way, got it relatively cheap and now my equity is worth probably ten times what I have in the house. What's better, I'm not jammed in cheek to jowl with hordes of other people. I'm up there with the horsey set, and though I personally dislike horses myself—well, nothing against the horses, just their byproducts—the size and arrangement of the lots gives me privacy bordering on seclusion and there's plenty of room to stretch. My neighbors can't hear me peeing in my toilet—and not everybody in Southern California can say that. Best of all, I'm only a few minutes above every convenience our civilization can offer, so it's not like I'm isolated or deprived in any way. I even gave up my office space down below and moved it all into my bedroom since most of my business comes via telephone anyway and it's more comfortable at home, gives me more time for gardening and working in my woodshop.