"Cops too."
"Cops especially."
"You sound worried."
"I am worried. There have been death threats, Joe."
"Against you?"
"Against my wife and kids. They're still up north and that makes it even worse. I haven't found a place to live down here yet, still in a hotel."
"Stash them."
"Right now?"
"Soon as you break this connection, yes. Put them into cool storage, right now. Tell no one where they're at, not even Grandma, and use a public phone to send them there. Once they're stashed, don't let them use a credit card or a telephone. They are to get cool and stay that way. Understand? Maybe it's an overreaction, and let's hope it is. But do it."
"Okay, yes, I'll do that. Does this mean you're taking the job?"
"That's what it means, yes. When do I start?"
"I was hoping you could come right now. The timing is important. I figure we need the weekend to sneak you in past the council."
I sighed, checked the clock, and told him, "Give me a couple of hours."
The relief was evident in his voice. "Right. I'll be waiting. Come straight to city hall, Chief."
After I hung up I sat there for a couple minutes, staring at the telephone. Chief, eh? It was a laugher. The rest was not. It all sounded a bit nutty and unbelievable, but I'd been hearing things out of Brighton and I knew it was all entirely ominous too. But I laughed anyway, remembering Sidewise, Taxidriver, and Lila Boobs.
It was worth a laugh, sure.
I could cry later. . . and I would.
Brighton sits low in the foothills with a view of Mt. Baldy and several other towering peaks of the San Gabriel and San Bernardino mountains. In the winter, they're snowcapped peaks and nothing is prettier. Rest of the time they just stand there shrugging off the desert heat and smog rising from below, sometimes shrouding themselves with cooling clouds when conditions are right—and sometimes the Santa Anas whistle down their slopes and scream through the canyons of the foothill communities like angry spirits from some long gone Indian tribe hoping to discourage the steady encroachment of the squatters filling the broad valleys and blotting out the hills, but nothing will discourage that except maybe a couple of well-timed 8.2 quakes arising from the numerous faults that crisscross the area.
The city was founded by agricultural pioneers before the turn of the century. They brought year-around water to the desert and transformed it into garden oases of citrus and avocado, date and olive and grape, built packing sheds and rail lines and roadways, tamed the wilderness and prepared it for the urban onslaught that would follow a hundred years later. Gone now are most of the crops, the packing sheds, the farm laborers camps and most everything else related to agriculture, replaced by broad boulevards usually choked with endless streams of cars and trucks, square mile upon square mile of houses and apartments and restaurants and service stations, liquor stores and theaters, shopping malls to stupefy those early pioneers, and problems no suburban city ever thought it would have to face.
Ten years ago the Brighton Police Department numbered thirty sworn officers and four civilian employees. Police excitement in those days would involve little more than a fistfight in a local bar, a fenderbender on Main street or a rowdy drunk beating up his wife. Today you cat count nearly a hundred badges, a civilian bureaucracy almost as large as the sworn force ten years ago, and they deal routinely with gang drive-by shootings, armed robberies and burglaries, a homicide rate that has doubled in two years, drug dealers large and small, rapes and violence of every type, prostitution, sophisticated white-collar crimes and cons and swindles; name it, they got it at Brighton just as in any big city in the land, and all in a dizzying ten years.
What they did not have at Brighton at the time was an effective police department. What they had was a department in shambles, no clear direction, no morale, no faith in their ability to police the town. And of course it goes without saying, in such a situation, they had some baaad cops on that force. I could smell them all over the place, like stinking garbage that's hidden away and you can't see it but God you know it's around somewhere close.
I hit town about an hour before midnight, traveling light with only a suit bag and a few changes of underwear, and met briefly with Carl Garcia in his office. He swore me in, gave me my badge and gun, walked me over to the PD and introduced me to the watch captain, and then he left town for parts unannounced.
