Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Read online

  "I'm afraid the parts you might find the most interesting may not be working up to par. How about a rain check? Right now I'd feel fine if you could bring back the real Joe Copp." The sexual banter had been a running gag between us for years. But one of these days I might call her bluff and scare the hell out of her.

  Molly said, "Well then, let's get this show on the road and get to work on your par game."

  She ushered me back to the alcove in the rear of the shop and gingerly went to work on my bandage. She gently lifted off the gauze pads, exposing the mess underneath, and asked me, "Do you really want to look at this, Joe?"

  "Does it look that bad to you?"

  "I wouldn't want to kiss it, Joe. How can you not remember this!"

  I replied soberly, "Lots of things I'm not remembering right now, Molly."

  "Maybe that's for the best right now. What do you want me to do with this mess?"

  "Just make me look pretty."

  "I don't think it's possible to make you pretty, love, but would you settle for the same old Joe?"

  "If that's the best you can do, okay. Just don't make me fatally attractive."

  "You came in with the fatal part, I'll supply the attractive part, then I'm going to jump your bones, Joe."

  I still wondered sometimes if Molly was really kidding about all the lust 'n love talk. But it was no time to be exploring ideas like that. I had too many other unanswered questions percolating through my traumatized brain and I still knew that I must stay one step ahead of the cops until I got myself back together.

  Molly performed her usual magic, added a thin adhesive strip and patched some wig fragments over the wounded area. I appeared almost normal and I figured one of the hats in my closet would finish off the look. At least now I wouldn't be scaring little children on the street.

  I gave Molly a warm hug and a quick kiss and I carefully found my way back into the van. I was still feeling a bit woozy, not dizzy exactly, but maybe a bit unsure of my navigational skills. I needed to get back home and start to unravel the mysteries that were clouding my mind. Someone tried to blow me away and it was time to find out who... and why. There was a strong probability that the cops were considering hanging a murder rap on me and I had to find out if there was any connection between my own shooting and the woman's murder.

  My place is in the foothills overlooking the San Gabriel Valley, about thirty miles east of the L.A. civic center. It's on semi-isolated acreage of horse estates dotted with shrubbery and trees. Most of my neighbors place big store in the fact that there is room for horses and plenty of privacy, the kind of place where people mind their own and expect the same of others. The horses are no attraction for me but the ever-persistent flies seem to love them.

  In the truest sense, my home is my castle. I have a theory that our homes reveal who we are and what we think of ourselves. A lot of people seem to believe that they find themselves in their work or play. I believe that you find yourself where you live, because that is the only place where you truly are yourself.

  I turned off the main road onto the lane leading up to my house and I was relieved to see that Leonard was on his job and had taken the Cad for repair.

  I let myself in through my prized Grecian entryway, a sort of a mini-colonnade floored with Italian tile lifting to a reception hall. Off to the left and down is the kitchen and utility space; off to the right and up is the living room; a single large bedroom takes up the whole back of the house. I've got a spa back there, a small workout gym, and my business entrance is via the patio door, which opens directly into a partitioned office area just in case it would be a little unsettling for my clients to invade my bedroom.

  The first thing that struck me as I stepped inside was a painting hanging on the wall above the couch in the living room. Funny, I hadn't noticed it before. It was large and looked more expensive than I knew I could afford, so what was it doing in my house? Something about the painting gave me a shivery feeling, almost like a foreboding. In spite of my unease, I had a feeling for the painting; it was a glorious pastoral scene of the high country. I pulled it off the wall for a closer look, disturbed that I seemed to be seeing it for the first time, and I had to wonder what else had been erased from my memory by that bullet.

  The indistinguishable artist's signature told me nothing, but a small sticker on the back of the painting identified the Kaufman Gallery, Mammoth Lakes, California, and the title "God's Country." As I was returning it to its place on the wall, there was a reoccurrence of the inexplicable sadness that had gripped me earlier in the hospital. It was just a momentary flash and I really didn't understand it, but I knew that it meant something important because I found myself tearing, and I don't cry easily.

