Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (18 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY

Lydia Whiteside's studio apartment
was on the ground floor at the rear, near the kitchen but on the opposite side from the guard station. There was an entry there but also she had a private entrance from the outside and a small private yard/patio, and I later noted a parking pad for a car back there and a narrow drive leading to it off the main drive.

It was an ordinary studio apartment, nothing special, all contained within one room, alcove for the bed, small sitting area divided from the kitchen by a counter with two stools, small kitchen table for two by a window, whole thing furnished in Scandinavian Modern and ultra-personal in contrast to Schwartzman's suite—looked very much lived in.

In fact, the place was a mess.

Dirty dishes in the sink, clothing scattered around, at least a week's collection of newspapers stacked beside an

easy chair, stacks of magazines and catalogs and opened mail filling the kitchen counter.

 
I found her in the alcove sprawled across the bed face down in a nightgown, one knee drawn up toward the chest as though she were about to crawl away.

But she wouldn't do that, couldn't do that.

She was cold to the touch and I could not detect a pulse. A powdery substance was spilled across the nightstand from a small plastic envelope, a little pile of pills beside an open bottle, an empty water glass—the picture was clear enough.

I went quickly to the guard station, told the guy in there to call the paramedics. "It's Lydia," I explained. "Tell them it looks like an O.D."

He cried, "Oh my God!" and dove for the telephone.

I went back and checked her more closely, satisfied myself that there was nothing to be done for the woman— she was gone—found what appeared to be a suicide note in a typewriter near the bed. A Colt .45 autoloading pistol was propped alongside the typewriter. I touched none of that stuff. The note wasn't signed and it had been typed on the back of a used envelope; read like this:

I killed Harve and Tim. No regrets. They were bastards.

I growled out loud, "Sure you did," left everything undisturbed and returned to the guard station.

Almost collided with the guy again; we met in the doorway. He looked a little wild in the eyes, announced in a tremulous voice, "They're on the way. Is she okay?"

I sighed and said, "No, Norm, she'll never be okay again. When did you last see her?"

He backed into his room and fell into the chair, raised a hand to his face, chewed a knuckle for a moment—

collecting himself—finally replied, "I guess it was when the woman came."

      
"What woman?"

      
"I don't know what woman. Lydia told me she was expecting company, I should let her in when she rang."

      
"What time was that?"

      
"Must have been close to eleven. Because her friend was at the gate at eleven sharp, I noted it and logged it."

      
"Have her on tape?"

      
"Yeah, but it probably won't show much because I didn't see much myself on the monitor. She left her car down front with the headlights on high beam while she walked up to the gate and announced herself. All I saw was the glare of the lights, they faked out the camera and that's all I could see."

      
"Recognize the voice?"

      
"No, I don't think so. We could play the tape. I opened the gate and she walked back to her car and drove on in, went straight to Lydia's door, stayed for only about twenty minutes."

      
"What kind of car?"

      
"All I saw was the lights."

      
He was rewinding and cueing the video tape for me when the paramedics arrived. "You handle them," I told him. "I'll handle the tape."

      
So he went out to usher the medics through and I played with the video, found the spot, replayed the segment several times, had to agree with Norm. If it had been the intent to get through that gate without being recorded on video, it could not have been done any slicker. The camera was mounted in a housing and focused on the gate access. The brilliance of the car's headlights at high beam completely washed out the picture, and the car was through the gate and beyond the camera before the lens could readjust. As for the audio, it was clearly a female voice but muffled and virtually unidentifiable, uttering a single word: "Lydia."

      
A police unit came in almost on the bumper of the ambulance. I went out and talked to those guys for a minute, told them what I'd found and instructed them to secure the scene thoroughly, then I pulled Norm Tomkins aside and had another go at him.

      
"How well did you know Frank Jones?" I asked the guard.

      
"Not too well," he replied. "Just small talk now and then at shift change. We work funny shifts, to cover days off. Frank was really in charge. Of security, I mean. But he pulled rotations with us for time off. 1 didn't really know the guy."

      
"Like him?"

      
"Not especially."

      
"Is the pay good?"

