Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (20 page)

I said, "Maybe not, but maybe his 'empire' was not as stable as one might think. Maybe he needed an escape and he took it. And maybe that's why the whole kingdom seems to be falling apart around him."

The Chief sighed. "Well, I don't know. Everything seemed to be just beautiful a mere week ago."

"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. The whole works was falling apart, it seems, as of about the time George Kaufman died." The Chief shot me a disturbed glance as I continued. "So okay, this is pure theory, but I'm picking up the long-distance marks on this tragedy from a long way back."

"So you're a psychic, now."

"Doesn't take a psychic to read these signs, pal," I said. "The whole thing was going rotten. I don't know from what, exactly, or from who, but this family was going into self-destruct long before I first encountered it. Why didn't you tell me that something had been going on between you and Janice Sanford?"

"Don't you mean Martha? I told you about that."

"No, I meant Janice."

"Hold it there, bud. You're shooting from the hip again."

I said, "No, I'm talking reality here, pal. I saw a picture of you and Janice at Tahoe. Harley wasn't in it and I just cannot picture him behind the camera. Don't give me any crap about the age difference. Janice Sanford is a beautiful woman and you aren't exactly a kid yourself. So when are you going to level with me?"

He stomped the brakes and screeched to a halt on a shoulder of the road just outside of town, took a long, hard look at me, and then asked, "Am I going to have to kick the shit out of you, bud, gimpy head and all?"

I grinned and said, "God, I hope not."

He chuckled and I chuckled, then we started off again. This guy had a very endearing and entirely credible way about him.

Again, though, I was hoping that I was not wrong about this guy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Someone had planned
this one to a close count. The L.A. County unmarked sheriff's car had apparently been midway through a curve along the divided highway section of Conway Summit, a long grade pulling to above 8,000 feet at the crest, when they were hit.

This can be a somewhat desolate drive during late night when highway traffic is at a minimum. The small town of Lee
Vining
, just south of the pull toward the summit, is the last town encountered until reaching Bridgeport, about twenty-five miles to the north. Just east of Lee
Vining
stands the eerie, almost moonscape desolation of Mono Lake, an ancient sea nearly 700,000 years old and regarded as one of the oldest lakes in North America, surrounded by volcanic craters still regarded as seismically active today.

You could read the markings on this hit almost as though it were a movie script. It had come about with the same deadly accuracy and timing as the hit on Arthur Douglas in Mammoth. The shooter had known the locale and conditions best favorable to his intentions. Both men had been shot in the head by powerful bullets that probably had been wielded by a high-powered rifle or maybe a shotgun using deer slugs. They probably did not know what hit them.

The vehicle had traveled only a brief distance before swerving across the lanes and then back to bury itself, wheels down, against the surrounding mountainside. There were no witnesses on the scene. The vehicle had been spotted by a trucker who had called it in on his citizen's band radio without remaining on the scene; presumably he had not witnessed the attack and knew only that a car had gone off the road.

The state police were on the scene as well as two sheriff's units. We arrived at about the same time as the coroner's vehicle from Bridgeport. The police on the scene had made only a cursory examination of the bodies to identify them and to confirm that they were beyond help. Their wounds were massive and death no doubt instant. The investigating officers were nervous and obviously still a bit spooked by the realization that it could come to any of them at any time, with no more warning than these two had had.

I had known these victims, although one of them very briefly, so I guess I was a bit more angry than anything else. It always hits a bit close to home when the victim is a fellow officer. That is not because the death of a cop is more important than other deaths. It is because there is more a sense of personal identification with the victim, even a stranger.

In this case, I knew these guys personally, so the sense of loss was more immediate. Making it even worse, it was a cold ambush. There was no other way to look at it. The marks were all there, and so obvious. The shooter or shooters had followed the vehicle and then ran on ahead for a distance before picking their spot, quickly scrambling into position alongside the road, and then coolly lying in wait. That was the way I read it.

Andrews and
Zambrano
had been shot through the right window of their moving vehicle—two sudden blasts from a high-powered rifle, and it was as quick as that.

But why?

Why them?

One of the shooters had followed them on foot while their shattered vehicle careened along the death path. The cops on the scene already had all the marks on that. A clear set of footprints, right foot only, began from a fresh tar spot beside the road some fifty yards behind the wrecked vehicle, went toward the vehicle and then returned.

Someone had been as cool as ice and implacable in the determination to take something from that vehicle. They had been fearless enough, or desperate enough, to stay with it, risking imminent discovery while ripping everything out of the trunk and glove compartment in a frenzied search along a public highway.

What the hell could Andrews and
Zambrano
have found in Mammoth of sufficient importance to have marked them for death on a lonely country highway? Couldn't have been the bonds or anything else that I could fathom—but, what the hell, it was just as expert and daring as the other shootings had been. And this gave me a little quiver reaching all the way back to L.A. and my own shooting. Not that I had more than a quiver, but in some subliminal corner of my mind, I felt that it must have happened almost exactly this way.

So what the hell did it mean? What did it
mean
?”

 
I asked Chief Terry, "What were these guys looking for in town?"

He growled, "Beats me, bud." He was
madder'n
hell. "But if I find it..."

I said, "You can't miss the pattern here."

 
       
"I can't? Just watch my lips. I can't even find it. This is insanity."

 
"You know better than that."

