I was in love with her before the second cappuccino.
When we returned to the gallery, she knew that I had been drawn to the "God's Country" painting and she tried to give it to me as a gift. I could not accept such a valuable painting scot-free so we compromised and I took it at her cost. Dinner for two at seven o'clock was included in the deal.
That dinner lasted until midnight and obviously neither of us wanted it to end. We went to her place and talked into the wee hours. The sun was breaking over the mountains when I finally tore myself away and reluctantly said good night.
I arrived at the hotel too wired to get right to sleep. I must have lain there for an hour or more before finally nodding off, and then it seemed I dreamed of her continuously until I awoke at noon. I called her at the gallery before I even got out of bed—showered and shaved, got into some fresh clothes, and was at her door a half hour later.
I walked in and we stared at each other; there was no need for words. She went to the front window and put up the closed sign. She turned back to me and said softly, "What do you have in mind?"
"What do you have on tap?"
"I do a mean Eggs Benedict. How does that sound?"
"Sounds great."
I followed her in my van to her condo, just a few minutes from the gallery.
She did do a mean Eggs Benedict but that wasn't the chief attraction of the moment. I couldn't keep my eyes off her and obviously neither of us was all that interested in the food. I helped her with the kitchen clean-up and we both knew what was next. We looked at each other with the same mind. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom and not another word was spoken until we lay naked together and she gasped, "Oh God, Joe. I never knew that I could feel this way."
I told her, "Me neither. And, God, I never want to feel any other way again!"
It was the sweetest passion I had ever known and, at the same time, the wildest and most uninhibited hunger I could ever imagine expressed between a civilized man and woman.
The pain of reliving that memory was not as traumatic as one might think. In fact, the remembrance was actually clearing my mind. It was almost like a healing even though it was probably as poignant a pain as I had ever experienced. I still did not have all the answers, of course, but the big picture was coming into focus rapidly, and somehow it was far better this way no matter how brutal the truth. I still had to deal with the terrible feelings of guilt, pain, and anger, but at least it was making me feel like a cop again and I knew that my only way through this confusion was to deal with it head-on. It would not come in a single leap, of course, but simply knowing the truth, no matter how painful that may be, was far better than this ringing confusion that had been my constant companion since awakening in the hospital. It had never been my style to shun the truth, no matter how unnerving; I could not expect to find honest comfort any other way.
It was time to keep my appointment with the Chief, John Terry. He was waiting for me in his office and gave me a warm greeting. I remembered this guy—a prematurely gray six-footer, a deceptively laid-back guy who I knew could stomp ass—and quickly—when the occasion arose. He was a no-crap square shooter, and I liked him. It seemed almost like greeting an old friend though I'm sure we hadn't spent that much time together. I had a sudden image of this guy riding me like a Brahma bull during the scuffle at the Kaufman Gallery, doing his best to keep the peace in his small town. I can admire a guy like this and obviously we had much in common.
"Are you working on something, Joe?" the Chief asked as he slid the reports across the desk at me.
I said, "Trying to. Is it your feeling that someone torched the Kaufman Gallery?"
He replied, "Yeah, no question about it. Has the marks of a professional job. It was quick and it was thorough. Those guys knew what they were doing."
I asked him, "Do you sense a connection to the fight at the gallery?"
"Seems to figure. What do you think?"
"Do bears shit in the woods?"
Chief Terry replied, "Sure. Even in Nevada. I have included their rap sheets in the report. But our people in Tahoe tell me they've gone south."
"How far south?"
"These thugs are L.A. muscle and they are connected. A ream of rap sheets but no convictions. Like homing pigeons, these two have an instinct for survival and I'd guess L.A. is where we would find them."
"Have you been trying to find them?"
"For what? We have no wants on them."
I said to him, "You'd love to nail them, though, wouldn't you?"
The Chief replied, "I'd only give about a month's pay for a shot like that."
I said, "Maybe we can make it cheaper than that."
There was a long pause before the Chief responded.
"You sound troubled, Joe. What's bothering you? What are you hiding under that hat?"
"There is plenty I haven't told you yet."
Terry leaned over for a closer look as I removed my hat. He whistled. "Is that as mean as it looks?"
I replied, "I caught a bullet. One more silly millimeter and I wouldn't be here talking about it. I've been on my back for a week. I still have birdies in my belfry if I move too quick."
We stared at each other silently for a moment, then he asked, "What else are you keeping from me, Joe?"
"Martha is dead," I told him quietly. "She was killed in Los Angeles last week. It's still a little fuzzy in my mind at this point. I didn't even know my own name until yesterday. I know this much—she was scared, and I was scared, and I was trying to get her to a safe place. I failed. Martha didn't make it. God, John, I wish I hadn't made it. I have been going crazy with this. I've been lying in her bed all morning just trying to get my head together."
The Chief said, in a barely audible voice, "Christ, Joe, I'm sorry. This is heavy shit. God! She was too good for this. I've known her most of her life. It's tearing me up too. You two looked so right together. Jesus, Joe. I'm sorry."
