Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (13 page)

I got her on the second ring, responding with a breathless, almost expectant urgency. "Yes?"

"This is Joe Copp."

"Who?"

"Lila's new chief. This is her sister, Cleo?"

"Yes. But I still haven't heard from her and I'm going crazy. They just announced on the radio that Chief Murray has been killed. Is that true?"

"It's true," I assured her. "It's very important that I find your sister. Help me find her."

She said, "I've called everywhere I can think of. My God, I..."

"Think again, then," I urged. "Forget the usual places. Try the unusual. Where would Lila go if she wanted to drop out for awhile?"

"God, I—is she in trouble?"

I said, "She could be. The last time I saw her she had just left a meeting with Murray. That was at about three o'clock this morning. I think Murray died shortly after that. Yes, she could be in trouble. And, dammit, just because she's a cop doesn't necessarily mean that she knows how to handle it. I've got to get to her. Let's say she felt she needed time to sort things out, without interference from anyone. Now, where does she go?"

"She might go to Arrowhead," the sister said immediately.

That would be Lake Arrowhead, an upscale mountain resort area north of San Bernardino. I asked, "Does she have a place there?" I was thinking cabin or condo. The high lake is less than an hour by car from Brighton. It is not unusual for folks of average means to invest in vacation property up there.

      
But the sister replied, "No, but she usually stays at the little inn right there in the village, the one just up from the traffic light. I don't remember the name..."

      
"I'll try that. Relax. It'll be okay. But if you think of anything else, let me hear."

      
"You'll be at the police station?"

      
"If I'm not," I said, "leave a message. Mark it urgent. But let's keep it cryptic. Don't give out info to anyone but me, not even to one of the cops."

      
She said, "I understand."

      
I wondered if she did.

      
I wondered also, idly, about the name "Cleo." Had to be short for Cleopatra with "Delilah" for a sister. Another interesting family, no doubt.

      
I wondered about that all the way to Arrowhead.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I
took my own car
, an old Caddy, for the drive to Arrowhead. Didn't want to take an official car that far from its own turf. Besides, I prefer the Caddy to most newer cars. It's old but I keep it running and looking good, it's comfortable, and we fit each other. I recently modernized* it, too, with a car phone. That is not a luxury these days, it's a necessity—especially in my line of work—and the cellular systems are really very good now.

The drive up into the mountains can be very pleasant if it's not during a peak season—which is summertime, with the schools out and families freed for camping and fishing vacations, and the winter holidays, ski season. During those periods the crowds and traffic can be even more hectic than down among the population centers. Spring and fall can be very nice, though, and in ten minutes flat you can leave the swirl behind and find yourself in almost isolated splendor.

This was September. The climb north up along the four-lane state highway to the village of Crestline was quick and easy, going from almost zero elevation to somewhere around four thousand feet in about ten minutes. At this point, you've already left the world of smog and grime behind. From Crestline you swing back east and continue the climb along a two-lane roller-coaster course called "the Rim of the World Highway"—and the views are spectacular if you dare take your eyes off the twisting roadway for a sneak peek every now and then.

From up there you can see it all. I suspect that you could see the lights of San Diego on a good night. By the rime you get to Arrowhead, though, you are immersed in nature, engulfed in it, swallowed by it—literally. This is an area of densely wooded and plunging canyons. All the roads and trails are built along these narrow, twisting gorges, and you literally cannot see the forest for the trees, not until you hit the lakeshore itself. The lake, you see, is set kerplop in the middle of that dense forest. The shoreline runs for something like fourteen miles and it is all private property. So far as I know, there is no public boating access to the lake. A development company bought and developed the land way back around the turn of the century, parceled it up and sold it off, and there's a lot of money invested up there, especially in the lakeshore properties.

On my way up the mountain, I put some toll on the car phone to talk to a friend in L.A., a guy who specializes in electronic intelligence. He makes a good living sitting at home with his computer and developing information for others who lack his equipment and know-how. Wouldn't call him a "hacker," exactly, because he's definitely a pro and claims that his services are entirely legal. I wouldn't know about that, and actually I've never worried a lot about it. There's no real privacy left for anyone in this world today, not really. Anybody can get your vital

statistics any time they want them, all with total legality— and someone could right now be sitting in some cubbyhole office on the opposite side of the country somewhere scrutinizing your banking records, your driving record, or any other record that exists, and you'll never know them as they know you.

So I don't worry that much about the privacy issue because privacy is largely an illusion anyway. I don't go out of my way to abuse the data pools, but I do use them when I need them. Right now I needed them. And my friend in L.A. knew how to get into them. I put him onto Harold Schwartzman, told him what little I knew about the guy, and asked him to get back to me with a profile as quickly as possible.

It was about two o'clock when I pulled into the village at Arrowhead. I hadn't been up there in years but it didn't seem to have changed that much. Spotted Lila's jeep immediately, and I knew how lucky that was. If she'd rented one of the hundreds of cabins or condos that are scattered along those canyons, I could still be looking for her. The village itself, though, is quite small and clustered quaintly in one small section of the shore. The inn where she was staying was located right on the main highway and in the heart of the commercial area. Has an old European countryside look, very pretty in a rustic way, lobby and restaurant in the main building—which must be fifty or sixty years old—cabins arranged in neat rows up the hillside.

I parked beside the jeep and went into the lobby, told the pleasant man at the desk that I was meeting Miss Turner there, asked him to ring her room. He started to comply then stopped himself, said, "Isn't that the tall, pretty, blonde woman?"

I verified that, understated as it was.

