Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (22 page)

      
"What is crime, then?"

      
"Crime is anarchy, chaos, the anti-society. That is what we have had here in Brighton in recent years."

      
I said, "Some may feel that crime is a necessity. A starving man will steal bread, no matter how much he may respect the law."

      
"It is still anarchy," the councilman insisted. "There is a social solution to starvation."

      
"What if no one gives a damn about the other man's hunger?"

      
"Ah, but that is crime too. Subtle, but crime."

      
I was not merely playing with the guy or indulging in idle debate; I was going for his size, and liking what I found. "Was Tim Murray an anarchist?"

      
He gave me a long, sober look, then took cups from the cupboard and poured the coffee. He motioned me to a chair, took one for himself, and said, "Yes."

      
"Mayor Katz?"

"Yes."

      
"Harold Schwartzman?"

"To answer that, we must first produce the persona for identification."

"Suppose," I said, toying with my coffee, "that the persona is nowhere in evidence. What if Harold Schwartzman is no more than the convenient concoction of a criminal conspiracy?"

He showed me surprised eyes, replied, "You've tumbled to that already?"

"I've considered the possibility."

"So have I," he said soberly, thoughtfully. "But do you want to hear something strange? If that is true, and I believe that it very well could be true, then I also believe that it might have begun as a completely legitimate police operation."

"A sting?"

"A sting, yes, that got out of hand. It seduced them, worked too well, they couldn't resist it. And when they got in too deep, it swallowed them."

"Have you seen anything to suggest that this could be true? I mean, other than sheer intuition?"

He nodded, sipped his coffee, replied, "I know that several million dollars of the police budget were approved and earmarked for expanded anti-narcotics operations a few years ago, and that there was no accountability for the use of those funds until the new council demanded it."

"So how was the money spent?"

The councilman smiled. "It was not spent, if you can believe a hastily produced record. The funds were 'on hold' in the Brighton City Bank, in a special sub-account. Guess who owned the account."

It did not require much of a guess. "Brighton Holding, Inc."

He smiled again. "There you go. So what would a policeman call it? Intuition? Or evidence?"

"What was the earmark?"

"The earmark was 'Drug War Covert Operations.' The money was not from the general treasury but from drug- bust confiscations. The stated intent was that the allocation be used to fund anti-drug sting operations. I believe that the money may have been used inappropriately, that it may have been used to seed other operations that were never recorded—operations which over the years may have yielded sufficient illegal profits to restore the initial allocation when it became necessary to do so."

I said, "And you believe that Katz was aware of all this."

"I have wondered," he replied thoughtfully, "if the entire council may have known about it. The old council, that is. The two who survived last year's election have been acting absolutely paranoid since their beloved leader, Harvey Katz, abandoned them in death. We are now in total chaos."

"I'm surprised," I said, "that you have not asked the sheriff or the attorney general to investigate."

"We've tried that, and I've been called everything from a Nazi to a communist and a pervert every time the question has arisen in council. These other agencies will not step in unless they are officially invited. Needless to say, no such invitation shall be forthcoming so long as the old guard can hold sway."

"So how did you get Murray out?"

"That came as quite a surprise. John Lofton proposed the removal. John was one of Katz's longtime cronies. I don't know why he turned on Murray. Certainly he has not switched sides on any other issues."

"Why didn't I come to you twenty-four hours ago?" I mused.

"Because I could not have told you all of that twenty-

four hours ago," the councilman replied. "The pattern was much too abstract at that time."

      
"Say that again?"

      
"The pattern was—"

      
"Okay, I just wanted to be sure you said that. I've been flailing away at patterns ever since I came to town. Been wondering if I've been tilting at shadows. Tell me something. Why did you run for city council?"

      
He shrugged. "I live here. I'm raising children here. Someone had to turn the rascals out."

      
I reminded him, "You almost paid too high a price for civic pride. Why did Murray go after your boy?"

      
"He wanted me under his thumb. The arresting officers planted that evidence. Murray hinted as much when he came to me and baldly suggested that I and my family would enjoy the quality of life in Brighton much more if we were all friends and could depend upon one another in bad times. It was blatantly obvious that he was offering me a deal."

      
I chuckled.

      
Calhoun asked me, "What?"

      
I said, "They rousted a councilman."

      
"They tried."

      
"No," I said, "they did. And it turned around and bit them. These guys were jerks, Charlie."

      
His eyebrows raised a bit, perhaps at the familiarity, but he responded in kind. "Very dangerous jerks, Joe. Be very careful. It must be evident to you by now that they will stop at nothing."

      
I shrugged and said, "Well, I believe maybe they have already defanged themselves. Unless. . ."

      
"Unless what?"

      
"Unless," I said, "Murray lost control of his own operation a long time ago."

      
"If he did, what would that suggest to you?"

