Copp For Hire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series)

by Don Pendleton

  "You're hired, damn it."

  "And stop evading my questions. How the hell can I help blindfolded?"

  "I wasn't evading. I was explaining. My thesis, among other things, investigates the influence of names on personality. One particularly intriguing influence has to do with the selection of careers. Is it pure coincidence that a

  man with a name like Shears is a hair stylist? Or that Dr. Yankum is a dentist, Dr. Corona is an eye surgeon, Jack Hammer is a construction worker and Bill Drains is a plumber?"

  "I knew a hooker once," I said, "named, for real, Harriet Ball."

  "Great. I'll add her to my list. That's how I found you. Someone told me about this hard-boiled cop with the, to him, I guessed, highly suggestive name of Joe Copp. By the time I tracked you down, you were Copp for Hire. There's a doubling here, too. You see, Joe is a strength name. Men named Joe are usually very assertive and commanding. Team that with Copp and I figured a good combination for Juanita's problem."

  "You read tea leaves and cast horoscopes too?"

  "That's easy. You're a Leo. Enough said."

  I could not just leave it at that. "Suppose you're a Pisces. Swim both ways at once. What does Linda versus Belinda tell me?"

  She moved back close. "Belinda is the root name. It's Germanic, not Spanish as you would think. The Spanish Linda means pretty."

  "What does Belinda mean?"

  "Originally, a serpent."

  "No kidding."

  "It was the title of an oracular priestess. Linda is a diminutive."

  "You don't look much like a serpent to me," I said.

  "Especially not on stage."

  "You're forgetting Eden. The serpent is mankind's oldest symbol of temptation."

  It was a symbol for something else, too.

  But actually I don't put that much stock in names, Copp notwithstanding. And I really did not want to think about snakes.

  Besides...we had a tail. And it was crowding closer and closer as we sped down the mountainside.

  Chapter Nine

  IF YOU MEAN to play vehicular games on a winding mountain road at night, you should know the territory better than your opponent knows it.

  I had been driving that road for five years, at all times of the day and night.

  This guy had come to play games.

  It was his tough luck that he had come to

  play in my territory.

  He was crowding my rear bumper close enough that I could see the orange flames decaled across the hood in my rearview. I sent Linda a warning signal with the eyes and

  told her to buckle up.

  She obeyed quickly. Linda was no dummy.

  She knew what was coming down, even before the guy rode up and tapped my bumper.

  I drive an old Cadillac, one that was built before the EPA standards scaled them down to economy size. Sumbitch weighs three tons, believe it or not, and packs five-hundred cubic inches beneath the hood. It's like an armored tank, and that's why I love it so, even when the monthly gas bill comes.

  So I was not going to let that TransAm push me off the road.

  In fact, I damned well dared him to try. Next time he surged forward for the tap, I tapped my brakes. The tap became a cruncher and sent him swerving away in reaction. He lost a headlight in that exchange but not a lot of nerve because he came right back for more, this time nosing up past my rear end on the passing side.

  Bad timing on that one, though. Another vehicle swept around a curve headed our way about a hundred feet ahead, sending the guy swerving back in line. Even with that, he tried to clip me as he swung back in, caught maybe a silly millimeter of bumper, which affected him more than it did me.

  By the time he was in control again we were riding the final ridge before the road curved abruptly into a descent to level terrain. It was about a three-hundred-foot drop

  graded over maybe a quarter of a mile if you stayed on the road; if you didn't it was just about foot for foot on the descent—not the way you want to do it in a vehicle.

  There was a turnout at the curve, a widening of the shoulder to allow a park-and-view of the valley below. It was on the uphill side. I went for it, with the TransAm again crowding the rear.

  I did not go all the way.

  He did.

  Maybe because he was so intent on me, maybe because of the limited visibility resulting from the smashed headlight; maybe because he was a jerk and had been trying for three miles to buy something like this.

  Anyway, I did a sliding Uey with the Cad; he tried too late to do the same with the TransAm. It teetered broadside at the edge, then went on over in a slowly rolling descent.

  I sprang a backup .25 automatic from the glove box and dropped it on Linda's lap, hate them or not, and bailed out of there with my big piece leading the way.

  One of the nice things about being a big man is that it enables you to pack a big piece without unnecessarily advertising the fact that you're carrying. Not that I ever considered it necessary to carry a cannon. Most of the shooting I've ever done was on a pistol range. That's true of most cops. You have to fill out too damned many forms if you fire your weapon in the line of duty. But there is a psychological advantage to a big piece if you are in a stare-down with some dude holding a little snubnosed pocket piece. So years ago I adopted a Smith & Wesson Model 57 double-action revolver. It's a 41 Magnum, which is a bit unusual; has an 8-3/8" barrel, more than a foot long overall and weighs over four pounds loaded. Theatrical as hell, I know; but then half of what a cop does is theatrical, so what the hell. If I can prevent a shooting just by unbuttoning my jacket, why not? But if it does get to a shooting, the S&W 57 is very accurate and reloads quickly.

