She told me, "The mortuary assured me that there will be no delay. The man knows that we're taking her home by private plane."
She was heading toward the telephone before I could offer to make the call myself. She had been through quite an ordeal. I knew that she wanted to get out of here as quickly as I did.
We were more than in-laws now.
The commonality of tragedy had given us something more intimate than mere kinship.
Martha's body was not in a casket. Because of the relatively cramped quarters of a small airplane such as this one, the decision had been made to transport the remains in an iced body bag. There is a feeling of immediacy to such an arrangement. Janice had not wanted the body transported in the cargo hold, so it was placed in the aft cabin and securely strapped down. It was not as though we were in any intimate contact with the body. This particular configuration of the Cessna Citation was quite roomy. The passenger cabin was more than seventeen feet long, with seven comfortable seats, an executive table on each side, a lavatory aft, and a refreshment center forward. That was immediately where I headed. I knew that Janice needed a stiff drink and so did I.
I was glad that I had gone with her. This would have been a brutal trip for any mother and especially on her own. Tom Lancer came back to see that we were comfortable then went to the rear to double-check the security of the body. As he returned, he affectionately squeezed Janice's shoulder. She squeezed him back and I was afraid for a moment that she was about to cry. This affected Lancer; his eyes were moist as he returned to the cockpit and began his preflight check.
I guess this was the first time I had actually noticed this aircraft and I was impressed by how far private airplanes had come since the early days of noncommercial aviation. The Citation was sleek and obviously at a high state of the art. Of course, the price tag of a business jet like this one was also light-years away from the little single-prop Cessnas of not so many years ago. Apparently, Sanford had been doing well in his business. A plane like this costs in the neighborhood of five million dollars. Not so long ago you could have bought a large commercial jet for that price. Times have changed.
It seemed incredible that I had rolled into Bishop almost exactly twenty-four hours earlier under the same full moon. I still had Molly's patchwork shielding the gunshot wound behind the right ear. Amazingly, and to Molly's credit, the patch job was holding well through all the adventures of the day, and if anyone had noticed the wound, there had been no comment except by Chief Terry when I had brought it to his attention. I had felt a little ridiculous about wearing the hat in public but I guess it had served its purpose; no little kids had run away from me, as far as I knew. I mention that now because Janice apparently caught a glimpse behind the hat and said to me, "My God, Joe, what happened to your head?"
Maybe she had wondered if I had worn the hat even in bed; she had never seen me without it. I had to level with her, even though the very mention of Martha's death was bound to be painful for her. I said, "I was shot at about the same time that Martha was shot. I've had a weird sort of amnesia about the events surrounding all of that."
"Why haven't I heard any of that?" she cried almost angrily.
"I guess I was discussing it with your husband while you were out of the room."
She said, "That man! I overheard the marriage part of it, but all that Harley mentioned—well, he sort of shouted it at me as he ran past—was that you were responsible for Martha's death. That is so typical of Harley, to be affected only by his own pain and to blame everyone else when he doesn't control a situation. I was furious with the bastard!"
"He said as much to me at the time, that he was holding me personally responsible. Which was okay, because I was feeling something of the same myself."
"But he shouldn't have said anything like that to you! I mean, my God, I know that Martha had to have been deeply in love with you. She had such a terrible experience with George and swore she'd never go through that again. Listen, Joe, I'm as heartsick as Harley is about this but I know that Martha must have found a very special love with you. I see it in you, too, and I cannot excuse my husband for his insensitivity with you."
She reached across the aisle and squeezed my arm with genuine warmth. I patted her hand and said, "For what it's worth, Janice, I was in about the same situation that Martha was. I thought that marriage for me at this point in my life was out of the question. I would have married Martha only because I was crazy in love with her and could not have conceived of living without her. I have to be honest with you about this. Something got scrambled in my head when. I took that bullet, and I'm having disturbing lapses of memory. To this moment I have no memory of the circumstances surrounding Martha's death. I told your husband that I would find the person responsible for it. Not that this may provide a lot of comfort to you but I am making that vow to you, too, right now."
She said, "Thanks, Joe. I want that, too. If money is any object..."
"Thanks. I doubt that money will ever be an object in this. I will find the killer and find justice for Martha."
Janice cried. It was the first tear I had seen from her. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and tried to comfort her. But the tears were a good sign. The emotional release was healing at such times. After a moment she whispered, "I'm so weary, Joe. I think I'll nap for a moment."
I released my seat belt and stepped across to recline her seat and adjust a small blanket for her comfort. She was half asleep already. I went forward to the cockpit and slid into the copilot's seat beside Lancer.
He had completed his preflight check and was talking to the tower for takeoff clearance when I joined him. Lancer was obviously absorbed with his work but he shot me a welcoming glance as we began taxiing into position toward the runway. We must have hit a seam in the traffic because we were cleared for takeoff immediately.
