Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Forta
took me on over to the city of Los Angeles and introduced me to Abe Johnson, the guy in charge of the investigation for LAPD. Johnson gave me an enthusiastic handshake and acted like we were old friends too long parted. I couldn't remember him. He asked, "How does it feel to run naked through the wild and woolly jungle with no paydays and no benefit package?"

"Wild and woolly..." I said, trying to place the guy. I was with the city for a while, some years back, and I was sure I'd never worked with the guy; my memory is not that bad. Johnson is black and a native of Arkansas, big guy with an engaging smile and interested eyes. LAPD does not hire upper ranks from outside the department, they promote from within. I approve of that. You don't make lieutenant quickly at LAPD, so I knew that the guy had been around for a while. Maybe we'd met once at a departmental social, a picnic or ballgame. Whatever, I liked this cop right off.

He said, "Thanks for the tape, Joe. The lab boys have been scrutinizing it all day."

"Anything yet?"

"Some interesting murmurs now and then on the soundtrack."

"Well, you're ahead of me there. I didn't take time to screen the audio, just ran a quick scan and picked off the video subjects for my own file before surrendering the tape. What kind of murmurs?"

"Oh, very angry sounds—from the interior of the shop, we presume. What kind of mike were you using?"

"Directional barrels. So the audio pickup was directly off the shop windows."

"They'd rattle from either direction though, wouldn't they."

"Yeah, but differently. Your technicians will be able to tell the difference. It's subtle but—"

"Well, we thank you for the tape. It could mean a lot. We got another break, too, a lead on a young woman who apparently was involved."

I had a quick mental picture of long legs and impenetrable sunglasses. I pulled out a chair and sat down and told all to Abe Johnson.

He jotted notes as I talked, nodding his head in agreement with certain information that seemed to coincide with something else he already had, but no questions and no interruptions until I'd told what I had. Then he told me what he had. I was liking the guy more and more.

"That ties pretty well. Your blond is probably the same woman we're looking for. Her name is Melissa

Franklin. She's an actress and she's been seen a lot recently with Wiseman."

"How did you tie her in?"

"She was observed by one of our traffic units getting out of the limousine just moments before it exploded. She moved to another vehicle that was parked at the curb just behind the limousine. The kids on traffic detail would never miss one like this. Our boy watched her pull away and even noted the license plate on her car. He was half a block down the street and right behind her when the limousine blew. She kept right on going but he doubled back immediately to cover the trouble."

"But he had her tags."

"He had '
em
—we love these personalized tags, you know. They stay in the mind."

"I'd like to meet the lady."

"Don't worry, you will. Soon as we run her down. Hasn't lived at her DMV address for more than six months. Wiseman's place is in
Bel
Air, and apparently he lived alone. The housekeeper knows Melissa Franklin but not much about her. But we'll run her down."

I glanced at Ken
Forta
as I asked Johnson, "Is there any question about the car bomb? Could it have been accidental?"

"We wondered about that after we got your report—but the explosives were fixed to the frame of the vehicle and wired to a timer. It blew straight up through the floorboards, the gas tank exploded too. Made a mess, Joe. We were lucky to get ID on the victims."

"How good is that ID?"

"Good enough. Wiseman had hired the car for the

day but he took it as your same Albert Moore. That corroborates your report. He wanted to pay cash but he also wanted to use his own driver, so the agency insisted on a cash or credit security deposit equal to the replacement value of the vehicle. So the guy calling himself Albert Moore shows up with a credit bond drawn on United Talents under the signature of Bernard Wiseman. In other words, the studio is guaranteeing the security of the vehicle but it's checked out to Albert Moore."

"And the driver?"

"The driver is Albert Moore. We've verified his chauffeur's permit with DMV."

"No—you see, Abe—Albert Moore is—"

"I know, I know." Johnson waved me off. "But there really is an Albert Moore—or
was
—and he really was a chauffeur on United Talents' payroll, drove a limo every day almost identical to the
Starway
vehicle. Moore rented the limo and United Talents guaranteed the security. Maybe it sounds too cutesy but it would work to keep Wiseman's name out of the record if things had gone okay. So what do you think was going on, Joe? Why did Wiseman go to all that trouble to conceal his identity?"

"Seems obvious. I get it a lot. Bashful clients, I mean. As for the rented limo, same logic. He didn't want to use a car that could be traced to his true identity ... I'd like to see the remains."

"Be my guest, but even his own mother wouldn't recognize . . ."

"So how'd you ID?"

"Mostly medical and dental records, but there were other bits to nail it down."

      
"Any chance it was not Bernie Wiseman in that car?"

      
"I'm satisfied it's him," Johnson said. "He left the studio with Moore at noon yesterday and hasn't been seen since." He opened a folder, produced an eight-by-ten color photo, handed it to me. "That your man?"

