Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Read online

  COPP

  IN SHOCK

  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 in Shock

  Copyright © 1992 by Don Pendleton, All Rights Reserved.

  Published with permission of Linda Pendleton.

  Originally published by Donald I. Fine, Inc

  ISBN: 1-55611-287-4

  First Kindle Edition, February 2010

  Hardcover Edition, Donald I. Fine, Inc., 1992

  Harper Paperbacks, 1993

  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

  For my beautiful and courageous wife, Linda—

  and for my good friends, J. Douglas Halford and Lillie Diamond—

  who between them brought me through a serious illness and helped me find the words again. This book could not have been possible without their loving support, encouragement and rich humor during a very difficult period.

  My gratitude forever,

  dp

  "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing."

  —Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

  "For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face."

  —Paul, I Corinthians 13:12

  "Indecision immobilizes. A cop really has no choice but to step forward out of the darkness and shake hands with fear. A good cop does something, right or wrong— even if through a glass darkly—and hopes that he was right."

  —Joe Copp, American Private Investigator

  Copp In Shock

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Do you know who I am?"

  The guy kept asking me that question over and over and to tell the truth I wasn't interested in the answer. I'm sure the guy meant well. I wasn't trying to give him a bad time but it just didn't seem to have any relevance.

  So I asked him, "Do you know who you are?"

  He replied, "Let me put it another way. Do you know what my job is?"

  He seemed like a nice enough guy, but boy, was he screwed up. He didn't know who he was and he didn't know what his job was. I really didn't want to hurt his feelings, but at this moment I was beginning to get a bit aggravated about all this so I said, "To tell the truth, guy, I'm not real sure right now who I am either, so don't feel bad. What can I do for you?"

  This gave the guy a little bit of a chuckle as he replied, "It would be quite a thrill right now if you could just tell me who I am."

  Well, that was okay with me, whatever turns you on. "Would it really make your day if I told you you're a dead ringer for Louie XIV?"

  "Am I?"

  "Not really, but I thought maybe it would liven things a bit for you. What'd you have in mind?"

  That gave him another chuckle. 'This is University Medical Center and I am Dr. Hansen. Do you know why you are here?"

  I said, "Not unless it has something to do with these banshees dancing inside my skull. You're my doctor, huh?"

  "Yes, I'm the staff neurologist. But tell me, do you know what a banshee is?"

  This guy was loaded with "twenty questions." I told him, "Last I heard, the banshee is a spirit wailing at the approach of death. But don't take that literally, I don't ... or should I? What's happening with me, Doc?"

  He said, "You had a small gunshot wound."

  "How small?"

  "Bad enough to jangle your head a bit. You have been out of it for the last five days. These are the first coherent words you've given me since you came in here. Do you understand what has happened to you?"

  Suddenly this gave me an almost overpowering sense of inexplicable sadness. "Not really," I replied. "What is going on with my head?"

  "You had a severe concussion, and also lost quite a bit of blood, but you got off easier than it may feel to you right now. No vital damage—you were just grazed by that bullet—it's the concussion and some brain swelling that has given you most of the problem. That could be causing you some confusion, but it will pass. You could be out of here in a few days—as soon as your confusion clears up."

  That sounded like good news to me except that I really

  didn't feel all that confused. Of course I had no memory of being shot and knew nothing about any of that. A crazy thought occurred to me at about that moment. I asked the doctor, "Do you know who I am?"

  The doctor showed me a startled look and replied, "Can't you answer that question for yourself?"

  "Maybe, but I asked you first."

  "Do you have some confusion about that?"

  "You're the one who's asking all the questions. Are you confused, Doc?"

  That was good for another laugh. "We can settle the question real easy. What is your name?"

  As a matter of fact, I was not sure that I could answer that. It was not that I did not know my own name, but it was just as though my mind was playing games with me and couldn't quite come up with the answer. I knew the answer, of course, it was just eluding me for a moment. I know that I wasn't hitting on all my cylinders, but I kept expecting all that to come into focus and it just wasn't doing so. It is weird when you feel as if you need to look into a mirror to remember who you are, and let me tell you, it scares the shit out of you to realize that you might look into that mirror and not even recognize the face gazing back. And that is about where I was at.

