Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) (5 page)

"The film lab?"

"Yeah. More than that, looks like they were manufacturing video cassettes back there too. We're figuring it as a possible pirate operation. With Wiseman in the picture—and in light of what he told you when he hired you—we're thinking it could have involved a
ripoff
of UT's big hits using the film from their own vaults. If Wiseman had tumbled to something like that . . ."

By the look on his face, his stops and starts, it was clear that Johnson was having trouble buying his theories. "Doesn't ring, though, does it. Why would a man in Wiseman's position, and stuck in a wheelchair, want to play it that way? These big studios have their own security setups. Why didn't he just turn it over to his security honcho or to the cops?"

Johnson sighed. "Yeah. Unless the rumors are true."

"What rumors?"

"That Wiseman was very kinky himself and that a faction at UT has been trying to expose him."

"You want to tell me more about that?"

"Not 'til I know more about it myself."

Over coffee, I reminded him: "Wiseman or Moore, or whoever paid me the thirteen hundred, hinted that he was trying to set up a disinformation game. Maybe that was the one true thing he said to me."

"So what does that buy?"

"A confusion of the circumstances," I said. "If the guy was not being straight with me, then the whole setup could have been for the purpose of disinformation—confusion. That would be the only reason I'm in it. Just because it made no sense. Helter-skelter. The only other reasoning that makes sense to me is to take it back to square one and say that an honest man came to me with an honest problem and I was trying to help him solve it."

Abe provided a sour smile. "That would solve your problem, wouldn't it. But as I've said, the pieces don't match. In that scenario how do we account for the four murders since the bombings?"

"Two games in play? Wiseman, or whoever, came to me to help set up the one game. But he was too late. While he was trying to get his play going, the other game overtook him and knocked him out of play."

"Wiseman or whoever . . ."

"Yes. Someone came to me and said that he was being ripped off. He wanted information that would help him to fight back. Before he could use the information I provided he was taken out of play. The others would have been killed whether or not I'd been out there taking pictures. Which leaves me clean. I performed a proper service for a proper client. I just happened to get caught in the crossfire."

"Makes some sense," Johnson said. "And that's the way I've been trying to read it."

"So why isn't County reading it that way?"

"It's more intriguing the other way," he said. "I had a meeting this morning with the department brass and two councilmen. Everyone's upset by the press attention. No one, surprise, surprise, wants to come out with egg on the face. The political implications...well, you know, there are a lot of aspirations in various quarters that reach a way beyond this city. Nobody wants to look like a fool, Joe. And this case already has caught the attention of the whole country. This might have to be the last friendly meeting between you and me, so—"

"Don't you dump on me, Abe."

"You must realize why I've bent so far backward to avoid that very thing, Joe."

I tried to read that bland cop-face. So okay, he'd brought it up. "How is she?" I asked him.

"She's fine," he said quietly. "No hard feelings toward you, for what it's worth."

"That's nice. But there was no reason for hard feelings either way. We made a mistake. We corrected it. It was never a happy marriage, Abe. I hope she's happy now."

"She is, we are. Two kids. One black and one white."

"Fair enough," I said. "Police colors."

He turned serious. "I'll do what I can for you, Joe, but you should know that there are limits. If I see you going down, you have to know that I intend to stand clear. Too much to lose. I'm not like you, I've got—"

"I know." I put down ten bucks to cover my part of the check, stood up. "You're already too close, Abe." I stuck out my hand. "Thanks for trying."

I received an envelope instead of a handshake—an envelope and a wink. I put the envelope in a pocket and sent the wink back to him as I stepped away.

He said, "Take care."

I waved without looking back and went on out.

Nice guy, and that was my opinion even before I opened the envelope.

I had a complete abstract of Abe Johnson's investigation—names and addresses of all the victims, places of employment, a thumbnail history of Wiseman and his record at United Talents, of Moore and Melissa Franklin—plus a set of 35mm negatives processed from my videotape.

I went into a one-hour photo shop and ordered four-by-five-inch prints of the fourteen negatives, then studied the abstract while waiting for the prints. There was some interesting stuff. Wiseman had a wife living in San Marino; they'd been legally separated for two years and she'd recently filed for divorce. Moore had come to United Talents with Wiseman and had been married to Melissa Franklin at the time. Melissa had divorced Moore less than a year later and immediately married a screenwriter named Charles Franklin—status of that marriage not clear.

It was beginning to sound like a soap.

