He said tightly, "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."
"Do that," I said, and then I went to find Tim Murray again.
The thing was closing in on me. I felt it in the bones, and I felt it in other people's bones too. Had to keep pushing, keep the pressure on. And then hope that I'd be standing in the right place when the bubble burst. Trouble was, as it turned out, the bubble was really a powderkeg, and there would be no "right place" for anyone to stand.
Already five were dead.
And I'd been in charge for only one night. How many more could I last?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Maybe I should remind you once again that this was a police department in shock. It gets bad enough when a single officer is slain; it disturbs the equilibrium, reminds these guys that they are mortal, after all, and involved in highly hazardous work. It shakes up the wives and girl friends, frightens the kids, and invades the dreams of everyone affected. Here, we had four dead cops and an apparently related killing of an ex-cop. You didn't see tears or that many long faces around the department but this was symptomatic of the shock itself; what you saw was precision drill and machine efficiency in the daily routines, all imbedded in a palpable atmosphere of gloom approaching despair. It was as though the killings were the final straw for an organization already reeling and going down for the count.
I was a factor in that atmosphere, of course. I knew it. But I did not know how to become a positive factor except by accomplishing the task I'd been hired to perform. Kick
some butt was my charge from the official who hired me. Find the garbage. Dispose of it. I did not see how I could do that, however, without broadening the jurisdiction to include the entire city government, because I felt instinctively that the problems had begun in that broader arena and would have to be addressed there, as well.
Problem was, I didn't really know where to start. I'm no whiz kid, I'm a cop. Despite what you might have seen on television, police work is generally a drudgery, not a drama—and although the TV cops always seem to wrap a case during their twenty-two-minute time slot on the tube, it takes longer than that to write up a report in the real world. Give me six months and a couple of dedicated spirit guides, maybe I could root out the problems in this department and restore its self-respect—but, a couple of days? No way, and I knew there was no way.
I could not deal with the problems because I could not find the problems within such a brief time frame. I knew that up front, and I believe that Carl Garcia knew it too. When he referred to me as a "lightning rod" I believe he was acknowledging that understanding. He expected the problems to come to me.
And apparently they had.
I could deal with problems that came to me, or at least I could try, and I had to see it as a blessing.
He'd hired me as a catalyst.
So, okay, I'd been catalyzing. And five were dead.
Murrays home was in one of the more "mature" neighborhoods north of Foothill, meaning it was among the first to be developed in the extended areas of Brighton. It was a nice, traditional ranch style on a large corner lot, three-car garage, manicured lawns and flower beds, a basketball hoop on the garage and a pool in back. I knew what his legitimate income had been because I was hired in at the same salary with a daily bonus "ride" in recognition of an expected brief stay. I could not say that he appeared to be living beyond his means, especially since he'd been in the home for nearly ten years; he'd bought in a lot cheaper than you could today.
A very pretty woman answered my ring. She wore a tennis outfit and appeared to be preparing to leave when I arrived—garage was open and a door stood open on the only car inside, an older station wagon.
I introduced myself and we shook hands while she introduced herself. Murray's wife. That surprised me, because this woman at first glance appeared to be about thirty years old. Murray was easily fifty. If she was anywhere near that then she was remarkably well preserved.
"I just got home," she informed me. "Let me go see if Tim is awake."
It was a few minutes past ten. She hadn't invited me inside so I stood in the open doorway and waited, but it was not a long wait. Mrs. Murray was back almost immediately, told me: "Gosh, I guess he didn't get home yet. I'm sorry. He—I just assumed—I have early tennis on Saturday mornings. I assumed he was home when I left."
"Assumed?"
"Well, he—we have separate bedrooms. Because of his hours now. He usually gets home around four o'clock and I'm a very light sleeper. So..."
"I understand," I told her, understanding maybe more than I had a right to. When a marriage is good, any time to get home is a good time, but not to a cold bed. I angled a look toward the garage. "You must have been in a hurry this morning, didn't even notice that his car wasn't in the garage. Or maybe it was."
