Copp For Hire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (13 page)

Chapter Eighteen

A DC-10 IS one big airplane. When you think about it, you wonder how the damned thing gets off the ground. Guess I never really understood the principles of flight—and I also guess, when you get right down to it, that I don't want to understand. Some things are better just taken on faith. For me, airplanes and flying fit that category. Probably wouldn't bother me at all if I was sitting up there flying the sucker myself; assuming, of course, that I knew how. I don't like to feel helpless in any situation. Like even in a car. I want to be the guy with the hand on the wheel and the foot on the accelerator. On a packed freeway, of course, hurtling along within a tight clump of speeding vehicles, that in-charge feeling is probably ninety-nine percent sheer illusion. But at least there is comfort in the illusion. All you get on one of these big airplanes is a feeling of total dependency on other people's competence. You can't even see the guy who's flying it; hell, if you're back in the tail, he's a block away. I even have to assume that somebody is flying this sucker. Could be a machine up there flying this machine, so far as I knew.

      
As I started to say, the DC-10 is a big machine, so I had no particular worry about encountering Davitsky or Jones while we were in the air. All the seats were not filled but there were still, I figured, more than three hundred people aboard, and just about all of those were seated between me and those two. Also, the First Class cabin, as usual, was draped off from the other cabins while in flight.

      
I had the very last window seat and nobody was assigned to the aisle seat beside me— which was good because my body does not fit well into these tight spaces. Soon as we were airborne I pulled down the window shade, pulled a blanket up over my head and went to sleep. It had, after all, been an eventful twenty- four hours with damned little
sleepytime
. It was a five-hour flight, and I slept all the way.

      
One nice thing about jetting west is that you can pick up five hours of sleep while the clock ticks off only three. We landed at seven- thirty on the dot, Honolulu time. I was among the last to leave the plane, though. Did not want to tip my hand at this stage of things and felt pretty well assured that I knew where these guys were headed.

      
However, I did pick up a little bonus inside the terminal.

      
Davitsky and Jones were standing off to the side of the swirl of deplaning passengers, obviously waiting for something. They were not looking my way. I stepped off to the other side and lit a cigarette—which is usually the first thing I do when I come out of an airplane. It was then I spotted the bewitching Belinda. She was walking fast and looking anxious; late for the pickup, no doubt.

      
No doubt was right. She spotted my turkeys and went straight for them. I winced as she seemed to hug Davitsky, then watched as he introduced her to Ed Jones. Jones shook her hand and said something in deadpan. She said something back, semi-deadpan. I said to myself okay, damn it, and watched them walk away.

      
I was going to tag along at a distance but then I got another bonus.

      
My pal Billy
Inyoko
materialized from out of the crowd and put an arm on me. First time I'd seen him in the flesh in a long time but it could have been yesterday for all he'd changed.

      
Let's get it into the record, here. Billy is a fourth-generation islander and a one hundred percent American—one hundred ten percent American cop. No Mr.
Moto
here, understand; no inscrutable oriental. One of my suits would probably come apart and make three for him, but the size of a man has to do with a lot more than physical dimensions. This guy was very large in my respect.

      
He said to me in an almost chiding tone, "If you'd told me you were coming I'd have arranged a lei reception for you."

      
I replied, "Yeah, well, I didn't tell myself until I saw those buzzards getting on the plane together. Did you eyeball them?"

      
"Davitsky and friend, yes," he said. We were following along far to the rear of the passenger flow. "Who is this friend?"

      
I told Billy who is the friend, and I'd told him all I knew about the guy by the time we got outside. We stood in the crowd and watched while the three subjects climbed into a waiting limousine and took off. Another car rolled smoothly to the curb and a door flew open in front of us.
     
Billy pushed me toward it.

      
We got in; Billy introduced me to the driver—guy named
Howie
, which is purely a phonetic spelling because the guy is Hawaiian and I don't know from all those vowels in the lingo—and we took off in pursuit of the limo.

      
I reminded my pal, "Thought this island was too small for a tangle with our politicos. So how come you're here to greet the man?"

      
He in turn reminded me, "I'm a cop."

      
"You were a cop last time I talked to you, few hours ago."

      
"But that was before I found an angle on all this."

      
"What angle?"

      
He showed me a tight smile. "String of unsolved murders, Joe."

      
"How
long's
the string?"

      
"Long enough maybe to stretch from Los Angeles to Honolulu."

      
"That long."

      
"Yeah."

      
I asked, "Starting when?"

      
"Starting nearly a year ago. There have been four deaths with similar patterns. Last one was about a month ago."

      
"What's the angle on Davitsky?"

