Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series)

by Don Pendleton

  COPP ON FIRE

  by

  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.”

  Arkansas Gazette: “Intriguing...believable...Pendleton’s got a good story to tell.”

  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 On Fire

  Copyright © 1988 by Don Pendleton, All Rights Reserved. Published with permission of Linda Pendleton.

  Originally published by Donald I. Fine, Inc

  ISBN: 1-55611-088X

  First Kindle Edition, February 2010

  Hardcover Edition, Donald I. Fine, Inc., 1988

  Harper Paperbacks, 1990

  BackinPrint/iUniverse.com, Inc., 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

  This one's for Thomas, who sees past the pretenses that cloak the human heart, and loves us for ourselves. Remember me to the Doc.

  dp

  "I never met a man I didn't like." —Will Rogers, American Humorist

  ". . . I, the unloving, say life should be lovely." —Vachel Lindsay, American Poet

  "I never met a man I didn't like, until he takes a whack at me. Then I love the bastard, after I whack him back, for reminding me that life ought to be lovelier than it usually is." —Joe Copp, American Private Eye

  COPP ON FIRE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Death is unlovely, sure, but life is sometimes even more so. And I have known crimes against the spirit far more terrible in their total effect than any trespass upon mere flesh. Crime is my business, you see—and every time I reach the point where I think I've seen it all, something new comes along to confound and stupefy the professional senses.

  But I'm ahead of myself already. My name really is Joe Copp. I'm licensed by the state of California as a private investigator. I was a public cop for eighteen years and I did it all—robbery, narcotics, vice, homicide, name it. It's an unlovely life, but I guess it's all I ever really wanted to do with mine, so by that standard I'm a successful and contented man. Most of the time. I have my ups and downs, like anyone else. By and large, I'm okay. I do like it better since I've been calling my own shots. I lost all the financial security when I went private, of course, but some things are just more important than financial security—like freedom for example. I take my freedom seriously, and I came to the realization long ago that you just cannot get freedom and security together in most packages.

  So I'm a private cop now. I answer only to myself and to my own conscience. I've got one of those, sure, and I try to let it be my guide. Sometimes I screw it up, but never on purpose. Well. . . hardly ever.

  I don't take every job that comes along. Don't work for divorce lawyers or ambulance chasers, and I don't do routine insurance investigations or skiptracing. Right away there I've eliminated the beans and potatoes work that keeps most private cops in business, but I'm not in this for beans and potatoes. I prefer criminal cases. That kind of work usually comes to me through criminal lawyers, public defenders and the like operating on limited budgets, so it's not particularly lucrative. So I guess I'm not really working for the money, am I? I work for the work, and for the luxury of picking my own.

  There are other moments, of course, when I snarl at myself and lecture myself to be more financially responsible. These tend to be weak moments, financially threatening moments—like, you mean the rent is due again already?

  It was, and the bank account was nearly flat, and I was snarling at myself for being so damned self-righteous when that stretch limousine drove into view. You need to get a mental picture of this. I share this small business complex in the San Gabriel Valley with a barber, a beautician, a realtor, an accountant, a dress shop and several other small-time businesses—all at ground level. We have a 7-11 store at one entrance and a gas station at the other. It's that kind of place. You know what I mean. Neither uptown or downtown—it's notown—twenty-five minutes east of the L. A. civic center, and the only real winner there is the landlord because most of the tenants are hanging onto the leases by their fingernails just like me.

  So into this scene of quiet desperation let us roll a stretch limousine, a gleamingly white Lincoln about twenty-four feet long with tinted windows and a uniformed chauffeur. It is midafternoon and the 7-11 area is alive with kids who congregate and dawdle there on weekdays enroute between school and home. I have nothing against kids as long as they are a respectful minority among adults but I get a bit nervous in social situations where they outnumber us on our own turf, so on afternoons like that one I spend a lot of time at my office window where I can keep an eye on the little darlings as they spill into my parking area with their slurpees and quart-size cokes and what have you.

  Which is why I spotted the limousine coming in. My first idle thought was that the guy picked a hell of a place to run out of cigarettes because he'd have to stand in line behind twenty grabassing kids balancing (or not) a doomsday confection in each hand. You'll know what I mean by that term if you've ever had a slurpee poured down the inside of your pants.