The photo guy was very upset over his prints. They were a bit fuzzy, and he complained about marks on some of the negatives that carried over onto the prints. I told him it was fine, paid him and got out of there.

The "marks" were actually etchings that had been placed on four of the negatives by technicians at the police lab, identification codes for the latest four victims. They were covered in the abstract.

      
I could understand why Abe Johnson had been so edgy during our luncheon.

      
The fuse was still burning.

      
There could be ten more victims before the thing had run its course. And nobody even knew why the others had died.

      
I decided it was about time someone found out why.

      
That fuse was burning toward me too.

      
It was time to stop feeling like a victim and start acting like a cop. I intended to do exactly that.

CHAPTER NINE

I kept my appointment with Mark Shapiro and we spent ten minutes discussing the case in his office, then he volunteered to drive me home and I took him up on it. Not that I intended to go home but I needed my car. To be afoot in the L. A. area is to be stranded. We played bumper-cars along the San Bernardino Freeway. Mark drives like most New Yorkers—with fury and faith in a higher power—it was not a restful trip. We got to my office in record time and it was just past three when Mark screeched out of the parking lot and left me debating with myself about my next move.

I decided to go inside and check the office for signs. Nothing—nothing on the answer machine, nothing out of place. I don't know what I'd hoped to find.

On impulse I went next door to the beauty salon for a chat with the owner, a
fiftyish
woman named Molly who is a terrible advertisement for her business, but any meet with her is good for smiles and excellent coffee.

      
She showed me a brightly expectant face and raised a coffee cup as I walked in. Several customers were receiving the usual attentions from beauticians in booths along the wall. I always get uncomfortable looks from the chair-bound patrons when I go in there, sort of like what you'd expect from an intrusion into a ladies' room. I followed Molly to a little alcove in the rear where she served up a fresh brew and the standard running gag.
   
"You look like hell, Joe."

      
"Thanks. So do you."

      
"So let's go to your place and console each other."

      
I faked appropriate disappointment, as usual, as I replied, "Can't. I'm on a case."

      
One day I'm going to take her up on that, just to determine if she's faking it too.

      
"You're always on a case," she replied tartly. "I saw her yesterday. What's she got that I don't have?—other than youth, beauty and wealth?"

      
Exactly why I came in. Molly sees a lot from behind her cash register.

      
"Tall blond girl?"

      
"Driving a fancy car, yes. Was that a Jaguar?"

      
"Uh huh."

      
"Don't be so coy. The cops already asked me about

it.

      
"When was that?"

      
"This morning. Plainclothes cops. They asked a lot of questions."

      
"About me?"

      
"No, about Santa Claus, dummy. Don't worry, I told them you're great in bed."

"Guess I'll have to prove it now, huh?"

"Any time you feel like you can, Tiger."

We laughed and lit cigarettes. It was our usual banter. I think she's all talk. Molly has been married to the same man for thirty years. If her usual appearance is any guide, she lost real interest in sex long ago but has fun talking about it.

I told her, "I'm in some trouble, Molly. For real. I need—"

"Is it that bombing? I knew it! That was the same damned limousine, wasn't it!"

"You saw that too, huh?"

"Sure I saw it. Everyone in this complex saw it. Was that really Bernie
Wisemsn
?"

"Looks that way, yeah," I replied. "I was hired to do some routine work for the guy. Now they're trying to implicate me in a string of murders."

"That's crazy!" Molly said angrily. "You send those guys back around here to talk to me again! I'll tell them!"

"What did you tell them before?"

"Not much. Didn't know much to tell. They asked about the blond, the car she was driving. I told them what I knew.
 
Was that wrong?"

"Course it wasn't wrong.
 
What did you know to tell them?"

"Well . . . she sat out there for about an hour— waiting for you, I guess. I thought at first maybe she was waiting to pick up one of my customers. We had a rush yesterday, the place was full all day. I asked around after about an hour, but nobody claimed her. I didn't see you arrive, guess I was looking the other way when you came in, or maybe I was busy in the back. I just know I looked out and saw your car parked beside hers and both were empty. Sorry."

      
"Did you see her leave?"

      
"
Heard
her leave. That car scream out of here like the devil was chasing it. I just caught a glimpse as it tore past. Figured you'd broken her heart, you devil."

      
"How long was that after you saw my car?"

      
"Oh . . . just a few minutes, I guess. Short time after."

      
"Could you tell if anyone besides the blond was in that car?"

