he had Charlie Han worried and wondering. He set me up for Charlie, I feel certain, as much to compromise Charlie as to get rid of me. Surely he'd not felt it necessary to lure
me onto the island if the only plan was to have me killed. He could have arranged that in L.A.; indeed, he'd already done so.
Ed Jones was the big mistake for Davitsky. I feel that in my bones. Jones is not that bright and certainly not that efficient as a triggerman. Okay enough, sure, with easy targets. Hell, a ten-year-old can put a gun to a sleeping man's head; that's no big thing. Any guy can swagger around and think tough. But not every guy can be tough and think smart. Ed Jones could not. Ed Jones is an asshole. This guy will do hard time, believe it, no matter how he pleads—and he could end up on death row if the state of California ever gets their act together. Whatever, he will find Q a bit more hostile to WASP bad-asses in the prison population than anything he ever encountered in the army, and to go in there as an ex-cop will prove nerve-racking indeed if I know my Q's. So this guy is in for no idyllic retreat at state expense, however it turns.
But he's crying for a deal in Hawaii, for sure. He has already given HPD enough to clear their slate on a string of homicides involving young women. I found a curious satisfaction in the fact that nowhere was Charlie Han implicated in those. In fact, I have heard of no charges against Charlie in any of this. I guess things are cooling back to normal and the ethnic peace of the island, as well as the political peace, is HPD's chief concern at the moment.
Davitsky was the man all the way—as far as the island killings went—though a couple of Washingtonians could get their political careers derailed through sideline involvements in a couple of those. Our friend Davitsky, prince of the mainland, was not only terribly bent, he also loved to keep photographic records of his high moments. Jones turned Billy Inyoko onto a treasure trove of such photographic moments involving hundreds of still photos and three videotapes.
It was those photographic moments, apparently, that touched off the killings in L.A. Maria Avila had made some wild threats to keep Davitsky off her back. About that same time, a file of photographs and a short videotape came up missing. This stuff was later found in Gil Tanner's safety deposit box. Up front, though, Davitsky figured Maria as the culprit and figured that she either had the stuff or had passed it elsewhere for safekeeping. Maybe she did give the stuff to Tanner, and maybe Jones got that out of her before he killed her; whatever and however, Maria died; Juanita died; George died; Tanner died; and the list may have become endless as Davitsky scrambled to cover his bizarre indiscretions.
Meanwhile Tanner and crew had already become something of a headache for Davitsky. These cagey sleazebags knew a good thing when they smelled it and they were starting to muscle in, using the Davitsky connection as their passport and their knowledge of his activities as leverage. So all those guys had been marked for extinction, too, I'm sure. I guess I did Tanner's partners a favor by interrupting that flow. They're still alive, anyway—though they could find themselves scratching off the days in the same population with old pal Ed. You know ... things could get downright interesting at San Quentin.
I hope I haven't told anything here that might sour you on the law enforcement community. A few bad cops, as they say, do not discredit the whole. And please keep in mind that in many countries of our world the police are installed by the government to oppress the people. At least in our system the cops are supposed to be our surrogates, and the badge is a symbol of our trust in one another. We're supposed to police ourselves, see. A cynical Frenchman said several centuries ago that a society can't exist unless we are the dupes of one another. I don't believe that. You're going to find corruption and thievery wherever you find human beings, sure—that's part of what we are—but the real story of a free society is that its men and women from all kinds of backgrounds at least try to work together with some respect, on the theory that that's the best way for us all.
And so I strongly believe that here, anyway, law enforcement is among the nobler professions, because its job is to service the common good, and to take care of the minority among us that wants to rock the boat.
Our cops are the equalizers against the barbarians. Please don't forget it.
And don't keep the eyes fixed on the likes of Ed Jones and Gil Tanner. Or me. I'm just a cop for hire, now. I enjoy the luxury of picking and choosing my own responses. If I don't like a case, I can walk away from it. The guy with the public badge can't do that. He belongs to you; he wears your badge, and he always has to respond.
End of sermon. Sorry.
I am still in Hawaii and beginning to enjoy it.
Belinda does not feel so bewitching anymore, but she is starting to enjoy it too.
She is on voluntary island detention along with me for a couple more days while the paperwork flows. Same police hospitality, as a matter of fact, and in the same hotel. We had breakfast together this morning, and we have a sort-of date for a luau this evening.
She is clean with the law here in Hawaii, except as a material witness, but I am afraid she will get a slap or two when we return to California. She knows that, and accepts it. Our relationship—if you can call it that—is trying to stabilize around the new honesty. I don't know what that will bring, but I know that I will be opening all the doors I know in L.A. to keep her official record clean. She's going to be a damn good clinical psychologist one of these days soon; we don't want a blemish to stand in the way of that. Maybe she could cop a plea for going a step too far in the interests of direct psychological research—or losing herself in her thesis—but I know, and she knows I know, that in fact she just got a little lost in Belinda. I doubt she'll get lost again.
Kid likes my house, you know.
That place could become a home, someday.
Well . . . enough already. I have not slept for two days. I just now hung out the Do Not Disturb, and I hope to sleep 'til luau time.
This Copp is not for hire 'til further notice.
Aloha. Peace. Go for it.
About the Author
Don Pendleton is the author of the enormously popular The Executioner series featuring Mack Bolan, which has sold more than 57 million copies to date and which continues to sell 200,000 copies per month in the United States alone, making it perhaps the most successful series of it kind in history. A spin off series, Don Pendleton’s Mack Bolan, has sold another 7 million copies. An Arkansas native and a former aerospace engineer, Mr. Pendleton and his wife, Linda, make their home in Southern California.
From the Donald I. Fine, Inc. Hardcover Edition, October, 1987.
Kindle Edition, February, 2010.
Copp For Hire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 16