She gave me a surprised look. "You know, I don't know ...I was running a little late. I just don't know." She brightened. "Oh, shoot. That's why. He hasn't been using the garage. The door is so noisy. Wakes me up every time."
"He would have parked on the drive, then."
"Yes. You know, I just didn't notice. Isn't that funny?"
Me, I thought it was tragic. I asked her, "Do you have any idea where I might find him?"
"Did you try the club? Sometimes he works out. Or you might try the mansion."
"Which mansion is that?"
"Oh, I—" She giggled. "I assumed you knew." She assumed a lot. "The Schwartzman mansion? Up the hill?"
I thanked her and took my leave, but she followed several steps along the walkway and asked me, with a trace of embarrassment, "Have you met Lydia Whiteside?"
I turned and showed her a sober smile, replied, "I'm not sure I..."
"She's the housekeeper up at the mansion. I'm told she's very beautiful."
I smiled on as I told her, "Well... depends on the taste. Me, I'd take you."
That really flustered her. She said, "No, I—I was just— have you replaced Tim permanently?"
I said, "I think I'm just the relief man."
Mrs. Murray was visibly pleased to hear that. "We'll get this straightened out," she assured me. "Tim will be fully vindicated. They'll see."
I said, "Gee, I hope so," and went on to my car.
But I didn't think so.
I was met at the pedestrian gate by a man and a dog. The dog seemed okay. The man didn't. "What'd you want?" he growled.
"Harold Schwartzman," I said.
"Who?"
"Schwartzman? The man who lives here?"
The guy said, "Oh, he's not here."
I showed my badge through the iron bars and told him, "I'll just come on in anyway."
"Well, I don't know. I better call the house and ask. Just a minute."
The guy disappeared from view. The dog didn't, but seemed friendly enough. I said, "Good doggy," and he wagged his tail in response, what tail there was. Magnificent Doberman. I'd seen him earlier in his kennel, or one just like him. I could hear the man talking offstage, evidently through a call box, because I heard a responding female voice say, "Let him in."
"Open the vehicle gate," I instructed the guard. "I'll drive in." I went back to my car, the gate opened magically, I drove in.
The drive circles uphill and takes you to the front door beneath a portico. Nice grounds in daylight, heavily planted in flowering shrubs and young trees. I saw a tennis court that I had not noticed on the previous visit, a pool with several cabanas. It was a good day for a view, the air crisp and clean, not even any smog shrouding the valleys. I could see San Bernardino, probably Riverside and the sprawl southward toward San Diego, most of the valley towns westward as far as Pomona, Mt. Baldy behind me and the peaks of San Gorgonio to the east. Great spot.
I left the car under the portico. An Asian girl with scared eyes opened to my ring and escorted me to the chesty blonde, who was having coffee at a sunlit window table off the kitchen. I confirmed that she was indeed Lydia Whiteside, then I introduced myself. She poured coffee for me. We got friendly.
"I saw you last night," she reminded me.
"Saw you too," I assured her. In a somewhat different light, though. She'd looked like a kid last night, in pajamas and dressing gown. The sunlight showed her older, maybe thirty, maybe more, but no less attractive. She, too, was in a tennis outfit. I asked her, "You didn't just have a match with Mrs. Murray, did you?"
"Tim Murray's wife?" She laughed. "Hardly."
"Why hardly?"
She got serious. "I'm out of her class. What can I do for you, Chief?"
I carefully sipped the hot coffee and told her, "Just trying to get a feel for things. I'm new here."
"I know. What kind of feel did you have in mind?"
That was an open flirtation. I wasn't expecting it so I flubbed it. "How well do you know Tim Murray?"
"He works for Mr. Schwartzman now," she replied, taking my size with her eyes. "What do you want to know?"
"Where is Schwartzman?"
