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

by Dan Ames

  Groovy Train had started after various lineups from different small bands had joined together. They were originally a Midwestern lineup that included a drummer from Akron, a bass player and lead guitarist from Michigan, and a singer from Chicago.

  Whether it was simply geographically convenient or not, they began playing gigs mostly in Toledo, with occasional forays into the Detroit area.

  Early reviews seemed to state that the group had a nice tight rhythm section and a decent sound but they didn't have any good, original music. It also sounded like their lead singer was drunk at every single show and he had a voice that sounded like a belt sander being used to strip tree bark.

  Ultimately, they got a manager who landed them a series of gigs in Los Angeles. So, they left the Midwest and headed for California. Problem was, the lead signer never made it out of Ohio. Instead, he went into rehab and quickly converted to a religious cult, changed his name to Northern Angel and moved to southern Utah.

  So when the band got to LA, their manager immediately put a call out for a lead singer. Any lead singer, in fact, as they had gigs booked.

  Word eventually came back about a young kid, barely seventeen years old, who had a hell of a voice and was looking for a band to join.

  His name was Zack Hatter.

  And Groovy Train was on its way.

  I put away all the documents as the plane began its descent into Los Angeles. I looked out the window, saw the LA skyline with a layer of gray over part of the city. Beyond it, in the distance, I could see the Pacific Ocean.

  I’m not gonna lie, a part of me was tremendously excited to work in Los Angeles. I mean, you think of Los Angeles and detectives, you think of Chinatown and Jack Nicholson, Raymond Chandler and The Big Sleep.

  Heady stuff, indeed.

  The plane landed and I got my luggage, hopped on a shuttle to the rental car area where they had a white Chevy Malibu ready for me.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me, as my first stop was going to be Malibu. I had debated about trying to go to my hotel first, maybe drop my bags off or if they had a room ready freshening up a bit, but I decided there was no better time than the present.

  So I tossed my bags into the trunk, and pointed the Malibu toward Malibu.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When you meet your girl out behind the barn

  And tell her that you love her if the truth ain’t far along.

  -Promises (by Groovy Train)

  Mary decided to change direction.

  She had found that relying on clients for information was a double-edged sword in that the leads were easy to get, obviously, but often they weren’t very good. And just as often they hid the truth. Half the time, the most important contacts were the ones clients didn’t want her to have.

  So based on the feeling that Connie Hapford might not be the most transparent of employers, Mary made the decision to reach out to Sly Witherspoon. Sly was a legend in the Los Angeles music scene. A former studio musician turned engineer turned producer turned manager.

  He agreed to meet her at a guitar store where one of his clients was autographing instruments for fans.

  The store was called Skull Tronic and when Mary parked, she had to find a spot several blocks down from the store due to the line that meandered out into the street.

  Mary had never heard of the Skull Tronic music store, but judging by the people in line, it probably didn’t cater to her musical tastes.

  She bypassed the line and went into the store, saw a guy with a huge head of black hair scribbling away on people’s guitars with a black Sharpie, and finally spotted Sly, standing over by the keyboards display talking to a young woman in a leopard skin skirt and high heels.

  Mary didn’t want to cockblock him so she hovered nearby until Sly spotted her. Mary watched the young girl give her phone number to Sly who keyed it into his phone and then he came over to Mary.

  “Kind of young, isn’t she?” Mary asked. “Is she out on recess?”

  “She said she was nineteen,” Sly answered. “I’m taking her at her word.”

  Sly was like Keith Richards without the charisma. Oh, he had a little style, but he looked mostly like what he was; a washed-up rocker still hanging on to the music scene. Cool enough to attract young women, but not talented enough to make it big. Still, she kind of liked Sly. He made no apologies for what he was.

  Mary had gotten to know him when an alcoholic bass player had sued Sly and his management company for injuries from a concert at a state fair. The guy claimed he’d fallen off the stage because he’d slipped on cow manure that was stuck to his boot.

  It had been fairly easy to get proof that the injury was fake, especially when the bass player drank a fifth of whiskey while surfing at Zuma Beach.

  Cow manure, indeed.

  “So who’s the big star over there?” Mary asked, nodding her head toward the black-haired guy signing guitars.

  “Name’s Stevie Saturn. A real douche.”

  “He’s your client?”

  “Yep. He and his band. Death Hole.”

  “That’s the name of the band? Death Hole?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow, that’s great marketing. And he’s a douche?”

  “A mega douche,” Sly said. “Dude has a little bit of talent but a monster ego, along with a monster addiction to coke and booze. Horrible combination.”

  Mary looked around.

  “Is there a better place we can talk?”

  Sly glanced toward the back of the store. “Sure, let’s go over to the guitar room.”

  He led her to a little room set up as a place to test guitars, but no one was playing so the room was empty. They stepped inside and Sly shut the door.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “Zack Hatter has gone missing,” Mary said. “And I’ve been hired to try to find him.”

