Remind me to tell you sometime about my woodworking. Some day I may decide to make a living at it. Started as a hobby, something to keep me busy during slow times, but one thing led to another and I've done a few custom kitchens for hire and for some pretty good money. It's an option, if things get too ratty in police work or if I decide to take another bride. Marriage and police work don't mix well, I've found, at lest not for me and not for the women I've tried to mix into it.
Anyway, I took Elaine Suzanne to my castle in the hills with the intention of offering her the comfort of my
rollaway which I keep on hand for such occasions. I only have one bedroom now, knocked out some walls and did some radical restructuring inside to give me plenty of stretch—hate being confined—and for at least a presumption of luxury. Nothing wrong with luxury. I recommend it to everyone, even the poor. I'm poor, but you'd never know it to look at my house, so most of the time I don't know that I'm poor.
You get to it along this little tree-lined lane, past half a dozen other "estates" as the realtors call them, and dead- ending in a circle at my place. Hardly anybody ever comes back there unless they're lost or looking for me, and I consider that ideal.
There are drawbacks, of course. The area is not well lighted at night unless I go in and turn on my own floods— and the way the lots are staggered along die hillside and mixed in with the old trees that have stood there most of this century, you can get a feeling of total isolation and vulnerability to attack if you have any reason to expect such a thing.
Don't know where my head was, but I guess I wasn't expecting anything like that when Elaine and I rolled in there at about one a.m.
I hit my garage-door opener at the usual twenty yards out and rolled on into the garage without a pause. It's attached but I have saws and lathes occupying the inner wall and blocking direct access to the house, so I have to go around to the front door to get inside.
No big deal, it's only about twenty paces out of the way, but it sure made things easy for the guy who was laying out there on the hillside waiting for me.
I heard the crack of the rifle and felt the big slug whistle past my nose as I rounded the comer of the garage with Elaine in tow. She'd taken a pill at the doctor's house and was sort of loosey-goosey halfway out of things and I was half-walking, half-dragging her toward the house when the attack came.
I took us both to the ground and rolled her ahead of me toward the doorway with bullets thwacking in all around us as the fusillade continued. I use the word fusillade advisedly; there were at least ten rounds, all from the same gun and obviously from a high power rifle, maybe a thirty- thirty. I know it made a mess of my stucco and penetrated the garage wall to tear into my woodworking tools, I discovered that later.
But we got inside untouched. I carried Elaine through to the bedroom and dropped her on the bed, ordered her to stay there, then I grabbed some firepower of my own and went out the back way to see what I could see.
I saw nothing, but I heard a car tearing along the lane above me and knew that the shooter was beating a hasty retreat. So much for that, but I'd spotted the muzzle flashes and I wanted a close look at the point of attack, went on up there on foot and found some still-hot expended brass that had been ejected from a thirty-calibre breech, took them back to the house and hurried in to reassure my guest for the night.
Except that I had no guest for the night.
She wasn't there—not on the bed, not in the bathroom, not anywhere inside that house or staggering along the lane or running down the highway.
Elaine Suzanne was simply nowhere.
CHAPTER TEN
I called Art Lahey right away, felt an obligation to do that since I had taken responsibility for a major witness and now I had lost her. Took a few minutes to get him on the line. He was still at the murder scene; they had to radio a patrol, unit and pass instructions for him to call my number. I made coffee while I was waiting for that, thought of all the things I could have done and should have done but hadn't done over the past few days.
It's a sheepish sort of feeling, a smarting and rankling in the pride of a man who has made police work his life yet now finds himself stumbling around blindly in the dark unable to find his ass with both hands. Wasn't humbling, it was maddening, and I was getting mad as hell under the descending conviction that I had been set up from the start and systematically lied to and misled throughout. A distinction is implied there. It's the difference between walking into a dark room and groping along the wall for the light switch or being lured into a dark room with no switches and the door locking behind you.
Where I was, at this point, was the sudden realization of that distinction.
Someone had set me up—but for what?—and why?
That's where I was at when Art Lahey returned my call.
He said, "Thanks for calling. I was about to get back to you anyway. Your identification of this victim is the only one we have. It doesn't check out at DMV and we haven't been able to contact the employer you gave us. The hotel people don't know anything about the theater people and we can't reach this Judith White, no phone listed. The FBI wouldn't give me anything. You’ll have to bring the lady in, Joe. Right now.'*
I swallowed hard and told him, "That's why I called. I can't bring her in. I don't know what the hell is going on, pal, but I came home to an ambush and now your witness is missing. I believe she was snatched while I was responding to the ambush. That was just minutes ago."
There was strain in that voice as he asked, "Anybody hurt?"
"Not that I noticed. I was unarmed, couldn't return fire. It was a hillside sniper at about fifty yards out with a thirty-calibre rifle. The woman was sedated and barely able to walk. We were like ducks in a shooting gallery but we got inside the house untouched. I left her there, armed myself and responded but it was a shoot and run, guy was already gone. When I got back, so was your witness. She could hardly walk, Art, let alone run. Somebody took her. I think it was set up that way."