      
I couldn't be sure. The man pictured in that studio still seemed a bit younger and thinner than the one I'd faced in that limo outside my office. The hair and style looked the same. I tried to visualize the face in the photo with dark glasses covering the eyes, still couldn't be sure.

      
"Was Wiseman physically handicapped?"

      
"Paralyzed from the waist down."

      
"It's him."

      
"Sure?"

      
"No."

      
"Pretty sure?"

      
"Almost."

      
"What are you making, Joe?"

      
"Find out what the head of United Talents would gain by staging his own death."

      
"Okay. On the surface I'd say nothing. He's been riding the top of the wave around here lately. Worth much more alive than dead."

      
"You sure?"

      
"No, but it figures."

      
I stood up, looked at
Forta
, told Johnson: "I'd figure it some more. You asked about the wild and woolly? I can pick my own, pal, that's how it is. I would not pick this one."

      
We chatted a bit more as Johnson escorted
Forta

and me outside. I learned that the arson team was still at work in the bombed-out building and that they were saying nothing pending their final conclusions; Johnson was a bit irritated about that because he had two homicides connected with that one too—derelicts who'd been buried under the debris in the alleyway. The three of us
hoo-hooed
a bit about the agonies of conflicting personalities and the division of responsibilities in criminal investigations, then
Forta
took me back to my car and I asked him about Abe Johnson along the way.

      
"You don't remember him?"

      
I said I couldn't place him.

      
"That's weird,"
Forta
said.

      
"Why?"

      
"He's the guy."

      
"What guy?"

      
"The guy that Angie was . . . involved with when she divorced you. I think they're married now."

      
"Well, I never met the man. That's why I didn't recognize him."

      
"That all you have to say about it?"

      
"What'd you expect?"

      
"Well, you spoiled all my fun. I kept waiting for you to wake up and put the guy on his ass."

      
"Hey, we're talking seven, eight years ago. Besides, he seemed like a nice guy."

      
"I don't believe it. You're not the same guy I used to know, Joe."

      
"I hope not."

      
"That guy was screwing your wife."

      
"She was screwing him back. The marriage was dead before that started."

"You've really changed, pal,"
Forta
said with a disappointed sigh.

Not really, not all that much. Don't know how I got the reputation as a
hardass
. Angela tried to be a proper wife and I tried to be a proper husband, but it fell apart. I think maybe I could make marriage work now. But I don't expect to try again. No reason why Angela shouldn't.
 
And I really did like Abe Johnson.

The question I would have to ask myself was did Abe Johnson like me?
 
Because I was going to be needing all the support I could get, from wherever.

The missing Melissa Franklin was waiting outside my office when I got back, scared and looking for protective arms.

So much for the wild and woolly jungle and picking your own fights.

It is not a one-way world.
 
What goes around, comes around. And sometimes the fight picks you.

CHAPTER FIVE

Melissa Franklin was one hell of a beautiful woman, and there was something even beyond beauty that reached out and touched you by her close presence, a magnetic sort of something that made you want to get even closer. A tall girl, mid to late twenties, with the new-woman fitness look, an aerobics workout look, and you knew that even her sweat would smell good.

The car she was driving fit the image very well, and it was as memorable as its tags. Personalized plates on the red Jaguar XJ-6 proclaimed that someone had PAID DUES for the pleasure of driving it, but none of that joy was presently in evidence. Our eyes met as I pulled in beside the Jag and I could see misery and fear flare into something like relief or hopeful anticipation before she clouded the gaze and covered the emotion with a blank stare.

She reacted immediately and unlocked her door on

the passenger side when I rapped the window with a knuckle, but she averted the gaze when I slid onto the seat beside her. I kept one foot on the ground and the door open—as much to reassure the lady as anything else—and I gave her a chance to speak first, but she didn't seem to know how to start, so I started for her.

      
"Waiting for me, Melissa?"

      
She kept her attention on the steering wheel. "Yes, but I'm not sure I know why. How did you know my name?"

      
"A traffic cop made you leaving the scene just before the limo exploded. They want to talk to you. You need to go in."

      
She sat with shoulders hunched, hands on the steering wheel while I wondered what was going on inside her lovely head. She was dressed in a leather jumpsuit with slits up the legs. Her top had a neckline that plunged. When she turned her eyes onto me they sent electricity.

      
"Promise me you'll never wear sunglasses again."

      
"What?"

      
"I couldn't see your eyes the other day. They're too good to hide."

      
"I don't understand."

      
"When you came here with Bernie."

      
"I've never seen you before in my life," she said in a tone usually reserved for a statement of the obvious.

      
I chewed that for a moment. "So why are you seeing me now?"

      
"I'm trying to find Bernie."

      
"If you've never seen me before in your life, how'd you know to start looking here—and how do you even know who I am?"

She tossed that golden head and gave me a sidewise flash from the eyes. "I've known about you from the beginning," she told me. "I helped Bernie select you. Now I want you to help me find him. I'll retain you. Name your price. I can afford it."

