Lethal Measures

by Leonard Goldberg

  Lou Farelli trudged into the office and sat down wearily in a swivel chair.

  “I

  got bad news.”

  “What?”

  “The guy from the ice cream parlor died.”

  Another one gone, Jake thought, the number of people killed by the terrorists now twenty-nine.

  “Did you get a chance to talk with him before he bought it?”

  Farelli shook his head.

  “They rushed him to the OR because he started bleeding again. He died on the table.”

  Jake grumbled, wishing the man had lived, wishing even more that Farelli had gotten the opportunity to talk to him again. Maybe the old guy would have remembered something else after his mind cleared from the surgery and sedatives.

  ” You should have seen the mood on the surgery ward when the word came down that the old man was gone,” Farelli went on.

  “Nurses were crying, doctors were trying to swallow back their

  emotions. I’m telling you, Jake, it was like they’d lost somebody in the family.”

  “In a way I guess they did,” Jake said somberly. He extinguished his cigarette in a styrofoam cup half-filled with cold coffee.

  “What else you got?”

  Farelli began flipping pages in his notepad.

  “The bullet in the old guy’s gut matched the one in Maria Gonzalez’s boyfriend. They were both shot by the same weapon and probably the same person.” Farelli turned to another page and studied it briefly.

  “And we may have found the motorcycle that was used to run down the cop outside the ice cream parlor. It was a stolen Harley Davidson that was parked in an alley a couple of miles south of the crime scene.”

  “Does it have any prints on it?”

  “A bunch,” Farelli answered.

  “They’re checking now to see if any of those fingerprints belong to George Walter Reineke.”

  “It was him,” Jake said with certainty.

  “Got to be.”

  “Make sure they check the front wheel for bits of skin or clothing that might have come from the officer who was run down.”

  Farelli jotted down the instructions before turning to a new page.

  “And one more thing. We came up with a slug from the rooftop shooting. The damn thing was embedded in the trunk of your car. Anyhow, it was a nine-millimeter slug, the same caliber bullet that killed the old man. But it came from a different weapon.”

  “Two different shooters,” Jake said.

  “Had to be.”

  And both terrorists had come from the same group, Jake thought, now pacing.

  Something was screwed up. The sequence of events just didn’t fit right. One day they tried to kill Joanna, a few days later they risked everything to kidnap her. It didn’t make sense, except maybe to terrorists. Something must have happened to cause them to change their minds. For some reason, they now needed Joanna alive. At least for a while. But why?

  Molly Anderson burst into the office holding up a thick pad of tickets.

  “We got it!”

  “Hallelujah!” Jake shouted out.

  Anderson read from the ticket.

  “It was written on Thursday at one-fifteen p.m.

  on Broxton Avenue. The vehicle was a Chevy van. The license plate number is 3

  VDM 593.”

  Jake rubbed his hands together.

  “Can anyone here access the computer at the Department of Motor Vehicles?”

  “You’re looking at her.” Anderson hurried over to the computer on her desk and began punching in a code.

  “Who did they kidnap?”

  “A little boy,” Jake said vaguely.

  “When you catch the bastard who did it, you should shoot him.”

  “That’s against the law,” Jake said.

  “Not in my book.” Anderson punched a final key and sat back while numbers flashed across the computer screen faster than the eye could follow. Finally the license number 3 VDM 593 came up.

  Jake and Farelli leaned forward to read the information off the screen. The Chevy van was registered to

  LEWIS KOPPELMAN 2524 SIERRA MADRE DRIVE BEVERLY HILLS, CA 90210

  “I know the neighborhood,” Farelli said.

  “It’s upper-middle-class with big homes. Mostly doctors, lawyers, movie people. Not exactly your terrorist type, huh?”

  “In today’s world, who the hell knows?” Jake nodded his appreciation to Anderson, then left the office. The workers who had spent hours sorting through tickets were slumped in their chairs, exhausted. Jake gave them a strong thumbs-up signal. They smiled back.

  At the elevator Farelli asked, “How do you want to handle it?”

  “With a SWAT team and a bomb squad.”

  Sunday, April 18, 12=21 a.m.

  It was past midnight, and the neighborhood was quiet and dark. Only the house next to the Koppelmans’ had a light on. Because of a local ordinance, there was no street parking. All vehicles were either in driveways or in garages.

  A block away Jake was peering through night-vision binoculars. He

  adjusted the intensity, and everything took on a brighthosphorescent glow. Now he could see the SWAT team moving into position around the house.

  Dan Hurley was next to Jake, listening intently through a device in his ear.

  “They’re checking the house out with infrared scopes, looking for any signs of life. Everything is negative so far.”

  Jake watched members of the SWAT team, now crouching under windows to the house.

  They were being covered by marksmen who were lying prone across the street.

  “That damn house is going to be empty,” he grumbled.

  “Yeah,” Hurley agreed.

  “Except maybe for two dead bodies.”

  Earlier they had called the Koppelman home and gotten the answering machine.

  Then they’d contacted the security company that was responsible for guarding the house. The Koppelmans had informed the security company that they would be leaving Wednesday for a vacation and would be returning late Sunday. No phone or address was given where they could be reached.

