Read Online Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
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the tables together?"
"Thanks, I can't stay."
No way was I going to become hamburger patty sandwiched between those two. The Viking was naked as her mistress and breaking out the warm scented oil.
I like to think of it as a strategic retreat.
Actually I fled.
And I could hear the laughter all the way to the front door.
So what did I have? I knew what it meant in a general sense...that sleaze walks the high roads as well as the low, not exactly a big revelation. I worked for ten years behind a public badge in this town and I found most of the surprises during the first couple of years. You haven't met sleaze until you've been exposed to the corporate variety, to Beverly Hills sleaze, high-rise sleaze. These folks have it refined to high art. Wasn't it the rich and powerful who invented the orgy? Nothing wrong with sex, it's what you do for it or with it that makes for sleaze.
No, I don't have a Ph.D. in psychology and I've never sat on a philosopher's stone, but I've cruised these streets and I've dealt firsthand with most every variety of human misery. Don't talk theory of plumbing to a guy who's down there with his hands in it. And don't talk social theory to a cop who lives the reality the profs write about.
What does this have to do with my case?
The aroma of sleaze was strong in my nostrils.
What does it have to do with the case?
Take a good close look at this cast of characters.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Charles Franklin's place was up in the Glendale hills, not swank but no shanty either. He's an urbane man of forty-five, handsome, well set up. I knew at the front door that I did not want to play cute with this one, so I took it straight to him.
"My name is Joe Copp . I'm a private investigator. I've become involved in the Wiseman case."
He took the play away from me right there, stepping back quickly and swinging the door wide to invite me inside with a restrained flourish. "I suppose I've been half expecting you to call," he told me in a voice that sounded a bit like Dick Cavett's . "I knew that Melissa was trying to reach you. Have you spoken with her?"
I resisted the urge to finger the wound on my scalp. "Yes, we talked briefly yesterday. She isn't home, by any chance?"
He said, "Oh, Melissa doesn't live here. I haven't seen her for days. She did call early yesterday afternoon sounding sort of mysterious and troubled. Of course I'd already heard the news about Bernie, so . . ."
He had led me into the interior of what could have been a plush mountain cabin on a ski slope somewhere. Outside was the usual stucco and brick but inside was pure Aspen with oversized fireplace, paneled walls, wooden floors with scatter rugs, open beam ceilings and a picture window that probably looked all the way to Catalina on a clear day. Nice place, and it said "bachelor" to me all the way.
He was smoking a pipe as we settled into chairs near the fireplace. I already knew that this guy had been a screenwriter for the past twenty years and I'd been impressed with his list of credits.
I asked him, "How long have you and Melissa been separated?"
"Oh, we're not separated," he replied quickly. "That is, not in the conventional sense. It isn't like a breakup or any of that. We've never lived together."
"Why'd you get married?"
"Marriage of convenience," he said, smiling.
"Okay."
"We're the best of friends."
"Okay."
"How can I help you?"
"I was just with Justine Wiseman. I have her view of... the personalities involved. I'm trying to understand the various relationships."
"Justine can be very direct," he said for the understatement of the day.
"I'm hoping you will be too."
"Glad to try. If you're working for Melissa you're
working for me too in a way. What can I tell
"Thanks, I can't stay."
No way was I going to become hamburger patty sandwiched between those two. The Viking was naked as her mistress and breaking out the warm scented oil.
I like to think of it as a strategic retreat.
Actually I fled.
And I could hear the laughter all the way to the front door.
So what did I have? I knew what it meant in a general sense...that sleaze walks the high roads as well as the low, not exactly a big revelation. I worked for ten years behind a public badge in this town and I found most of the surprises during the first couple of years. You haven't met sleaze until you've been exposed to the corporate variety, to Beverly Hills sleaze, high-rise sleaze. These folks have it refined to high art. Wasn't it the rich and powerful who invented the orgy? Nothing wrong with sex, it's what you do for it or with it that makes for sleaze.
No, I don't have a Ph.D. in psychology and I've never sat on a philosopher's stone, but I've cruised these streets and I've dealt firsthand with most every variety of human misery. Don't talk theory of plumbing to a guy who's down there with his hands in it. And don't talk social theory to a cop who lives the reality the profs write about.
What does this have to do with my case?
The aroma of sleaze was strong in my nostrils.
What does it have to do with the case?
Take a good close look at this cast of characters.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Charles Franklin's place was up in the Glendale hills, not swank but no shanty either. He's an urbane man of forty-five, handsome, well set up. I knew at the front door that I did not want to play cute with this one, so I took it straight to him.
"My name is Joe Copp . I'm a private investigator. I've become involved in the Wiseman case."
He took the play away from me right there, stepping back quickly and swinging the door wide to invite me inside with a restrained flourish. "I suppose I've been half expecting you to call," he told me in a voice that sounded a bit like Dick Cavett's . "I knew that Melissa was trying to reach you. Have you spoken with her?"
I resisted the urge to finger the wound on my scalp. "Yes, we talked briefly yesterday. She isn't home, by any chance?"
He said, "Oh, Melissa doesn't live here. I haven't seen her for days. She did call early yesterday afternoon sounding sort of mysterious and troubled. Of course I'd already heard the news about Bernie, so . . ."
He had led me into the interior of what could have been a plush mountain cabin on a ski slope somewhere. Outside was the usual stucco and brick but inside was pure Aspen with oversized fireplace, paneled walls, wooden floors with scatter rugs, open beam ceilings and a picture window that probably looked all the way to Catalina on a clear day. Nice place, and it said "bachelor" to me all the way.
He was smoking a pipe as we settled into chairs near the fireplace. I already knew that this guy had been a screenwriter for the past twenty years and I'd been impressed with his list of credits.
I asked him, "How long have you and Melissa been separated?"
"Oh, we're not separated," he replied quickly. "That is, not in the conventional sense. It isn't like a breakup or any of that. We've never lived together."
"Why'd you get married?"
"Marriage of convenience," he said, smiling.
"Okay."
"We're the best of friends."
"Okay."
"How can I help you?"
"I was just with Justine Wiseman. I have her view of... the personalities involved. I'm trying to understand the various relationships."
"Justine can be very direct," he said for the understatement of the day.
"I'm hoping you will be too."
"Glad to try. If you're working for Melissa you're
working for me too in a way. What can I tell
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