The captain's name was McGuire, they called him Pappy, and he clearly did not like me for shit. Which was okay, I didn't like him either and it meant not a thing either way. He had twenty officers coming in for the graveyard shift and a few more than that going off; I ordered them all to stay put and told McGuire I wanted a general muster of every sworn badge within the hour, no exceptions except for those presently engaged in sensitive duty operations. He gave me a nasty look and I thought for a quick staredown minute there that he was going to disregard the order, but finally he blinked first and passed the command along to the dispatch office.
It was a modern, clean, and spacious building outfitted with all the latest technology. These cops obviously wanted for nothing that money could buy. They had a workout gym and a couple of handball courts, luxurious lounge, all the employee trappings of an enlightened and prosperous city. What had gone so sour?
My office was a marvel. The desk was as big as a double bed. Had a long leather couch, a little alcove with tables and four overstuffed chairs—a television and a VCR, for God's sake—even a full bath with glassed-in shower stall. A snazzy hi-tech communications unit was built flush into the desk; you could audit all the telephones from there and record conversations, patch in directly to the dispatcher's console and record there too. I'd never seen anything like it, certainly had not expected to see it in Brighton, of all places.
I decided I could live there, at least for the weekend, brought my stuff in from the car and set up my shop, then went out for a word or two with Pappy McGuire. He's a guy about forty, long and lean, frown wrinkles rumpling the forehead, all the negative elements of a cop's eyes— suspicion, fear, worry, hostility—you can't miss it and you can't overlook it.
He asked me right off the top, "You been certified by the research and academic council for this job?"
He was referring to a state organization that establishes training criteria and qualifications for police management positions as an aid to local governments. "Not lately," I replied. "You?"
"Two years ago. Why do they always want to go outside the department for a new chief? I'll have to uproot if I want to go any higher in this line of work. Not that it wouldn't be better after all, considering the loonies at this city hall."
"They didn't even appoint you Acting Chief," I said, watching for his reaction. "Why not?"
McGuire shrugged, picked at his nose, examined his fingernails. "They appointed nobody Acting Chief. It's been a revolving situation, with each Watch Commander as the badge in charge reporting directly to the City Administrator, except that we had no C.A. until your friend Garcia arrived. It's no job for a civilian, I guess even you know that. We figured Garcia to do something stupid. Looks like he's done it. Where'd you come in from? What's your background?"
"San Francisco," I replied casually. "LAPD, L.A. Sheriffs, cop for hire. What's yours?"
He gave me a startled look. "I've been here my whole career."
"That's steady," I said. "Or dumb. Which is it?"
"More and more I think it's dumb," McGuire told me quietly. He scratched his nose and gave me a direct stare as he asked, "How long d'you think you'll last?"
"Long enough," I replied, "to kick some butt. Do I need to start with yours?"
He looked away, inspected his fingers, replied in a muffled voice, "I doubt you'll last that long."
The place was beginning to fill up. A lot of disgruntled faces, some sleepy ones; it was midnight, time to talk to the troops.
Copp was in charge, yeah, but in charge of what?
&nb
sp; Maybe he'd last the night.
Maybe not.
CHAPTER THREE
These were mostly young faces here, as you would expect of any department undergoing rapid growth, and the mix was pretty good with minorities reasonably represented, including eight female officers. They were crowded into the overflowing squad room which had seats for less than half of them, the others layered along the walls on three sides in disgruntled anticipation of the midnight meeting with their new chief. The brass were characteristically huddled in the front corner to the right of the podium, captains and lieutenants with folded arms and blank faces determined to reveal nothing of what was going on in the gray matter behind them.
I spotted Sidewise and Taxidriver in a solemn group along the wall about halfway to the rear. Lila Boobs was not there when I opened the meeting but came in about halfway through, taking an inconspicuous position at the rear. Our eyes met briefly across that charged atmosphere and I was pleased to note some discomfiture there. She'd done some thing to the long blonde hair to make it appear much shorter and she was now wearing designer jeans and an oversize sweatshirt but there was no problem with the recognition.
