Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (9 page)

      
That shocked him. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

      
"Well, I don't want to get dead serious," I told him.

      
"I've been working with these people for more than three years. I find it hard to believe that..."

      
"You've been a cop for more than three years," I guessed out loud.

      
He nodded. "Worked back east for awhile. My wife loves California, so ..."

      
"You know how the mob does it, then. They hire the hit then hit the hitter. It's cleaner that way."

      
"You're not saying that the mob is behind this."

      
"Not that mob," I replied. "But every town has its counterparts. I think we could have a mob here, yeah, right in this department."

      
"I'd rather not believe that."

      
"Don't believe it, then, but open the eyes in the back of your head, too, if you're not one of them—and especially if you are one of them. There's a death squad in this department, Zarraza. And right now it's on a rampage."

      
He said tightly, "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."

      
"Do that," I said, and then I went to find Tim Murray again.

      
The thing was closing in on me. I felt it in the bones, and I felt it in other people's bones too. Had to keep pushing, keep the pressure on. And then hope that I'd be standing in the right place when the bubble burst. Trouble was, as it turned out, the bubble was really a powderkeg, and
 
there would be no "right place" for anyone to stand.

      
Already five were dead.

      
And I'd been in charge for only one night. How many more could I last?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Maybe
I
should remind you once again
that this was a police department in shock. It gets bad enough when a single officer is slain; it disturbs the equilibrium, reminds these guys that they are mortal, after all, and involved in highly hazardous work. It shakes up the wives and girl friends, frightens the kids, and invades the dreams of everyone affected. Here, we had four dead cops and an apparently related killing of an ex-cop. You didn't see tears or that many long faces around the department but this was symptomatic of the shock itself; what you saw was precision drill and machine efficiency in the daily routines, all imbedded in a palpable atmosphere of gloom approaching despair. It was as though the killings were the final straw for an organization already reeling and going down for the count.

I was a factor in that atmosphere, of course. I knew it. But I did not know how to become a positive factor except by accomplishing the task I'd been hired to perform. Kick

some butt was my charge from the official who hired me. Find the garbage. Dispose of it. I did not see how I could do that, however, without broadening the jurisdiction to include the entire city government, because I felt instinctively that the problems had begun in that broader arena and would have to be addressed there, as well.

Problem was, I didn't really know where to start. I'm no whiz kid, I'm a cop. Despite what you might have seen on television, police work is generally a drudgery, not a drama—and although the TV cops always seem to wrap a case during their twenty-two-minute time slot on the tube, it takes longer than that to write up a report in the real world. Give me six months and a couple of dedicated spirit guides, maybe I could root out the problems in this department and restore its self-respect—but, a couple of days? No way, and I knew there was no way.

I could not deal with the problems because I could not find the problems within such a brief time frame. I knew that up front, and I believe that Carl Garcia knew it too. When he referred to me as a "lightning rod" I believe he was acknowledging that understanding. He expected the problems to come to me.

And apparently they had.

I could deal with problems that came to me, or at least I could try, and I had to see it as a blessing.

He'd hired me as a catalyst.

So, okay, I'd been catalyzing. And five were dead.

Murrays home was
in one of the more "mature" neighborhoods north of Foothill, meaning it was among the first to be developed in the extended areas of Brighton. It was a nice, traditional ranch style on a large corner lot, three-car garage, manicured lawns and flower beds, a basketball hoop on the garage and a pool in back. I knew what his legitimate income had been because I was hired in at the same salary with a daily bonus "ride" in recognition of an expected brief stay. I could not say that he appeared to be living beyond his means, especially since he'd been in the home for nearly ten years; he'd bought in a lot cheaper than you could today.

A very pretty woman answered my ring. She wore a tennis outfit and appeared to be preparing to leave when I arrived—garage was open and a door stood open on the only car inside, an older station wagon.

I introduced myself and we shook hands while she introduced herself. Murray's wife. That surprised me, because this woman at first glance appeared to be about thirty years old. Murray was easily fifty. If she was anywhere near that then she was remarkably well preserved.

"I just got home," she informed me. "Let me go see if Tim is awake."

It was a few minutes past ten. She hadn't invited me inside so I stood in the open doorway and waited, but it was not a long wait. Mrs. Murray was back almost immediately, told me: "Gosh, I guess he didn't get home yet. I'm sorry. He—I just assumed—I have early tennis on Saturday mornings. I assumed he was home when I left."

"Assumed?"

"Well, he—we have separate bedrooms. Because of his hours now. He usually gets home around four o'clock and I'm a very light sleeper. So..."

"I understand," I told her, understanding maybe more than I had a right to. When a marriage is good, any time to get home is a good time, but not to a cold bed. I angled a look toward the garage. "You must have been in a hurry this morning, didn't even notice that his car wasn't in the garage. Or maybe it was."

      
She gave me a surprised look. "You know, I don't know ...I was running a little late. I just don't know." She brightened. "Oh, shoot. That's why. He hasn't been using the garage. The door is so noisy. Wakes me up every time."

      
"He would have parked on the drive, then."

