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

  The Chief gave me one of those sudden smiles as he replied, "Sorry, Joe, I shouldn't have jumped at you like that. Look, I was Faxed a hefty file on you from L.A. after our first meeting this morning. I don't have any serious reservations about you but I am also a cautious man and I don't necessarily believe everything I read. For what it's worth, I like you and I respect the way you've always handled yourself as a cop. After learning more about you, I'd have to say I can't figure you for anything dirty. But, as I said, I am a cautious man. So don't take it personal when I lean on you a little."

  I told him, "Lean on me all you want, pal. While we're being so candid, let me say that you are as sharp a cop as I have ever known and I respect you, too. I can't say that about every cop I've known."

  The Chief replied, "Neither can I."

  A young woman whom I recognized as a police dispatcher ran from the building and called to the Chief.

  "A shuttle driver just reported a vehicle over the side off Minaret Road near the ski lodge. Looks like a silver Continental. No further info at the moment."

  For such a laid-back guy, the Chief can move fast when the need is there. He was halfway into his police car when he yelled at me, "Coming?"

  I called back, "I'll follow you."

  Which was an act of faith on my part because I knew I was in for a hell of a run with this guy. I jumped into my van and put the pedal down directly behind him. We were moving at a rather sedate pace along the heavy traffic of Main Street, but he opened it up as we hit the outskirts of town and started the five-mile climb toward Mammoth Mountain. It's a good thing I was following close because I didn't know the area that well and I had only the haziest idea of our final destination.

  We were climbing steadily along a winding road west of town. The official elevation of the city itself is 8,931 feet. Mammoth Mountain, with quick and easy access from the town proper, soars to over 11,000 feet and is considered among the finest ski runs in the country. I've heard it said that skiing down the main run at Mammoth Mountain is equal to sliding down your kitchen wall. The ski lodge sits at the base of Mammoth Mountain and I believed that was about where we were headed. Though the skiers were absent this time of year, the area could be buzzing with tourists awaiting a ride on the gondola for an eagle's eye view from the top of the mountain.

  The silver Lincoln was almost invisible, perched upside down in a forested area at about the 9,000-foot level

  and maybe a hundred yards off the road. It took a good eye to spot it.

  We left our cars along the side of the road and closed quickly on the wreckage by foot. It was a silver Lincoln, okay.

  But Harley Sanford was nowhere around.

  A dead woman was.

  I knew this victim, oh yes. I had been with her just a few short hours earlier. She was wearing a uniform suit with her name and title stitched onto the breast pocket.

  I had known her only as "Cindy."

  She had been shot twice in the head with a heavy- caliber weapon.

  She was still warm.

  I was not. This was strongly reminiscent of the scene at the L.A. County Morgue.

  I was suddenly cold as ice.

  And I knew that I would not be warm again until I had come face-to-face with a stone-cold killer.

  I did not feel that Sanford had been in the car when it took the plunge off the road. It seemed more likely that he had engaged the cruise control and jumped clear before the car had a chance to gain speed, hoping that it would bury itself in the concealing forest. All the signs I could read indicated that the pilotless vehicle had left the road at a moderate rate of speed and took a fortuitous leap toward open country, then headed into a shallow ravine where it tipped over and came to rest much closer to the road than I'm sure he had planned.

  That was lucky for us because otherwise the car could have sat awhile in deep concealment before being discovered.

  Between you and me and the lamppost, this did not seem to be the action of an irrational man. It could have been sheer impulse, sure, but it was certainly calculated and it could have worked.

  There was certainly no joy in "Mudville" this day. It seemed that I was now to be required to investigate a slaying by my own father-in-law. I wasn't buying it yet, not all of it, but at least I would have to go through the motions—and then, pal, there was still that lovely mother-in-law to be considered.

  No joy?