  Anyway, I figured the limousine for a quickstop at 7-11 but instead it nosed on through the juvenile jungle and halted right outside my door, astride four parking spaces. I couldn't see through the tinted glass so of course I had no idea who might be inside that yacht but I did not particularly give a damn either. All I knew was that the jerk was standing across all my parking spaces and it irritated me. Not that I was saving the space for anyone in particular; no one had parked there all week—but what the hell, there could be a rush, couldn't there?—and
then where would all my clients park?

  So I was about ready to step outside and yell about the encroachment when the chauffeur beat me to the punch. Dark, goodlooking guy of about twenty-five maybe, immaculate in his uniform and energetic in his body language, he left the engine idling and made a beeline to my door. I have this small reception area but no receptionist, also no secretary or help of any kind. I do it all myself with no trouble whatever because it takes only one to do nothing— and that is most of what I was doing at the time.

  So I opened the door to my inner office at about the same time the chauffeur was coming through the outer doorway. I am figuring this guy has the wrong address; this is a limousine for hire and he's trying to find his pickup. I am in a lousy mood because I am bored and also a bit depressed over the cash-flow situation—all of the flow was in the wrong direction and the pool was slowly drying up—so I am ready to come down hard on the guy for tying up my parking spaces.

  But he showed me a respectful smile as he inquired, "Are you Mr. Copp?"

  I admitted it.

  He said, "Mr. Moore would like to talk to you. In the car."

  I was thinking thank you, God but I guess my lousy mood was in charge of my mouth because my brilliant response was: "Tell your Mr. Moore to call for an appointment. I'll see when I can work him in."

  What the hell, I was thinking, I'm not a drive-up dick. Whattaya mean, in the car? I don't give curb service. I don't . . .

  The chauffeur was reading me, I guess. His gaze flicked about the modest office and the smile hung in there as he replied, "Mr. Moore is physically handicapped. He would appreciate it very much if you would extend him the courtesy . . ."

  So I end up in the limousine with this so-called Albert Moore. He is a concoction from a casting director's vision of a Beverly Hills mogul. A car robe covers his lap and legs. He is about fifty, give or take a couple—roundfaced, balding, a bit overweight, dressed like bankers used to dress except that the eyes are concealed behind heavily smoked glasses. I hate talking business with anyone who is hiding behind those damned things—but then, a lot of people are hiding out these days.

  The mogul is not the only one present. A beautifully blond-and-tanned young woman is seated beside him. I think of an ostrich when I look at her because she is wearing the dark glasses, too, but the eyes are about the only thing she is hiding. She's dressed, sure, but in a way calculated to reveal instead of cover up, and there is much to be revealed here. Very long and shapely legs, as item one, visible all the way to the crotch beneath a mini that was not designed for sitting, for item two, and one of those criss-cross swatches of silky material that merely drape a free-standing bosom as the clincher.

  I folded my six-three/two-sixty onto a little jump seat, facing them, and looked them over as they looked me over.

  The guy introduced himself but not the woman. The voice was dry, reedy, almost pained—but the brain behind it seemed hard as nails, and it got right down to business.

  "I want you for a ten-hour job, Mr. Copp."

  "Starting when?"

  "Eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Can you handle cameras?"

  I looked him over for another moment before replying, "Any kind I can hold in my hand, yeah. What are we photographing?"

  "A disloyal employee, I suspect," he said with a little sigh. "Perhaps more than one. I want you to conceal yourself outside a business location in Hollywood and photograph every person entering and leaving the premises. You supply the camera and the film. Use a telephoto lens and get good tight closeups of the faces. I want to see their freckles, you understand. And they are not to know that they are being photographed. Can you handle that?"

  I was not so sure that I wanted to handle it. Well okay, sure, I needed the work. But . . .

  I told the guy, "A ten-hour stakeout is not my idea of a fun day, Mr. Moore—and of course I would have to shove all my other work aside, and it's across town, so—"

  "Name your price."

  "I don't work cheap. It will cost you a thou."

  "Very well."

  He had bought the fee too quickly, so I bumped it a bit. I really didn't want the job, you see. "That covers my time. Expenses are extra. And the travel— that's another hundred, each way. The film and the processing—"

  "Add another hundred for the film and the use of your equipment, but there will be no processing. You are to deliver the undeveloped film at precisely ten minutes past the hour of six tomorrow evening." He produced a manila envelope. "These are your full instructions." He counted out thirteen crisp hundreds from a breast-pocket wallet and put them in the envelope. "Cash in advance. Follow the written instructions to the letter. There will be no need for us to meet again. I trust you to do the job properly."