      
He gave me an oblique smile. "He was on the island for every one."

      
"Yeah, that's an angle."

      
"Or a coincidence. But I have to check it out. Right?"

      
"Right."

      
He said, "This boy Jones ... how long with Davitsky?"

      
"Not that long, I think. He was in Germany until six months ago."

      
"Your deaths on the mainland," Billy said. "All young girls?"

      
"Them, too, but also a gay bartender pimp and a kinky cop. It started as girls."

      
Billy nodded, then told me, "We seem to have a serial killer on our island, Joe. Either that or we've got one of yours who comes here for his kick."

      
I asked, "How high the kick?"

      
"High as it goes, I guess. It's the sadistic sex routine. All our girls died very hard."

      
"Ritualistic sadism?"

      
"Coroner thinks so. One of them was pretty badly decomposed and the sharks had been at her before she washed up. But on the other three he points to evidence of wrist and ankle clamps, other types of restraint devices. All of them had their sex organs practically ripped out of them."

      
"You've got a sick one."

      
"Maybe we've both got a sick one—maybe the same one. If yours is mine, Joe, you've got yourself a really terminally sick son of a bitch, let me tell you. Wait 'til you see these girls."

      
I told him, "I don't want to see your girls, pal. Have enough trouble sleeping as it is most nights. What do you have to tell me about Linda Shelton?"

      
"Nothing much. Came in like you said. Rented a car and drove out to
Davitsky's
place. Stayed inside the whole time until she came back for Davitsky."

      
"What kind of place does he have out there?"

      
"Big joint. Estate. Several acres."

      
"On the water?"

      
"Sure. Boat docks. Helicopter pad. Very swank."

      
"Service staff?"

      
"That's one of the oddities," Billy said thoughtfully.
    
"Just an old couple there, like caretakers—live in a garage apartment, I take it. You'd think a multimillion dollar joint like that would rate a couple of maids, if nothing else."

      
I said, "Well, if you bring your own maids with you . . . and you have a need for privacy . . . and if you want to keep your dungeons off limits—"

      
"I don't want to find anything like that out there, Joe."

      
"Does that mean you're going looking?"

      
He gave me a sharp glance, settled back into his seat. "Of course I'm not. You are going looking."

      
Fancy that. It was exactly what I had in mind. But I was feeling a trace of discomfort with what Billy
Inyoko
might have in his.

Chapter Nineteen

OUR FIFTIETH STATE has a rather unique political setup. There are only two levels of local government, state and county. Honolulu itself is both city and county, coextensive to include the entire island of Oahu. It may surprise you, as it did me, that Honolulu is now ranked as the eleventh largest U.S. city, with a population close to a million. There is no municipal government, however.

      
Southern California could maybe take a lesson here. Because there is only one police department for the entire island. Police-wise, there is but one level of government; there are no state police, Jack Lord and Hawaii-Five-0 notwithstanding. So there are no jurisdictional lines and/or political squabbling over police responsibilities. The Honolulu department polices the whole island, and they do it quite well.

      
I give you that little bit of background just in case you are wondering about Billy's reach beyond Diamond Head. It's like telling an L.A. city cop to go make a collar in Santa Monica or Glendale. He can't do it, not legally, which causes a bunch of problems in an area where invisible political lines create artificial distinctions for law enforcement. But that kind of problem does not exist on Oahu.

      
It must have been a twenty-five- to thirty- minute run from the airport to
Davitsky's
home away from home. Diamond Head, in case you've never been there, is that majestic headland rising to the southeast of Waikiki Beach that you see on all the postcards. Actually it is the cratered remains of an extinct volcano that blew its head off in prehistoric times. It also marks a corner of the island. Go on around Diamond Head and you start heading slightly northerly for the first time since leaving Honolulu International. It is a very picturesque area—the
Kahala
coast—and quite a relief from the
highrise
jumble at Waikiki. There are also some fine homes in the area, of which
Davitsky's
was probably not the finest nor even the most impressive.

      
It was impressive enough, however.

      
A beautifully rolling lawn with flowering tropical shrubberies and trees behind white walls provided a pleasing framework for the rambling low-profile residence. Two smaller but similar buildings nestled close by, the whole thing seemingly connected by covered walkways and further laced together by whatever they call a patio in Hawaii—lanai, maybe? Whatever, it was a nice effect as viewed through
Howie's
binoculars.

      
The limo dropped the subjects and headed back toward town, so I figured it for a hire and Billy confirmed that. Two other cars were standing outside the garages. One of them, according to my astute Honolulu colleague, was registered in the state to Davitsky and the other had been rented at the airport by Linda Shelton on her arrival earlier.

