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

by Don Pendleton

  Waring was familiar, I'd seen the face before, very smooth guy with a military haircut dressed out like a Wall Street banker. He was standing beside Lahey's car with one

  arm on the roof and a very sad face. He gave me a contemptuous look and asked me, "That your car over there?"

  He pointed to it and I replied, "That's mine, yeah."

  "How long has it been there?"

  I looked at my watch, did a fast calculation, told him, "Long enough for the engine to go cold. Check it out."

  "Already did. You've been around all evening?"

  "Since just before intermission for La Mancha, yeah." I peered inside the car. "That Lahey in there?"

  "What's left of him," the captain replied. He looked even sadder and asked, "Why do cops always put the barrel of the gun in their mouths? Why is that?"

  I shrugged, told him, "It's hard to miss, that way."

  "Guess it is," he said.

  "That the way you're reading it? He did himself?"

  "Seems obvious, doesn't it," Waring said. "The sergeant had a bad day. It's his own gun. Why do you suppose he came here to do it?"

  I said, "He came here to talk to me." I told the captain about it, then added, "I don't think he did himself. He wasn't despondent. Mad as hell but not despondent. He was still working the case."

  "What case?"

  "The multiple murder case from last night, the one he was suspended from—or weren't you involved in that?"

  "Don't get smart with me, Joe," the captain said but not in an angry way. But his interest in me seemed to have quickened a bit. "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm on a case," I told him.

  "Who's the client?"

  I jerked my head toward the theater. "Them," I said. "All of them, the kids in the cast. They took up a collection and hired me to find out what's happening to them." "What is happening to them?"

  "Don't have that figured out yet," I replied. "That's why I'm here tonight."

  "That case has been closed." "What case has been closed?"

  "The murder case you were talking about. The case that Lahey couldn't let go of. It's closed. It's best you go on home now and just let it stay that way."

  I showed him a sympathetic smile and said, "Yeah, but I've got these clients, see, and they don't want it closed." "You want a court order?"

  "I'd take one of those, sure. And, uh, include Lahey's murder in there, why don't you."

  The guy spun on his heel and walked away. Nobody else seemed interested in me, so I went away too, got in my car and drove off clean. Why?

  Why did they let me off clean? I threw that into the pot and pointed the car toward San Antonio Heights.

  Maybe Judith could start my pot to boiling, I thought. Or cool it down forevermore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  She had company—a big Mercedes in the driveway and lots of lights showing inside the house.

  Judith answered the doorbell, and I thought for a moment she wasn't going to let me in. "You were supposed to call," she said, sounding a bit embarrassed.

  "Tried that," I told her. "Didn't work."

  "When?"

  "At one o'clock."

  "I told you after one, Joe."

  I looked at my watch. "That's what it is now. So am I coming in?"

  She said, "I'm not alone."

  "I can see that," I told her. "Still want to come in."

  "Just a minute," she said and closed the door but not all the way. I heard her speaking to someone inside, then she threw the door wide and invited me in with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  I recognized him instantly from the portraits I'd seen earlier, a suavely handsome man of obvious culture, rather slightly built but a leonine head with every hair in place and looking good—youthful appearance, an almost gentle

  face, soft eyes, about a head shorter than me—not exactly what you would envision as a "hanging judge" but a guy I would like to see on the bench if my life were at stake.

  "Sorry if I'm intruding. Your Honor," I said without any introduction. "Things are happening fast and I really need to talk with your daughter. And with you too," I added, "if that's okay."

  He waved off both the apology and the explanation, told me, "I was just leaving, Mr. Copp."

  "Stay awhile," I suggested. "You could find it very interesting."

  He exchanged glances with Judith, smiled at me, returned to his chair.

  I told Judith, "Art Lahey is dead."

  She seemed to be shocked by that news, maybe a little dazed. "You mean the police sergeant?"

  "That's the one I mean, yeah." I told the judge, "He reacted negatively to the habeas corpus for your two marshals, had a fight with his superiors, got suspended. A few hours later he got dead. I wonder why, Your Honor."