I hit that group with both barrels, mincing no words and making no bid for popularity, wanting to wake them all up with a figurative slap in the face and inviting an angered reaction. .. but I got none. "Your town," I told them, "has become the laugher of the entire state, your politicians lampooned regularly in the Los Angeles Times and your bureaucrats ridiculed in Sacramento. And you people. . . you call yourselves cops? Your streets are totally out of control. Your citizens are terrified. The common street wisdom throughout this valley is that crime pays and pays big inside the Brighton city limits. Nobody respects you. Nobody likes you. Nobody feels comfortable with you people on the streets—nobody but the hoods and punks. You terrorize your own citizens who are jaywalking or driving a bit too fast but look the other way when the gangs swagger through. Cops? You call yourselves cops? There's a hell of a difference, you know, between a cop and a mere neighborhood bully."
I didn't want to give any comfort to the idea that I would be around short-term. So I told them, "Maybe I'm here today and gone tomorrow, and that's okay, maybe that's the way I'd prefer it, but I was brought here to kick butt and I want you to know that I am going to kick butt until someone takes me out. Who knows how many of you will still be here when that happens, or how many of those will have their same rank? I didn't bring a broom with me, people. I brought a baton as big as a baseball bat, and I'm going to lay it against the head of any officer who makes me feel disgraced by association."
I said a few other things, and I guess I scowled a lot and grimaced a lot—which didn't seem to matter much because
not many were meeting my gaze anyway—and I ended the "get acquainted" meeting by telling them: "I'll be calling you in one by one for personal talks over the next few days. Meanwhile my office is open at any time to any who would like to initiate that talk. Now get out of here and go take charge of your city, but not until I get to the door. Each of you is going to look me in the eye before you get out of here."
And each one did. I even got a few smiles and here and there an enthusiastic handshake. One of the female cops even flirted with me. Not Lila Boobs, though. Turns out she is Detective Delilah Turner, Vice Squad. She gave me a cool, level stare as we shook hands. I told her, "You look better with your hair down."
She murmured, "Sorry 'bout that. I'll explain later."
"Can hardly wait," I replied, and went on to the next in line.
The brass were the last to leave, the three captains and six lieutenants. They'd remained near the podium in a huddle with a dozen or so other guys, including Sidewise and Taxidriver, until the line out was nearly exhausted, then all straggled forward as a group with the brass bringing up the rear.
Taxidriver was Detective James Manning, Burglary Detail, and Sidewise identified himself as Sergeant Grover Peterson, Investigations Unit. Both were grinning, maybe a bit self-consciously, so I grinned too and told them, "Joke's on you boys."
"Guess it is," said Peterson. "Or maybe it's on all of us."
"No, I think it's on us," Manning said with a chuckle. "Ice cream get home okay?"
"Hardly a drip," I replied, and went on to the brass. I closed the door on those guys and gave them a private ripping, told them, "You guys have been here through all
of it. What the hell's the story? How'd it get so bad so quick?"
McGuire turned away from that one but another captain who identified himself as Roger Williamson badmouthed me right back. "If all you know is what you've read in the papers, then you don't know a God damned thing," he told me, but the tone was mild enough. "Maybe you should reserve your criticism until you get on board and see the problems up close. Hell, anybody can shoot a rabbit with a shotgun."
"Bullshit," said the other captain, a guy named Ralston. "Chief Murray was removed because he was flat on his ass and couldn't find the ground with either hand. I support everything you said, Copp. But I can't support you. You're no chief of police and you never will be."
"Correction," I said quietly, happy to have the honest feedback. "I am the chief of this department and I'll stay the chief until it becomes a real department. Test that, and you'll be on the sidewalk outside on your own ass before anyone can notice you're gone. You guys can think whatever you want to think, but you damn sure better toe the mark and take everything I say as gospel until some other chief comes along, otherwise you won't be here to greet him."