There were maybe ten seconds of silence before his response to that information, and I could hear cold suspicion in the voice when he did respond. "Maybe it was. Tell me. How was this so-called Craig Maan dressed the last time you saw him?"
I said, "Last time I saw him he was in costume for the
play but that was this afternoon. I told you that he walked off the stage this evening just minutes before the curtain was scheduled to go up, so I'd guess he was dressed the same way then. Sort of comical looking blue knickers, gray knee-socks, a floppy vest and a tattered shirt. Did you find that?"
"We found nothing in this apartment but women's clothing. Could this guy be a transvestite, Joe?"
I hadn't wondered about that myself. I told him so, adding, "He didn't live there, Art. Elaine Suzanne told me he'd been staying temporarily with friends. I told you that."
"Yeah, you told me that. But this thing has all the signs of a sex crime. Did Miss Suzanne tell you that she lives in that apartment?"
"You telling me she doesn't?"
"That's not the name on the rental agreement. And the manager doesn't remember what the tenant looks like, says she never sees anyone coming or going, the rent is paid by mail."
I said, "We've got a puzzler here, Art."
"Tell me about it. Have you reported your incident or is that what you're doing now?"
"No, it's L.A. county jurisdiction. Haven't called it in yet. Wanted you first. Thought maybe you'd like to be here to see for yourself while the evidence is hot." I gave him the address, although the patrolmen at the murder scene already had it, and I gave him directions.
He said, "Okay. That's not far."
"Ten minutes if you step on it."
"You'd better call it in, Joe."
"Soon as we hang up," I assured him.
But I waited five more minutes anyway. Didn't know
why, at the time, not at the front of the mind. But I guess I was starting to come in from the dark.
There had been many q
uestions that I had been patiently waiting to ask of Elaine Suzanne. Like, why had she told me that ridiculous story about a "secret marriage" with Craig Maan when obviously they were not living together and she seemed to know very little about him. Why had she suggested that we begin our search for Craig at her apartment when by her own mouth she had no idea where he was staying and did not know why he had abandoned the play as he did—and, with this new information from Lahey, why had she rented the apartment under a different name, or had she?—was that really her apartment and did she actually live there?
Did she know Dobbs and Harney, as waiters or whatever, and did she know of the relationship between them and Craig?
Who were the "three other guys" who left the stage behind Craig that evening, and what had been their relationship with the murdered actor?
If, as she seemed to believe, Craig's death had been the act of vengeful drug dealers, why had he been stripped naked and bound hand and foot before being killed when there was no suggestion of torture or violent interrogation, no evidence of a struggle—and why had he been killed in her apartment?
There were more questions than that, of course, but I would have settled for the answers to those at the moment. I had thought that I would give her a chance to recover a bit from the shock before asking her anything, but certainly someone was going to ask about such things and
I preferred to be the first in line, if only to satisfy my own
curiosity.
My thinking had changed, of course, following the ambush and Elaine's disappearance. Evidently more than my own curiosity had to be satisfied now. I was coming out of the dark and I did not like the view from the new
perspective.
But all of that would have to wait now. I was clearly involved in a homicide and God knew what else. I'd found my ass. And it was not in a comfortable position.
They all got there at about the same time, moving like a caravan along my lonely little lane—L.A. county, San Bernardino county, the FBI—five cars in all, more than a dozen officers, and they had not come for tea.
The two FBI agents sort of stuck to themselves, listened and watched but never spoke to me directly and appar- ently took no active part in the investigation. I gathered that they'd come with Lahey.
There was not a friendly face in the pack, including Lahey's, and the FBI people I'd not seen before.
They took measurements and ran triangulations from the bullet holes in my wall, dug for slugs and emptied my garage looking for more, trampled several flower beds and paced off the distance to the spot on the hillside above the house, milled around up there and returned with bagged evidence, compared it with the brass I'd brought down myself, asked me the same questions over and over until I wanted to kill, and then they all departed—all but Lahey.
He still wasn't friendly, but we went to the kitchen and drank the coffee I'd made a couple of hours earlier.
"My ass is hanging out on this, Joe," he quietly told me over the coffee. "I should have taken the woman into custody. You know that."
"Know it now," I admitted. "At the time, it seemed okay."
"Why was she snatched, do you think?"
"Obviously someone didn't want her talking to us."
"Maybe. And maybe she didn't want to talk to us. Maybe she walked away on her own."
"How many times do we have to go through this?" I snapped. "I've said it fifty times, I wasn't gone more than a couple of minutes. Even if she'd been wide awake and functional, I could've chased her down. I tried, and I couldn't."
"That's bullshit and you know it. In this country she could have simply gone to ground anywhere, concealed herself and crept away after you quit looking. Let's talk about why she would do that."
