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