  I had to soak this one through so I heated up the spa and immersed myself for a long one. I knew that I was pretty badly scrambled, almost as if the left brain was not hooking up with the right brain. I was in obvious confusion and that is a hell of a scary place to be when your life may be on the line. What was it the homicide detective said to me?... did he say Kaufman—dammit! The painting was labeled... oh shit, Kaufman Gallery. Mammoth, yeah, but why Mammoth? I was sure that I had not been there in years. I used to do a bit of trout fishing there but it's been ages, I thought. If I had been there recently and didn't even know it, then I was truly screwed up.

  I came quickly out of the tub, soaking wet and buck- naked, and took another look at that painting. Dammit—the goddamned tears again—what the hell?

  I went without pause to the telephone and called Johnnie Chen, my forensics man at the county morgue. He confirmed that there was an unclaimed female gunshot victim by the name of Kaufman and that was all he knew about her, which didn't help a hell of a lot.

  I was going to have to take a look at this victim for myself even though something inside of me said, "Don't go, Joe."

  But I had to go. I had to know.

  I toweled off, dressed, and began rummaging through my papers in the office safe. I found a receipt for the "God's Country" painting. I had paid nineteen hundred dollars for it! I could hardly see myself paying that kind of money for a painting unless I had suddenly struck it rich, and I didn't see any evidence of that. I characteristically keep very detailed business records and my ledger revealed two trips to Mammoth recently. What the hell had I been into that may have resulted in a woman's death? It appeared that I would have to return to Mammoth with hope that I could bring the shattered memories into focus. Maybe my life depended on it.

  I knew I shouldn't have gone. Death in the morgue is never a pretty sight, but this was even more unsettling than usual. Clearly, she had been a very pretty woman. She had stood about five foot ten and was very nicely put together before two big slugs changed all that. In spite of the gruesome disfiguration of the body, I knew in my gut that I had known this woman and that I had known her intimately even though it was a very fuzzy recollection. If I had known her well enough to have been somehow involved in her death, then at least I needed to involve myself in her life. The only way I knew how to do that was to discover the truth about Mammoth.

  I had to go.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mammoth Lakes is beautifully nestled in the eastern High Sierra Nevadas about six hours northeast of the L.A. basin and about three hours south of the Lake Tahoe, California-Nevada line. It's a small mountain community that has long been a popular resort area for both winter and summer sports. The long drive across the Mojave desert is largely uninteresting, until suddenly you encounter Mt. Whitney, the highest mountain peak in the contiguous United States. At this point the wild, rugged beauty of the mountains is almost seductive in its natural splendor, and the dramatic moonlit view was actually therapeutic for me.

  As I approached the mountain community of Bishop, less than an hour from Mammoth, it was nearing midnight. My brain was working overtime and I was feeling jangled and out of sorts so I took a motel room for the night as it didn't make a lot of sense to push on to Mammoth at this hour. Bes
ides, I wanted to hit the place fresh and in the daylight.

  I was up and rolling at six o'clock and wheeled the van off U.S. 395 at the junction with the Mammoth Lakes road shortly before seven. As I came into town I was startled at how familiar it all looked in spite of the fact that I had no memory of being there for at least ten years. It did not really leap at me until a seemingly new McDonald's restaurant came into view. The architecture was rustic and unlike the classical McDonald's layout. I knew that I had been in that particular restaurant before; I almost missed it.

  While inside, nursing a coffee, one of Mammoth's finest strode past, gave me a little half smile, and said, "The mighty Joe Copp. How's it going, Joe?"

  I didn't know this guy from Adam but he seemed pleasant enough despite the almost sneering remark. I called him back, and asked, "You know me, pal?"

  "Do I know you! It took four of us to take you down when you were busting up the Kaufman Gallery."

  "When was that?"

  "Short memory, Joe? I'll never forget it."

  "Sorry about that. Nothing personal intended. How'd I do?"

  "You did better than the boys from Tahoe. They'll never get over it. I like your style, Joe."