I glared at him and said, "Okay, but I have to tell you that I'm growing damned sick of theorizing."
He grinned suddenly and said, "Ready to kick butt, eh?"
"Any but my own," I said. "And you should take that as advice for yourself. You acted properly. The woman was clearly in a state of shock."
"She's also an accomplished actress," he pointed out.
I waved the suggestion off. "There's a smokescreen over this whole thing but I don't think she was acting. Neither did the doctor. She sedated her, and the medicine had taken effect before we got here. Even with heavy slugs
chewing up the wall all around her, she was totally helpless, unable to fend for herself. That would have broken the act, if that's what it was. It didn't. I had a hell of a time getting her inside and she was a rag doll when I dropped her on the bed. It wasn't an act."
Lahey nodded his head as though accepting the argument, but then he said, "But let's say that she could have roused herself and run away on her own. Why would she do that?"
"You tell me. Maybe it really wasn't her apartment, and maybe she led me there for reasons of her own, but I don't believe that she knew in advance what we were going to find there."
Lahey leaned back and gave me a calculating look. "Did she lead you there, Joe? Or did you lead her there?"
I said, "Don't get crazy."
He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket, extracted a glossy polaroid photo and displayed it at his chest to give me a good view. "Look like anyone you know?" he asked coldly.
It was a very recent photo of me, a full figure frontal of Joe Copp, the would-be cop in the case. I was wearing a very surprised face but nothing else.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked him.
"We found it at the murder scene."
I looked at it again, and this time I recognized the background. I also remembered when the picture had been snapped. About two weeks earlier, as I was stepping out of a shower at my gym down on Foothill Boulevard. The flash of the camera had taken me by surprise, and I'd had only a glimpse of the guy who took it before he stepped out the door and disappeared. Hadn't tried to explain it to myself at the time, merely shrugged it away and hadn't thought of it since.
"I can explain that," I told the cop.
"I hope so," he said. "We found it beneath the sofa cushion. The man died while sitting on it, or else it was put there later. There was dried semen on his thighs and penis."
I experienced a suddenly plummeting stomach.
"That's what you meant by sex crime," I said weakly.
"What'd you do with his clothing, Joe? We couldn't find a scrap of it anywhere."
"You go get screwed, guy," I told him. "And do it in your own jurisdiction."
Lahey sighed, got to his feet and went to the door, turned back to say, "It's a viable theory. Enough that I think you shouldn't be playing games with us. If you know more than you've said, now's the time to bring it forward."
I knew that.
Yeah, I knew that.
But at the moment I had not a damned thing to bring forward into the light.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was getting onto four a.m. when Lahey left my place. I tried to get in a quick nap but it was a fitful one and did nothing at all for my state Of mind, was up at six for a shower and shave, a quick breakfast and an early start. I wanted to get to Judith White before the sheriffs could, hoping for any edge I could find. It was a Friday morning and traffic was light, not a lot of people stirring at that hour.
I had figured to break into the theater and find Judith's home address, but that wasn't necessary. The stage entrance was open and the lady was in her office amid stacks of resumes and photographs, hard at work at seven
a.m.
I stepped quietly inside and watched her for a moment before making my presence known. The old adage about beauty and brains had no meaning here. Obviously this woman possessed both, honey-blonde hair clipped pertly close in soft curls to follow the contours of a perfectly shaped head, a generous mouth with soft lips and pearly teeth, eyes sparkling over some great inner adventure—but they sizzled when she looked up and saw me standing there.
I grinned soberly from the doorway and said, "Knock knock."
"Not again," s
he said despairingly.
I went on in and sat on the edge of a chair with my hands clasped on my knees, sort of like body language to let her know I didn't plan on getting too comfortable. "Sorry to bother you," I said solemnly.
She tossed her head and glanced meaningfully at the stacks of resumes cluttering her desk. "Why do people always say they're sorry but do it anyway? You were in here the other day, too, weren't you, posing as an equity inspector."
I said, "Uh huh," and produced my ID, handed it to her. "Look at it carefully," I suggested, "so you don't get the wrong idea about this visit. I'm private, not public. I'm in a hell of a mess and I need your help. Will you help me?"
She gave me a cool appraisal as she handed the ID back, seemed to be thinking about it, finally told me as she relaxed into her chair with a sigh: "Why not? I've got three whole days to cast this next show. How much of my time do you need, Mr. Copp?"
"Call me Joe," I requested, and relaxed a bit myself. "First I'm afraid I have some shocking news for you. Craig Maan was killed last night."
If there was a visible reaction there, I couldn't detect it in the first uptake. "How was he killed?"
"His throat was slashed."
The eyes moved a bit on that one. "Are you serious?"
"Yes, I'm entirely serious. Someone in your cast hired me several days ago to keep Craig alive. I didn't take it all that serious at the moment, and in fact last night I came in here to return the retainer."
Copp In The Dark, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 5