Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) (21 page)

      
I said, "He was the medical stand-in, too."

      
"Sure. Here was this very competent actor, down on his luck and I mean way down, not a soul in the world to hold his hand, and he could very easily become a dead ringer for Bernie. Heaven cooperated, that's all."

      
"Sounds like the Mexican doctors cooperated, too.

Or couldn't they tell the difference between an old and a new injury?"

      
"Wasn't that old," Charles replied smugly. "Besides, medicine is not that precise a science. Have you ever known three doctors who ever agreed on anything? They see what they expect to see."

      
I released the freeze and turned off the VCR, told Franklin, "Let's get the girls down here now."

      
Like Franklin, I was a bit dazed myself. There'd been no accident in Mexico, right, I had that one. But there had been an accident in Burbank two months earlier, and it'd made a paraplegic out of a very competent character actor.

      
So they had just moved the scene south, rolled the date forward a couple of months, changed the name of the victim, had given him several months secluded in Mexico while he learned his role . . . and behold the new Bernie Wiseman, paraplegic.

      
Movie magic at its best.

      
This affair had been brewing for two whole years. And it had been, in its fashion, a brilliant production.

      
I asked the auteur, "Did Victor like Verdi?"

      
"Loved Verdi," Franklin replied. "We discouraged it, of course. Bernie couldn't tolerate opera."

      
Of course I'd never met Bernie Wiseman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

They came down the staircase all disgruntled, still half-asleep and wondering what was so urgent to get them out of bed in the middle of the night—attired for the bedroom almost identically in becoming
shorty
pink
babydolls
. In most any other circumstances a treat for the male eye, all the golden hair and long bronzed limbs in a ding-dong double for the fantasy-mind. They looked enough alike to be sisters, and in fact, it turned out that they were.

Sleepiness changed to shock when Justine saw the reason for the awakening.

Melissa sank slowly and seated herself on the stairway, trying to focus puffy eyes.

Justine grabbed hold of the rail and leaned back against the wall, settling into a murderous gaze.

Franklin, gloating, informed them: "It's really him. He's not dead. Not even damaged much. How could you miss from that close, Justine?"

      
Without taking her eyes from me, she said, "What's the matter with you, Charlie? Are you hitting the coke again? What are you talking about?"

      
"You'd stonewall it to the grave, wouldn't you," I said to her. "Save us all a lot of dumb time. Go put your clothes on, unless you want to get booked in your
nightie
."

      
She looked at my gun, looked at Franklin, said to him, "We'll have to write him in."

      
"How many points?" he said, bargaining about shares like it was still a real unreal scenario.

      
She looked at me. "You know what's at stake here?"

      
"Cassidy pretty much told me."

      
"Learn from his failure, then. Don't get too greedy." She came on down the stairs and settled onto the couch.
  
"Ten points," she said to Franklin, carrying on the movie jargon.

      
"Probably not enough. Ask him."

      
I said, "No, it's not enough. But let's talk about it."

      
I eased Melissa off the staircase and placed her on the couch beside her sister Justine. She pulled away from me. I didn't like the look in her eyes.

      
"What have you got her on?" I asked big sister.

      
"Just a little downer, she's under control."

      
"Can't keep her like this forever."

      
"We'll have to write her out," Franklin said regretfully. "You know that, Justine."

      
"Yes, I know it." Regretfully.

      
"She was blowing a week ago," I pointed out. "Came back and screwed up everything."

      
Justine gave me a wondering scrutiny. "Have you been in this with Cassidy all the way?"

      
"We met just recently," I told her.

      
I took some stuff out of the box and placed it on the

coffee table beside my photos. "Part of his file. You might find it interesting."

      
She picked up the packet provided by her husband's spy, flipped quickly threw it, tossed it back. "Wasn't interesting the first time I saw it. You keeping those for the wall above your bed?"

      
"You're very photogenic in any position, but it wouldn't match my decor. I'm not into gruesome."

      
"Get fucked," she said. Tough.

      
Franklin said, "Let's settle this about Melissa."

      
Justine told him, "He hasn't declared himself. Let's get that first."

      
"Well, maybe he'll be willing to take care of Melissa for you if you make it good enough."

      
"How do I know what he thinks is good enough? What if he wants it all?"

      
"He could never have it all, he's smart enough to know that. Make the man a decent offer."

      
It was very weird. Not only were these people either detached from their senses or totally evil, they were talking about me as though I were somewhere else. Like the director and producer discussing an actor's role in front of him—like he was a pawn. Like I was. I had been for too long . . .

      
I asked, "Can I get into this story conference?"

      
"Sure, Joe. We respect your input."