      
I sighed. "The king is dead, long live the king."

      
"And in his place... ?"

      
"A parliament," I said. "Or a board of directors. Without the savvy of the founding father, without the intelligent cautious restraints."

      
The councilman seemed to be enjoying the exchange. "What are you getting at?"

      
"What would you call it," I asked, "when the inmates take over the asylum, or when the cons take over the prison?"

      
"Naked anarchy unleashed?"

      
"Must be something like that." I finished my coffee, decided it was time to be on my way. "I think maybe it's also something like a pirate mutiny at sea. The crew takes over and the captain walks the plank. What are they now?"

      
"They're the bloodthirstiest bastards afloat," said the councilman-lawyer-professor.

      
"I think you're right," I agreed.

      
I thought so, yeah. And maybe that was what we had at Brighton.

      
Maybe the machine had become "keyed" for killing, and nothing would stop it now short of its own total destruction.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

i bought my place while i was on the public payroll
with the L.A. County Sheriff's Department, shortly after my third divorce and before the price of mountainside property began to inflate so ridiculously. I could not even begin to scrape up a down payment on the place the way the market is now and I'm probably the poorest guy in my particular neighborhood. I probably couldn't meet the payments that some of these other people are making on lesser properties. I have been told that I could cash out with an impressive windfall, and I've thought about doing that a couple of times—but what the hell, it's all I've got left that tells me who I am when I'm not at work.

With marriage, you know, I figure three strikes and you're out of the game for good. I am, anyway. Maybe I fall in love easily, and I can't recall ever falling out until I got kicked out, but it takes more than love alone to make a marriage.

They were all good women and I loved each of them

like crazy all the time we were married, but I guess I wasn't so good to them or for them. I'm usually a guy with sharp focus, my whole life has been that way, and I tend to get blind to anything outside that focus. With the kind of work I do... well, I've gone days and even weeks away from home and unaware of anything outside the focus of the moment. A woman deserves better than that, has a right to demand more than that. Marriage just is not workable with me.

My home, though. .. well, my home is very forgiving. It's gadgeted-up to run itself when I'm not there, the indoor plants are all automatically watered, a guy comes once a week to mow the lawn and keep the outside tidy. Meanwhile my imprint is there. I can be gone all week and when I get home I know where I am and who I am, and I feel welcome there.

I'm positioned far enough up the mountain that I can look down onto most of the whole Los Angeles basin, from the ocean to the deserts, and it is quite a sight when the atmosphere cooperates. I live at the dead end of a narrow, tree-lined lane, and I have acreage enough to run a couple of horses. I don't keep horses and wouldn't even if I had time for them, but I do like having the space and the closest thing to seclusion you're likely to find, these days, this close to the urban sprawl. I have neighbors but I'd seldom know it. We all respect one another's privacy and keep pretty much to ourselves, and that works well for me.

I opened an office down in the valley when I first went private, but then I've always had this informal office in my bedroom too, and it got to the point where I was taking more calls at home than at work. The outside office began to seem like an unnecessary expense—and now and then I'd have trouble coming up with the rent—so I closed the

valley office awhile back and do all my business at home now. I like it better this way.

I remodeled the place myself, shortly after I bought it, as a bachelor home with a single large bedroom—it takes the same space as three rooms originally took—and I guess I indulged my innate hedonism when I built that room, put in a spa and a small workout area, other comforts. The outer walls are one-way glass, positioned to afford the spectacular views mentioned earlier. It can be very inspiring, and I guess it just naturally follows that I spend most of my time at home back there.

It was no surprise, either, to find Lila Turner dozing on the small sofa I have back there. It was six o'clock, the dawn had dissolved the night sky, and my sleepy-eyed visitor was a bit upset with me.

"You stood me up," she complained grumpily.

"No I didn't," I protested. "Here I am."

"Ta da, ta da, sound the trumpets, he has arrived. You sent me over here just to stash me. I resent that, Joe. I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Can you feed yourself?"

"No, and I'm starved. Think you could feed me?"

Sure I could, and I did. I whipped up some eggs in the kitchen while she freshened up in the bathroom. She presented herself draped in a towel from the armpits to the knees, helped with the bacon and toast, and we were devouring breakfast ten minutes after I'd walked into the house. Didn't talk much as we ate but there was a lot of eye contact and warm smiles. Obviously, she'd dumped her grouchy mood in the shower. She told me, as she mopped her plate with a scrap of toast, "I turned on the Jacuzzi."

I nodded and said, "Glad you thought of that."

"It will relax you. You look awful."

      
"Feel awful," I admitted. "But the food helps."

      
She leaned over and brushed her lips against mine. "There," she said huskily.

      
"There?"

      
"Yes. We kissed and made up. Doesn't that feel even better?"

      
I lied, of course, and said that it did when it really did not. It would take more than a meeting of lips to satisfy my mind about Lila Turner.