I don't care how many times you've seen this drama from a passenger seat, it's always a bit of a rush when the plane begins its takeoff roll. This was an even more dramatic experience from the cockpit. It was a hot plane and the cockpit instrument panel had a star-wars look. This guy was a veteran jet pilot, no doubt about that. We were flashing along the runway and lifting off faster than I would have thought possible. I had been around planes long enough to know that the takeoff is one of the most critical points of the flight; we were clear and climbing rapidly above Los Angeles with no discernible vibration. This plane was smooth as silk. I did not even hear the landing gear retracting but I could see the indication on the instrument panel. We were passing over the Mt. Wilson area almost immediately and climbing toward the stars.
Lancer leveled off to cruising altitude and activated the automatic pilot. It was the first opportunity that we had to talk. He asked me, "Have you done much flying?"
I said, "Not this way. How does a guy like Harley Sanford buy into a rig like this?"
He showed me a droll smile as he replied, "I guess it's not so hard if you know all the angles. This plane is used a lot and it's solid write-off."
"What is it used for?"
"Sanford has many business interests. Mostly development deals throughout the western states. It's a legitimate write-off. He couldn't run his business without this kind of instant hands-on availability."
"So he does travel a lot?"
"Well, no, not that much personally, not anymore. We use the plane more to shuttle the engineers and architects to the various company sites. Occasionally, we might run prospective clients around."
This guy had opened up a lot since our first conversation. Originally he had been cool almost to the point of rudeness. So now it seemed that he was looking at things with a different slant. He was downright friendly. I said, "Thanks for leveling with me, Tom. I won't pretend that I understand everything that has been going on in Mammoth, but I do feel strongly that Sanford may be in beyond his depth here—or that someone may be trying to make it appear that way. I'm going to lay this on you, straight and brutal. An all-points bulletin has be
en issued by the Mammoth police and Sanford is a prime suspect in two shootings over the past few hours. That is why I was interested in his whereabouts. I wasn't just trying to pump you for gossip. The man is in deep trouble. So if you have any information that may shed some light on the problems, you shouldn't think of it as an invasion of your employer's privacy."
He gave me an almost sardonic smile and said, "Yes, I got that message earlier. I don't want to discuss it right now, but it's food for thought and maybe I would like to talk to you about it after we get home."
I was feeling better about the guy when I returned to my seat.
Janice was sleeping soundly. According to my calculation we would be on the ground in Mammoth in less than a half hour. It was the first quiet chance I'd had to go through Martha's personal effects from the morgue.
It was a shocker when it occurred to me that her life had been reduced to this paltry inventory. There was a finely drawn gold necklace, which I had no memory of, a gold cigarette lighter engraved with the name Martha Kaufman, a simple gold wedding band inscribed, "Martha and Joe Forever"—which hit me like a ton of bricks, and the memory of placing it on her hand was like a knife twisted into my heart—and, finally, as though it had been carefully woven for my personal attention, a wide gold bracelet with a large cameo design. The bracelet had an almost antique quality. I kept working it through my fingers as though some rare secret was awaiting my discovery. And suddenly it revealed itself. I was twisting a gold clasp that adorned the underside when suddenly it sprang open. Inside was concealed a thin metal key with no identifying marks. It appeared to be a safety-deposit-box key. It would have fit unobtrusively inside a videocassette case or some similar common object, so maybe now I knew what had been the object of the search in Arthur Douglas's apartment—and/or the interest in Martha's condo.
For God's sake!
Had this "bauble" been the reason for Martha's death?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
i was feeling guilty because I had done such a lousy job of pulling the pieces of this puzzle together. So many markers had been there from the very beginning but I had not been thinking like a cop. I should have known right from the start that something was sour with this whole thing. Martha's death had not been an incidental, unrelated event. Someone had killed her for an important purpose. Violent death is always the result of a chain of events that are related to cause and effect. Any cop knows that. Doesn't take a great brain to figure it out. Even the most casual drive-by shooting is wound somehow into a complex series of events that culminate in a violent death. So I was not too proud of the way I had conducted myself during the events of this day. Like I said, I had not been thinking like a cop—I had been thinking like a victim, I guess.
I should have known immediately that the burglary of Martha's condo was directly related to her murder. One of the things that had thrown me off early on was the family connection with Harley Sanford. This was greatly compounded by the possible involvement of Sanford in the shooting of Officer Douglas and later the death of Cindy Morgan. Then the apparent disappearance of Sanford following the discovery of the girl's body in his car added a bizarre twist to the chain of events. The torching of the Kaufman Gallery, although occurring out of sequence, was almost like a footnote to the entire improbable scenario, which actually could have begun with the questionable death of George Kaufman two years earlier.
This retrospection was interrupted by Lancer's announcement over the P.A.: "Touchdown in ten minutes."
That roused Janice. She showed me a wan smile and said, "I needed that nap—thanks."
I discreetly slipped Martha's bracelet into my coat pocket and said to Janice, "Are you fully awake?"
"I think so."
"I have been wondering about the relationship between Martha and her family."
"What do you mean?"
"I am curious why we'd never met until today."
She gave me an embarrassed smile. "Things had not been good between Martha and her father for quiet some time. He was devoted to her, but I'm afraid that he always treated Martha like a personal possession. It had not been good between them since her estrangement from George Kaufman. Harley took that as a personal affront."
