Killer Groove: A Cooper & Rockne Mystery #1 (Cooper & Rockne Mysteries)

by Dan Ames

  Now I felt like an ass.

  “If nothing else, you have to consider the expenses,” I said. “I would have to, at some point, probably fly to Los Angeles and then to Mexico. We’re talking a hotel room, rental car, expense money if I have to grease the wheels with anyone. And that’s all in addition to my day rate. That’s a lot of money,” I said. And then added, “Man.”

  I heard DeGraw snort on the other end of the line.

  “Zack’s ex is rolling in dough, buddy,” he said. “A couple of years ago I think they let someone use one of their songs for like a few million bucks. Might have been for a feminine wash product or something. A douche. Can you believe that, man?”

  “There’s big money in vaginal cleaners,” I said.

  “Look, bro, tell me what you have in mind if you took the case,” Wayne said. “And I’ll call the family and then get back to you.”

  Just to be safe, I estimated on the high side what it would cost for me to get involved and DeGraw thanked me. He seemed unfazed by my number. Maybe he was used to rock ‘n roll sized budgets. We disconnected and I got out of the car and went inside my house.

  My wife looked at me.

  “Feel like going to Mexico?” I asked.

  Chapter Seven

  The promise fell on my shoulders

  The truth landed over the trees

  From a voice of wayward angels

  On their way to my gentle reprise.

  -Midnight Truth (by Groovy Train)

  “What…?” the Canadian managed to stutter before Rutger shot him. The bullets, two of them, hit the surprised man in the center of the forehead with just a sliver of a gap between the two entry wounds.

  Rutger was also surprised, albeit a bit more pleasantly than his victim.

  The gun in his hand with a curlicue of smoke rising from the muzzle was a knock off. A semi-automatic made by the legendary illegal gunsmiths of Cambodia. They lived in the mountains and did the entire fabrication in little villages almost solely dependent on the illegal gun trade. They used crude templates and primitive techniques, but the guns worked well.

  The silencer also worked well, the sound had been no more than a polite cough. That had been easier to purchase, a quick twenty bucks on the street, about a dozen blocks from the hotel.

  The Canadian, whose real name was Thomas Strang, fell backward onto the hotel floor, half of his head missing. Mr. Strang had chosen to embezzle from the wrong people and now Rutger had taken him to task, once and for all.

  The hooker, Rutger decided, had been a fairly good choice. She was quite striking, with great skin, long legs and fairly large breasts that looked natural.

  She also had a strong survival instinct, which prevented her from screaming. She was still on her knees at the foot of the bed. She didn’t look scared, just wary.

  If she had chosen to break into hysterics, Rutger would have shot her. Instead, he lowered the gun and stepped toward the bed. Mr. Strang had apparently been into at least a little bit of S&M because there was a set of leather handcuffs and a ball gag on the bed.

  Rutger lifted the ball gag harness with the muzzle of his gun and flipped it toward the hooker.

  “Put this on,” he said.

  For the next two hours he did to the hooker what the Canadian had most likely been fantasizing about for most of his life.

  In the end, Rutger killed her anyway. She had seen him. Seen him kill Thomas Strang and couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut.

  Rutger wiped the gun clean and put it in Strang’s hand and carefully pressed the dead man’s fingers onto the metal, making sure some very clear prints would be left for the authorities in Bangkok. Not that the authorities were really anything to worry about. They were slow, ineffective, and legendary for accepting bribes.

  So he wasn’t worried in the least, but he was hungry. It never ceased to amaze him what killing and screwing did for the appetite.

  Rutger thought about it, but room service wasn’t an option. Oh well, he thought. He would have to get something on the way to the airport.

  He double-checked the message on his phone.

  Hurry home, it said. Important job. Double scale.

  Other than a Thai whore strapped to a bed, nothing excited Rutger more than a job that paid twice his normal fee.

  Sure, it would be a lot more dangerous, but he liked it that way.

  No guts, no glory.

  Chapter Eight

  Pass me that bottle

  Roll me that joint

  Say what you want

  Remind me of your point.

  -Short Boys (by Groovy Train)

  "What do you mean kidnapped?" Mary asked.

  Outside, Mary saw an airplane take a wide path over the Pacific before banking south toward LAX.

  "I don't know for sure," Connie Hapford said. "But he's never disappeared quite like this. He's gone missing for long weekends or even sometimes for multiple weeks. But even then, there were always sightings, especially on social media. People love to get their picture taken with Zack and then post it on Facebook. Half the time we could follow Zack’s drunken journeys on Facebook and Twitter.”

  Connie sighed and Mary thought she heard the woman’s leather outfit sigh, too.

  “But to literally fall off the face of the earth and for no one to know where he is or to have seen him for this long leads me to believe somebody grabbed him,” Connie continued. “And, frankly, no one has ever accused me of being creative so I don’t think I’m acting like a conspiracy theorist.”

  Mary considered that. And then she asked, "Why would anybody want to kidnap Zack? For you to go right to the kidnapping theory means there’s a chance you know someone who might want to grab him.”