  The judge looked at me with a level stare and replied, "That's unfortunate. Of course, it's impossible to predict every implication of every decision one makes but... I'm truly sorry to hear it. How did it happen?"

  I said, "His captain thinks he sucked up a gun barrel and pulled the trigger on himself. I don't think so. I had a long talk with Lahey minutes before he died and he did not sound like a despondent or depressed or desperate man to me. I believe he was murdered."

  "That is the risk every police officer assumes," the judge said in a somewhat sympathetic voice. "Brave men. They live in constant jeopardy. It's too bad."

  "I believe," I said, "that it has something to do with the DiCenza case."

  The judge held up a hand and said, "Please, Mr. Copp, you must understand that I cannot and will not discuss that case with anyone, nor do I want to hear any reference or any allusion to the defendant in the case."

  "Not even," I said, "with your daughter's life hanging in the balance? I respect your protocols, sir, but you must know that you cannot isolate yourself within a bubble and let the whole world go crash for the sake of your protocols."

  He got to his feet and turned to his daughter, kissed her coolly on the cheek, and flat walked out the door. I couldn't believe it.

  I looked at Judith and said, "Well maybe he can."

  "He always could," she replied quietly.

  And that was all we had to say about the judge, for the moment. She flung herself into my arms and we didn't have a lot to say about anything for quite a long while. I even forgot about Lahey, and DiCenza, and all the dead kids. I forgot about everything—and that, I guess, illustrates the power of eros. Earlier I called it anesthesia. Sometimes, maybe, it is more like sanctuary. Whatever it is, apparently we both needed it desperately.

  It was three o'clock and we were sprawled across the big bed in Judith's upstairs bedroom, totally spent in that sweet exhaustion that comes only in the wake of a perfect and prolonged mingling of sexual energies. She was lying atop me with both arms curled about my neck, golden head on my shoulder and soft lips at my ear, and she was quietly weeping.

  I told her, "Makes me nervous when the lady cries

  afterward, never know if it's tears of joy, guilt or disappointment."

  She kneed me gently in the groin and replied, "It's sure not disappointment, dummy. Did you ever consider sheer exhaustion as a cause?"

  "That bad, eh?"

  "That good," she corrected me, snuggling closer for direct emphasis. And after a moment, "Joe ... ?"

  "Yes ma'am?"

  "Life is too complicated."

  "Agreed."

  "Let's run away. Tahiti. Somewhere very basic."

  "I hear New Zealand is nice."

  "Let's go to New Zealand then."

  "Don't think my Visa could stand it. How about Catalina or San Diego?"

  "I'm serious," she said with a pout.

  "So'm I."

  That seemed to have ended that line of conversation. After a brief silence, she withdrew to a position with her forearms supporting her weight on my chest, looked at me very soberly and said, "I can't figure out my dad."

  "Have you really tried?"

  "Yes. For years. I be
lieve the man is totally devoid of passion."

  I slapped her lightly on the bottom and told her, "Well I guess you take after your mother."

  "I didn't mean that kind of passion," she said, still very serious. "I mean, he never has any emotions. Never laughs, never cries, never gets angry, never gets glad. He's just..."

  "A judge," I suggested.

  "A cold fish," she decided.

  That's no way to talk about your dad," I told her. "I had the impression that you two had a very good relationship. Don't uh, judge him too harshly in this present matter. He's doing what he has to do."

  She said, "It isn't that. It's everything else. He was the same way with my mother. She died of cancer, and it wasn't a terribly prolonged death, she died six weeks after the diagnosis. I never saw him cry, Joe. Never saw him look saddened, or frightened, or even regretful. He just remained aloof from the whole thing, never once made himself vulnerable to it."

  "You didn't see him in his private moments," I reminded her. "Some men go to the closet to weep."

  She shook her head. "Not my dad."

