Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (10 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

J
anice Sanford was
tensely waiting for me just inside the door to the hospital cafeteria. She was immaculately dressed and coiffed but the day had taken its toll on her. Earlier I would have guessed this woman's age at around forty; at that moment she was looking much closer to her fifty-odd years.

      
She lit up when she saw me and hurried forward to embrace me. She said, "Thank you, Joe. I hate to seem like a ninny but I didn't know where to go with this."

      
I replied, "No, no, it's okay. We're family. I'm just sorry you had to be put through this."

      
"I was just having some coffee. Can I get you something?"

      
"That would help, sure—coffee's fine."

      
She replied, "Sit down. I'll get it."

      
I watched her getting the coffee and again it was almost like a flashback to a slightly older Martha, that same aura of grace and dignity under pressure. A casual observer would not have guessed that this was a heartbroken woman preparing to bury her only daughter.

      
She returned with the coffee and showed me a brave smile. "Sorry, I didn't remember how you take your coffee. I brought sugar and cream if you need it."

I thanked her and suddenly found myself at a loss for words.

There was a brief awkwardness as we stared at each other silently, then she sighed and said, "I have arranged for a mortuary to handle the details. They're waiting for our call once we get through the paperwork. We just need to complete the formalities here."

I wanted to spare her another trip through the morgue. I did not really want the coffee. "I'll go up and handle that. Are you comfortable here?"

"As comfortable as anywhere, I guess." Her relief was evident. "Thanks, Joe. Yes, if you don't mind, I'll just wait here."

I took the elevator to the second floor, and as I stepped out a feeling of dread began to grip me. I knew that they would insist that I view the body again. I had been through this kind of routine so many times before as a cop on duty, so it was not that I was unprepared for the experience, but of course this time I did not have the luxury of an impersonal encounter or the shelter of amnesia. I knew this victim now, and I had no effective defenses. My first viewing had done a number on me, even though I was largely out of my mind at the time. Now I knew that it was going to be brutal. I managed to shake it off and do what had to be done.

It was mercifully quick and done with a minimum of red tape. I provided all the necessary paperwork; the rest was routine. I told the attendant that I would notify the mortuary for the pickup. I signed an itemized list of her personal effects, stuffed the small bag into my pocket, and got out of there.

I returned to the cafeteria and told Janice, "Okay, it's

over. So now we just need to contact the mortuary and find out when we might expect them."

She told me, "The mortuary assured me that there will be no delay. The man knows that we're taking her home by private plane."

She was heading toward the telephone before I could offer to make the call myself. She had been through quite an ordeal. I knew that she wanted to get out of here as quickly as I did.

We were more than in-laws now.

The commonality of tragedy had given us something more intimate than mere kinship.

Martha's body was
not in a casket. Because of the relatively cramped quarters of a small airplane such as this one, the decision had been made to transport the remains in an iced body bag. There is a feeling of immediacy to such an arrangement. Janice had not wanted the body transported in the cargo hold, so it was placed in the aft cabin and securely strapped down. It was not as though we were in any intimate contact with the body. This particular configuration of the Cessna Citation was quite roomy. The passenger cabin was more than seventeen feet long, with seven comfortable seats, an executive table on each side, a lavatory aft, and a refreshment center forward. That was immediately where I headed. I knew that Janice needed a stiff drink and so did I.

I was glad that I had gone with her. This would have been a brutal trip for any mother and especially on her own. Tom Lancer came back to see that we were comfortable then went to the rear to double-check the security of the body. As he returned, he affectionately squeezed Janice's shoulder. She squeezed him back and I was afraid for a moment that she was about to cry. This affected Lancer; his eyes were moist as he returned to the cockpit and began his preflight check.

I guess this was the first time I had actually noticed this aircraft and I was impressed by how far private airplanes had come since the early days of noncommercial aviation. The Citation was sleek and obviously at a high state of the art. Of course, the price tag of a business jet like this one was also light-years away from the little single-prop
Cessnas
of not so many years ago. Apparently, Sanford had been doing well in his business.
 
A plane like this costs in the neighborhood of five million dollars.
 
Not so long ago you could have bought a large commercial jet for that price. Times have changed.

It seemed incredible that I had rolled into Bishop almost exactly twenty-four hours earlier under the same full moon. I still had Molly's patchwork shielding the gunshot wound behind the right ear. Amazingly, and to Molly's credit, the patch job was holding well through all the adventures of the day, and if anyone had noticed the wound, there had been no comment except by Chief Terry when I had brought it to his attention. I had felt a little ridiculous about wearing the hat in public but I guess it had served its purpose; no little kids had run away from me, as far as I knew. I mention that now because Janice apparently caught a glimpse behind the hat and said to me, "My God, Joe, what happened to your head?"