  Connie stood and her leather pants made a creaking sound. It made Mary think of an old Western where the rider adjusted himself in the saddle.

  "No, I don’t,” Connie said. "I can't really think of anyone who would want to abduct him. For Christ’s sake the man is a handful. Like, if you were going to choose one grown man to babysit, it would not be Zack Hatter. He’s a train wreck never more than one step from going off the rails.”

  Mary could tell there was a fair amount of personal history there.

  “How wealthy is he?” Mary asked. “Is he one of those mega wealthy rock stars like Mick Jagger? Or did he piss away everything he owned?”

  Connie shrugged.

  Mary continued. “What I mean is, does someone think there’s a huge ransom at stake? That they’ve hit the jackpot? Or should I say Zackpot?”

  Not even a smile from her client. “Zack had a saying,” Connie replied, “that he spent his money on booze, drugs and women. The rest of it he wasted.”

  That sounded about right to Mary, in terms of all the stories she’d heard about Groovy Train. When they were on tour, the concerts only served to break up the partying.

  “So what does he do now?” Mary asked. “I know Groovy Train isn’t touring any more. Is Zack? Does he do any recording? Or is he riding on his royalties, kicked back on a beach, sucking down booze and getting skin cancer?”

  “He still tours, albeit haphazardly,” Connie said. “He still writes music but he hasn't had any of the kind of success that Groovy Train had. As far as how he spends his time, who knows? The man careens from one place to another, from one party to the next. Hell, even he doesn’t know where he is half the time."

  Mary figured it was time to ‘manage client expectations’ as a speaker at a private investigator seminar once said. In fact, if she recalled it was an entire section in his PowerPoint. Or maybe not, she had fallen asleep during his speech. One too many cocktails at the free lunch.

  "I’m going to caution you against going straight to the kidnapping angle,” she said to Connie. “In a case like this, with a subject like Zack Hatter, it could be that he fell off of a cliff or maybe he booked a flight to Australia and he’s wandering around the Outback with a guide, hunting alligators and pretending to be Crocodile
Dundee. Who knows?"

  Connie tilted her head to one side as if she was struggling with the content of what Mary had just said. “Those are all possibilities, I have to admit,” she said. “I just threw kidnapping out there as a possibility. It wasn’t like I was suggesting that was the only option. With Zack, there are always multiple scenarios in play.”

  “Okay,” Mary said, deciding to be blunt. “May I ask why are you so interested in Zack’s disappearance and what exactly do you want me to do about it?”

  Connie sat back down behind her desk. “Okay, here's the deal,” she said. “I own the rights to some Groovy Train songs. It’s a long story but Zack and I were an item back in the day and he needed some money pretty badly. Some people claim I took advantage of him but I saw it as an investment, pure and simple.”

  “And did the investment pay off well?”

  “It did,” Connie admitted. “Those rights are very lucrative, however, they are renewed every five years so I personally need Zach Hatter to be around for a while longer.”

  “And how far are we from the end of the current five-year period?” Mary asked.

  “About two months.”

  “I see,” Mary said. It was her favorite time period when landing a new client. The moment when everyone was at least starting to get down to brass tacks. When some of the bullshit came to a stop.

  “So why don't you tell me your rates,” Connie said. “And I'll give you all of his contact information as well as the names and phone numbers of people who maybe knew where he went.”

  Mary thought it was funny that Connie just assumed she would take the case. She thought about putting up the pretense of needing some time to think about it. But then she would be the one bullshitting. She wanted to take the case. Not only did it have a chance to be profitable, it could be interesting and maybe even a little bit of fun. So she went over her rates and then said to Connie, “And you think his last known whereabouts was somewhere in Mexico?”

  “That’s what I heard,” Connie said with very little confidence. “By the way, you come highly recommended,” she added. Connie mentioned the name of an entertainment lawyer who had used Mary many times and whom she’d never disappointed. “When can you get started?”

  Mary thought about it and considered her somewhat light-in-the-loafers caseload and told Connie she could start immediately.

  They shook hands and Mary detected a faint but unmistakable scent.

  The leather outfit must have been purchased recently. It still had that new-car smell.

  Chapter Nine

  She was a wild-eyed girl just north of seventeen

  A smile like the wind and eyes ain’t never been seen.

  -Gone Girl Yesterday (by Groovy Train)

  “Are you out of your mind?” my wife asked me. Anna Rockne had actually been born Anna Giordano and the fire in her dark eyes belied her Italian heritage’s reputation for a temper that’s quick on the draw.

  “Quite the contrary,” I said. “I’ve never felt more sane.”

  “You?” she said, eyes still flashing like twin muzzles on a double-barreled shotgun. “Chasing someone down in Mexico? Give me a break, John,” she said. “I could see you landing in a Mexican prison within a day or two, and those guys would love to get their hands on some sweet Gringo ass like yours.”

  I shook my head. “First off, thank you for the compliment regarding my level of physical attraction. I’ve been doing a lot of squats lately at the gym just for that reason. But I must say I’m a bit disappointed in your lack of confidence.”

  “Seriously?” Anna asked. “Do you even speak any Spanish? Remember what happened when Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid went to Mexico?”