He told me, "She walked down to the lakefront. About—oh, ten minutes ago. She took the lower road." He pointed, and I understood. The main road veers off at an intersection just below the inn, proceeds in two directions to skirt the shoreline, but that point also marks the entrance to the main shopping areas, and there are two ways also to go into there. The higher part is designed primarily for the convenience of residents, has a big supermarket and other commercial services. The part nearest the lake is devoted to the tourist trade, with restaurants and shops enough to delight the browsers for at least a full day.

I left my car at the inn and went browsing, too, with something other than gift items in mind. Even in September there were plenty of people in town so I really did not expect to find Lila among the shoppers, but I was too restless to sit and wait for her—and, besides, the air up there was crisp and invigorating, the sun warming rather than oppressing, and it was a good day for a walk. Tried to put myself into her probable frame of mind, kept to the lakeshore walk, found her at the far end sipping wine from a longstemmed glass on the veranda at Woody's Boat- house, one of the finer restaurants of the area. It overlooks the lake, huge place—seats more than a hundred, probably—done up very cleverly in nautical motif. The veranda is partially enclosed. I was on the boardwalk, looking in— but I could have touched her—when she raised her eyes from the wine and our gazes clashed.

"Well, God dammit," she said, with clear disgust.

I said, "Stay right there," and went on around to the entrance.

She was still there when I reached her table, and she was mad as hell.

I sat down beside her. A waiter came over immediately.

I ordered a Coke and looked over the menu while waiting for it. The waiter returned with the Coke. I asked, "What's good?"

      
He said, "You can't go wrong here. What do you feel like?"

      
"What did she feel like?" I asked, indicating Lila.

      
"This time of day, the house speciality," he replied. "Steak sandwich. Chef uses the choicest tri-tip, slices it wafer thin, then grills it and stacks it on a French roll."

      
"That's fine. Medium."

      
"Onions and peppers?"

      
"Did she?"

      
He grinned and jerked his head in a nod. All this time Lila is totally ignoring me. I said, "Do mine that way too, then."

      
When he left the table, I said to her, "Stop acting like a baby. I didn't come all the way up here to play games."

      
After a moment she replied, "Why did you come?"

      
"I came because we really need to talk, kid."

      
"Can't it wait 'til Monday? I have 'comp' time coming. I took it. I'm off duty 'til Monday."

      
"Has nothing to do with duty," I told her. "Has to do with staying alive. Are you up on the news?"

      
"What news?" she asked grouchily.

      
"Tim Murray was killed this morning."

      
It was like she didn't hear it for a moment. I was about to say it again when she replied, "How did he die?"

      
"The hard way. Bullet between the eyes. Found him stuffed into the trunk of his car at The Dee-light Zone. End of delight for him."

      
"When?"

      
"I discovered the body late this morning, nearly noontime. He was stiff."

      
Lila hadn't looked at me since I joined her at the table. She turned to me now with eyes brooding and said, "You discovered the body?"

      
I nodded. "I was looking for him. He hadn't been home, so I went back to the joint. His car was still there. So was he."

      
She asked, "Have a suspect?"

      
"Not yet."

      
"Let me give you a clue."

      
"Okay."

      
"It started with Mayor Katz."

      
"What started?"

      
"The killing."

      
"Uh huh. And?"

      
"And that's your clue."

      
I said, "Katz was killed during a robbery."

      
She shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn't matter. It started then."

      
"And your pal Murray... ?"

      
She flicked me a disdainful look. "We weren't pals."

      
"No? Pardon the hell out of me but it looked that way last night. Why'd you go to Helltown?"

      
"I wanted to set up a meeting with the mystery man."

      
"Which mystery man is that?"

      
"Harold Schwartzman. Came to town three years ago. Dropped in from nowhere. Built that big place on the hill, started buying up other real estate. Bought into Helltown, big. Nobody really knows anything about him. He deals through intermediaries, holding companies, corporate covers. I believe he corrupted Mayor Katz."

      
"Why do you believe that?"

      
"Because that is when Brighton started going to hell. That's when all the fighting started. That is when Chief

Murray became an absentee chief. And that is when our department started falling apart."

      
"Could be coincidence," I suggested.

      
She gave me another of those looks. "Sure. And it could be coincidence when you see smoke and fire at the same time."

      
"So you've got a theory."

      
She sipped at her wine and spoke around the rim of the glass to reply, "Not much. Just started wondering about it all when..."

      
"When what?"

      
"When the chief got fired."

      
"And...?"

      
"And nothing. Hey, I work vice—okay? I throw my hips on a streetcorner and invite the cruisers to proposition me. What the hell do I know about... ?"

      
I said, "No, I think you're more than that. Why'd you go running up to Schwartzman's mansion last night?"

      
The waiter brought our sandwiches, interrupting the conversation with an apologetic smile, inquired, "Can I get you anything else right now?"

      
I gave him a wink and a shake of the head, looked to Lila—she formed a "no" with her lips; the waiter gracefully withdrew.

      
But the flow was broken. Lila began munching on her sandwich and I didn't ask the question again right then.

It was a hell of a sandwich. It seduced me, showed me how little I'd eaten during the past twenty-four hours. So I ravished it with gusto, then washed it down with several cups of coffee. Lila had been watching me with some be- musement, maybe even amusement, our conversation limited to the merits of Woody's house special. It's not easy to eat a sandwich like that one daintily; she managed it, then remarked during my third coffee, "Some cops lose their appetite on murder cases. Yours doesn't seem to have suffered."