  It was damn near insanity.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  i guess I was not the only one in shock here on the dark side of paradise. The Chief seemed to be no better off than I had been lately as he called in the report of this latest shooting. The poor guy appeared to be in a time warp of his own. Murder in the big city is now almost a daily event, standard routine. Violent death in a small town like this is never routine. It just is not supposed to happen here. Most of the police work in a town like Mammoth involves minor offenses and it's a real shocker when crimes of this magnitude shatter the normal tranquility.

  An apparent crime spree by one of the area's leading citizens was not only unthinkable but almost unbelievable. It was no wonder that the chief of a small-town police department was beginning to feel almost overwhelmed by the crimes that had suddenly enveloped him.

  Chief Terry identified the latest victim as Cindy Morgan. She was older than I had thought, but not much. Her I.D. showed her as twenty-nine, apparently single, and—according to the Chief—she had been living in the area for only about five years. There are few secrets in a small town like this, and very little goes unnoticed, especially by a sharp cop like this one. The girl had been working for the hotel since its opening two years earlier and previously had worked as a hostess at one of the finer restaurants in town.

  While waiting for the coroner to arrive, the Chief cranked up his cellular telephone and tried to catch Janice Sanford at the airstrip. He was told that Mrs. Sanford was not there and had not been in touch with her pilot; the people at the airport knew nothing about any plans for a flight by the Sanford company plane, which was still in the hangar and apparently was not being prepared for flight. There was no response to insistent rings at the Sanford home.

  The Chief growled, "Wonder what the hell is going on over there."

  It had been just about exactly an hour since we left the Sanford home. The plan had been that the Chief would meet Mrs. Sanford at the airport an hour later for the flight to Los Angeles. She would have called the pilot immediately to get the plane serviced and ready to fly.

  Something was wrong out there.

  I told the Chief, "This sounds bad. I tried to call Harley at home before connecting with him at the condo, which was just a few minutes after we hit town, and there was no answer at that time. Janice seemed to be reliable and anxious to identify her daughter's body. I can't believe that she would simply change her mind about that and not notify you of the change of plans."

  The Chief replied, "I'm with you on that. I'm worried. I'll have to take a run out to their place as soon as we finish up here."

  I said, "Well, I told you to use me. Would you like it if I went?"

  The Chief gave me an uneasy look and replied, "Yes, thanks, I'd feel better if I knew that Janice was okay. Christ, Joe, it has been a nutty day. To tell you the truth, I am very worried about Janice. As for Harley, he has always been a stand-up guy for my money. I am not willing to condemn the man until I know all the facts. There is no solid evidence that Harley is responsible for these shootings. Okay... maybe he was... and maybe he wasn't. I just don't want to fry him on conjecture, I'd like to know what it's all about. But God damn it, Joe, how would a man like Harley Sanford get himself into this kind of mess? I can't buy it unless the man has totally flipped his wig. I did not get that sensing from Harley when we were over there."

  I told him, "This sort of thing is never easy to figure, Chief, but I guess it could happen to anybody when the circumstances take you over the edge. Was he in any financial difficulties?"

  "Hell, I don't know. I
guess maybe sometimes the bigger they are, the harder they fall, but if Harley was in that kind of trouble I never heard anything about it. This guy started with nothing. If he has ended up with nothing, at this point in his life, maybe it could take him over the edge. He's a proud man, I know that, but he would be more the type to blow his own brains out in a situation like that, not somebody else's."

  I said, "Well, you know the man better than I do. Just don't bet your life on it."

  I slid out of the seat and showed him a sympathetic smile as I hurried on to my van. He watched me leave but did not return my wave as I turned across the road and headed back toward town. Poor guy was in a hell of a state over this, but that just showed the man's heart, not any weakness.

  I ran on back to the Sanford place, took only about ten minutes. Took me almost that long to find someone on the premises. A young man, whom I'd seen gardening earlier, finally showed himself outside a garage at the rear and came over to greet me. I asked him, "Nobody home?"

  This kid was a wiseass. He said, "I'm home. What can I do for you?"