  “Wasn’t that Argentina?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’ve been brushing up on my Spanish lately,” I said. “Cerveza. Tequila. Burrito. Señorita.”

  “How do you say Dead Gringo in Spanish?”

  “I don’t know. That wasn’t in my textbook.”

  Anna and I had been married for over ten years and we had two daughters, Isabel and Nina. The girls were upstairs doing their homework, and I was trying to explain to my wife how the case of the missing Zack Hatter wouldn’t be dangerous. Okay, more honestly, I was downplaying the inherent risks in pursuing anyone in Mexico. Or Los Angeles for that matter.

  “First off, I won’t be going right to Mexico,” I said. “I’ll start, as always, by working the phones and the Internet. And if I did have to travel, the first trip would be to Los Angeles, not Mexico. And they still speak English in Los Angeles, I’m pretty sure.”

  “All of your travel expenses would be paid for?”

  “Yes, I included those in my estimate.”

  We were sitting in the living room, opposite one another. Anna was on the couch with a glass of red wine, I was in one of our chairs with a bottle of beer.

  “Gosh, I wish I could come,” she said, her tone softening and I felt like a Florida house still standing after the hurricane passed by. “But there’s no way with the girls and school.”

  To be honest, it sounded like fun to make it a family trip, but I knew it wasn’t practical.

  “Maybe I’ll have Zack write an autograph to you, once I find him,” I said. I knew that Anna at some point had listened to and liked Groovy Train’s music.

  “You sound pretty confident,” she said.

  “I’m a professional,” I said.

  “A professional smart-ass,” Anna observed.

  There was a soft knock on the back door and then I heard someone come in, grab a bottle of beer from the fridge, pop the cap and come into the living room.

  It was a cop.

  And not just any cop.

  But the Grosse Pointe Chief of Police.

  “Look at you two, sitting around drinking once again,” the cop said. Her name was Ellen Rockne. My big sister.

  “John is going to try to find Zack Hatter, the lead singer of Groovy Train,” Anna said. “Last seen somewhere in Mexico.”

  My sister looked at me, then back at Anna.

  “John in a Mexican prison?” Ellen let out a low whistle. “That’s gonna hurt. That’s gonna hurt real bad.”

  Chapter Ten

  You always fade away into the background.

  A thousand memories of you never around.

  -Morning Lies (Groovy Train)

  On the way back to her office after meeting with Connie, Mary dug through her iTunes library on her phone and found a Groovy Train album. She set it to play, using the Bluetooth to send it through the car’s audio system.

  As the blues-rock-funk beat filled her car, Mary found her foot tapping along to the music.

  It was a song called Palm Girl Blues.

  I met her on an island called the Cast Away

  Hard shell soft skin smokin’ and drinkin’ all day

  She said the island’s no place for a man like me

  Then the words were in the wind and so were we

  Mary wondered about the magic of songwriting. She’d heard once that Ronnie Van Zant, the lead singer and songwriter of Lynyrd Skynyrd never physically wrote down a single lyric his whole life. He carried the songs around in his head.

  She thought about Zack Hatter and realized that if he did the same thing, he could potentially have a fair amount of money sloshing around in his whiskey-soaked brain.

  Enough for someone to kidnap him?

  Maybe.

  More likely, though, if it was a kidnapping it was straight up about ransom. Having nothing to do with Hatter’s musical ability and inclinations. Just a guess, but Mexican kidnappers were pretty straightforward people. We’ve got someone you care about. Send us money, or we put a bullet in their head and bury them in a shallow grave.

  End of kidnapping scheme.

  Still, Mary was having a hard time even getting to the idea of a kidnapping. The guy was a rock star well past his prime, legendary for alcohol and drug use. He’d even disappeared multiple times befor
e.

  A kidnapping seemed like someone’s overactive imagination going into full overdrive.

  The cynical part of her realized she could make a fair amount of money thanks to that turbocharged paranoia. The realist in her said the case would most likely be closed fairly quickly and painlessly.

  She pulled into her parking space next to the building that housed her office. It was on Main Street in Venice, along a row of trendy shops and restaurants where it wasn’t uncommon to see a celebrity slumming it to their latest yoga class. Now, it was fairly quiet with a few tourists doing some window shopping. The famous southern California sun was out and its warmth felt good on Mary’s shoulders. She made a mental note to try to fit in a beach day one of these weekends, but the problem with owning your own business was that there was always work to be done.

  Mary took the stairs to her office, unlocked the door and went inside. She set her phone on the desk next to her computer and roused it from its sleep, and then opened up a new folder called simply “Hatter.”

  She typed up a field report of sorts detailing her interview with Connie, and then she entered the information on Zack’s acquaintances into both the document and her phone.

  Who to call first?

  That was easy.

  You always have to start with the ex-wife.

  Mary punched in the number, which was the first one listed on the information sheet given to her by her client.

  While she waited, Mary found herself humming the melody of Palm Girl Blues.

  Damn, she thought. Zack Hatter knew how to put a song together.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ain’t no booze never been my friend

  Ain’t no lies I been too afraid to lend