  I told the doctor, "Sure I know my own name and it will come to me in ju
st a second. Who tried to snuff me?"

  "Sorry, Joe, that's out of my field. Don't you know who shot you?"

  No, I did not know at the moment who shot me, but the Doc had just given me the clue I had been searching for. It was like stepping out of the darkness into a sunlit day. "I'm Joe Copp," I told him. "I'm a private eye. I've got to get out of here. Where are my clothes?"

  I tried to get out of bed and almost fell on my face. Dr. Hansen gently wrestled me back onto the bed and said, "Not so fast, Joe. One step at a time. We need to get you a little stronger and your head a bit clearer before you go dancing out of here."

  Hansen was really a nice guy and obviously he was trying to help me, but I needed to get my own head back together. I was glad when he went away and left me alone. I wanted to get a look into a mirror and see for myself what was happening with me. That was a mistake. I didn't like what I saw in the mirror. There was a bandage twisted about the right side of my head that looked ominous as hell, also some small scratches along the bridge of the nose. Someone with no barbering skills had given me a lousy haircut, exposing naked scalp around the bandaged area, taking my sideburn with it. I could handle that, no big deal except that it just didn't look like me. What I was having trouble with was that I didn't feel like myself. I felt clumsy, confused, detached; everything had a sense of unreality. I guess what I am trying to say is that I did not feel threatened or challenged by any of this, almost as though it really didn't matter, and that is just not like me. I am not sure that I knew who Joe Copp really was, and the strange thing is, I think that a part of me didn't even care about that.

  Even so, I think I was having something like an identity crisis at some unconscious level that only surfaced now and then.

  Two homicide cops showed up while I was engrossed in that introspection. I did not feel like talking to those guys. I was still buzzing a little in the head and not at all sure that I could handle an intelligent conversation with them.

  I had known one of these guys in the past so it was not a totally cold interview. They were polite and maybe even a bit sympathetic about my situation. I had worked with Bill Andrews shortly before I left the Sheriff's Department and went into business for myself as a private cop. I had not known Tony Zambrano but apparently the guy had heard stories about me and seemed friendly enough. I had no reason to be coy with these two; I was just having trouble recalling the incident.

  Andrews asked me, "Who pulled the trigger on you, Joe?"

  I told him, "This is going to sound weird, but all I know about it is what the doctor told me, which is next to nothing. I'm hoping that you guys can help me with that."

  Andrews replied, "All we know is that you called 911 and asked for help."

  "Where was that?"

  "Your pad."

  Zambrano added, "Your place was a mess, Joe. Blood all over the place. Where's your gun?"

  "Hell, I don't know. I don't usually carry a piece unless I'm working. Maybe it's here. Check my personal belongings."

  Zambrano said, "It's not here, Joe. Where do you think it might be?"

  "Must be at home then—or maybe it's in my car."

  "Not there either," Andrews said. "It'll turn up. What do you know about Martha Kaufman?"

  "Don't think I know the lady," I told him. "Is it important?"

  Andrews replied, "Could be. The name rings no bells for you?"

  "Not for me. Is she pretty?"

  "Maybe she was—until someone blew her apart with a Smith & Wesson .41 Mag."

  I said, "That's a rare piece. That's what I carry."

  Andrews replied, "Yeah."

  I said, "Wait a minute—that's why Zambrano asked about my..."

  "Yeah."

  I said, "Oh, shit. Are you guys trying to tell me it was my gun..."

  Andrews told me, "Not officially, Joe. But you'd better get your act together here, and quick—the D. A. may not be as sympathetic with your situation as we have been."

  "Thanks," I said. "I'll straighten this out as soon as I get my head back together."

  "Do it quick, Joe," Andrews said quietly.

  The two deputies gave me restrained smiles and walked out.

  So what the hell did all this mean? I have played these same games myself during a police investigation so I knew that those two had not been toying with me despite all the friendly smiles and soft words. These guys were conducting a homicide investigation, no question about it, and they had come to just pass the time of day with me. The warning from Bill Andrews was clear and to the point. Apparently I was in trouble and it seemed that I didn't even know why. But that was a friendly warning from Andrews and I would be a fool to disregard it. I had to get out of that place and put my mind back together my own way and in my own time. Which meant that I had to do it right now.

