Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series)

by Don Pendleton

  The question of her midnight visit to the mansion twenty-four hours earlier was not totally settled in my mind. Supposedly she had gone there to find Tim Murray, had skulked around the shadows outside for a while, then left after first being accosted and detained momentarily by Frank Jones, who apparently had been shot and killed at

  about that same moment. In connection with that visit, she had lied to me at one point or another.

  In Murray's presence, she told me that she had been the one who fired the shots that presumably killed Jones, but she'd created the impression that she had fired at the guard dog when it threatened her. Later, at Arrowhead, she denied firing any shots and told me that she had heard the shots nearby while lying on the ground waiting for Jones to tie the dog and take her in charge for trespassing.

  I had doubted all along that Lila could have fired the shots that killed Jones because I had heard her car start just a couple of seconds after the gunfire. But the timing was off, also, to support her Arrowhead version that she was lying on the ground inside the gates when the shots were fired.

  So... what the hell?... was Jones shot outside the gates and later carried inside to be found in a different location? Why? By whom? How?—I had buzzed past the drive myself hot on Lila's tail. I'd heard a ruckus inside as I passed, yes, but I'd noticed no activity outside those gates at that moment. Could he have been shot inside, from a shooter positioned outside, and then the body moved to a point where it could not have been seen from the outside? Again, why?

  Or had Jones been shot earlier?

  If so, where?—why?—by whom?—and why would Lila tell me that she had heard shots at the time to confirm the alleged time and place of death?

  Had she gone to the mansion that night to see Tim Murray?—or had she gone up there to see Lydia Whiteside? And had she gone back again tonight, for the same reason?

  Why would she tell me that she hardly knew Lydia, then react so dramatically a few hours later upon hearing of Lydia's death? She'd handled all the other deaths okay, from what I'd seen.

  And why was she stonewalling me now, when it must have been very apparent that I suspected her of lying to me? I walked her to her car, just as I'd done the night before, and I asked her, "Where did you go when you left here last night?"

  "Home," she replied quietly.

  "And?"

  "And to bed."

  "Uh huh. Then what?"

  "You want me to account for myself?"

  "I'd appreciate that, yes."

  She said, "Go straight to hell. One afternoon of love does not get you that much."

  "I'm not asking as your lover."

  "As my boss? That doesn't get it either. If I'm a suspect then read me my rights and let me call a lawyer."

  "You've been working with Tim Murray, haven't you? Since he was fired, I mean."

  I might as well have been speaking to the wind. She went on to her car, inserted the key in the doorlock and opened the door, showed me a winsome smile. "Last invitation tonight. Come back to the inn with me."

  I shook my head. "Can't do that, kid."

  "Then I suppose this is goodbye."

  "Don't you mean goodnight?"

  She gave me a pitying look and got into her car, kicked the engine over. I walked alongside as she was backing out of the parking place—then decided, what the hell, to do something dramatic. I yanked the door open and dragged her out of the car. It coughed and died, which was more

  reaction than I got from her at that moment. I guess she was too surprised to resist or even complain. I kissed her and she stiffened at first, then relaxed into it and kissed me back. It got very passionate for a moment there, then I released her and I guess we were both a bit dizzy from the encounter.

  "Does this mean you've changed your mind?" she asked huskily.

  "Yes and no," I told her. I dug for my keys, took my housekey off the ring, handed it to her, gave her the address. "Can you remember that?"

  "I guess I can," she replied. "What do I do with it?"

  "Decorate it with your presence. I'll get there as soon as I can."

  "This is your place?"

  "Yes. It's about twenty minutes from here. Safer than Arrowhead, for the moment anyway. Be sure you're not tailed."

  She said, "Joe... I can't do this."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, I just can't do it."

  "I'll try to join you there in about an hour."

  "Well, then, let's just stay together until. . ."

  I said, "No, it's better that you go ahead."

  "Promise you'll come?"

  "As soon as I can."

  "Promise you won't give me the third degree."

  I held up my hand in a scout's oath. She smiled and got back in her car, blew a kiss as she drove away.