      
"Yes. You know, I just didn't notice. Isn't that funny?"

      
Me, I thought it was tragic. I asked her, "Do you have any idea where I might find him?"

      
"Did you try the club? Sometimes he works out. Or you might try the mansion."

      
"Which mansion is that?"

      
"Oh, I—" She giggled. "I assumed you knew." She assumed a lot. "The Schwartzman mansion? Up the hill?"

      
I thanked her and took my leave, but she followed several steps along the walkway and asked me, with a trace of embarrassment, "Have you met Lydia Whiteside?"

      
I turned and showed her a sober smile, replied, "I'm not sure I..."

      
"She's the housekeeper up at the mansion. I'm told she's very beautiful."

      
I smiled on as I told her, "Well... depends on the taste. Me, I'd take you."

      
That really flustered her. She said, "No, I—I was just— have you replaced Tim permanently?"

      
I said, "I think I'm just the relief man."

      
Mrs. Murray was visibly pleased to hear that. "We'll get this straightened out," she assured me. "Tim will be fully vindicated. They'll see."

      
I said, "Gee, I hope so," and went on to my car.

      
But I didn't think so.

I
was met
at the pedestrian gate by a man and a dog. The dog seemed okay. The man didn't. "What'd you want?" he growled.

"Harold Schwartzman," I said.

"Who?"

"Schwartzman? The man who lives here?"

The guy said, "Oh, he's not here."

I showed my badge through the iron bars and told him, "I'll just come on in anyway."

"Well, I don't know. I better call the house and ask. Just a minute."

The guy disappeared from view. The dog didn't, but seemed friendly enough. I said, "Good doggy," and he wagged his tail in response, what tail there was. Magnificent Doberman. I'd seen him earlier in his kennel, or one just like him. I could hear the man talking offstage, evidently through a call box, because I heard a responding female voice say, "Let him in."

"Open the vehicle gate," I instructed the guard. "I'll drive in." I went back to my car, the gate opened magically, I drove in.

The drive circles uphill and takes you to the front door beneath a portico. Nice grounds in daylight, heavily planted in flowering shrubs and young trees. I saw a tennis court that I had not noticed on the previous visit, a pool with several cabanas. It was a good day for a view, the air crisp and clean, not even any smog shrouding the valleys. I could see San Bernardino, probably Riverside and the sprawl southward toward San Diego, most of the valley towns westward as far as Pomona, Mt. Baldy behind me and the peaks of San Gorgonio to the east. Great spot.

I left the car under the portico. An Asian girl with scared eyes opened to my ring and escorted me to the chesty blonde, who was having coffee at a sunlit window table off the kitchen. I confirmed that she was indeed Lydia Whiteside, then I introduced myself. She poured coffee for me. We got friendly.

      
"I saw you last night," she reminded me.

      
"Saw you too," I assured her. In a somewhat different light, though. She'd looked like a kid last night, in pajamas and dressing gown. The sunlight showed her older, maybe thirty, maybe more, but no less attractive. She, too, was in a tennis outfit. I asked her, "You didn't just have a match with Mrs. Murray, did you?"

      
"Tim Murray's wife?" She laughed. "Hardly."

      
"Why hardly?"

      
She got serious. "I'm out of her class. What can I do for you, Chief?"

      
I carefully sipped the hot coffee and told her, "Just trying to get a feel for things. I'm new here."

      
"I know. What kind of feel did you have in mind?"

That was an open flirtation. I wasn't expecting it so I flubbed it. "How well do you know Tim Murray?"

      
"He works for Mr. Schwartzman now," she replied, taking my size with her eyes. "What do you want to know?"

      
"Where is Schwartzman?"

      
"He's out of town."

      
"That wasn't the story a few hours ago. You said he hadn't come home."

      
"Still hasn't," she said, grinning. "Sometimes he doesn't come home for weeks on end. Is that a crime?"

      
"Not as far as I know," I said, "but it could be a wonderment. Where does he spend all his time?"

      
"Depends on what he's got in mind," she said, getting flirty again.

      
I said, "I believe you're being evasive."

      
She said, "I believe you're being a cop."

      
"That's what I get paid for."

      
"All work and no play..."

      
"Bingo," I said, "that's my number. I'll play later. Right now I'm working."

      
"I'll play with you."

      
"Okay." I took a tall pull at the coffee. "I'll let you know when. Right now, can we work?"

      
"You're a very attractive man."

      
I said, "Thanks, you're a very attractive woman. Where can I get in touch with Schwartzman?"

      
"I thought you were wondering about Tim Murray."

      
"Him too. One at a time, huh? Schwartzman first."

      
"Mr. Schwartzman is a business man, a very busy business man. His business involves travel. He does not usually give me a copy of his itinerary, so I don't know where you can get in touch with him. When he calls in, I'll tell him of your interest."

      
"Does he call in often?"

      
"Depends."

      
I said, "Uh huh. What kind of business is he in, other than the joints in Helltown?"

      
"I'm not exactly sure," she replied with a straight face.
    
"I think mostly, though, it's properties. And finance."

      
"What do you do for him?"