Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (19 page)

      
"And thought you might find me here at The Dee-light Zone."

      
"I tried the PD, you weren't there. Didn't know where else to try."

      
"Why were you looking for me, Lila?"

      
"Don't you know?"

      
"Well..."

      
"Sure you know. Haven't you been thinking about me too?"

      
I wasn't lying. "Oh yeah, quite a bit."

      
"What am I?—a nymphomaniac or something? Can't get you out of my head. Feel like I'm sixteen again."

      
I was feeling total despair. "Lila..."

      
"Oh boy, oh, there's that look, oh, wow—I've done it, haven't I. My God, how could I have said that!"

      
"No, it's not what you think," I said quickly. "Roger Williamson was not the last to die. I just came down from the mansion. Lydia Whiteside is dead."

      
She just stared at me.

      
"Did you hear me? Lydia—"

      
"I heard you," she said quietly. "So I guess I'm next."

      
"What does that mean?"

      
"I'm the next to die, Joe."

      
"Come on. What are you talking about?"

      
"Let's go back to Arrowhead. Right now! Spend the night with me."

I thought maybe she was kidding. "You die tomorrow?" I asked with what I hoped was a smile.

But she was entirely serious. "I die next."

"Over my dead body," I told her. "And that would not make you the next to die, would it?"

That thought seemed to give the brave, capable policewoman no comfort at all.

No, no comfort whatever.

And the Brighton patterns continued to fracture.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

Lila Turner's surprising declaration
that she would be the "next to die" had come straight out of the blue, as far as I was concerned, and it had caught me a bit off balance. When I tried to press her for a rational explanation of the statement, she at first tried to laugh it off as a joke and when that did not work she clammed up entirely and refused to discuss it with me further. She was still obviously unnerved by the news of Lydia Whiteside's death, however, despite the earlier claim that she'd hardly known her, and a couple other minor points had been bothering me about the policewoman who had become my lover that very day.

The question of her midnight visit to the mansion twenty-four hours earlier was not totally settled in my mind. Supposedly she had gone there to find Tim Murray, had skulked around the shadows outside for a while, then left after first being accosted and detained momentarily by Frank Jones, who apparently had been shot and killed at

about that same moment. In connection with that visit, she had lied to me at one point or another.

In Murray's presence, she told me that she had been the one who fired the shots that presumably killed Jones, but she'd created the impression that she had fired at the guard dog when it threatened her. Later, at Arrowhead, she denied firing any shots and told me that she had heard the shots nearby while lying on the ground waiting for Jones to tie the dog and take her in charge for trespassing.

I had doubted all along that Lila could have fired the shots that killed Jones because I had heard her car start just a couple of seconds after the gunfire. But the timing was off, also, to support her Arrowhead version that she was lying on the ground inside the gates when the shots were fired.

So... what the hell?... was Jones shot outside the gates and later carried inside to be found in a different location? Why? By whom? How?—I had buzzed past the drive myself hot on Lila's tail. I'd heard a ruckus inside as I passed, yes, but I'd noticed no activity outside those gates at that moment. Could he have been shot inside, from a shooter positioned outside, and then the body moved to a point where it could not have been seen from the outside? Again, why?

Or had Jones been shot earlier?

If so, where?—why?—by whom?—and why would Lila tell me that she had heard shots at the time to confirm the alleged time and place of death?

Had she gone to the mansion that night to see Tim Murray?—or had she gone up there to see Lydia Whiteside? And had she gone back again tonight, for the same reason?

Why would she tell me that she hardly knew Lydia, then react so dramatically a few hours later upon hearing of Lydia's death? She'd handled all the other deaths okay, from what I'd seen.

      
And why was she stonewalling me now, when it must have been very apparent that I suspected her of lying to me? I walked her to her car, just as I'd done the night before, and I asked her, "Where did you go when you left here last night?"

      
"Home," she replied quietly.

      
"And?"

      
"And to bed."

      
"Uh huh. Then what?"

      
"You want me to account for myself?"

      
"I'd appreciate that, yes."

      
She said, "Go straight to hell. One afternoon of love does not get you that much."

      
"I'm not asking as your lover."

      
"As my boss? That doesn't get it either. If I'm a suspect then read me my rights and let me call a lawyer."

      
"You've been working with Tim Murray, haven't you? Since he was fired, I mean."

      
I might as well have been speaking to the wind. She went on to her car, inserted the key in the doorlock and opened the door, showed me a winsome smile. "Last invitation tonight. Come back to the inn with me."

      
I shook my head. "Can't do that, kid."

      
"Then I suppose this is goodbye."

      
"Don't you mean goodnight?"

      
She gave me a pitying look and got into her car, kicked the engine over. I walked alongside as she was backing out of the parking place—then decided, what the hell, to do something dramatic. I yanked the door open and dragged her out of the car. It coughed and died, which was more

reaction than I got from her at that moment. I guess she was too surprised to resist or even complain. I kissed her and she stiffened at first, then relaxed into it and kissed me back. It got very passionate for a moment there, then I released her and I guess we were both a bit dizzy from the encounter.