"He's out of town."
"That wasn't the story a few hours ago. You said he hadn't come home."
"Still hasn't," she said, grinning. "Sometimes he doesn't come home for weeks on end. Is that a crime?"
"Not as far as I know," I said, "but it could be a wonderment. Where does he spend all his time?"
"Depends on what he's got in mind," she said, getting flirty again.
I said, "I believe you're being evasive."
She said, "I believe you're being a cop."
"That's what I get paid for."
"All work and no play..."
"Bingo," I said, "that's my number. I'll play later. Right now I'm working."
"I'll play with you."
"Okay." I took a tall pull at the coffee. "I'll let you know when. Right now, can we work?"
"You're a very attractive man."
I said, "Thanks, you're a very attractive woman. Where can I get in touch with Schwartzman?"
"I thought you were wondering about Tim Murray."
"Him too. One at a time, huh? Schwartzman first."
"Mr. Schwartzman is a business man, a very busy business man. His business involves travel. He does not usually give me a copy of his itinerary, so I don't know where you can get in touch with him. When he calls in, I'll tell him of your interest."
"Does he call in often?"
"Depends."
I said, "Uh huh. What kind of business is he in, other than the joints in Helltown?"
"I'm not exactly sure," she replied with a straight face. "I think mostly, though, it's properties. And finance."
"What do you do for him?"
"I thought we covered that last night. I run this house for him. And his office."
"Can I see the office?"
"You're in it," she said, smiling.
"That informal, huh?"
"Mr. Schwartzman is the soul of informality."
I said, "I'll bet. Can I go upstairs?"
"Why?"
"I'm looking for Tim Murray."
"Here? He doesn't live here. But I'll take you upstairs if you want me to."
"What would we do up there, without Murray?"
She shrugged, grinned. "Whatever you had in mind. We could watch TV. There are some great tapes up there."
I said, "I sampled a couple last night while I was here."
"Oh, that's naughty," she said. "You should never watch tapes like those all by yourself."
I said, "With someone else, why watch tapes? I'd rather make my own."
Her eyes did that coy thing that only female eyes can do as she told me, "Okay, we could do that."
"But that would be part of playtime," I said regretfully, "unless... that's not part of your employer's business interests, is it?"
She laughed teasingly and said, "Gosh, you do love to play cop, don't you?"
"Five people were killed last night," I said. "That's not playing."
Her eyes jerked a bit. "Five people?"
I read the roster of the recently dead from memory, then asked her, "Did you know any of those people?"
She said, "No, I—just Frank Jones. But. .. what's going
"How well did you know Jones?"
"Not well. He's worked here for years, but I didn't see that much of him . . . My God!—are you saying that they were all connected?"
"Yeah. That's what I'm saying. And I suspect they were all connected to your boss." I stood up. "I really need to talk to him. Tell him for me, won't you?"
She was still my Godding as I let myself out.
I retrieved my car and rolled back down the hill toward Helltown.
I would have loved to have stayed and played.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Helltown looks different by daylight too. Take away the neon surface and what's left is aging and neglected buildings, dirty streets and cracked sidewalks, a general ambience of decay. It even smells different by daylight.
But that did not seem to keep anyone away.
The whole boulevard was bustling with activities which only looked different by daylight. The hookers, the dealers, the johns and the jerks did not need the cloak of darkness here for a sense of security; their security came with the territory. Maybe a listless sweep by a sheriff's squad once or twice a month just to feed the myth that the strip was being policed—an occasional item for the newspapers, couple of small drug busts, a hooker or two slapped on the wrists—that was about the extent of official police presence here.
Ah, politics—and the price we the people pay for the illusion that we are in charge of our government. The politicians are in charge, folks—the politicians—and don't
ever forget it. Show me one who is living entirely off his official salary for "public service" and I'll show you a guy who has not yet learned the ropes. Give 'im time, just give 'im time, and he'll soon be as big a whore as any, lying down for anyone when the price is right.