      
"Oh yeah, no complaints about the pay."

      
"What do you complain about?"

      
"These nutty shifts. Plays hell with the social life. Sometimes we do twelve-hour rotations, sometimes twenty-four. 'Course, there's not much to do. I mean, we can catnap and that's okay."

      
"What about these dogs?"

      
He shook his head. "I don't want nothin' to do with 'em. Frank handled that."

      
"Frank handled it. What do you mean?"

      
"I mean the dogs were just for special things."

      
"What kind of special things?"

      
"Why're you asking me? Don't you know?"

      
I said, "What I know is what I know, Norm. Right now we're going for what Norm knows."

He replied, "Well, Norm knows nothing and you can count on that." He made a motion with the hand to simulate zipping his lip.

I gave him a knowing wink and went away from there. But I'll tell you straight from the shoulder, I did not know what the hell to make of any of it. And I was going just a bit numb between the ears. When you stop being shocked by the discovery of death, you know you're in trouble. And I had simply traveled beyond the power of shock. I was not really experiencing anything through the emotions—not sadness, not regret, not guilt or sorrow or fear or anything like that.

But I knew that I had to call Arrowhead and try to check on the movements of Delilah Turner.

So maybe I was experiencing a bit of fear, after all. I think, in fact, that I was scared numb over what I might discover about the tall, capable and beautiful policewoman.

Harvey Katz and
Tim Murray both had been killed by a shot to the head from a heavy pistol. A .45 Colt is a very heavy pistol. The thing that had stood out in my mind for some time already was the similarity in the way in which both men had met death. Both dead from a big bullet in the head, both wounds contact wounds. That would have been a stark similarity had the deaths not occurred six weeks apart and separated by the other killings. This way, it had come to mind more as an oddity.

Remember when I talked to Detective Zarraza about that? I was thinking execution-style deaths, and they did fit that pattern. But they fit another pattern, too, one in which the shooter is not that sure of his or her ability to handle a pistol properly. If you're not sure about that, the safest way is to place the muzzle right on the target before you pull the trigger. That pattern would fit a woman such as Lydia Whiteside, assuming that she was not familiar with weapons, and apparently she had even produced the murder weapon and left it beside the confession, if you could call it that. Anyone could have put that scrap of paper into the typewriter and written the note.

I had to go along with the logic at least a little way and for a little while. It could figure that way. The murders of Katz and Murray did not have to be directly tied to the other deaths. They could be totally unrelated or loosely related without being tied. I had been going with a general assumption that the same person or persons were responsible for all of the killings from Katz on down. Now I had to consider the possibility that more than one game had been going down and that more than one solution had to be found.

Assuming, then, that Lydia indeed had killed Katz and Murray... why? Not simply because they were "bastards," though that could be a partial answer. When we kill, it is in anger, from fear, or for profit. Sometimes all three reasons coincide to produce a single murder, but for sure at least one of those elements is going to be present. I'm talking about sane people, of course, who otherwise observe the usual social norms and would not think of killing another unless provoked by irresistible forces.

Why would Lydia kill? More to the point, why would she kill the mayor and the ex-chief of police?

And if she had not killed them, why would someone wish to make it appear that she had? If there was a "death squad" in this town, which was already awash with human blood, why single out one or two of those deaths and try to shift the blame to someone else?

No, see?—the pattern was breaking, the connections

whipping in the breeze, the whole thing becoming more confused by the hour.

So maybe that, too, was a desired effect.

Of course, a painstaking investigation might reveal some very interesting interconnections between Lydia Whiteside, Harvey Katz, and Tim Murray—enough to provide all the answers needed to form a scenario for murder. Problem was, I did not have time for a painstaking investigation. My butt could be officially tossed out of town at any minute, and then God only knew how many more layers of concealment would be draped over the whole thing; the truth might never come out.

So what?—you might ask. It's no skin off for me. But that's where you'd be wrong. Someone had obviously tried to kill me, too, a couple of times—and there was no guarantee that they'd lose interest in me just because I'm tossed out of town. They would find the task much easier, too, once the local pressure was off.

So I had to ask myself the ultimate question.