  I had a shooting now. My boy had ridden the wreck all the way, I guess. I went scrambling down the hill behind him and drew fire about halfway down. I sent two quick rounds sizzling into the wreckage and got no answer. But I had to respect the return-fire capability, so that slowed me. By the time I got down there my boy was gone. I found some blood on the front seat and a smear on a rock just outside the car, and that was as close as I got to the guy.

  I jotted down the license number and took the pertinent info off the registration, which I found in the glove box. Registered to a guy who lived in La Canada, which is the other side of Pasadena. Had no doubt at all that the vehicle would show up on the stolen-car list.

  Linda was waiting for me all a'sweat outside the Cad when I finally got back topside. I noticed that she did not have the little pistol I'd dropped on her.

  "Where's your gun?"

  She pointed to the car, then nearly fainted in my arms. I provided physical support but I was fuming. "Wouldn't have done you much good, would it," I groused, "if the wrong guy had come back up that hill."

  She did not reply to that but only clung closer. I gave her time to get it back together, then disentangled and led her to the car.

  Neither of us had a lot to say about anything at all. So it was a pretty quiet ride the rest of the way. I took her to a luxury hotel in Covina and checked us in with fictitious names. That's only a misdemeanor offense so my crimes were getting lighter. I did not want to advertise her presence anywhere, not even in Covina, which is another jurisdiction. In case someone might go searching, I figured the classy joint would be among the last places to look. It was built entirely around interior courtyards and every room was a suite with kitchen capabilities, so it could also be a comfortable place to lie low for a while, if that should be necessary.

  I tucked her into the suite and went looking for provisions, first making sure that she understood she was not to open the door to anyone but me. Cops or anyone else; let them kick their way inside if it should come to that.

  I found a twenty-four-hour mart just a few minutes away; bought instant coffee and milk, some fruits and a few snack foods; also filled a requisition from Linda for cosmetic necessities.

  She was wrapped in a towel when she let me back into the suite, and I noticed the phone was off the hook. "Wh
y the phone?"

  "I'm talking to my mother. Please be quiet."

  Be quiet, my ass.

  I went over and picked it up, covered the transmitter with my hand. "No goddamned phone calls, Linda."

  She said, "Don't be silly. I always call her when I get home from work. She would be worried silly. I didn't tell her what's going on.

  "You don't tell her where you're at," I said, properly contrite.

  "Of course not."

  I gave her the phone and she quickly ended the conversation. Didn't even know she had a mother. How was I supposed to know who she was talking to?

  I put the perishable stuff in the refrigerator and took the cosmetics to the bathroom.

  She was staring at the phone when I returned to the sitting room.

  I said, "Sorry 'bout that, kid."

  She said, "It's okay. I understand. You're worried for me."

  "Worried as hell, that's right. There have been two attempts on your life in the past hour. So ..."

  She shivered. "Why do you think?"

  "Hell, I don't know what to think. Unless Juanita was into some very hard trouble and the people who are mad at her think you might know something about it. Do you?"

  She gave me a blank look. "I don't know anything about it."

  "Maybe you do but don't know that you do."

  "What could it be?"

  I said, "Anything, just anything."

  "Well, I don't know how to account for just anything, Joe."

  I growled, "Neither do I. Was Juanita screwing around with extracurricular stuff?"

  "You mean, literally screwing around?"

  "Professionally, yeah."

  She shook her head. "I don't know, Joe. Some of the girls are in business for themselves, but I never saw anything to make me think that Juanita was. That doesn't mean that she could not or did not make dates. I think she was the type to weigh the pros and cons of any offer. It would be entirely a matter of practicality for Juanita. I do believe, though, that she was very careful about her involvements."

  "What about her roommate? Know her?"

  "I've met her."

  "So?"

  "So her name is Maria Avila. She tried out for the club about a year ago. Oh, I guess she tried several times. I don't know—something's lacking in Maria. Pretty as a picture and a fair dancer but...I don't know, no pizazz, I guess. Juanita told me that she'd made a connection with one of the party agencies. You know, private parties."

  "Sometimes very private parties?"

  "I suppose. Some of these agencies are straight and some are not. Some will book a party or whatever."

  "Whatever covers a lot."

  "Covers everything," she said simply. "I believe Maria does everything."

  "What if I told you," I said, thinking about it and wondering if I should, "that Maria is dead too?"

  She blinked. "Is she?"

  I decided against all the cards face up, said instead, "I said what if. Why would you think she is dead?"

  She looked at me through clouded eyes. "I would figure she finally took that step too far."

  Step too far. Well. Maybe so. Maybe she and Juanita had taken it together. And it was now catching up to Linda and me.

  I had to do something quickly to halt the fall of dominoes.

  Sudden death, after all, had already knocked twice at our door. I did not want to be standing around dumb and defenseless when it came again.

  Chapter Ten

  I HAVE A friend at County, a true friend. Her name is Edna Sorensen. She is about five feet tall and five feet around, fiftyish, and I am in love with her. Edna is one of the most thoroughly nice people I have ever known.

  Her kid got into the drug scene a few years back. Nice kid but too impressionable at an impressionable age. She discovered privately that he was dealing coke to his friends at school in order to support his own expensive habit.