I addressed my final remarks to the lieutenants: "You guys be ready to fill vacant spots upwards or downwards, in case anyone is still wondering who's in charge here. Copp is in charge. He's going to shake this department out and stand it on its feet within seventy-two hours, and he's starting the shake at the top. So get ready for it."
I walked out, leaving some very sober faces behind in the squad room. Those guys all had my number, knew who I was and what I was about. And I could almost sympathize with them. I'd never risen above the rank of sergeant after fifteen years of public service, so who the hell was I to be reorganizing the entire police department of a midsize city? Worse than being a nobody, I was a failed cop in their eyes, a guy who could not or would not work within the system.
But, of course, that was the whole point of my being there. Carl Garcia knew my history, knew it well, knew me well enough to know that I had very little respect for the system that had produced this mess, well enough to know that I was not afraid of these guys or their system and that I would go straight for the jugular in dealing with the problems there.
I had a charter to kick ass.
That was exactly what I intended to do.
She was waiting for me outside my office, sprawled in a chair at my secretary's desk and nervously twirling a stray lock of hair. She stood up quickly at my approach and tried a smile that did not quite work, told me in a husky voice, "I feel like such a fool."
I opened the door to my private office and ushered her inside, went in behind her and closed the door, waited until she'd settled into a chair in front of the desk before I went around and took my own chair. Hell, she was half a block away, on the other side of that massive desk, so I got up and went to the alcove, asked her, "Could you scare up some coffee?"
She murmured something and left with that same graceful stride I'd seen outside the supermarket earlier, returned a moment later with a steaming glass pot, took some cups off a sideboard in the alcove and poured the coffee.
"Sit down," I commanded gruffly.
She settled onto a chair at the opposite side of the alcove, tasted the brew, said, "Not bad for graveyard coffee."
"I always liked it the best," I told her. "Matter of fact, I always liked graveyard the best."
She wrinkled her nose in a smile that was genuine this time as she replied, "I have a hard time sleeping days."
"Me too. So I never slept much on graveyard."
We'd run quickly out of small
talk. We stared at each other for a moment, then she said, "Uh. . . those guys recruited me for that little detail this afternoon under false pretenses. Said you were a smalltime private eye hired to poke around in the city's business. I—"
"Partly true. I am a private cop. But I have not been retained in that capacity."
She looked confused, but went on with her explanation. "Stings have become my specialty lately. Vice stings. We've been going for the Johns and seeing that their names are printed in the newspapers. Manning and Peterson approached me and asked for my help in setting up this private eye who had been hired to cause trouble for the department. Said they just wanted to roust the guy and give him some discouragement." She frowned. "I didn't much like the idea, but..."
"But you went along."
"I went along. I honestly believe that Manning and Peterson had been deceived too. They're good guys, good cops." She gave me an oblique smile. "Despite what you may have been led to believe, there are some good cops in this department."
I said, "Of course there are. Most are, I'd guess. The problem is at the top. Help me fix it?"
She squirmed briefly, replied, "I'd rather be a cheerleader than a player. I don't know from politics, don't know the game. I just want to be a good cop."
"Good cops," I reminded her, "don't look the other way when shit is happening. They dispose of it. I can't do this job alone, Turner. Help me pick up the dog shit."
She stared gloomily into her coffee for a long moment then lifted troubled eyes to mine and said, "Okay. You can count on me. I'll do what I can. Just don't ask me to be a snitch, please. I have to work with these guys, maybe for the rest of my life. Don't ask me to..."
"I'm asking that you be a good cop. That's all. When you see shit going down ..."
She showed me a sober smile, finished the statement for me. "Pick it up."
"Right. And deposit it here, in this office."
Something passed in our locked gazes, I don't know what it was but it was nice, and it was warm, and I liked it. Detective Turner set her coffee down and stood up. "Thanks for not holding this afternoon against me."
Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 2