Who wanted Joe Copp dead, and why?

"They" did. Because I'd been around too close and might have learned too much.

That simplified things.

All I had to do was find out who "they" are.

I guess that is why I felt so reluctant to call Arrowhead. There are times in a man's life, you know, when he'd really rather not know who "they" are.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

I
made the call from my car
and noted the time as one- thirty. It seemed incredible the things that had gone down in a mere twenty-four hours, but there it was. The voice at the inn's switchboard sounded sleepy but accommodating. I identified myself, then told him, "This is an official call. Do you understand?"

      
He replied, "Yes, sir, I understand. What can I do for you?"

      
"One of my officers, Detective Delilah Turner, checked into your place early this morning. Is she still registered?"

      
Without a pause, the clerk said, "She hasn't checked out. Just a moment, I'll ring—"

      
"No, don't ring her yet." I described her car, asked him, "Can you see it? It was right outside your window earlier today."

      
"No, sir, I don't see a car like that. I can step outside and..."

      
"Thanks, please do that."

The guy was gone for maybe twenty seconds, came back on to say, "There's nothing like that in the lower lot. There is other parking up above."

"Is your lower lot full?"

"No, sir. There's room down here."

I said, "I appreciate your help. Go ahead and try ringing the cabin."

I listened to about a dozen rings, broke in to tell the guy, "Okay, I'll catch her later. Thanks."

He wished me a good night and hung up.

I was having a lousy night, but that was okay. I'm accustomed to them. I went on down into town and circled the PD, saw no evidence of the jeep, decided—what the hell?—to take another fling at Helltown.

The jeep was there, yeah, where I'd hoped it would not be. I parked in a well-lit spot and ventured inside to almost the same scene I'd encountered the night before. She was even sitting in the same booth, this time with three guys whose faces I'd seen also the night before at my welcoming party. They were cops—patrolmen, if the memory was accurate—young, energetic, made me feel like Methuselah. There were beers on the table and the four of them were laughing and talking as though yesterday had never happened.

I dragged up a chair and joined them.

The merriment ended like a whimper and a cop on the outside gave me a guarded look as he greeted me. "Hello, Chief. You're keeping late hours."

I said, "Yeh. Goes with the territory, I guess." I looked directly at Detective Turner to add, "Don't let me spoil your fun." I looked around the crowded room. "Came to see Billy. He here tonight?"

Detective Turner showed me a puzzled smile as she informed me, "Yes, he's around."

      
"Been here long?" I asked her.

      
She shook her head. "Not quite a beer's worth."

      
One of the other cops signaled a waitress, pointed at me. She came over immediately. I told her, "I'll have what they're having."

      
"You'll be sorry," a cop said, grinning.

      
"That bad, eh?"

      
"Well, it's not that good, Chief."

      
"Why do you guys come here then?"

      
He shrugged, showed me a sheepish grin. "I like the girls."

      
I said, "Well, I guess that's better than liking the boys. But why does Detective Turner come here?"

      
She showed me a sober look, replied in a quiet voice. "She likes the boys."

      
It was clear that I'd spoiled their fun. Two of the guys stretched, said goodnight, got up and left. The waitress brought my beer. I handed her a five. She looked surprised, said, "Oh, no, it's on the house."

      
I put the five away, said, "What they like about this place is the price. Send Billy over, will you?"

      
The waitress smiled uncertainly and withdrew.

      
The other cop said, "Guess I'll be taking off too. Day watch tomorrow."

      
"Some guys have all the luck," I told him.

      
He said, "Yes, sir," and took off.

      
Which left me and Detective Turner. I moved on into the booth opposite her and asked, "Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to call you."

      
"Couldn't sleep," she replied, twisting her lips in a sour smile. "Is this an official interrogation or is it personal interest?"

      
"Call it personal interest."

      
"Then let me assure you that never have I been so loved, so well, for so long. That said, it's none of your damned business where I have been since then." She was smiling when she said it but I doubted that she was smiling inside.

      
"Call it official interest, then," I growled.

      
"Same response," she said pertly.