"Did you know that we were married ten days ago in Tahoe?"
"Jesus!"
Some guys you just know even before you know them. He was sincerely shaken by this news. John Terry was a cop with heart. You don't always find that in the dehumanizing pressures of police work. I liked this guy and I felt a bond despite the often conflicting interests that naturally arise between the private and public cop. There seemed to be none of this crap between us and he was obviously sharing my pain over Martha's death.
I had to level with him all the way. "The L.A. Sheriff's Department told me that she was killed with my gun. I think they're trying to connect me to the shooting. At the moment I have no direct memory of her death. It was really strange when I went to the morgue to view her body. She was a total stranger; it was like seeing her for the first time. My memory of us together didn't really start coming back until a few hours ago. Now it's driving me crazy. I came up here to try and put the pieces of the puzzle together in the hope that I could stay a step ahead of their investigation."
"Were you and Martha shot at the same time?"
"Dammit, Chief, that's what's driving me crazy. I don't know what happened. It's starting to come back in pieces, but I don't have a clear picture of any of it yet. I was worried about her and I was taking her away from here, that's all I know for sure, but I believe someone jumped us on the way to my place near L.A." Terry was giving me a strange look. I said, "You're not really buying all this, are you?"
He replied, "Let's take it a step at a time. It does sound a bit farfetched, but I have to go with you on this, at least for the moment. Thanks for being square with me, Joe. How can I help?"
"This may sound crazy but I know nothing about Martha. Can you give me a bit of her background?"
The Chief was still a little bowled over by all this. He said, "Are you serious? You didn't know that she was Harley Sanford's kid?"
"Who is Sanford?"
"God, you are screwed up. He's just the biggest man in this area. Construction, development, banking, he's into all
of it—even some of the Tahoe gambling action. Has a lake house up there. Hell, he's got homes in three counties."
"Is he clean?"
"You hear things, you know, but guys like Sanford are always in the spotlight and who can guess what's truth and what's envy. So far as I've ever heard, he's always been clean. Mrs. Sanford is a real stand-up lady, I can tell you that much." After a short pause, Terry asked me, "Did you know about George Kaufman?"
I replied, "Not that I remember."
"She was married to him, Joe."
"She, who?"
"Martha, dammit. You're really serious—you didn't know about any of this? Kaufman worked for the old man. Martha married him about five years ago."
"So where is he now?"
"He was killed in a car accident up near Tahoe a couple years ago. I gather that it was not a particularly happy marriage. If memory serves me right, they were in the process of divorcing when he died. He was in with some fast company up there, and to tell you the truth, I've always wondered about that 'accident.' Have you I.D.'d her to the L.A. authorities?"
"Not yet."
"I'll take care of those details. Poor bastard, you must be in shock over this. After I've confirmed it, would you like for me to notify the family?"
"Jesus, that sounds so cold. I haven't even met the family... I guess. Maybe I should go over there."
"Would you like it if I went with you?"
I said, "I'd appreciate that, Chief. I'm still a bit numb about all this."
"I think it best I go along. You're in for some surprises with this family. Why don't you meet me back here in an hour. I'll get on the horn with L.A. and get all the facts I can. Harley Sanford is going to want to know all the gory details. He's a man accustomed to getting his way. You might be in for a rough time there, Joe."
I thanked the Chief and stumbled out of there feeling crippled, blind and half crazy, realizing that the more I learned the less I knew. It was something like going at a Chinese puzzle with a chain saw, blindfolded and handcuffed; the closer you get, the more dangerous it becomes. Except this was not just a game—it was probably for the whole enchilada. It felt like I was taking a blind plunge into a devastating abyss that would totally engulf me.
Okay—if so, let it be.
I had to do what I had to do.
CHAPTER FIVE
i knew that I had to have been crazy in love with this woman because I had bowed out of the marriage game after too many false starts during an eighteen-year police career. Cops should never get married, and I had learned that truth the hard way. There had to have been something very special about Martha for me to even consider another tussle with that kind of record. My former wives had been good women; it wasn't their failure that we couldn't hold it together. It was my failure. It seemed that the work always came first, and you can't expect any woman to play second fiddle to that kind of commitment. Maybe what it amounted to, for me, is that I always wanted the work to come first. No woman wants to be the second choice in any man's life.
The more I learned about Martha Kaufman, the more I understood how I could have fallen head over heels in love and married her. I had sworn, "Never again," but obviously she had become the beautiful exception to my rule. Now her mystique was enveloping me, drawing me into her as if she were still alive. She had come, and it was beautiful, but now she was gone. I was alive. I had to go on living with the cards I had drawn. For sure I had to get myself together enough to find the creeps who killed her. I could not bring her back, but I owed her justice. It was the least I could do.