  Three explanations could fit the situation. First, the story was true. The Koppelmans were on vacation. Second, the Koppelmans were somehow connected to the terrorists. And, third, the terrorists had invaded the Koppelmans’ house to use as a base. They had forced the Koppelmans to call the security company, then killed them. The police favored the third explanation.

  “The infrared is negative, and there’s absolutely no sound within the house,” Hurley reported.

  “It looks like nobody is home.”

  “But they could have left a present behind for us.”

  “Yeah,” Hurley said hoarsely.

  “One that goes boom in the night.”

  Hurley knew the most common place for the first bomb was at the door, front or back. The backup devices were harder to find. They were usually in the kitchen or bathroom or den. For some reason they were almost never placed in bedrooms.

  Hurley listened to a message before speaking into a small microphone.

  “Go through a bedroom window.” He heard glass breaking, then a dog barked, then another and another. Lights in the surrounding homes went on.

  Jake saw men crawling into the house through an open window. One. Two. Three.

  All were dressed in black and white and wore night-vision goggles. The Koppelman house stayed dark.

  Hurley pressed the earpiece in further and listened, hoping to God he

  wouldn’t have to hear the sound of a bomb exploding. The booby trap could be anywhere. All it took was one small mistake, and you’d be dead and so would the people around you. Hurley could still remember the sound of the bomb that had taken off a part of his hand. It resembled a muffled thud, and in an instant two of his fingers were gone. The lights suddenly came on in the Koppelman house.

  “Nobody is home,” Hurley reported.

  “How long will it take to search the place for b
ombs?” Jake asked, putting down his binoculars.

  “It depends,” Hurley answered.

  “If the house is orderly, we can do it quickly.

  If it’s been trashed, we could be here for hours.”

  A police loudspeaker suddenly came on with a high-pitched squeal.

  “This is the police! Please stay in your homes! I repeat-this is the police! Stay in your homes!”

  The neighbors who had come out on their lawns scurried back into their houses.

  Doors slammed. Dogs started barking again.

  Minutes dragged by as Jake smoked one cigarette after another. He repeatedly glanced at his watch, wanting time to slow, but it only seemed to go by faster.

  It was already 12:30 a.m.” less than twenty-four hours until the nineteenth of April. He wondered again what the terrorists planned to blow up and how many people would die. It had to be something big, he guessed, and it had to be filled with people. Like the federal building in Oklahoma City. One bomb. One building. A hundred and sixty-nine people dead.

  “The first sweep is clean,” Hurley said.

  “Now they’ll bring in the dogs to sniff out hidden explosives. It won’t take long.”

  “Did they see any signs of a struggle?” Jake asked.

  “No. Everything is nice and neat. There’s nothing to indicate the terrorists were ever there.”

  Which meant they hadn’t invaded the house, Jake thought quickly. Then how did they get the van? Either Koppelman gave it to them or they stole it. But that didn’t bring Jake any closer to the terrorists.

  He lit another cigarette and again considered whether the Koppelmans were somehow involved. They were obviously successful and well-to-do, and Beverly Hills was a million miles away from some paramilitary compound in Idaho. But then again, who the hell knew? There was a time when only the downtrodden and disillusioned committed acts of terrorism. Those days were long gone.

  Jake leaned back against his car and blew smoke into the cool night air. They were standing behind a police car, just in case an explosion

  occurred. And behind them was a police barricade that sealed off the dead-end street. Two blocks away ambulances, paramedics and backup police units waited. And a police helicopter was circling less than a mile away. All for two goddamn terrorists, Jake thought sourly. And the terrorists weren’t even there. But they still could have left explosives behind, just as they had done in West Hollywood.

  Jake heard someone crossing the street and turned. It was Farelli.

  “Anything new on Koppelman?”

  “Nothing,” Farelli said.

  “Nada. Zilch. He’s got no sheet with us, so I gave his name to the FBI. They can dig a lot deeper than we can.”

  “And take a lot longer.”

  “That too.”

  The lights in the Koppelman house suddenly went on. The front door opened. In the distance they could hear the putt-putt of an approaching helicopter. A squad car behind them started up.

  “The house is secured,” Hurley told them and removed the listening device from his ear.

  The detectives walked briskly down the street past the large, well-manicured lawns. With the exception of the homes that had been evacuated by the police, every house was now lighted up. Curious neighbors were peeking out of windows and doors. Dogs were barking loudly. A car alarm went off but lasted only a few seconds. Ahead they saw SWAT team members assembling on the sidewalk, their night goggles now sitting atop their heads.

  Jake pointed to a lighted house on the far side of the Koppelmans’. “Lou, check them out. See what they know about the Koppelmans.”

  “Right.” Farelli took out his weapon and carefully inspected the chamber.

  “You know something I don’t?”

  “Not really. I just don’t like surprises at the front door,” Farelli said and placed the gun in a belt holster.

  Jake nodded, remembering back.

  “You be careful.”

  As Farelli walked away, Hurley asked, “What’s that all about?”