      
I sighed, toyed with my beer, gave her a very direct look, asked her, "Have you been up to the mansion tonight?"

      
I saw something change in her eyes, something very subtle but also very telling. "Why?"

      
"Why? Because we have another death in the family, that's why. It's important. Were you up there?"

      
"No," she said quietly in a voice entirely devoid of emotion.

      
After a moment I asked her, "Don't you want to know who died?"

      
"I already heard about it. It's terrible. I heard there was a bomb on your car too."

      
"Oh, that one," I said.

      
"Terrible way to go. I guess. Do you suppose you feel it when you're being blown to pieces?"

      
I gave her another long, direct look. "That what you guys were laughing it up about when I came in here?—the look on Captain Williamson's face when the bomb exploded?"

      
She gave me a long one, finally said, "No, I think that had to do with the bomb in your car. What's going on here? Why are you looking at me that way? What are we supposed to do? We're all scared to death. What's wrong with that? And what's wrong with a few laughs to try to forget that we're scared to death?"

      
"You're right," I said.

      
"Thanks."

      
"Don't mention it."

      
I was rescued by Billy. He came over with a big smile, twirled the chair I'd vacated and sat down with his arms folded across the backrest, said, "Hi, Chief. I heard about Tim. That's terrible."

      
I said, "Yeah, there's been lots of terrible lately. Who did 'im, Billy?"

      
He hunched his shoulders and spread the hands in a mystified gesture. "If I knew, I'd tell you. That's straight and level. Let me tell you another. You earned my undying respect last night. I really like the way you handle yourself, and I don't just mean the fighting, I mean the class you showed afterward. So, anything you want..."

      
"I sort of want to stay alive, Billy."

      
He laughed, as though at a great joke. "Don't we all?"

      
"Did Tim send you out after me last night?"

      
"Yeah, Chief, he did."

      
"Why?"

      
"Didn't say why. Just said we should go out and take the son of a bitch down a couple of pegs." He laughed again. "Hell, we tried, didn't we?"

      
I said, "Yeah, it was a good try, Billy. No more than a couple of hours later, someone tried Tim and it was a much better try. Why, do you think?"

      
"Hell, I don't know. I just heard about it when I come to work today. I don't think I was here when it happened. When did it happen?"

      
"Somewhere around five o'clock."

      
"Well, okay, I was here I guess but Tim wasn't, I mean wasn't supposed to be. I didn't hear nothing, didn't see nothing. That what you wanted to see me about, Chief?"

      
"What time did you go home?"

      
"I went home at six."

      
"When was the last time you saw Tim?"

      
The big bouncer screwed his face into a thoughtful grimace, replied, "That would have been when he left, about four."

      
"He didn't leave at four. Time of death has been fixed at about five o'clock."

      
"Well, yeah, he left the club at four. I walked outside with him. It was four o'clock. I watched him drive away before I came back inside."

      
"He drove away? At four o'clock?"

      
"Yeh."

      
I said, "Billy... Tim was found dead in the trunk of his car. It was parked in his spot right outside here."

      
"When was that?"

      
"Late in the morning, nearly noon."

      
"Naw, I saw 'im drive away."

      
I said, "Thanks, Billy. Get lost, Billy. I need to talk to the lady."

      
He showed the two of us a big smile, said, " 'Til later," and left us to ourselves, left me also with something to think about, which is probably why I was not so quick and nimble in the conversation that followed.

      
"Boy, that's a switch," Lila said immediately. "Last time I saw you two together, he was about to take your head off."

      
"We came to an understanding," I explained. "Can't you and I do the same?"

      
She said, "I sort of thought we'd done that."

      
I said, "Yeah."

      
She giggled, covered her mouth with a hand, said, "Oh, yeah."

      
"Lila?"

      
"Yes?"

      
"Why did you come back to town tonight?"

      
"That sounds like the tide of a country song."

      
"Come on."

      
"I told you why. Couldn't sleep. And there is absolutely nothing to do in the mountains at night, this time of year. It's not that much of a drive. I'm going back up there tonight. I just..."

      
"Yeah?"

      
She sort of giggled again. "I came looking for you, Chief."