I ran a hand along the leathered interior of the Jag and replied, "I'm sure you can. But there's no need. I don't know your game, Melissa, but I know that you know that Bernie is dead. You were within sight of it when his car blew up last night. So why would you be trying to find him here? The county morgue is—"

"Stop that. The man in that car was not Bernie Wiseman. You know that as well as I do."

"I know nothing," I replied quietly, patiently. If it wasn't Bernie, then who?"

She was teary. "Don't try to tell me that you weren't in on this, I know all about it—"

"Exactly what do you think you know?"

"I know that Bernie was coming to see you. He was setting something up, I know that. And I was supposed to meet him in Hollywood last night, afterward. I know that. But the man in the car wasn't Bernie. So where is he?"

I took my time lighting a cigarette, then blew the smoke outside. "This is getting ridiculous, kid."

She agreed, but with a lot less patience than I was showing. "It sure is!"

"Let's start it again. You and Wiseman came here two days ago in a rented limo and under false colors. He posed as a man named Albert Moore and hired me to sit outside
NuCal
Designs
and photograph the comings and goings all day yesterday. I delivered the film to his chauffeur at a few minutes past six. At about seven o'clock
NuCal
blew and took most of the neighborhood with it. An hour later the rented limo blew and took Wiseman and his chauffeur with it. But it didn't take you with it, because you beat it away from there moments before the blow. A traffic cop saw you transfer to this car and he made a note of your license tags. The homicide people are interested in your close escape, they want to talk to you about that. It would look better if you found them instead of vice versa."

It was late afternoon. I wanted to get inside and check my machine for calls while there was still some business time left in the day. It wasn't that I was indifferent to this lady's problem; I just did not see that I could add anything worthwhile to her game on her terms. So I left her sitting there in her emotional stew and I went on into my office.

She followed quickly and joined me inside before I could get through the reception area.

"They want to kill me too!" she announced breathlessly. You've got to help me!"

I gave her a cold stare as I replied, "I don't have to do a damned thing, kid. But I've been known to do quite a lot when I'm properly asked."

"I'm asking you," she said miserably.

"Didn't hear it," I said. "What did you ask?"

"Will you help me?" she muttered.

I opened the inner office and invited her inside. I didn't know if I could help her or not. The lady certainly had my attention, though and I was willing to try. But then something rushed out of the office behind me and exploded against my head with a flash of pain and nausea. I grasped the significance of that feeling but I could not follow it intellectually; it felt like death, like dying and spinning into a bottomless chasm and being too sick to care. I must have gone out like a light because I do not even remember hitting the floor.

I came out of it with Ken
Forta
and two uniformed deputies bending over me. I felt very sick and very weak, and my head was like ten Margarita hangovers. Someone growled, "Look out, he's going to puke," and someone helped me turn onto my side. I retched a couple of times but nothing came up. The nausea began fading, though, and I became aware of blood in my hair.

I sat up and put a hand to the wound, couldn't feel any brain tissue spilling out, decided I'd live. Someone grabbed my hand and slapped a cuff on it.

Forta
growled, "Take that off!—take it off!"—and the cuff magically slipped away.

I muttered, "What the hell is going down, Ken?" and tried to get to my feet but couldn't even find my feet.

Forta
said, "Sit still, Joe. For God's sake, just sit there and behave yourself until the medics get here."

I said, "No, no, you don't understand," but then neither did I. It was all jumbled and weird, and it became even more so. I think probably I was slipping in and out of consciousness, because I don't remember seeing the paramedics until we were inside the ambulance, then I saw them again at the trauma center as I was being wheeled into the surgery.

It all came back, in there, as the doctor and two nurses were doing things to my head. I saw Ken
Forta
standing just outside the door with a worried face and the two deputies leaning lazily against a wall and looking bored. I called over, "Ken! Is the girl okay?"

      
He just smiled at me, and a nurse shushed me, and the doc went on doing things to my scalp.

      
I yelled, "
Goddammit
, Ken! Is she okay?"

      
The nurse again tried to intervene but the doctor told her, "It's okay, we're finished. Let the officer come in." He told
Forta
, "Superficial, he'll mend. He's all yours."

      
I wondered what he meant by that, but I should have known by the look on
Forta's
face.

      
The uniforms came into the room while
Forta
recited my rights to me.

      
I said, "What the hell is this?"

      
He said, "Sorry, Joe. It's a collar. Suspicion of homicide."

      
"Aw no," I said. "She was alive and well when my lights went out. I had nothing to do with it."

      
He told me, "I believe you, Joe, even though I don't know what you're talking about." He bent down to whisper, "Shut up,
dammit
, until you've got your lawyer."

      
Then the uniforms pulled me off the table and cuffed me.

      
It became very real, then. It was not a nightmare. It was entirely real, and I was under arrest for murder.

The charge was conspiracy to murder. The list of victims was long, and growing hourly.

      
But Bernard Wiseman and Melissa Franklin were not on that list.