And it's not just our elected officials who see "service" as a one way street leading only to themselves. Look at your bureaucrats too, look—no, don't let me get started, I'll talk all day, and talk means nothing. Throw out one bunch of crooks and you merely open the doors to another. We can't talk our way out of this problem, can't bitch it away; we're stuck with it because we created it—and some very wise man a few thousand years ago told it the way it is: a people have the government they deserve.
If I sound cynical it's because I've been a garbage man all my life, and people who deal with garbage all the time stop believing the illusion.
While I'm on the subject, though, you want to hear something cute? A day has not gone by for months when there has not been a news item buried in the interior of the local newspapers or given a two-second blurb on television mentioning that another innocent child has been gunned down on some neighborhood street or while playing in his yard or sleeping in his own bed. It has become such a routine event that it is no longer regarded as hot news. The news people report it almost as an obligation, usually under the heading of "another drive-by shooting."
What is this shit? It's a crowd of hyped-up, drugged- out, fucked-up, soul-dead moral midgets drawn together as juvenile street gangs who think it makes a big man to pull a trigger on a two-year-old child asleep in his crib. These are gangs that can't live straight, can't think straight, and can't even shoot straight; they're killing everyone except the people they're shooting at. The gag is this: you pile three or four jerks just like yourself into a car, give everybody a gun that doesn't have to be aimed—just point it and pull the trigger, you're bound to hit something besides air—and drive through a neighborhood that is not your own. Then you pull the triggers any time you see something move. If you don't see anything move, pull the triggers anyway—what the hell, you came down here to pull triggers, didn't you?
What has happened to public outrage? Why hasn't the national guard been activated by the governor to go into these neighborhoods and round up these jerks, throw them in a bag, and toss it in the ocean? Know why? Because they're mostly juveniles, and we don't treat juvenile
s that way nowadays. We send them to school. They get out of school, go back to their neighborhood, and start cruising other neighborhoods again. There are more out of school than we can ever get into school, so it's a revolving door and a losing battle—and, before you know it, you've got brigades of adult jerks who've learned all the wrong lessons in the right place, and the cycle continues.
Know what's cute? Nobody gives a shit. That's why you don't see screaming headlines and outraged bulletins on the TV. Nobody gives a shit.
Interested in knowing what happened to public outrage? Look at what is news. Protest marches on abortion clinics, debates on the environment, obscenity trials, political scandals and campaigns, white collar crimes, anti-smoking crusades, the drug wars.
Jesus.
Where has our outrage gone? It has gone to the minor issues, pal, and we've all been seduced by the illusion. Murder of children in the streets is not nearly as outrageous as cigarette smoke in a restaurant or cruelty to animals, not in this America.
Do we have the government we deserve?
Well, I don't know about you, but the folks along the Helltown strip certainly had the government they wanted. Don't wonder why a cop gets cynical. He's cynical because he knows where your interests lie, and they always seem to lie in the wrong places. As long as little kids are being murdered in their beds with no public outcry, don't blame a cop for being just like you. I'm talking about self-interest, yeah.
At bottom, the folks at Helltown are no different than you. Their self-interest is merely directed into different channels than maybe you would have, but the focus is the same.
I had all this shit going through my head when I walked into The Dee-light Zone that Saturday morning. It was about eleven o'clock and the joint was at full blast. I didn't see Billy Boy but a couple just like him sized me as I walked in, then turned away and allowed me to find my own way inside.
I found elbow room at the bar and cased the place while waiting for a bartender to notice me. Saw no one familiar, place was filled up and cooking, waitresses jiggling around with trays of drinks and rowdy patrons going for free feelies when the bouncers weren't looking their way. There were female patrons here and there, also, and you could easily identify them without a program: a few butches, a few hookers, an obviously "tourist" group of mixed sexes who were there just to sample the atmosphere.
Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 7