  Sly started laughing. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why does anyone want to find him? He’ll fucking show up in a couple of weeks, looking like hell and broke, maybe even beat up a little bit. It’s what he does.” He narrowed his eyes at Mary. “Are you actually looking for him or are you just taking a paycheck?”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m taking a paycheck. What, do you think I work for free?”

  “No, I meant–”

  “I know what you meant,” Mary said. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. To answer your question, yes, I’m actually looking for him. He’s been missing for longer than usual, plus, no one’s been able to find anyone who’s seen him since he disappeared in Mexico a few weeks ago.”

  “Mexico? That’s not a good place to disappear,” Sly pointed out, stating the obvious. “Those narcos will cut your balls off and stuff ‘em up your nose.”

  “Whose got balls that will fit in their nose?” Mary asked. She nodded her head toward Steve Saturn. “The douche?”

  “It’s just an expression,” Sly answered. “Seriously, though, you’ve always got to be careful in Mexico. Even those sleepy little fishing towns the tourists love to discover. They’ve got narco watchers.”

  Mary could see she needed to be more direct. “Okay, look. Do you know of anyone who might know where he is or how to get in contact with him?”

  Sly looked up at the ceiling.

  “Where in Mexico was he?”

  It was her turn to pause. The name eventually came to her.

  “Bucerias,” she said.

  “Ah! Sure, he was probably down there seeing Bulldog.”

  “Bulldog?”

  “Yeah, he’s this fat white guy from the Valley. He made a shit ton of money bootlegging porn,” Sly explained. “He disappeared down to Mexico and has a place in Puerto Vallarta, which is just south of Bucerias, I think, where a bunch of rock guys go to party. He’s paid off all the local cops and federales down there. I guess it’s a hoot. He’s got local strippers and hookers, Booze, pot, coke, heroin, meth. Anything you want, from what I hear. But he doesn’t
really deal. Because of the fucking narcos.”

  “Yeah, you told me about the narcos.”

  They could see the table where the douche was signing guitars and he suddenly stood up, looked around, then waved at Sly.

  “Oh, great,” Sly growled. “Looks like I gotta go.”

  “Hey, does Bulldog have a real name?”

  “Sure,” Sly said. He looked at Mary.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure he’s got one.” He smiled and Mary laughed in spite of herself.

  “Look,” Sly said, “Puerto Vallarta is actually a pretty small town once you get to know it. I’ve been there quite a few times.” His eyes grew wistful. “There was this hot peasant girl-”

  Mary cut him off. “The douche is getting antsy.”

  “Okay,” Sly said, hurriedly. “If you go there and ask around for Bulldog, you’ll be able to find him, no problem. But stay away from the narcos. A pretty little thing like you. Boy, they would kill for you, chica.”

  Mary winked at him.

  “So what you’re saying is they have excellent taste.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Show me a memory filled with hate and rage

  Tell me a tale, the kind not fit for stage.

  -Tequila Nights (by Groovy Train)

  The famed Pacific Coast Highway did not disappoint. The Pacific was a calm sheet of blue steel and I saw a few surfers on the sand, waiting for the wind and waves to pick up.

  This was the Los Angeles I’d seen in the movies.

  I turned on the radio, hoping to catch a Beach Boys song but all I could find was pop and alternative music so I turned it off. Secretly I’d hoped for some sweet karma and that a Groovy Train song would just so happen to be on the radio, proof that my taking the case was some kind of cosmic sign.

  Instead, all I got was Whitesnake.

  Eventually, the road climbed slightly and I turned into the bluffs of Malibu. I was half expecting some kind of gate or something where you would only be let in if you drove a super expensive import. Or maybe you would have to show your mobile banking account and that it had a six-figure balance, at least.

  But there was no gate, no weird entrance. Just a winding road that led me past increasingly big and expensive-looking houses.

  Sunny Hatter’s house was fairly modest, in my opinion. I was thinking of some Malibu mansion you see in helicopter shots from the opening credits of a television show. The kind with sprawling grounds, maybe a few horses, and a Rolls-Royce parked in the huge, winding driveway.

  Not to mention, there are some fairly large estates in Grosse Pointe, so I was surprised to pull up in front of a low-slung ranch house that had clearly been built in the seventies. It was long and low, painted white with light blue window shutters. There was a Spanish-style terra cotta roof and a mature yard filled with tall oak trees.

  I parked the rental car in the driveway and walked up to the house, shocked there wasn’t a gate.

  But like any community, Malibu probably had a pecking order and despite the fair amount of money Sunny most likely had, she couldn’t afford the high-rent part of Malibu, even though the low-rent was not affordable to even modest millionaires.

  The door opened and a woman in yoga pants and a black T-shirt opened the door.

  “Mr. Rockne?” she asked.

  “Yes, please call me John.”

  She stuck out a hand. “I’m Sunny. Please come in.”

  Sunny was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. Light hair, stunning blue eyes and a yoga-type body. She was definitely a mature woman, but the kind at first glance you would assume was in her thirties, not her fifties.