I still felt drawn to a dead woman and I wanted to have another go at that condo. It seemed senseless to be paying for a hotel room I did not need, so I first ran past the hotel and canceled the room I had taken. Cindy, the desk clerk, still seemed a bit stiff with me but she wouldn't hear of keeping my money. She destroyed the charge slip and told me, "If you change your mind, just give me a call."
I said, "Sure, thanks."
I felt impelled to return to Martha's place even though I was meeting Chief Terry in less than an hour. I had been distracted from my search of the apartment by the discovery of our marriage license. I didn't know what I expected to find there, maybe it was just a compulsion to be near her.
I'm glad I went. Two guys surprised me inside her apartment. They had been tearing the place apart in a wild search for God-knows-what. I had a hunch it was the two guys I had tumbled with at the gallery. They both looked scared as hell when I barged in. I said, "Well, well, we keep meeting this way. Which window do you want to be tossed out of this time?"
They seemed to be torn between a fight or flight. I was one short step ahead of their decision. The younger one, a punk of about twenty-five, made the first break. He went for his piece. He didn't get there. I hit him with a smash to the chops and he went down without a murmur. The older guy gave me a sick look and went for his gun. I closed on him with a quick spin and kicked the gun loose and it skittered under the couch. The poor guy didn't know whether to shit or go blind. He had to get past me to retrieve his gun and he clearly had no wish to risk that challenge.
He said, "Can't we talk this over?"
I had to kick the young one down again, and this time I relieved him of his snub-nosed .38. I held it loosely in one hand and said, for the benefit of both, "No games this time, boys. It's time to get serious. Do I shoot your kneecaps off or do we get friendly?"
The young punk was whining and nursing his chops; didn't really feel much like talking. The other guy said, "I think we can straighten this out. There's been a big mistake here. I'm sorry if we startled you. Can we start all over again?"
I told him, "Too weak, pal. You can do better than that. You torched the gallery, you blew the lady away, you tried to blow me away—now you want to be friends. Go get fucked. Give me a reason for not wanting to blow you away."
"You've got it wrong. Why don't you talk this over with Harley Sanford before you do something you might regret?"
"The only thing I might regret, asshole, is that I blow you away too easy. But just for the sake of conversation, why would I have anything to say to Sanford?"
"We work for Mr. Sanford. He sent us over here to collect a few personal items from his daughter."
"Which daughter is that?"
"Martha, the one who owns the gallery. This is her apartment. She's been out of town and he has been missing some of his personal papers, thought maybe we could find them."
I said, "You just don't want to get serious, do you?" I pulled his face into the snout of the .38. "Last chance, pal, try again."
The guy was in a cold sweat. The kid groaned. I had to kick him again to keep his mind on business. The older man said, with an almost desperate plea, "Look, it's not like you seem to think. This is just a routine go-fer job for us. We got no stake in any of this. We haven't blown anybody away and I don't know anything about a torch job. Look—I know your reputation. I wouldn't be playing games at a time like this. You gotta believe me. At least call Mr. Sanford and let's get this straightened out before somebody really gets hurt. Okay?"
I said, "So, okay. Call him."
The relief in that worried mind was obvious. The guy almost leaped for the phone. His hand was shaking as it closed on the handset. I noticed that he did not need to paw through a directory. He had called this number many times. I snatched it away from him at the first ring. A man with an authoritative voice responded.
"Sanford here."
I said, "Copp here. Did you send a couple of boys to smash up your daughter's apartment?"
He replied without hesitation, "Who the hell is this?"
"I gave you the name. I'm Joe Copp. Did you send somebody to break into your daughter's apartment, or didn't you? Let's keep it straight if you have any interest in keeping these guys out of jail."
The harsh voice on the other end asked me, "What's your interest?"
I decided while I was here that I might as well go for a sensing of this guy. I said, "Martha i
s my interest. A couple of guys came into her place and began busting it up. They say you sent them. Did you send them?"
Sanford replied, "Did you say the name was Copp? Are you the guy who was involved in that little scuffle at the gallery a couple of weeks ago?"
I told him, "That's me. Are these the same guys?"
He replied, "Do these guys have names?"
I held the receiver over and called out, "He wants your names."
The guy called back, "Mr. Sanford, it's Sammy. This guy's a maniac. Tell him we're okay."
I took the phone back. "Know this guy, Harley?"
Sanford replied, "Yeah, I know him. He's a loyal employee. What's the problem there?"
This guy was smooth as silk. Father-in-law or not, I didn't like this guy. I said, "No problem—thanks," and hung up.
The little punk pulled himself up from the floor and the other guy audibly wheezed with relief. They started for the door, thinking it was over.
"Clean it up," I commanded with a wave of the piece. They literally stopped in their tracks.
"No problem, sir. Let's clean it up, Clifford."
I watched without a word as they meticulously put everything back in its place. They actually did make a nice, clean job of it. I emptied the chambers of both guns and tossed them their way. The older guy said, "Thank you, Mr. Copp. Sorry for the trouble. It won't happen again."
Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 3