  “A couple of years ago we had a similar situation involving a suspected murderer,” Jake told him.

  “When Farelli knocked on the door, the neighbor answered it and aimed a shotgun at Farelli’s head. You see, it wasn’t the neighbor. It was the murderer.”

  Hurley sucked air through his teeth.

  “I take it the guy didn’t fire.” “Oh, he tried,” Jake said.

  “He pulled the trigger, but it misfired.”

  “What’dFarellidothen?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jake said evasively.

  “But the guy ended up with a broken jaw and split lips and cracked ribs. I think he hurt himself trying to get away.”

  “Yeah, sometimes that happens if the guy trips and falls.” Hurley checked his weapon and made certain the safety was off.

  “You know, if he lands wrong.”

  Jake headed up a brick path that led to a lighted house near the Koppelmans’. A small, thin man in his mid sixties with fluffy gray hair was waiting for them at the door. He was wearing a silk smoking jacket.

  Jake flashed his shield.

  “I’m Lieutenant Sinclair and this is Lieutenant Hurley.

  We need to ask you some questions about the Koppelmans.”

  “Sure, sure,” the neighbor said quickly.

  “Do you want to come inside?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  The man led them through a marble foyer and into a large, expensively decorated living room. The furniture was mahogany that was upholstered in a rich, light blue fabric. On the walls were paintings by French Impressionists. One looked like a Renoir. Jake wondered if it was real.

  “My name is Marshall Quinn,” the man said.

  “And this is my wife, Vicki.”

  Jake nodded to the woman standing by the old brick fireplace. She was blond and beautiful and looked at least thirty years younger than her husband. She also looked very bored.

  “Did something happen to the Koppelmans?” Quinn asked, his concern genuine.

  “We don’t know,” Jake said and took out his notepad.

  “All we know for certain is that a vehicle belonging to them was used in the commission of a crime.”

  “What kind of crime?”

  “A shooting.”

  Quinn stared at Jake incredulously.

  “And you think Lewis was involved?”

  “We’ve got to check it out.”

  “Then you’re checking out the wrong man.” Quinn went over to a small

  writing desk and picked up a highly polished pipe. “I’ve known Lewis Koppelman for over twenty years, and he’s as solid as they come.”

  Jake waited for the man to light his pipe. Behind Quinn was a large door that opened into a library. Jake could see framed movie posters on the wall, and on a shelf he noticed a small golden statue. An Oscar. Then the name Marshall Quinn rang a bell. He was a big-time movie producer.

  “Did Mr. Koppelman belong to any crazy, far-out group?”

  Quinn gave Jake a suspicious glance.

  “Is that against the law?”

  “It is when the group kills a police officer.”

  Quinn nodded his agreement.

  “The answer to your question is no. Lewis Koppelman is a rock-hard Republican. He and Ronald Reagan were on a first-name basis until the President got sick. I can tell you with no hesitation that Lewis has no use for people on the far right or far left.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Tuesday night. They stopped in for drinks.” Quinn looked over to his wife.

  “It was about seven o’clock. Right, babe?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Vicki Quinn said, still bored. Now she was examining the bright red polish on her fingernails.

  Jake asked, “And they were okay?”

  “They seemed fine to me,” Quinn said.

  “They were looking forward to the trip to the desert.”

  “Did they tell you where they co
uld be reached?”

  Quinn shook his head.

  “They never do. They like to roam around. Sometimes they go to Palm Springs, sometimes to the Mojave to see the wildflowers.”

  “Did they take their Chevy van?”

  Quinn shrugged.

  “I don’t know. They left real early.”

  “They have another car?”

  “A Mercedes.”

  “Do you know when they’re supposed to return?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Do the Koppelmans have any close relatives?”

  Quinn shook his head again.

  “None living.”

  Jake closed his notepad and sighed. A big nothing. Not one damn clue to help them. He turned to Hurley.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “Just a few,” Hurley said, watching Quinn relight his pipe.

  “Can you tell us what kind of business Mr. Koppelman is in?”

  “Army-Navy surplus,” Quinn answered promptly. Hurley’s eyes narrowed.

  “Weapons? Grenades? Stuff like that?”

  Quinn hesitated, thinking.

  “I believe it’s mainly tents and blankets and clothing. You know, things that can be used in civilian life.”

  “Does he own a gun?”

  “Nope. He hates them. His only brother died in a hunting accident.”

  Hurley and Jake exchanged glances and put away their notepads.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Quinn,” Jake said.

  Outside the night air was growing colder and a heavy mist was forming. The SWAT team were packing their gear away in a truck. The neighborhood dogs were barking loudly at the bomb-sniffing dogs, who sat, unperturbed, waiting for their next command.

  “We got nothing,” Jake said miserably.

  “A big nothing.”

  “Maybe the Koppelmans can help,” Hurley said.

  “Don’t bet on it,” Jake grumbled.

  “And remember, they don’t return until sometime tonight.”

  “Well, if they get back early enough, that’ll still leave us some time to work with. You never know, they just might have some information we can use.”

  “Christ! We’re grabbing at straws!”