  She had on a cotton peasant blouse that hung down and I couldn’t tell what she had on underneath, if anything. Her legs were long, tan and muscular. I caught the faint scent of a subtle perfume that made me suddenly feel relaxed. Or maybe it was Sunny’s vibe. See? Southern California was already rubbing off on me.

  I followed her inside.

  While the exterior of the house wasn’t much, it proved to be highly deceptive because the inside was spectacular. It was huge, with big rooms and at the rear of the house, I saw a spectacular swimming pool with a cabana and an outdoor seating area with a fireplace.

  The furnishings inside were all modern, clean and bright.

  It was a stunning house.

  “Do you mind if we sit outside?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I was stuck on a plane for five hours, some fresh air would be great.”

  We took a seat at the outdoor dining table and I heard music in the background. Definitely not Groovy Train. It sounded like mystical music from India that made me feel even more relaxed. I realized there was a possibility that if I got even more relaxed, I might fall asleep.

  There was an array of potted plants around the seating area and I saw an iguana on top of the stone wall. He was enjoying the sun. He seemed very relaxed, too.

  “First of all, thank you for taking the case,” she said. She smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth.

  “Thank you for hiring me,” I said. “It will be a challenging case but I like a challenge.”

  “Challenging how?” she asked.

  I chose my words carefully. “Whenever anyone disappears in a foreign country, there are always complications. Nothing that can’t be handled, but it does add a layer of complexity.”

  “Not to mention the other private investigator.” She raised a light, perfectly arched eyebrow at me. Her skin crinkled just a little bit, another indication she was older than she looked, but it was the kind of imperfection that made her look even more attractive.

  I looked at her as the gist of what she said landed and I felt a tickle of anxiety. “What other private investigator?” I asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Some bitch. She called me before you did, asking questions. None of which I answered.” The word didn’t sound as harsh as it might have, probably because of the setting. But it was still a little jarring.

  I let that one go, for now. But I didn’t like the sound of it. Another private investigator could make things super complicated. I would have to get more information on that unfortunate development.

  “Did she say who she was working for?”

  “Nope, but then again, I didn’t ask.”

  I decided to set the issue aside for now. “So what do you think happened to Zack?” I asked. Standard operating procedure. Hear what the client thinks and later, use it to compare what you’ve found.

  “I have no idea, really,” she said. “I just know him better than any other human being on this Earth and something happened. It could be really bad. Or just really unusual. In any event, something happened and I thought I could wait it out, but I can’t. Not with my conscience remaining intact. It has been leaving me out of balance, my healer even said so.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What about where he went? Or the purpose of his trip in Mexico?”

  Sunny sighed. “Supposedly there is a friend of his in Puerto Vallarta where Zack would sometimes go to stock up on some of his pharmaceuticals. From there, it’s anyone’s guess. I’ve heard the names of a few small towns around PV, but I can’t say for sure.”

  “Do you know the name of this friend?”

  “I don’t know a name, just a nickname.”

  She looked at me and the blue in her eyes was amplified even more from the reflection of the pool. In them, I could see real emotion. Say what you will, I got the distinct impression this woman cared deeply about Zack Hatter.

  “Bulldog,” she finally said. “They call him Bulldog.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  She got the kinda skin that just belong

  On a sheet made of silk

  And a hand that do no wrong.

  -MiniSkirts & Major Trouble (by Groovy Train)

  Mary felt naked without her gun. It was a .45 Para-Ordnance high-capacity semi-automatic. Fully loaded, it was a hel
l of a gun and had saved Mary’s bacon more than a few times. But now, she took it out of her shoulder holster and placed it inside her gun safe along with the ammo and a spare clip. There was no good way to travel internationally with a gun. She could try to take it officially and show her private investigator paperwork, but it all depended on which official you were lucky, or unlucky enough, to get, and if you wanted to waste multiple hours at the airport.

  In the end, she knew that it was incredibly easy to get a gun in Mexico. Not necessarily a high-quality weapon, but if push comes to shove she could become armed.

  But, for now, she was going to go without.

  Mary checked her watch. Ordinarily, the amount of time she had would be plenty good to make it to the airport. But you never knew with Los Angeles traffic. She could be sitting on the 101 long enough to get her AARP card.

  The clothes in her closet definitely needed updating but she figured the weather in Mexico wouldn’t be all that different from Los Angeles. Maybe a little more humid. So she picked a variety of stuff betting on mostly warm weather, along with some rain gear and a couple of items if it got too cool.

  She decided to call Aunt Alice to see if the woman could take care of the plants in her condo. It was kind of a pointless idea, though, because the last time she’d asked everything had died. It was hard to tell if they’d been overwatered or simply nagged to death.

  “I’m coming with you,” Alice said, after Mary told her she was going to Mexico for a case.

  “No, you’re not,” Mary responded. “I’m working. This isn’t a vacation.”

  “First of all,” Alice said, “quit trying to make it sound like you’re some kind of serious professional because we both know that’s a line of bunk.”

  “Bunk?”

  “Plus, even if you do have to run around and ask a few people some silly questions, we both know you’ll be back at the hotel pool ordering margaritas and trying to get a cabana boy to oil up your backside.”