  I accepted the envelope with misgivings. This was not my kind of work, and I did not like the smell of it. But the rent was due again, and I was beginning to like this guy. I found the lady interesting too. There was a winsomeness to these two, and sort of a vulnerability that invites gentle handling. Still, it didn't feel just right for me.

  "You say your name is Albert Moore?"

  He showed me a faint smile. "That is what I said, yes."

  "What are you going to do with the pictures?"

  "That's my business."

  "Mine too. I do have a license to consider. And even a conscience."

  The smile was fading as he replied, "A private detective with a conscience? Come on now, Mr. Copp. It is no crime to take pictures."

  "It can be," I argued, "if the pictures are to be used for illegal purposes."

  He frowned and took back the envelope. "You haven't earned a thousand dollars all this month," he told me in that pained, almost wounded, voice.

  That was an item of truth, and I doubted that the guy was shooting in the dark. Probably he'd checked me out, and not necessarily for my credentials only. We sat in a sort of strained silence for what seemed like a minute but probably was only a few seconds, the two of them staring at me from behind their shades and obviously waiting to see which way the thing was going to turn. I picked up an anxiety there. The sensing I got was that I was in control, so I told the guy, "I have good months and bad ones. So I'm having a bad one. All that proves is that I'm hungry, not that I'll eat anything that comes along. So if you drove all the way over here thinking—"

  He stopped me with a hand on my knee. That will always stop me, coming from male or female, but for different reasons.

  "Your ethics are what attracted me to you, Mr. Copp. This is a delicate matter for me—highly delicate—but please believe that I am not asking you to become involved in anything illegal or even unethical. I've come to you because I have been assured that you are both reliable and discreet, but of course also because—"

  "Who told you that?"

  "But also because you don't stand on formality. Just take the damned pictures for me, will you? You don't need my life history for that, do you?"

  "I don't want your history," I replied. "But I do want to know how you intend to use the pictures."

  He turned to the woman then quickly back to me with another pained smile as he told me, "My business is highly competitive. Someone within my own organization is ripping me off. I want to know who is doing it. I have set a trap. The guilty party or parties shall find reason to visit this Hollywood address during business hours tomorrow. If I can just learn who they are, then I can use them to turn the tables in a fitting manner. It's as simple, and proper, as that."

  "You'll just keep quiet about it and feed disinformation to the traitor."

  "Something like that, yes."

  "Why didn't you just say that in the first place?" He again offered the envelope and I accepted it. We even shook hands, and I told my new client: "You'll have your pictures."

  Not that I had bought the whole gag but because I wanted to believe the "simple and proper" bit. Maybe he was looking for an industrial spy, maybe not. Maybe he was looking for a cheating wife or mistress, maybe anything. You ne
ver really know, sometimes. What you try to do is cover your ass . . . and, pardon the expression, your conscience.

  I needed the job so I bought the gag. That was not the only reason but it figured strongly, and even my conscience knew later that I should not have bought it. There was nothing fitting or proper about it. My client had murder in the heart. This job set my soul on fire. It is not a very pretty story, but. . .

  Get comfortable and let me tell you about it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  So the gag was an all-day surveillance of this shabby little storefront in a rundown section of Hollywood. The weathered sign out front identified the business as NuCal Designs and placards that nearly covered the windows gave evidence that they dealt with theatrical costuming and the like.

  The location presented no problem. My van has one-way glass on both sides. I arrived early enough to get a good position at the curb with an unobstructed angle on the entrance to the building, and I had plenty of time to set up my equipment and prepare for the surveillance. My Mr. Moore was a bit behind the times. We don't do photo-surveillance with still cameras so much anymore. Mostly we use video equipment, and the technology has become so fine that we can get decent tape at one-half-lux lighting, which is about like the light from a birthday candle. I didn't bother to tell the client about that. He wanted stills, so stills he would get, and I had good equipment for that too—but I also set up the video equipment for my own backup.

  Moore had not asked for sound, either, but I went ahead and aligned the audio barrels, which can pick a conversation off a windowpane from a distance.