"Things were tight between George and Harley?"
"Not that so much. George was handpicked by Harley to be Martha's husband. I always felt that Martha looked at the marriage as more of a convenience for Harley than for her own personal happiness. Frankly, I could never blame Martha for feeling that way. It was about as close to a shotgun wedding as you could find."
"So what did this do to your relationship with Martha?"
She sighed and said, "I have never been proud of the way I caved in to my husband on this matter. I have always been a terrible coward when it comes to going against my husband's wishes. What this says about me I cannot defend. I guess I've always had an old-school attitude about marriage. Of course that has always made it very easy for Harley to dominate me. I'm not proud of that either. But no more. Maybe Martha would be alive today if I hadn't been such a pushover." She was weeping without embarrassment.
I couldn't let her give herself such a bad rap. I reached over and tried to comfort her. "Martha is dead, Janice, because of events far beyond your ability to influence them." I produced the bracelet and showed her the hidden key. "I have a feeling that this is why Martha died. Have you ever seen this before?”
With hardly a glance at the bracelet she said, "Yes, I gave it to her myself when she was eighteen. It belonged to my mother. How could that have had anything to do with Martha's death?"
Obviously she had not noticed the safety-deposit key. I gave her a closer look at the key and said, "Not the bracelet, Janice. The key. Do you recognize this?"
"Yes, I have one just like it. Not the same key, I'm sure, but they all look alike."
"Safety-deposit?"
"Yes." She took the key and inspected it more closely. "Looks just like mine."
"Your bank in Mammoth?"
"Yes."
I said, "It could be important. Did you know that Martha had a safety-deposit box?"
"No, I didn't. But Martha had been in business on her own since her separation from George. She has been totally self-sufficient for the past few years."
"Did Harley help her start the gallery?"
"No. Not that he wouldn't, but she wouldn't have allowed it. Martha was not like me, Joe. She was fiercely independent of her father after she got out of that disastrous marriage. She would not have given Harley another opening like that. Anyway, I know that Martha started that gallery with her own money. She didn't need Harley's money. George's life insurance, while not particularly lavish, left her quite comfortable. For the first time in her life she didn't need her father for anything. I think that's what disturbed him so."
I became aware of a rapid descent at about the time that Lancer reported, "Let's get buttoned down. Beginning our approach." He added, "Joe, would you like to come up front for a better view?"
Janice said, "Why don't you, Joe? I've seen this many times."
I thanked her and went on forward to join the pilot.
It was a spectacular sight. You don't capture the full beauty of this area from the ground. I had never seen it this way, and even under these unhappy circumstances I was almost transfixed by the view from the cockpit. The moon was still high and bright in the sky, illuminating the snowcapped peaks. Lancer masterfully dropped the jet toward the mountain valley and we were suddenly surrounded by numerous shimmering lakes dotting the mountain basins below.
Poor bastards, as Chief Terry was wont to say. None of us had an inkling of the terror that was awaiting us in this tranquil setting.
"This will be a straight-in approach," Lancer told me with cool confidence. "This is not a controlled airport, so there won't be anyone around at this time of night. I notified the mortuary of our time of arrival, so the hearse should be waiting at the field."
"There's no FAA here?"
"No. There's a remote radio access to the flight-service station at Riverside, but that's a trunk line setup with limited hours and even then it may be subject to delay."
"Straight-in approach to what? Where the hell's the airport?"
Lancer said, "Good question. This is slick. Watch this, it's a pilot-controlled lighting system." He quickly keyed the mike button five times. High-intensity strobe lights, like a thousand Roman candles, blazed alive and created a perfect runway configuration like a highway to heaven.
Moments later, Lancer was expertly threading the needle, softly massaging the craft into the illuminated pathway. Just before touchdown he quickly keyed the mike again, dimming the runway lights and activating the runway-end identifier lights. An instant later, we were setting down and he hit the thrust-reversers. I could feel the G-forces as the hurtling aircraft went into a smoothly controlled deceleration.
I had noticed a stationary Jeep alongside the runway
with two standing figures silhouetted behind the windshield as Lancer taxied into the turn at the end of the landing roll. This was no hearse and I could see no reason for these guys to be out here. I yelled, "This looks like unexpected company and these don't look like lovers, pal."
Lancer was busy executing his turn onto the taxiway but he had caught it, too. He said, "Shit, I think those guys have guns."
It was like a prophecy. I couldn't hear the gunfire but I could see the flashes from two high-powered rifles laying in on us—and this was no prophecy. These bastards were shooting at us.
Lancer yelled, "Hell, we're taking fire!"
So we were. A volley of heavy bullets smacked through the windshield and shredded the interior cabin walls behind us. Lancer was no dummy; I got the idea very quickly that this guy had been in combat situations before. He was maneuvering to get clear when the nose wheel exploded and sent us into a shuddering skid. He said coolly, "Christ, if they hit a fuel tank...!" He instantly killed the engines as the plane collapsed onto the forward gear.
Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 9