  She got up then and went into the bathroom, leaving me with thoughts of the judge in the case. After a moment I heard water running in the shower, and I knew that another idyll had ended.

  Over breakfast I casually asked Judith, "Why didn't you tell me that you own the theater?"

  She replied, just as casually, "I don't remember you asking about it."

  I said, "Not in so many words, maybe."

  "Do you go around telling people that you own the Joe Copp Detective Agency? Anyway, I don't own the theater. I have the production contract."

  "Do you have a boss?"

  "No."

  Then you own it. Also, you didn't tell me that you brought Craig Maan home with you for a week."

  "What is this?" she asked teasingly. "Kiss and tell time? You want to give me a list of all the women you've taken home with you? But it wasn't like that with Craig. I let him use the maid's quarters until he could find a place." She showed me a wicked look. "Of course, I won't say that it could not have been like that with Craig, at first, if he'd shown any inclination."

  "But he didn't."

  "No. Who've you been talking to?"

  "Everyone I could find," I admitted. "I heard you kicked him out. Why?"

  "Well, not because he wouldn't play house with me. He just took too many liberties around here."

  "What kind of liberties?"

  "Snooping, stealing, those kind of liberties."

  "Tell me about it."

  "No big deal," she said, trying to dismiss the whole thing.

  "No, it could be important," I persisted.

  "He stole money from me. Okay?"

  "Not okay. Why didn't you fire him?"

  "He didn't steal from the theater. He stole from me. I try to keep the perspectives separated."

  "You said he was snooping. Tell me about that."

  She said, "Joe ..."

  I said, "Tell me."

  "He was too interested in my dad. Okay?"

  "Not okay. Why shouldn't he be interested in your dad? I'm interested in your dad."

  "It wasn't like that. He actually rummaged through my things, dug out old photo albums, kept bugging me to introduce him to Daddy. Hey, I didn't need that. And I don't need this, Joe."

  I told her, "Come on, snap out of that, this could be important. The guy was a con artist. He was trying to set something up when he got himself killed. I need to know what was going on."

  "Why don't you just let it go?" she cried.

  "Let it go? Let it go? Come on, Judy, you can't let something like this go! Five people are dead, six now, and the sixth was a cop investigating the other five deaths! I can't let this go!"

  "Well why not? Leave well enough alone! You're just going to dig up all kinds of trash, that's all! Let's just go away and forget about it!"

  "You're serious about going away?"

  "Yes I am."

  "What about your theater?"

  "I know people who would love to take it over for me for awhile."

  "I am not a rich man, Judy."

  "That's okay. I'm a rich woman."

  "So I've been told. How rich?"

  "Rich enough."

  "Is your dad rich?"

  She blinked at that. "You're still digging."

  "Is he?"

  She blinked again. "No, but he does okay."

  "Why isn't he rich?"

  "Because he had a premarital agreement drawn up before he married my mother. Didn't want to be tainted by her money. Damn him!"

  "Why damn him, Judith?"

  "She gave him everything, her career, her fortune, her adoration, she gave him everything."

  "And what did he give her in return?"

  "He gave her the judge," she said quietly.

  "I see," I said.

  "And he gave her cancer."

  "It's not contagious, kid."

  "Oh yes it is. The emptiness is. You have to fill emptiness with something. My mother filled it with cancer."

  "You inherited her money?"

  "Yes."

  "And her emptiness?"

  "I guess so."

  "Are we going for the cancer now?"

  She looked at me, almost cried, said, "Dammit, Joe."

  "Did Craig ever meet your dad?"

  "Go to hell, will you."

  I said, "Maybe you took after your dad, after all."

  She said, "Okay, he met him."

  "When?"

  "Way back at the beginning. The day I ran him off."

  "Tell me about it."

  "There's nothing to tell. Dad and I had a dinner date. He was in the midst of the DiCenza trial but dinner together twice a month in this family is religion. The show was still a bit wobbly. Craig had played Cervantes in college but he really did not know the role that well and he was struggling with it, so I was struggling too. I was working with Craig, trying to—well, anyway, I took time away and had dinner with Dad. At the hotel. I'd left Craig at the theater. He crashed our dinner."