      
We watched the three inside. There was no evidence that anyone else was present there.

      
My hosts then took me on to a swank hotel nearby, not your standard digs for the budget vacation, but what the hell, I'd already shot my budget for the next two months; what did it matter. But it turns out that Billy has a friend in management there, so I got visiting-head-of-state treatment at a rate that had to be pure honorarium. Didn't even seem to matter that I checked in without luggage; Billy took care of the formalities and handed me my key.

      
He also handed me the keys and claim check to a car and a validated temporary permit to carry a gun. Which was great except I had no gun to carry. Billy told me to look in the glove box and he also asked that I conduct my visit with all possible discretion and decorum. I promised to do that, and I promised also to keep him informed of all developments.

      
Then he left me to my own devices.

      
Which shows you that my pal Billy did not know me quite as well as he thought he did.

      
So I thought.

I went into a convenience shop with conveniently late hours and bought an appropriately casual outfit. For me that's not easy but I lucked into some reasonable fits; took the stuff to my room and changed. Felt just like a tourist when I went down to the
coffeeshop
and stoked up a bit.

      
It was close to ten o'clock when I claimed the car. I am thinking practical joke when I see it. It is one of these Japanese sub-subcompact models and just possibly I might outweigh it.

      
But it is surprisingly roomy inside, once I get folded in.

The weapon in the glove box is a Smith & Wesson auto pistol, model 59. It's double- action, packs a fourteen-round clip of 9mm
Luger
; nice piece, clean and oily and ready to go. Fits snug and flat into the waistband of the wash-and-wear slacks I am now wearing. Two boxes of reloads are also there and a spare fourteen-round clip is loaded and ready, too.

      
I am wondering if all this was planned especially for me or if it is just a Billy
Inyoko
standard operating procedure to stash
arsensals
on wheels about the countryside.

      
But how could it have been planned especially for me if everyone was as surprised by my visit as I was?

      
Of course, it took me five hours to get there, once I had decided to go. A lot can happen in five hours.

      
So . . .

      
Was it pure chance that Billy was there to meet me at the airport? Or did the guy have eyes on L.A?

      
The papers on the car showed it to be the property of a local rental agency and checked out as "HPD Complimentary" at five o'clock that afternoon.

      
I went back inside the hotel and called Billy.

      
Took about ten minutes to run him down.

      
I asked him, "How'd you know I was coming?"

      
"Saw you get off the airplane, Joe."

      
"You knew before that, pal."

      
He chuckled. "Maybe I had a premonition."

      
I was not chuckling when I told him, "Maybe someone helped you get it."

      
He said, "What's your problem?"

      
I said, "My problem is who helped you get it."

      
He said, "Cops are a nasty and suspicious bunch, aren't they."

      
"They come by it honestly. Are you going to level with me, Billy?"

      
"Sure, I knew you were on the plane. How else could I have cleared the path for you?"

      
"Exactly what do you expect of me here in Honolulu?"

      
He sighed. "At the least, Joe, we're hoping you can take care of your own garbage."

      
"Like that, eh."

      
"More or less."

      
"More or less what?"

      
"Like that."

      
What was I saying a while ago about your inscrutable Orientals? Suddenly I realized that I did not know this guy at all. A weekend drinking buddy in San Francisco many years ago, then a voice on the telephone from time to time, some mutual respect for efficient police work ... that was it.

      
So what did I actually know about him?

      
Damned little, and most of that secondhand.

      
I asked my increasingly
scrutable
Oriental pal, "How far does more or less extend? Where do I stand after a shootout, if it gets to that?"

      
"I guess that would depend on where you've put your feet down. You can't expect us to give you a blank check over here, Joe. Play it straight and you're okay. But you'll answer for excesses here the same as anywhere."

      
"But you want me to handle the garbage."

      
"That would be nice."

      
"Nice for you."

      
"Nice for everyone, yes. This is—"

      
"A small island, yeah. It's likely to get smaller, Billy, before I leave it. Want you to know that. But surely you already know that. So I need to know. Just how wide a path have you cleared for me?"

"Joe . . . we've stamped your investigator's license and extended the courtesies. But all that gives you is what you have in L.A. I am just saying—"

      
I said it for him. "Behave myself but take the garbage away."

      
"More or less, yes."

      
"You know something, Billy?" I told him, "You are an entirely
scrutable
Japanese cop."

      
Maybe. But his laughter was the old one hundred ten percent American cop as he told me good-by and hung up.

      
I still did not know the guy.

      
And I had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew me a lot better than I knew him.