      
She said, "I love your place. Have you always lived here alone?"

      
"Uh huh."

      
"It seems so ridiculous... I don't know a thing about you. You could have been married, for all I knew. Joe, this is crazy. We are total strangers."

      
"Not anymore. I thought we covered the introductions very well up at Arrowhead."

      
"Our genitalia met. Big deal."

      
I said, "It was more than that, Lila. Wasn't it?"

      
She gazed at me for a long moment before replying. "Was it? I really don't know. Aside from Mighty Joe Copp, who are you? What do you like? What are your politics? Do you go to church? Which one? What makes you cry?— or do you? What do you read? Who do you admire? This house bowled me over, Joe. I don't know what to make of you."

      
I asked, "Did you think I lived in a dog house?"

      
She said, "Well, no, but I sure didn't expect to find the country gentleman."

      
"You didn't," I assured her. "I don't spend a lot of time here, Lila. This is sanctuary, it's refuge."

      
"From what?"

      
I shrugged. "You tell me."

      
She said, "You're a big phoney."

      
"Maybe."

      
"Sure you are. You come off as this big rough and tough cop with a badge for a heart, and all the time you're— you're..."

      
"What?"

      
"Well I don't know what. But I want to find out. Can we start all over?"

      
"Start what all over?"

      
"You know what."

      
I said, "Well, if you'd like to join me in the spa..."

      
"No, hell no!" she cried. "We don't need to start that part over!"

      
I tried to smile as I reminded her, "I sort of got the idea that part was what it was all about. Isn't that what you came here for?"

      
She said, "Maybe it was—okay, yes it was. But that is not what I am talking about now. I am talking about..."

      
"It's nothing to apologize for."

      
"Who said I was apologizing? Geez! Why are you making this so hard for me? You know what I'm trying to

say."

      
I refreshed my coffee, tasted it, looked into those hot eyes, told her, "I usually don't have a lot of time for romantic protocols, Lila. So I sort of take it where I find it, when I find it. Yesterday I found something very special, and I'll always think of you the way I found you yesterday. Beyond that..."

      
There was a very long silence, during which Lila helped herself to more coffee and drank half of it before she said to me in a very soft voice, "Thank you for being honest about that."

      
I'd had some time to think about what I'd said, myself, so I told her, "No—bullshit, Lila—I wasn't being honest. It's partly true, that's the way it has been for a long time, but I really don't feel that way about you. You want me to be totally honest? Okay. Here's total honesty. I'm half-crazy with the way I feel about you. At the same time I'm half-crazy with the job I've taken on here. I am trying to isolate some really rotten cops and kick their asses behind bars where they belong. I don't know where you stand in that lineup, kid. You've been stonewalling and gaming me from the very beginning, you're still doing it, and I'm scared half to death that I'll have to kick your ass in the bargain."

"Would you do that?" she asked softly.

"If the ass is rotten," I assured her, "it will get a kick, not a kiss. Yeah. I'd do that."

"And what if it's not rotten?"

"Then I'd kiss it, and gladly."

She stood up, dropped her towel, turned her back to me and bent over in presentation. "It's not rotten, Joe."

I didn't kiss it, not then, but I chuckled and slapped it lightly, we both laughed, then I picked her up and carried her to the spa. We got to know each other, the right way this time, and then we talked of many interesting things— after which, yes, I kissed Lila's ass.

"When did you
begin your investigation of Tim Murray?"

"The day after Mayor Katz was killed. I had this wild idea that Murray was behind it, that the investigation had been fixed, and I just couldn't stand it. So my investigation of Murray started as an investigation of the mayor's death."

"Who handled the Katz case?"

"Ramirez was officially the officer in charge of the Brighton investigation."

      
"You didn't like his finding?"

      
"No, and I still don't like it. The more I dug into Katz, the more I realized what a slimeball he had been. Among other unspeakable things, he was a child molester."

      
"Really! How did you come to that?"

      
"I came to it by way of Tim Murray. They were old buddies, going back to early childhood. The stories I heard ... you wouldn't believe it."

      
"Try me."

      
"Murray has been screwing his own daughter since she was ten years old."

      
"Come on!"

      
"No, I believe it. That comes from the daughter herself. When she was thirteen, her father began sharing her with Harvey Katz."

      
"What do you mean, sharing. . . ?"

      
"I mean the three of them romped together. The girl has become very warped, very unstable. She's taking classes at Chaffey this year but what she needs right now is therapy, not education. She—"

      
"I met her."

      
"You did?"

      
"Yeah. Yesterday morning. I was over at Murray's house, went to break the bad news to his widow. Some widow. And some daughter. Those are spectacularly beautiful women, Lila."

      
"Yes, I think so too. But Patricia has been kept like a bird in a gilded cage. I feel very sorry for her."