  "Just like that."

  "Yes. Did the whole act, you know—surprise, surprise, didn't know you were eating here, that sort of thing. Of course I had to introduce him to my dad."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. They sat and talked law. I was surprised that Craig knew so much about it. He said that he used to enjoy long after-dinner conversations with Judge Johansen, Johnny's dad."

  "How'd they get along?—Craig and your dad?"

  "They got along fine. But I was fuming."

  "Why?"

  "Maybe because I hate to be crashed in on. Maybe because I already knew that Craig was a rat and I was

  suspicious."

  "Suspicious of what?"

  "I don't know. I had already become uneasy about Craig's interest in dad. And I had already refused several times to introduce them."

  "What were you afraid of?"

  "I wasn't afraid of anything. Just hate to be used."

  "You weren't afraid that Craig might say something to your dad that would embarrass you?"

  "Well... I don't know. Maybe so."

  "Did Craig know Jimmy DiCenza?"

  She gave me a long, searching look before responding to that. "So you have been talking to a lot of people."

  "You knew that Vincent DiCenza was Jimmy's old man."

  "Of course I knew." A tear popped out of one eye and slid down her nose. She dabbed at it with her napkin, said, "Joe ... you'd better stop there."

  "Can't stop there, kid," I replied as gently as I could. "The truth will out. Let's do it now, before someone beats us to it."

  She said, "It's not very pretty."

  "Life often isn't. That doesn't mean we have to hide it. Usually it's best to just confront it. Save a lot of anxieties

  that way, and usually the anxieties are worse than anything else. Tell me about you and Jimmy."

  "I was in one of his shows," she said quietly. "Long time ago.
A lifetime ago."

  "You're not that old."

  "You get old quick in this business. One day can equal an ordinary lifetime. I didn't want to be ordinary. And I'd promised my mom that I'd pick up where she left off." Judith dabbed at her eyes again. "I tried. Just couldn't take it anymore. Jimmy was ..."

  "What?"

  "Exciting, I guess. And I hadn't gotten old yet. He booked me on the Japanese circuit. Found out very quick that I was not over there just to dance."

  "So what'd you do?"

  "I danced. With Japanese businessmen. And afterward I danced in their beds."

  "Why?"

  She raised a hand and dropped it in a "what the hell" gesture. "Seemed the only thing to do. I told you to leave it alone, Joe."

  "Told you I couldn't. Neither can you. That was then. This is now. It wasn't for the money. You didn't need that. So why?"

  "Would you be shocked if I told you that I rather enjoyed it?"

  "Not necessarily."

  "Well, sometimes I did. The Japanese can be very charming with Western women, very gallant, entirely flattering. And these were not shopkeepers. They were the movers and shakers in that country."

  "Politicians too?"

  "Possibly. I never asked."

  "You and Jimmy still on good terms?"

  "No reason not to be. He was always a gentleman with me. I never tied him in with anything actually criminal, and I'd never heard of Vincent DiCenza until he entered my dad's courtroom."

  "Jimmy tells me that you send him girls."

  "Jimmy is mistaken. I refer talent to him when it seems appropriate."

  "For his Japanese circuit."

  "Or whatever. He packages and books, and a kid can actually make a good living with Jimmy."

  "And grow old quickly," I suggested.

  She sighed. "That too. But I don't try to make those decisions for people."

  "People," I suggested, "like Susan Baker and Elaine Suzanne."

  "I am more discriminating than that," she said.

  "Jimmy isn't. I've seen his indiscriminations."

  "I am. I wouldn't refer flakes like those two. Are you enjoying this, Joe?"

  "Not a lot," I said.

  "Are you finished, then?"

  "Not quite. You still owe me one. Did Craig know Jimmy DiCenza?"

  She stared at me for a long time, then said, "We should have gone away, Joe."