  Somehow you can spot these guys, the type who come on tough but fold up at the sight of a badge. I had his number. He took a too-quick look at my P.I. badge and changed his tone instantly before even realizing that I was a private cop. He asked me, "What's the problem, officer?"

  I reminded him, "We saw each other earlier today. Where are the Sanfords?"

  He told me, "They went out. Is something wrong?"

  I said, "Could be. I was supposed to meet Mrs. Sanford at the airport. She didn't get there. What do you know about that?"

  The guy replied, "Uh... she tore out of here about... I wasn't watching the time but it was right after you left here a while ago."

  I asked him, "Did you notice when Mr. Sanford left?"

  "Just before you left," he said.

  "Was he driving his Lincoln?"

  "Yes, sir. Mrs. Sanford drove her BMW."

  "Any idea where Mrs. Sanford was headed?"

  "No, sir. They don't usually keep me posted on their activities."

  I gave the guy a knowing smile and thanked him. Next stop was the hotel where Cindy Morgan had worked.

  An older woman was at the front desk. She was about fifty, friendly—almost too friendly—but I did not remember seeing her before. I asked her, "What time did Cindy go off duty?"

  The woman replied, "She works a split shift on weekdays." She gave me an almost flirting smile. "She's due back at six. Could I help you with something?"

  I told her, "Maybe you could. Do you know Harley Sanford?"

  "Sure, I know Mr. Sanford," she replied.

  "Do you see him often?"

  She gave me another teasing smile. "Not nearly as often as Cindy sees him."

  "What does that mean?"

  She covered it with a laugh and said, "I was just kidding."

  I said, "Of course you weren't," and gave her a wink.

  She gave me a wink in response as she said, "People do talk. Weren't you staying here a few weeks ago?"

  I said, "Yeah, I'm Joe Copp. I'm a police investigator and I've been doing some work with the local police department."

  That information intrigued her. Didn't seem necessary to explain that I was a private investigator. I checked her name tag as I leaned close to show her a confidential wink. "Did you see Cindy leave here with Sanford a little while ago, Marie?"

  She replied in almost a stage whisper, "Yes. Oh, well,

  I'm not sure about today. I didn't actually see the car, but he's been picking her up here just about every day for months. For lunch, of course, or so they say. Look, I'm not just gossiping, everybody in town knows what's going on. That is, maybe everyone except his daughter. She and Cindy are close friends, so I can't imagine that she would know about it. You know these small towns, they're practically soap operas—everybody is connected with everybody else, and they all know each other's business."

  "You're speaking of Martha Kaufman, right?"

  "Yes. She owned the art gallery that burned recently."

  "Have you heard about the policeman who was shot today?"

  She replied, "Did I hear! I was about a block away. It sounded like the Fourth of July. Poor man, I hope he's going to be okay. What was that all about? I can hardly believe that a thing like that has happened here. It really shakes you up."

  I said, "Yeah, it sure does. Afraid we don't have any answers yet. We're still trying to sort it out. Uh... listen, Marie... you seem to have most of the scoop around here; do you think that Janice Sanford knows about her husband's 'lunches' with Cindy?"

  "That poor woman, how could she not know? God, it's been one after another for years. For all I know, maybe he goes home and boasts about his indiscretions. Certainly he has never seemed interested in trying to conceal it."

  I said, '"Peyton Place,' huh?"

  "'Peyton Place' was before my time," she said teas- ingly.

  I teased her back—"Sure, sorry. Mine too. Guess I was thinking of 'Dallas.'"

  She was having fun with it. "You don't look like a soap-opera man, Joe. I'm sure you can find more interesting ways to spend your nights. But if you need any suggestions..."

  "God, Marie, you'll have the whole town talking about us."

  She said laughingly, "I don't care if you don't."

  I told her, "Sure, you say that now, but how will it feel when the entire police department is talking about

  you?"