  I didn't know if I was glad or sad.

  I only knew that I could not turn her loose into the night again completely on her own. And I did not want her at my side when I returned to Lydia Whiteside's apartment. Another pattern was forming in my subconscious and I wanted to give it room to develop fully before trying to fit it into the world outside.

  i stopped by the PD and got an update on the Whiteside investigation. The homicide boys were still up there but the body had been transported and marked for autopsy. Zarraza was in charge of the investigation, which told me something right there. He was one of the low men on the totem pole, therefore this particular investigation was not being given much priority. But, of course, these cops were almost totally consumed by the deaths within their own ranks. Practically the entire operations division was mobilized toward those other investigations, and all of the detectives were putting in some wearying hours beyond and above the usual pace of work.

  O'Brien had the watch. He seemed friendly enough, even when I told him that 1 was calling a halt to the unofficial "acting chief" rotation.

  "Makes sense," he agreed. "Especially now with Roger permanently out of the rotation. And I have to tell you, I'm getting dog tired."

  "Go home," I ordered. "Right now. Take the rest of Sunday off. I'll pass the word to Ralston and I'll want you both in here at eight o'clock Monday morning. Let's get things back to normal."

  He said, "Well, that will take some doing, but I guess I'm ready to try."

  "Then consider yourself on-call 'til Monday. Get some rest. Be ready to tackle a total reorganization when you come back in here. I'll expect you and Ralston to set it up. Let your lieutenants carry the load. I want you two on standard day shift and I want an equal distribution of responsibilities. "

  "Okay," O'Brien tiredly agreed.

  "Who's your best man on the floor right now?"

  "That would be Ramirez, but he's already been on duty around the clock. He's beat too."

  I checked the time and told O'Brien, "Let's send most of these people home. You and Ramirez put your heads together and decide who completes the watch. Resume with the normal day shift, Sunday routine. Soon as you get that set up, send Ramirez in and you take off, go to bed, get some rest. You can put it all back together Monday."

  "What if you're not here Monday?"

  I showed him a smile. "What difference would that make?"

  He smiled back. "See what you mean. Okay. Thanks." He took a step away, paused, turned back to say, "If I pegged you wrong, Joe..."

  I grinned and told him, "No, I think you've had it right. I wouldn't like me either, Pappy."

  "Asshole," he said with a smile, then went on to turn the watch over to the homicide lieutenant.

  I spent the next ten minutes scrutinizing the logs and reading reports, then I went on into my office. Ramirez caught up with me there as I was collecting my messages, said, "Okay, it's set. Pappy said you wanted to see me."

  I had him confirm that Ralston had been notified of the change, then I told him, "I want Zarraza for a special detail. Tonight. Can you cut him loose?"

  He nodded. "He's working Whiteside. Just finished the on-scene. He's on his way in. What's up?"


  "Can you find a judge in this area on a Saturday night?"

  "We have a routine, yes. You want a warrant tonight?"

  I said, "Search warrant. The Schwartzman place. Not

  just the Whiteside apartment. The whole place."

  "Oh, you want. .. ?"

  "Right, all grounds and structures, the whole schmear. Two deaths up there in two nights, you have all the justification you need." I glanced at my watch. "I'll need it by four o'clock."

  The guy seemed just a bit disturbed about that. I told him, "If it's bothering you, spit it out. What's the problem?"

  He came in and closed the door, leaned against it to tell me, "There's been a longstanding hands-off policy where Mr. Schwartzman is concerned. I don't know how high that goes, so... the apartment, okay—the grounds, okay—but Mr. Schwartzman's personal... I don't know that I can make a case for a search of all structures."

  "You mean you're afraid you can't sell it to a judge."

  "That's about what I mean, yes."

  I said, "No judge in his right mind would openly obstruct a murder investigation, whatever his politics. Do it this way. We suspect that Franklin Jones may have been murdered in Schwartzman's home while he was away, or by a guest or intruder in Schwartzman's home during the commission of another crime. We absolutely must have a warrant to search the premises from top to bottom, and we must have it immediately to secure whatever evidence may be developed from the premises. Got that?"