Maybe she had wondered if I had worn the hat even in bed; she had never seen me without it. I had to level with her, even though the very mention of Martha's death was bound to be painful for her. I said, "I was shot at about the same time that Martha was shot. I've had a weird sort of amnesia about the events surrounding all of that."

"Why haven't I heard any of that?" she cried almost angrily.

"I guess I was discussing it with your husband while you were out of the room."

She said, "That man! I overheard the marriage part of it, but all that Harley mentioned—well, he sort of shouted it at me as he ran past—was that you were responsible for Martha's death. That is so typical of Harley, to be affected only by his own pain and to blame everyone else when he doesn't control a situation. I was furious with the bastard!"

"He said as much to me at the time, that he was holding me personally responsible. Which was okay, because I was feeling something of the same myself."

"But he shouldn't have said anything like that to you!
 
I mean, my God, I know that Martha had to have been deeply in love with you. She had such a terrible experience with George and swore she'd never go through that again. Listen, Joe, I'm as heartsick as Harley is about this but I know that Martha must have found a very special love with you. I see it in you, too, and I cannot excuse my husband for his insensitivity with you."

She reached across the aisle and squeezed my arm with genuine warmth. I patted her hand and said, "For what it's worth, Janice, I was in about the same situation that Martha was. I thought that marriage for me at this point in my life was out of the question. I would have married Martha only because I was crazy in love with her and could not have conceived of living without her. I have to be honest with you about this. Something got scrambled in my head when. I took that bullet, and I'm having disturbing lapses of memory. To this moment I have no memory of the circumstances surrounding Martha's death. I told your husband that I would find the person responsible for it. Not that this may provide a lot of comfort to you but I am making that vow to you, too, right now."

She said, "Thanks, Joe. I want that, too. If money is any object..."

"Thanks. I doubt that money will ever be an object in this. I will find the killer and find justice for Martha."

Janice cried. It was the first tear I had seen from her. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and tried to comfort her. But the tears were a good sign. The emotional release was healing at such times. After a moment she whispered, "I'm so weary, Joe. I think I'll nap for a moment."

I released my seat belt and stepped across to recline her seat and adjust a small blanket for her comfort. She was half asleep already. I went forward to the cockpit and slid into the copilot's seat beside Lancer.

He had completed his preflight check and was talking to the tower for takeoff clearance when I joined him. Lancer was obviously absorbed with his work but he shot me a welcoming glance as we began taxiing into position toward the runway. We must have hit a seam in the traffic because we were cleared for takeoff immediately.

I don't care how many times you've seen this drama from a passenger seat, it's always a bit of a rush when the plane begins its takeoff roll. This was an even more dramatic experience from the cockpit. It was a hot plane and the cockpit instrument panel had a star-wars look. This guy was a veteran jet pilot, no doubt about that. We were flashing along the runway and lifting off faster than I would have thought possible. I had been around planes long enough to know that the takeoff is one of the most critical points of the flight; we were clear and climbing rapidly above Los Angeles with no discernible vibration. This plane was smooth as silk. I did not even hear the landing gear retracting but I could see the indication on the instrument panel. We were passing over the Mt. Wilson area almost immediately and climbing toward the stars.

Lancer leveled off to cruising altitude and activated the automatic pilot. It was the first opportunity that we had to talk. He asked me, "Have you done much flying?"

I said, "Not this way. How does a guy like Harley Sanford buy into a rig like this?"

He showed me a droll smile as he replied, "I guess it's not so hard if you know all the angles. This plane is used a lot and it's solid write-off."

"What is it used for?"

"Sanford has many business interests. Mostly development deals throughout the western states. It's a legitimate write-off. He couldn't run his business without this kind of instant hands-on availability."

"So he does travel a lot?"

"Well, no, not that much personally, not anymore. We use the plane more to shuttle the engineers and architects to the various company sites. Occasionally, we might run prospective clients around."

This guy had opened up a lot since our first conversation. Originally he had been cool almost to the point of rudeness. So now it seemed that he was looking at things with a different slant. He was downright friendly. I said, "Thanks for leveling with me, Tom. I won't pretend that I understand everything that has been going on in Mammoth, but I do feel strongly that Sanford may be in beyond his depth here—or that someone may be trying to make it appear that way. I'm going to lay this on you, straight and brutal. An all-points bulletin has been issued by the Mammoth police and Sanford is a prime suspect in two shootings over the past few hours. That is why I was interested in his whereabouts. I wasn't just trying to pump you for gossip. The man is in deep trouble. So if you have any information that may shed some light on the problems, you shouldn't think of it as an invasion of your employer's privacy."

He gave me an almost sardonic smile and said, "Yes, I got that message earlier. I don't want to discuss it right now, but it's food for thought and maybe I would like to talk to you about it after we get home."

I was feeling better about the guy when I returned to my seat.

Janice was sleeping soundly. According to my calculation we would be on the ground in Mammoth in less than a half hour. It was the first quiet chance I'd had to go through Martha's personal effects from the morgue.