  I was with the department then and she came to me for advice. I took the kid in hand and helped him straighten himself out. He's now in his third year at UCLA and it looks like he'll be graduating with honors.

  Edna and I have been friends ever since. I see her rarely since I left the department, but a week does not go by without her calling and chatting. Also a chat does not go by without her reminding me of her gratitude for the thing with the kid.

  Well, I actually did not do all that much, and I never considered what I did do as a quid pro quo. Edna owes me nothing and I had yet to ask a favor of her.

  But I did badly need a friend at this point and I needed one with Edna's encyclopedic knowledge of people and events at County. She's a supervisor in the personnel division, and what she doesn't know has not been recorded.

  So I went calling on Edna at twenty minutes past midnight on that Thursday morning. I know her husband Nils only very slightly; he works for the county, too, but in the parks department. Nice man, soft-spoken, a bit old- worldly. Got them both out of bed and both seemed honored that I had done so.

  Nils put on the coffee while I went through the preliminaries with his wife at the kitchen table.

  I told her, "I don't want you to tell me anything that would compromise you."

  She replied, "I understand perfectly."

  I told her, "I'm like fighting in the dark without a flashlight."

  She said, "I understand. You need a light."

  "That is exactly what I need, Edna. But not at your expense. Tell me that you understand that."

  "I understand that, Joe. How can I help you?

  "A newly made detective named Ed Jones came over from the reserves recently. He's now riding shotgun for Gil Tanner, San Gabriel Division. I need a make on this guy."

  She pursed her lips, looked at her husband, then told me, "I know that one. He has PI."

  "PI meaning political influence."

  "Who is his sponsor?"

  She again looked at her husband before saying, "Jim Davitsky."

  Davitsky is one of our more colorful county supervisors. Very rich, very powerful even before his election to the board several years ago. People are always asking, "What does Jim need with the county?" Jim's answer to that, of course, is that the county needs him. He dines at the White House, this guy. I think he has an eye on Sacramento and the governor's mansion—and maybe beyond.

  I took a moment to digest that bit of news, then asked Edna, "What's the connection between Jones and Davitsky?"

  "Jim is his uncle," she said without bothering to check it with her husband.

  "I see." I saw, indeed. "Anything improper about Jones's appointment?"

  She looked to her husband for a long moment.

  He told her, very quietly, "Coffee in a minute, dear. Give the man what he needs."

  She turned back to me, fidgeted with the plastic tablecloth for a moment, sighed and told me, "I think it was improper influence, yes. Ed Jones has a cloud in his past. Another man with his record would not be with the department."

  "What's that cloud, Edna?"

  She shook her head. "Don't know for sure. Something to do with army service. He was with the military police in Germany. An administrative review board turned him down when he first applied for the reserve program. That review is confidential and sealed. It would take a court order to open it. But then he applied again a few months later and this time sailed through without a scratch. Then the military record came up again over his activation to full-duty status. I remember there was quite a row but I don't know all the details of that. I do know that Jim Davitsky personally intervened that time and the activation went through."

  Nils brought the coffee over and poured us each a cup. Ever drink Scandinavian coffee? You can chew it. I chewed mine and asked Edna, "What do you know about Gil Tanner?"

  She made a face, flipped her coffee-cup with a finger. "He's a bad cop, Joe."

  "I know that from personal observation, but how do you know?"

  "You should see his service record. No, on second thought, maybe you shouldn't. It would make
a good cop like you throw up."

  "Thanks for the vote but I need more than that if you can feed me."

  She sighed again. "I don't recall all the details. But I can tell you that he has been charged with everything from brutality to dereliction of duty—and right now he's being reviewed on a gross misuse of office."

  I looked at Nils, looked at her. "And what would that be?"

  "Apparently he and some other detectives have formed a private company to provide industrial security services on the moonlight. It smells almost like a protection racket. They offer you their services but you don't need them. Very quick after you turn them down you suddenly need the services. The record suggests everything from fire bombings to burglary."

  "That's pretty gross, yeah."

  She added, "And one complainant was pistol-whipped by a masked intruder during a break-in. The man had refused their services that very day."

  "How big is this, Edna?"

  "Not too big right now, I guess. Seems to be centered mostly in your area at this time—"

  "But it's under investigation?"

  She nodded. "Tanner's group has been ordered to produce the records on all their accounts."

  "Have you seen those records?"

  "They haven't been produced yet. They claimed computer malfunction and requested a thirty-day stay."

  I sat there and chewed coffee for a moment, then asked her, "Anything else?"

  "Isn't that enough?"

  "Ever hear anything about a joint in county jurisdiction called the New Frontier?"

  She said, "Don't think so. What kind of joint?"

  "Strip joint."

  "Oh. One of those. I do vaguely remember something ...not the name but the kind... something a few months ago involving Jim Davitsky and a strip joint."

  "Bingo. What do you remember about that?"

  "That's all ... gossip, I think ... something about Davitsky and his hidden interest in these strip joints. I think it was several of them."

  "Sounds farfetched, doesn't it. Why would a guy like Davitsky get involved in something like that? Not for the money . . ."

  Nils gave me a solemn wink. "Some men aren't always ruled by their pocketbooks."