  The cop gave me an amiable wave and went on out. So what the hell did I have here now? What boys from Tahoe? So obviously I had been to that gallery and I even got into a beef. Could it have been enough to get a girl killed? Evidently there was no connection in this town yet between the Kaufman Gallery and the dead girl in Los Angeles. I needed to go check out the gallery as my first item of business although I still seemed to have a lot of resistance to the very idea, but I was hoping the visit would shake up my memory banks and shed some light on my connection with the place.

  Think again, Joe—the Kaufman Gallery was no more. The place had been gutted by fire, and fairly recently, it seemed.

  A couple of workmen were tearing away the dead timber and the whole place was a charred mess. I had to go inside and give it a look even though just the sight of the place was enough to confirm my growing feeling that something terrible and dark had happened here.

  As I stepped inside the rubble one of the workmen approached and said to me, "Are you the insurance man?"

  I replied, "Just an interested friend. What the hell happened here?"

  "The fire marshal is calling it arson."

  "When?"

  "About a week ago. Damn shame, it was a beautiful place. Wonder how Martha's taking it."

  That comment was like a bolt of lightning zapping me. It was the same feeling I had been getting every time I encountered her name—an indescribable sadness and sense of loss. I did not trust myself to respond to that question. My ears were ringing and I felt dizzy, a bit disoriented. I guess I mumbled something in reply but I have no idea of what I might have said. Apparently I made no sense to him because he just stared at me as I stumbled away and beat it out of there.

  I guess I was in worse shape than I realized. It was not my style to back away from the truth and I knew that was exactly what I was doing, and I didn't like it. But what could be so terrible about the truth? So, a woman was dead. That can never be a happy event but I have managed to live through it many times in the past so what was so different about this one? I'm not a total dummy. Evidently I was responsible in some way and that was why my head was so scrambled. I didn't know because I didn't want to know and I didn't want to know probably because I was somehow responsible for this woman's death. Enough of this idle speculation. It was time to get back on track and quit feeling sorry for myself.

  I checked my notes and drove over to the hotel, where my records showed that I had recently spent time. It was just a few blocks from the heart of town, an upscale inn that looked fairly new, maybe a bit familiar, but it did not stir any particular memory when I went inside. The desk clerk seemed to recognize me though, showed me a cheery smile, and said, "Nice to see you back. What can I do for you?"

  She was a pretty girl of about twenty-five with fiery red hair and interesting green eyes. I did not want to tell her that she was a total stranger to me, just in case she wasn't. I'm sure that I would have wanted to get to know her better—and for all I knew, maybe I had. I spotted her name on the breast pocket of her uniform and replied, "Hi, Cindy. Think I need a room for a day or so. Can you take care of me?"

  She gave me a startled look and even seemed a bit embarrassed as she replied, "Things not going well with you and Martha?"

  Martha again. Jesus. We must have really been an item up here. I said, rather lamely, "She went to L.A."

  Cindy said, "Oh," in obvious confusion but covered it quickly. "Sure, we have room for you. That will be a single room?"

  "For now, yeah."

  There was a noticeable chill in the air at this point. I turned over my credit card and signed the registration. She gave me my room key without further comment. Either she was still feeling some embarrassment or there was something personal between the two of us that had her a bit on edge and noticeably distant. Whatever, that was the end of our conversation. I pocketed my key and went directly to the phone bank across the lobby, scored instantly with a listing for M. Kaufman on Old Mammoth Road.

  I found it to be a small condo complex at the edge of town, a short drive from the hotel. Condominiums have truly come into their own in this region. It seems to be the major choice for housing, primarily alpine-mountain architecture, emphasizing an aesthetic blending with the environment. Mammoth has a stable permanent population of five thousand, with probably two to three times that number at the peak tourist seasons.

  I didn't have to use my burglary skills to get inside because some subliminal sense moved me straight to the hidden key buried in a planter at the front door. It looked so familiar, I really didn't feel like a second-story man. The feeling of deja vu intensified as I stepped inside. I think I would have been disappointed to have found a conventional setting with no charm or character. Her special touches were evident everywhere, with artistic and even dramatic style and grace.