      
"Does this mean you've changed your mind?" she asked huskily.

      
"Yes and no," I told her. I dug for my keys, took my housekey off the ring, handed it to her, gave her the address. "Can you remember that?"

      
"I guess I can," she replied. "What do I do with it?"

      
"Decorate it with your presence. I'll get there as soon as I can."

      
"This is your place?"

      
"Yes. It's about twenty minutes from here. Safer than Arrowhead, for the moment anyway. Be sure you're not tailed."

      
She said, "Joe... I can't do this."

      
"Why not?"

      
"Well, I just can't do it."

      
"I'll try to join you there in about an hour."

      
"Well, then, let's just stay together until. . ."

      
I said, "No, it's better that you go ahead."

      
"Promise you'll come?"

      
"As soon as I can."

      
"Promise you won't give me the third degree."

      
I held up my hand in a scout's oath. She smiled and got back in her car, blew a kiss as she drove away.

      
I didn't know if I was glad or sad.

      
I only knew that I could not turn her loose into the night again completely on her own. And I did not want her at my side when I returned to Lydia Whiteside's apartment. Another pattern was forming in my subconscious and I wanted to give it room to develop fully before trying to fit it into the world outside.

i stopped by
the PD and got an update on the Whiteside investigation. The homicide boys were still up there but the body had been transported and marked for autopsy. Zarraza was in charge of the investigation, which told me something right there. He was one of the low men on the totem pole, therefore this particular investigation was not being given much priority. But, of course, these cops were almost totally consumed by the deaths within their own ranks. Practically the entire operations division was mobilized toward those other investigations, and all of the detectives were putting in some wearying hours beyond and above the usual pace of work.

O'Brien had the watch. He seemed friendly enough, even when I told him that 1 was calling a halt to the unofficial "acting chief" rotation.

"Makes sense," he agreed. "Especially now with Roger permanently out of the rotation. And I have to tell you, I'm getting dog tired."

"Go home," I ordered. "Right now. Take the rest of Sunday off. I'll pass the word to Ralston and I'll want you both in here at eight o'clock Monday morning. Let's get things back to normal."

He said, "Well, that will take some doing, but I guess I'm ready to try."

"Then consider yourself on-call 'til Monday. Get some rest. Be ready to tackle a total reorganization when you come back in here. I'll expect you and Ralston to set it up. Let your lieutenants carry the load. I want you two on standard day shift and I want an equal distribution of responsibilities. "

      
"Okay," O'Brien tiredly agreed.

      
"Who's your best man on the floor right now?"

      
"That would be Ramirez, but he's already been on duty around the clock. He's beat too."

      
I checked the time and told O'Brien, "Let's send most of these people home. You and Ramirez put your heads together and decide who completes the watch. Resume with the normal day shift, Sunday routine. Soon as you get that set up, send Ramirez in and you take off, go to bed, get some rest. You can put it all back together Monday."

      
"What if you're not here Monday?"

      
I showed him a smile. "What difference would that make?"

      
He smiled back. "See what you mean. Okay. Thanks." He took a step away, paused, turned back to say, "If I pegged you wrong, Joe..."

      
I grinned and told him, "No, I think you've had it right. I wouldn't like me either, Pappy."

      
"Asshole," he said with a smile, then went on to turn the watch over to the homicide lieutenant.

      
I spent the next ten minutes scrutinizing the logs and reading reports, then I went on into my office. Ramirez caught up with me there as I was collecting my messages, said, "Okay, it's set. Pappy said you wanted to see me."

      
I had him confirm that Ralston had been notified of the change, then I told him, "I want Zarraza for a special detail. Tonight. Can you cut him loose?"

      
He nodded. "He's working Whiteside. Just finished the on-scene. He's on his way in. What's up?"

      
"Can you find a judge in this area on a Saturday night?"

      
"We have a routine, yes. You want a warrant tonight?"

      
I said, "Search warrant. The Schwartzman place. Not

just the Whiteside apartment. The whole place."

"Oh, you want. .. ?"

"Right, all grounds and structures, the whole schmear. Two deaths up there in two nights, you have all the justification you need." I glanced at my watch. "I'll need it by four o'clock."

The guy seemed just a bit disturbed about that. I told him, "If it's bothering you, spit it out. What's the problem?"

He came in and closed the door, leaned against it to tell me, "There's been a longstanding hands-off policy where Mr. Schwartzman is concerned. I don't know how high that goes, so... the apartment, okay—the grounds, okay—but Mr. Schwartzman's personal... I don't know that I can make a case for a search of all structures."

"You mean you're afraid you can't sell it to a judge."

"That's about what I mean, yes."

I said, "No judge in his right mind would openly obstruct a murder investigation, whatever his politics. Do it this way. We suspect that Franklin Jones may have been murdered in Schwartzman's home while he was away, or by a guest or intruder in Schwartzman's home during the commission of another crime. We absolutely must have a warrant to search the premises from top to bottom, and we must have it immediately to secure whatever evidence may be developed from the premises. Got that?"