Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (12 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

i had a mechanical lunch at a downtown coffee shop,
don't even remember what I ate. I was a total stranger there and I was glad because the place was buzzing over the events of the night. Apparently the news of Tim Murray's murder had not yet hit the streets; I heard a couple of dark hints between tables to the effect that the ex-chief was still running the department and was probably "behind" the latest intrigues. It seemed that most of the patrons here were local business people who worked in the neighborhood—probably merchants, since it was a Saturday and also because the old downtown district had suffered the same fate as many other towns and dues in the age of the shopping malls. Nothing really exciting went down those streets anymore. There were a couple of small drugstores, a barber and a beautician, a shoe repair shop, two florists, a few small cafes and a saloon, several dress shops, a second-hand book store, other odds and ends of small, struggling businesses—all confined to a three-block

area. The consensus of downtown—if that luncheon crowd were representative—was that Tim Murray was responsible for all the political unrest in the city.

I wasn't ready to buy that much, and I was not ready even to buy the ex-chief as a crooked cop, the money cache at home notwithstanding. Too much had happened too fast to take it all in with any sense of reality. I was not ready to seize any conclusions—especially not the way the downtown merchants were leaping at them. I'd spent the greater part of my life trying to fashion realistic theories from odds and ends of evidence, and I'd learned the hard way that "evidence" is not always as it seems to be. Ask a professional stage magician about that, if you doubt me.

The news wasn't in the streets but it had draped a black mood over the Brighton PD. You could feel it in the air there, almost an atmosphere of doom. People failed to meet my gaze as I walked through, what few were there, and I could even sense the mood in the usually alert dispatcher's office when I stopped off there to check the logs. No one spoke of it—and there did not seem to be much conversation about anything else, either.

Which was okay with me, I'd wanted time to brief myself somewhat before the scheduled one o'clock meeting with the narcotics squad. There were ten of them, down from a standing twelve as of the deaths of Hanson and Rodriguez, the two who'd gone after me. Sergeant Dale Boyd had been in charge since the reorganization three years earlier.

These guys did not answer police musters, didn't attend uniformed ceremonies, were rarely seen around the PD, and were virtually autonomous. That was not good, even I knew that—and I say "even I" because I had always chafed over the rigid layers in the normal police chain of command. Sometimes that can be frustrating to a hardworking cop trying to do his job with maximum efficiency. But no squad or detail or even division should be allowed to operate without a system of oversight in place.

The Brighton narcs had been doing a hell of a job, though. If the record meant anything, they were a highly skilled and smoothly efficient team, executing with great precision and almost remarkable results. The only disturbing element I saw in the record was a high incidence of fatalities among suspects during busts. These were covered, of course, by official shooting reviews conducted by the trio of captains, and every shooting by the narc squad had been found justifiable.

I might add here, however, that shooting reviews in many departments are regarded as mere technicalities to be observed for the record, in case of lawsuits by suspects or their families; in such departments, it is rare indeed to see an officer disciplined for unjustified use of his firearm, and it is not all that unusual for a department to routinely "clean up" the reports as a coverup of blatantly excessive force.

I felt that I was ready for the one o'clock meeting, but I doubt that I would ever be "ready" for Dale Boyd. He's about six feet tall, weighs close to three hundred pounds, I'd guess—but obviously hard all over, except maybe in the paunch—full red beard that points off the chin an inch or so, curly red hair to the shoulders, piercing blue eyes. A biker, a Hell's Angel, that's the image—all the way to combat boots, field pants, leather vest, chains, and earrings.

I did not see the eyes until I suggested that he remove his sunglasses—the reflecting type in which you see only yourself as you're trying to make eye-contact with the

wearer—and then the effect was almost startling. I wondered idly if he wore colored contact lenses to produce that effect. I'd never seen eyes that blue.

The other guys you could see on any narc squad anywhere, the usual nondescript, scruffy bunch that has become so characteristic of the undercover cop wherever. You can't blame "Hill Street Blues" for that look; in that case, art indeed was imitating life. These guys are chameleons; you can't expect them to look like Wall Street bankers when they want to blend into the street environment. Behind the scruffy appearance, though, you find some damned effective cops. I knew that these guys met the criteria. They had me sized and slotted coming in, knowing me in a single look—and I knew that because I had their size too.

There was not room enough in the office to seat them all. No problem; some haunched down with their backs against the wall and one of them leaned against the door. Their leader was seated directly opposite me, at the desk. I introduced myself, didn't ask them to do the same, told them: "I've just been reviewing the stats." I looked directly
 
at Boyd. "You guys have been doing a hell of a job."