      
"Thanks. First I need to understand what I think I know about the lead characters. Background, motivation, that sort of thing. Melissa, for example, thought she was in Baja being prepped for a major debut. That's okay, I get that angle. But then why was Justine being seen around town as Melissa at the same time?"

      
"We had to establish Melissa as Bernie's consort,"

Franklin said. "Couldn't just have her appear out of nowhere for the climactic scene."

      
"Why couldn't Melissa establish that for herself? And then make the switch afterward?"

      
"Then she would have known he wasn't Bernie."

      
"No, I mean—" And then it hit me.

      
Justine said quietly, "Don't tell him anything he doesn't know, for God's sake."

      
That was okay with me, because now I knew. The "switch" had been made in Mexico two years earlier.

      
I asked, "How'd you get Albert to wire his own bomb?"

      
"
Don't tell him."

      
Melissa's eyes were beginning to defog.

      
Franklin looked at Justine, then told me, "Thought he was wiring it for Roberto. We just changed the timing a bit after he installed it."

      
I tossed the how-to-bomb book onto the table. "Was Albert a quick study or did he have prior experience with explosives?"

      
"He learned a lot," Franklin said, "hanging around locations over the years. But these were the first he had built himself. We were proud of him, weren't we," he added to Justine.

      
I picked up the marked photos. "Who did the trigger work?" I hoped I sounded more casual than I felt.

      
"Justine," he said, "grew up with guns. Their dad was a trick-shot artist. She can shoot the spades out of an ace at fifty feet. Ironic, isn't it, that she couldn't put a bullet in your brain from half an inch away."

      
"Closer than that," I said, remembering that moment.

      
Justine was looking at Franklin with looks that could kill. About her, that cliché took on fresh impact.

      
I pinched Melissa's leg and asked Justine, "Do you want to kill your kid sister or don't you?"

      
I had seen the person coming back in those gorgeous eyes. They looked at me, then shifted with understandable horror to her sister when Justine replied, "How much is it worth to you to kill a whore? I'll give you twelve and a half points and that's final."

      
"Let's see, that would give me roughly six mil, forty-four between the rest of you. I might go for that but I have to see the money first."

      
"It isn't just lying about the house, you know," Franklin said. "You'll need to open an offshore account, then we can transfer it in."

      
"How greedy was Cassidy?"

      
"Beyond reason. He wanted half."

      
"You're getting me cheap."

      
"Well, it's all over now. We're home clean. All you have to do is take care of Melissa for us. Do it in Baja. There's a lot of desert down there."

      
The girl struggled off the couch and lurched toward the door.

      
Justine grabbed her and tugged her back onto the couch, all but crooned at her, "It's okay, baby, it's okay. We're taking care of you."

      
I couldn't let it run much longer than that, it was too cruel, too terrifying for Melissa. But I needed a final item.

      
"Where's Bernie?" I asked Franklin.

      
"T-three," I thought he said.

      
"What's that?"

      
"Tee Three, right outside the door. They were re-
sodding
. We planted him there and they
sodded
him over the next morning."

So Bernie Wiseman had been dead for two years.

I went to the window and gave the high sign. The Palm Springs cops swarmed in and took over. I went out and stood on top of Bernie Wiseman's grave and talked with Abe Johnson, who had brought the cops. They had covered it all from out there with super-pickup directional mikes and hi-tech recorders.

I asked Abe, "Did it pick up okay?"

"Just fine," he assured me. "I have the feeling we're dealing with deranged people here, Joe. At least I'd prefer to think so. I never heard such cold-blooded stuff in all my years as a cop. I'd hate to try taking this case to the prosecutor without this evidence. We'd never make it, they'd laugh us out of court."

"Sorry, Abe, they're not deranged. I don't buy that. Lets them off too easy. They knew exactly what they were doing, and they loved it. Like a big game to them. Or a movie production. Take good care of Melissa Franklin, I believe she'll testify for you. And . . . I'd like to be here when you dig up this body."

"Okay, but why?"

"I want to see how lucky I am that this tee was not being
resodded
Friday night."

He shook his head and went on to join the other officers.

He was right... This was a case to shake your head over. A lot of people had died, and death is always unlovely. But the
unloveliest
part of all was with the principals who were still alive.

If you can call that being alive.

      
A geek who eats live chickens in a sideshow is alive, I guess. I had to wonder how alive Justine would feel behind bars for even a week without 3-D sexual fantasy to feed her overwhelming appetite.

I was standing by and just sort of hanging loose when they brought Charlie Franklin out with his hands cuffed behind his back and a nearly benign smile on his lips.

      
"You didn't need it, Charlie," I told him quietly. So why'd you do it?"

      
"Why not?" he replied casually. "It was fun."

      
Fun. It was fun.

      
Be very careful, pal, how you begin to define fun? You could get like Charlie Franklin, or even Justine Wiseman.