      
"Not even her, Joe. It was just a flash past the window."

      
"See anything else of interest?"

      
"No. I can't think of anything else."

      
"Anyone hanging around my office? Anything unusual in the parking lot?"

      
"No."

      
"Nobody else coming or going."

      
"No. I locked up at six. Your car was still out there and the lights were on in the office. I didn't see anything unusual."

      
I showed her the bald spot and butterfly bandage on my scalp and told her, "Someone sapped me while that blond was in my office. I must have been lying in there unconscious when you locked up and went home. You can't remember any thing unusual or out of focus or . . ."

      
"Just that fancy car tearing out of here. Sorry, Joe. I'm going to have to start keeping tabs on you, Tiger. Sounds like you need a keeper."

      
"So do you," I said, resuming the gag and fingering a lock of her hair. "When's the last time you washed your hair?"

"Same time you aired out your jockeys," she fired back. "Did you get raped in jail, lover?"

I asked, "How'd you know I'd been to jail?"

She leaned over and flipped a newspaper from the rack. Big black headlines proclaimed:
local pi charged in
l.a
. bombing.

I told her, "You had me coming in, didn't you."

She told me, "I wish."

I couldn't tell if the gag was still running or not.

So I thanked my interesting neighbor and got out of there.

I hadn't learned a hell of a lot in a positive sense, but sometimes there is knowledge from a negative sense. And I decided that I'd better go home and look for signs there.

I live only about ten minutes from the office, north into the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains. It's a developed area with a great view onto the entire valley and all its communities, zoned for horses and peopled by folks who like same. I don't, but I like the stretch between the houses so I put up with the flies as a small penalty to pay for the luxury of uncluttered space. My home is my only true luxury, which means that I can't afford it but I'm damned if I'll live any other way and I'm willing to sacrifice in other areas of lifestyle.

Well, I do have one other luxury, but it's business- connected so really doesn't qualify. It's the van I mentioned earlier. It's outfitted for business but easily convertible for camping. If the IRS is listening, don't worry: I pro-rate it out as a business expense, even though I have yet to use it for any other purpose. I

consider it a business luxury because I don't use it that often. Usually I drive the old Cadillac, a fully paid for
Eldorado
built before the EPA standards, three damned tons of beautiful, gas-guzzling decadence. I love it, so maybe it's a minor luxury too when it comes time for the monthly gas bills. I get triple the mileage from the van, and it sits in the garage most of the time.

So anyway I was driving the Cad. And I decided I needed to go home and scout for signs.

Signs of what? I didn't know what. Maybe I was just feeling a bit paranoid, maybe something precognitive was growling around in the bowels of the mind—I didn't know. I just knew that I should go home and check it out.

On the way, I decided that I should clean up and change clothes while I was there, maybe have a bite to eat to fortify the evening—and that leapt me to the realization that I had not been home for a couple of days and the pantry was probably bare. So I stopped at a supermarket along the way and picked up a few items, got home about four o'clock with my sack of groceries.

I have to confess that I'm a little vain about my home. Maybe it's because I never had one to take much pride in until I was a teen-ager, I don't know. My dad died when I was little and my mother never got over it. All that was good in her sort of died with him, I think. I don't blame her; I can very unemotionally state that my mother was a tramp in all my memories of her—and most of what I feel in that connection is pity, not bitterness.

I spent my teen years in a foster home, and it was the tender influences of that home that led me into police work. I've never been anything but a cop, never aspired to anything else. But I always had the greatest reverence for a nice home, and I am proud to say that I have one of those now. I also have acreage, and I like gardening—do all my own.

Neighbors I don't have, not close neighbors. We like it that way in the hills, respect one another's privacy, and the terrain contributes to it nicely.

I mention all this as background for the next development in the case.

I arrive home at four o'clock to find a strange car parked in my driveway. It is an unmarked police car, the type used by the County of Los Angeles. The window on the driver's side is down and a police radio mutters at low volume.

The front door to my palace stands ajar.

Just inside, on a small foyer table, lies a search warrant with my name and address on it.

In the hallway leading to my bedroom-study I find a cold corpse lying face down in coagulated blood. I don't recognize the face, but his ID, still clutched between stiff fingers, tells me that he was Detective Herman Rodriguez of the sheriff’s San Gabriel division.

In my study, slumped over my desk, I find a second corpse.

I did not need the ID for this one.

This one is my old pal and confidant, Ken
Forta
.

And now Joe
Copp
was really on fire.