"Do I? Okay—sure—I know that. And I knew that Andrews and
Zambrano
had been nosing around in Mammoth. Ostensibly they were here to pick you up. But they were doing more than that."

"So what were they doing?"

"They were investigating the death of Martha Kaufman."

"But they already had their suspect." "I'm not so sure of that." "What are you saying?"

He gave me a wry smile. "These guys didn't want you. They could have had you any time they wanted you."

"So who did they want?"

"Maybe me," he replied softly.

"Why you?"

"I don't want to talk about that," he said quickly. "Maybe tomorrow."

      
"What's so special about tomorrow?"

      
"I'm resigning tomorrow."

      
I gave him a long, hard look. "Don't do that."

      
"Maybe I need to do that."

      
"No you don't."

      
He showed me a quick smile then went on to join the

others. The coroner's people were preparing to remove the bodies of the slain officers.

So maybe Terry was just feeling tired of all this. Then again, maybe those L.A. cops had stumbled onto something he was simply unable to defend, and he was bowing to the inevitable.

God, I hoped not.

The Chief and
I returned to Mammoth in virtual silence. We both had a lot to think about and it was obvious that he did not wish to say any more at the time regarding his surprising declaration that he was thinking about resigning. He was tired and out of sorts and I guess I was, too.

I wanted to ask him about the life and death of Vicki Douglas, also his relationship with Janice Sanford, but I had already drawn a strong reaction from that line of questioning and I knew better than to try it again at this particular moment. I really felt a bond with this guy but there were questions that needed answers and I felt that I was not serving that sense of friendship by not being straightforward with him. I also knew, however, that nothing would be gained by blustering through his defenses. Obviously there were things in his life that he did not wish to discuss. I have never been known as the "soul of tact," but it seemed more appropriate now to honor his sensitivities to every possible extent.

All the while, of course, I knew that there were many questions begging for answers and that the moment would come when absolute honesty between us would be the only way to keep that friendship intact.

It seemed, for example, that his relationship with Harley Sanford was woven in somehow with a sense of loyalty, or perhaps indebtedness, which may not be entirely seemly for a man in his position. I wanted to ask about that. Perhaps Terry owed his job to Harley Sanford. Politics, after all, form the lifeblood of many relationships; that did not have to be "dirty" but could be merely a proper sense of gratitude with no impropriety whatever.

On the other hand, many otherwise honorable men have been buried by that same misguided sense of gratitude. I would have preferred to know much more about the true relationship between Terry and Sanford; apparently only Terry himself could now enlighten me in that regard. I would have to wait for that. Meanwhile, there were other disturbing riddles commanding my attention.

First of all, the whereabouts of Janice Sanford and the particulars of her most recent brush with death.

Secondly, the whereabouts and present status of Tom Lancer. In that same connection, what was his relationship with Arthur Douglas, Vicki Douglas, Cindy Morgan, and perhaps even Martha Kaufman? For that matter, had there ever been more than a casual relationship with George Kaufman? How well had he known Vicki Douglas and Cindy Morgan? How well had he known Martha Kaufman? And how well did he really know Martha's mother? Was Janice Sanford intimately involved and in love with him as he implied? Was he really in love with her and on the verge of sweeping her up and carrying her off into the sunset?

      
How close had Chief Terry been to all these people and how many intimate connections could be drawn between them?

      
And why, really, was Terry now talking about resigning from his position in the community?

      
Why was Arthur Douglas shot and could this have had any bearing on his interest in me? If not, why had my home address and telephone number been found in this police officer's address book?

      
Who really had killed Vicki Douglas and what had been her relationship with the other victims? Had she really been a hooker?—if so, how would that figure into the grand scheme of things known?

      
Finally, why had Cindy Morgan left an urgent message for Arthur Douglas moments before he was shot and a short while before she was found murdered herself?

      
These were some of the questions that continued to bedevil me.

      
Terry dropped me at the hotel and said, "There you go, bud, thanks for the company."

      
"What company?" I asked him. "We haven't said two words the whole trip back."

      
"Sometimes that's the best company," he replied.

      
"Not for you, pal, not tonight. You've got heavy shit between your ears. What was that crap about resignation?"

      
"No crap. I'm just fed up."

      
I said, "No, I think you're running scared. Can't take the heat, huh?"

      
"Sure, screw you too, bud. Whoever said I had to spend the rest of my life behind this badge? Fuck it! Know how

long-it's been since I went fishing? Since I took a vacation? Since I took in a movie or went to a football game?"

      
I said, "Yeah, sure, my heart bleeds. Whoever said you needed to bury yourself out here in the sticks? A good cop like you could make it anywhere. So why did you settle for the sticks?"

      
"Careful there. You're talking about the sticks I love. Beats the hell out of anywhere you've ever lived."

      
I asked him, "So where do you go from here? Forest Service?—or maybe casino security or bouncing toughies at some bar? Stop it, you're breaking my heart. Come on, let's get serious."

      
This produced one of those characteristic swings in his mood. He chuckled. "Maybe I'll go to work in L.A."

      
I said, "You're too fucking old to be starting in L.A. Those kids down there would chew you up, and I'm not talking about the punks out on the street; I'm talking about the L.A. cops. They'd call you 'old timer' and short-sheet your patrol car every time you dozed off on graveyard—and those donut shops can be deadly at your age. So forget it."