  "I could handle it," she replied soberly.

  I kissed her on the lips and beat it out of there. I was not sure that I could handle it. Especially not in this town. Paradise? Not really. There was no such place in the world I knew. Didn't seem to matter the size or the name, the whole world seemed to be intent upon devouring itself despite all the efforts of the finest and the sweetest among us. If that sounds like a cynical cop, then let me wear that label for a minute—it comes to all of us at one time or another, and this seemed to be my turn.

  A dark thought suddenly struck me.

  Had Mrs. Sanford noticed her husband's absence after the chief and I departed, and went searching for him? Had she found him?

  God, I hoped not.

  This thing had become twisted enough without adding further complicating factors.

  But what could have sent Harley Sanford gunning murderously for two people? What set him off? Was it

  simply grief that sent him over the edge? Was it revenge? Or could it have been an overpowering guilt?

  I almost did not want to know the answer to that. Even less did I desire to know the truth about Janice Sanford's possible leap into the darkness. I liked that woman. Already she'd had enough heartache.

  Something dark and scary was whispering at me. Something almost already known or at least suspected, and maybe too terrible to contemplate. If so, could I handle that truth, or had it been blotted from my mind as a merciful amnesia to shelter a knowledge too terrible to face?

  What kind of guilt, what fearful truth could I be hiding from even my own mind?

  Had I crossed the threshold into every good cop's worst nightmare?

  And what have I been trying to hide, even from myself?

  My God, what could I be guilty of here on this darkest side of paradise!

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHief Terry had returned to the police department only moments ahead of me. The Morgan girl's body had been transported to the county morgue and Terry was in a foul mood. That is understandable; it's a rotten task under the best of circumstances, the very worst in a small town like this where no death is impersonal—where, indeed, every death is intensely personal. A homicide is particularly ugly and shattering because it touches the darkest fear of the human heart. It is the personification of evil and confusion when it strikes this close to home.

  The Chief crankily told me, "I could have saved you a trip. There was a message from Janice waiting for me when I got back. She decided to drive into L.A., said she needed some time to settle her mind an
yway. I'm not surprised. She always had a fear of flying, especially in these smaller private jobs. What did you pick up out there?"

  I replied, "Not a hell of a lot. One of the workers told me that Sanford took off while we were still there—which we already knew, of course—and that Janice had left just after us, which I guess also is old information now. So, what is your sensing on all this?"

  The Chief replied, "Why don't you ask me something simple? I put out an APB on Harley while I was waiting for the coroner. So there is a periodic surveillance on his other homes. I don't expect him to show up there, but at least we're covering the bases. Does that meet with your approval?"

  I said, "Fuck it. Since when have you sought my approval?"

  The guy chuckled at me and said, "Fuck you, too."

  I chuckled with him. We were both drawing blanks and we knew it. Poor bastard, I couldn't blame him. His town was caving in around him; two more homicides and he'd be out of a job. I asked him, "How much longer 'til your retirement?"

  The Chief said, "Retirement, hell. Two more homicides and I'll be out of a job."

  I told him, "You just read my mind, pal."

  He said, "If I was a drinking man, I'd have a snort right now. Maybe I'll have one anyway."

  I said, "Maybe we could classify it as justifiable therapy."

  He uncorked a "short dog" of Jack Daniels from his file drawer and said, "Justifiable or not, fuck it. Let's do it."

  It was a very short bottle, maybe one good snort for each of us. Drinking man or not, this guy punched it in a single gulp. I did the same and immediately regretted it. We both grimaced appropriately and shivered with the expanding burn from the Tennessee sour mash.

  I've been for hire, been on fire, been in deep and in the dark, even been on ice, and for days I'd been in shock, but that snort capped it all and released the tensions that had put us both on edge. We had become pals again. Whatever your feelings about "the devil's brew," and all its reputed evils, both of us needed that. We would find later that we were going to need much more than that bottle had to offer us.