  This had the same feeling as my own place, and in particular it produced the same appreciation that I had found in the painting of "God's Country" now hanging in my living room. This was a special woman, one that I would have enjoyed spending time with. The weirdest part was when I found my own shaving gear in the bathroom and some of my own clothing on hangers in the bedroom closet. Then I noticed the photograph on the nightstand beside the bed. It was of Martha Kaufman and me, a Polaroid, the type snapped by roving casino photographers. Hell, I had been living with her! My god! This could not have been a casual relationship! I knew her intimately! And I was getting solid evidence of that truth as I began experiencing these same overwhelming feelings that had been flashing on me in an almost subliminal level ever since I hit town.

  It was almost too intense to stay in there. I sat down on the bed and tried to pull myself together but the tears came anyway—a grief like I had never experienced. What the hell—this wasn't like tough Joe Copp. So what was going down with me? I had the feeling that somehow I had betrayed her. I began to feel tainted and dirty inside, almost as though I had been directly responsible for this beautiful woman's death.

  Okay, Joe, wake up! Start thinking like a cop, dammit! The woman is dead. I almost got it, too. Okay—there was a brawl in her gallery... two guys from Tahoe making trouble for her... it seems that I bought a piece of that action... the police intervened. Why were thugs from Tahoe coming down on this obviously cultured woman? Could this have been the catalyst that produced a deadly encounter in Los Angeles?

  This was almost terrifying but I knew I had to break through into the truth, which was banging at me. Nothing could be worse than this confusion. It was hurting like hell but I knew that I had to move with this photograph. There was nothing ordinary about this woman.

  Her dramatic dark eyes almost hypnotically pulled me into the picture. A classical, statuesque woman of about thirty with soft brown hair worn rather casually, very pretty, strong wit
h a sense of self coupled with a soft and almost wistful vulnerability. She dressed well but not flamboyantly. She was an artisan, a dreamer, an achiever.

  I was falling in love with her... for the second time, it seemed.

  But enough of this. I needed to get to work. The cop at McDonald's made me feel almost like a local celebrity, so maybe I could get something from these people. I used Martha's telephone to call Mammoth P.D. The woman at the switchboard seemed to recognize my name, too, and switched me instantly to Chief Terry. That was a surprise, but Terry seemed interested and cooperative.

  "Joe, how's it going? One of my boys mentioned that you're back in town. Big-city boys treating you okay?"

  "Not really. I'll tell you all about it when I come in. Right now, I need to get a copy of your report on my incident at the gallery with those guys from Tahoe. Also, whatever you have on the fire. I'd appreciate it, Chief."

  "No problem. When do you want to pick it up?"

  "How about an hour. Would that squeeze you too close?"

  "You got it, bud. Don't cut it so close that we can't stop and chat awhile."

  I thanked him and began feeling like a cop again. The brief conversation somehow had the effect of clearing my head a bit. I went into the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator and cupboards just looking for a sensing of the place. I found a six-pack of my favorite beer and various goodies; it seemed that at least once we had walked the aisles of the supermarket together.

  I hit real pay dirt in a cabinet in the living room. It was a shocker, and it damn near carried me over the edge.

  I found a marriage certificate in that cabinet.

  I had married Martha Lynn Kaufman in Tahoe shortly before the shooting in L.A.

  I had failed to prevent the murder of my own bride!

  And now I was really in shock!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  it had been a whirlwind romance. I knew that much, now, and I was remembering it in bits and slices. It had really started when two guys began pushing her around in the gallery and I went to her assistance. That part was clear and firmly etched into my awareness. It was our first meeting and I recall hanging around and browsing through the artworks waiting for an opportunity to introduce myself. The two guys from Tahoe came in and began throwing their weight around before I had a chance even to speak to her. One thing followed another and I ended up tossing those guys into the street before I even knew her name. As fate would have it, that incident was what brought us together. I remembered then our first conversation and her warm appreciation for my effort. She had been strongly unnerved by the incident and she invited me next door for a cappuccino and Danish.