  I got dressed and was slipping into my shoes when this six-foot-five black orderly came into my room. He shot me a look of surprise and said, "What you doing, man?"

  "I'm getting into my clothes," I told him. "Do you have a problem with that?"

  "They're not mine. But look at you, man, you're falling all over yourself. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

  I told him, "No, but I've got to get out of here, I have a hot date. How do I get out of this place?"

  The orderly said, "You can't even walk, man. Come on, get back in bed."

  I told him, "You're a Brother. I'm in deep trouble. Help me find a taxi... or show me the way out of here."

  "It's my job, man. You trying to screw me up."

  "No, Brother. It may be your job, but it's my life that's on the line."

  The big black man was having a problem with this. He said, "It's your ass, man. Second door on the right, take the stairs. Shit—you'll never make it."

  "I'll make it," I assured him. "What's your name? I'll make this up to you."

  The black man said, "Shit," with a disgusted look and took me by the hand. He practically carried me down the stairs and bundled me carefully into the backseat of an idling taxi. I'm no lightweight myself; I tip in at about two-sixty, with a height of six-three, but this guy was handling me as if I were a baby. "Good luck," he said gruffly.

  His name was James Jefferson. I caught it from his name tag as he was tucking me into the taxi. "Thank you, James. I'll be getting back to you."

  "Shit," he said and hurried away.

  I meant it, though, and I would not forget James Jefferson. I think maybe he saved my life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  i t was my house, okay, but somehow it just didn't seem the same. The lawn hadn't been mowed recently and the whole place looked a little seedy. It had been my pride and joy since the day I first took possession of the property and it had never looked this bad. My old Cad was parked askew in the driveway with a flat tire and a shattered windshield. I knew I would not have allowed this to have gone unattended. So what the hell had been going on here? This was just not Joe Copp's style. I have never allowed things to go to hell. Some of the guys at the department used to joke about what a great housewife I had become, but what the hell, there was a big investment in this place, and probably the only house I would ever own. After leaving the department, there were many woolly days when I wondered if I would be able to meet those hefty mortgage payments, but it has always been my number-one priority and somehow I have managed since being on my own as a freelance P.I.

  I had to go inside the house to get some money to pay the cabby but I didn't have my keys, which was no big deal, because I had always kept a cheater key stashed near my back door, which opens into my office. I grabbed some cash from my office safe and took care of the cabby.

  As strange as it may sound, I could not stand the idea of my old Cad sitting in the driveway wounded. The Cad was a fully paid-off Eldorado gas guzzler, and in a sentimental way it was my pride and joy. It had saved my life on several occasions and I didn't like the idea of it being busted up like that. We'd been through a lot together and maybe we'd be through a lot yet. I couldn't jus
t leave it there to die. I got on the horn and called my old friend, Leonard, who wields mechanical tools like a Michelangelo. No repair is beyond his artistry.

  Once back inside, the realization hit me of just how badly I had been hurt. My blood was all over the place. Apparently I had been staggering around in a daze trying to put myself back together. I guess I had bounced around the house quite a bit before I realized that I needed help because the evidence of my struggle was everywhere; the telephone was blood-caked, a pile of soiled towels lay in the bathroom, several pieces of furniture were overturned, and it seemed obvious that it had taken a hell of an effort to keep myself functioning long enough to connect with the 911 operator for help.

  I knew in order to get into this case I had to make myself presentable. I peeled off the bandage and winced at the mess someone had made of my head. I resolved I would have to do something about my appearance if I were going to be effective. There was only one person I could think of who could help me with that. I called my pal, Molly, and locked in a quick appointment for some window dressing. She had been a buddy of mine since the time we were neighbors in the small shopping center complex where my office had been situated until recently.

  I drove my van down the hill to Molly's beauty shop. She greeted me with her usual warm smile and the standard cup of hot coffee. "You look like hell, Joe. What have you done with yourself this time?"

  I knew she was right. I did look like hell. "Would you believe that I'm not sure? Think you could patch up this damaged piece of shit and make it look presentable?"

  "I'm just a hairdresser, Joe, I don't do plastic surgery or divine healing. But I'd be glad to work on any other body parts ailing you."