He nodded and showed a smile, I think, and told me, "We reviewed yours too. Takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

I said, "I know a hell of a cop when I see one."

He said, "So do I."

"Two of your boys went down hard last night."

"Yes. It happens. We'd rather it went the other way but ... when it comes, it comes."

"Those two tried to go the other way with me, Boyd."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Mistaken identity?"

      
"Oh, I think not. They tried. They missed. I think someone didn't know they missed. I think someone had them set up in a stolen car. And I think someone put the car on the hot sheet and arranged the confrontation that resulted in their deaths."

      
"You've done a lot of thinking."

      
"It's the instinct for survival. Maybe all of you boys should start thinking that way."

      
"We're not boys."

      
"Boys to me," I told him, and allowed each of them to encounter my gaze. "My boys—for awhile, anyway. But I can't do all your thinking for you, not even for the short term. So I worry." My eyes clashed with the piercing blues. "Who've you been reporting to since Murray left?"

      
Boyd replied evenly, "I keep in touch with the watch commanders."

      
"Who've you been reporting to?"

      
"I file the reports through Marilyn DiAngelo. She was Murray's secretary. Yours now, I guess. Met her yet?"

      
"From now on," I told him, "you submit your operations plans to Captain Williamson and you follow his direction."

      
He didn't blink. "Yes, sir."

      
"I'm going to be thinking for you boys for awhile, all I can."

      
"Thank you. Chief."

      
"Murray is dead."

      
That time, he blinked. "His heart?"

      
"No, I think it was his wallet. The sheriff will be looking into that. Feds too, probably, if they can get a toehold. How clean are you, Boyd?"

      
He blinked again. "I'm clean." The blue gaze flicked over his squad. "We're all clean."

      
"Let's hope so," I said. "The shit is going to be coming down the pike, and it's going to find every sewer that isn't covered. You think about that. Each of you think about it. Okay, that's all I have."

      
Boyd held his seat, piercing me with quizzing eyes as the others stirred and left, then he got slowly to his feet and said in a low voice, "I don't know what Murray was into, but we're clean."

      
"He wasn't," I replied in a voice that matched.

      
He stared at me for a couple of ticks then turned away and went to the open doorway, turned back for another look and to mutter, "Thank you, Chief."

      
I couldn't tell if he was patronizing me or if he was genuinely reaching toward me.

      
I showed him a solemn wink as my reply, and he went on with that.

      
Very cagey guy.

      
I didn't know what the hell had been accomplished.

      
But at least I'd given those guys something to think about... and I believed that they were thinking.

I
called Captain Ralston
in and told him to postpone the firing review that I'd insisted be scheduled for that afternoon. He was not hostile but also he was no friendlier—maybe a bit sulky, though, as he replied, "I guess that would be advisable, under the circumstances."

      
I said, "That's what I thought." He nodded and took a step toward the door but I called him back and told him, "Patricia Murray requests a department burial. Since it's our department and the rest of the city is in disarray, I guess it's our decision. What do you think?"

      
"I guess it's up to you," Ralston replied in the same sulky voice.

      
"Get off it," I said harshly. "I need some input here. How do your officers feel about Murray? Will they turn out for him?"

      
He shrugged and said, "If you tell 'em to, they'll turn out. I wouldn't feel too good about it."

      
"Why not?"

      
"I've never felt that Murray had the good of the department at heart."

      
I said, "That doesn't compute. I came in here last night and looked around and I said to myself, 'These guys have it good.' It shows, it's that obvious."

      
"Murray didn't do it," the captain insisted. "He never ran this department. Just threw money at it to make himself look good. I never thought he was much of a cop, let alone chief."

      
"Yeah, I heard that all before," I reminded him. "But maybe it's all sour grapes. Maybe you guys with the brass didn't like getting passed over. Maybe Murray was a solid guy with the troops."

      
He said it softly and with emphasis: "Bull shit."

      
I sighed and chewed the idea briefly. "Check with the coroner. I'm putting you in charge of the arrangements. Find out when they will release the body and send an undertaker to take charge. I want a hero's burial, honor guards and the works. Put the word out. Oh—and notify the neighboring departments, the sheriffs—Riverside, San Berdue, L.A.—let them know we'll expect a contingent from each."

      
"What the hell are you doing this for?" Ralston asked despairingly.

      
"Not for him," I said. "For her."

      
"Her?"

      
"The widow. She put in her twenty even if he didn't."

      
Ralston said, very subdued, "I guess she did."

      
I grabbed the telephone and turned him loose. He went out while I was trying to find the number I wanted. The day was still young, and a lot needed doing.