  "Got it," he assured me, but he still looked troubled when he left me.

  I felt a bit troubled, myself, when I collected the electronic message that had been awaiting my attention since midnight. It was from "Don Carlo," it was short, it was cryptic, and it was disturbing as hell. Not because of what it said but because of what it implied.

  The guy had sworn me in just a little more than twenty-four hours earlier, after all but imploring me to take the job. Now it seemed that he was firing me:

  "The Dons lost again. Kill all bets, cut your losses. Better luck next rime. Medicare isn't half bad. Don Carlo."

  Not only that, but it sounded like maybe he was firing himself.

  If I was reading it right, then for sure I would be running the streets naked and alone come Monday morning.

  At least, now, I knew how much time I had to walk out of this town under my own steam, clean, and proud.

  I had a little more than twenty-four hours. If I should live so long.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was getting onto three a.m. when Zarraza rapped on my open door and stepped inside. He looked tired, in fact he looked beat, and I could sympathize. He gave me a quick rundown on the results of the Whiteside investigation to that moment, which added nothing to my own understanding, and concluded by stating that the coroner's team was leaning toward a finding of death by self- administered drug overdose, pending autopsy results.

  The security guard, Norm Tomkins, had given Zarraza essentially the same story he'd given me regarding the eleven p.m. visitor. Zarraza had the tape in an evidence bag but had not yet viewed it. I told him what I had seen on the tape, then handed over the three other tapes Tomkins had given me before the discovery of Lydia's death. I explained that they were the surveillance tapes from the period surrounding the shooting of Frank Jones, and I further told the detective, "Let's keep those under wraps for the time being. There are other tapes I'd like to get my hands

  on, but I want it legal beyond any question." I explained that I had sent Ramirez for a search warrant and told him, "I want a clean sweep, I want a fully preserved chain of evidence, and I want to make the move before Schwartzman returns. Also I'd like for you to handle it. Are you game?"

  Zarraza smiled tiredly as he replied, "Well, at least the spirit is willing."

  "Then the flesh will follow," I assured him. "Pick a couple of guys who you'd trust with your wife and your life. Have them ready to move within the hour."

  He glanced at his watch, said, "None I'd trust with my wife, but I get your meaning. I know a couple I'd trust with my life."

  I warned him, "If we find what I'm hoping to find, it could bring a lot of discomfort to a lot of people in this department. I'm not sure about Ramirez, even. Be sure you're sure about the two you pick. They should be squeaky clean and not afraid to see the chips fall where they may."

  "Why're you so sure of me?" Zarraza asked with a faint smile.

  "I'm not," I replied, mirroring his smile. "I'm following the gut. What else can I do?"

  "That's what I'm doing," he said.

  "Trust it?"

  The smile broadened. "What else can I do?"

  So at least we understood each other. "Put your men on alert, get them on board as quickly as possible. I'll tell Ramirez that the search warrant is yours. You move as soon as it is in your hands. I want all the tapes, surveillance and otherwise, and I want them cleanly identified as to where they were found and the condition in which they were found. I want all clothing, all papers and records and writings, anything and everything that can identify or verify the residents and/or visitors. You know what I want."

  He knew, yes. "We'll need a truck."

  "Cut a voucher and rent one, have it ready to roll by four o'clock. Will that be a problem?"

  "No, I know where I can get one on short notice. Will you be coming up with us?"

  "I'll be there waiting for you," I assured him. "How's the gut now?"

  I already knew, seeing it reflected in his eyes. "Tumbling a bit," he admitted. "You're taking on big game, you know."

  "Get the right weapon," I reminded him, "the rhino falls as quickly as the deer."

  He knew that, too, and he knew that we were going for the right weapon.

  I just hoped I'd picked the right team. Zarraza had called it. I was going for damned big game.

  I was at the mansion by three-thirty, passed myself through the gate and allowed Tomkins to open the front door for me. He was clearly frazzled, confused, frightened—and his frame of mind pre-empted my own agenda of the moment. "I think I'd like to get out of here," he told me as soon as I stepped inside the house. "But I don't know what to do. I'm supposed to go off at eight. Who's going to relieve me? I called Harry Snow and he says he's not coming in this morning. So who the hell is going to relieve me?"

  I said, "Look at it this way, you'll get all this overtime. Is Harry sick?"

  "No, he's scared, says he don't want no more to do with it. I even have to feed the damned dogs. The gardener's

  gone, the maids are gone—nobody will be back until Monday. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

  "Who pays your salary?"

  "Lydia took care of that. She managed the place. So who's running it now? Are you? Can you find someone to relieve me?"

  "Can't you get hold of Schwartzman?"

  He gave me an "are you kidding" look. "How would I do that? Are you in charge here now?"

  What the hell—why not? I squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and said, "What do you think, Norm?"

  "Well, I think someone has to be in charge. You said you took Tim's place, so . .."

  "And what did Tim do?"

  "Well, you know... he ran it."

  "The security?"

  "Well, sure, that too. I just want to be sure I get relieved. Harry has freaked out and he's not coming back, I can tell you that, he's not coming back. I've been on ever since Frank died and maybe I ought to be freaking too. What's going on around here, Joe? Why would Lydia do that? Why would she want to kill Tim? Those two were as close as any two people you'd ever want to see. Why would she do that?"

  I said, "Well, Norm... he was a married man."

  "He was?"

  "You didn't know that?"

  "I don't know, I just assumed . . . when did he get married?"

  I said, "We're talking about Tim Murray, right?"

  "Right, Tim Murray."

  "The Chief of Police."

  "Right, that Tim Murray. But I didn't know he was married."

  I
said, "Maybe he didn't either, Norm. Maybe that was the problem."

  "I wonder if Lydia knew."

  "If she didn't know, maybe she found out the hard way. Maybe that was Murray's wife that came here just before Lydia died."

  This guy was not what you'd call bright, but he wasn't that dumb. "Aw, no, I don't think so, Lydia really wanted to see this woman. Well, it's a hell of a note. It's got me very worried, Joe. I'd like to get out of here."

  "I don't see any chains on you," I told him.

  "Well, I can't just leave..."

  "Why not?"

  "Who'll feed the dogs?"

  "Don't worry it. If you want to go..."

  He did, he really did. "I'll lock the gates open. That okay? So the maids and gardener can get back in?"

  I shrugged and said, "It's fine with me. Norm."

  It was like the guy had just been granted a parole from prison. I saw the weight of unexpected responsibilities slip from his shoulders as he hurried back to his little cell. I stood at the front door and waited while he gathered his things, and I saw him out the door a happy man.

  But probably only for a little while.

  I'd brought a patrol unit with me. They were waiting outside to collect him. Another unit was already collecting Harry Snow, the other guard. For nothing, maybe, but at least they'd get booked on suspicion of littering or whatever and we could hold them for awhile, pending other developments.

  For awhile, at least, Copp was in charge of the mansion.

  From Lydia's apartment, which apparently also doubled as a makeshift office, we took six boxes of records, receipts, account books, bank statements and other papers. Apparently she had been running two bank accounts with the local bank, one under Brighton Holding, Inc. and the other a personal account in her own name but nothing under Schwartzman. There were payroll records not only for the help at the mansion but also for a number of businesses in Helltown, including The Dee-light Zone, as well as account books and other records having to do with the management of those businesses.

  I didn't take time to go through all that stuff. We just bundled it and bagged it and boxed it, carried it to the truck, and moved on to the rest of the house. I went through the maids' rooms while Zarraza and his crew cleaned out the security station, tried to not really disturb the meager belongings there and didn't expect to find anything but felt that I had to give it at least a tweak, then was glad that I did because I found something interesting if not exactly evidential. One of the maids had a photo on her dressing table, it was taken out about the grounds somewhere, and it showed an aged Asian man—probably the gardener—and a young Asian woman posing selfconsciously with the swimming pool in the background.