Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series)

by Don Pendleton

  "You little devil," I said.

  "Yes." She was enjoying it. "I took care of their fears and they took care of mine, you see."

  "That explains your Bay Area clout."

  "Yes, and the Southern California clout as well, at first. But that ended when the CIA became a national embarrassment, you see. There had been no contact for

  some time when Angelique showed up at my doorstep with this obviously false story. So I took her in, thinking . . . well, that I would give her time to reveal herself. There was initially the tiny fear, of course, that she could be working undercover for the police but . . . well, let's just say that I have no reason to fear that kind of intrigue. I am well protected, Joseph. The police are not my enemies."

  "Do you know her true name?"

  "Had you ever heard of a man named George Delancey?"

  Cherche's face fell. "Yes."

  "A client?"

  "Yes."

  "And Morris Putnam?" "Yes."

  "They're the guys I was accused of killing, you know."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Did you ever have any reason to tie Angelique to either of those men?"

  "Oh no. They were gone before she appeared." "Gone?"

  "We cancelled their membership." "We?"

  "I and my board of directors." "It's that formal, eh?" "Oh yes."

  "Why did you cancel them?"

  "They were found to be undesirable."

  "In what way?"

  "They were not nice to the employees."

  "You can put it straighter than that."

  "These men, Joseph, enjoyed inflicting pain. We can cater and we do cater to the sublimation of that desire through games of pretense, but these men were not long satisfied with that. They injured some of our girls. We kicked them out."

  "When was this?"

  "Perhaps six months ago. I could look it up if the exact time is important."

  I waved it away. "Maybe later. Tell me about Tom Chase."

  She delicately shrugged and poked at me with her foot. "Angelique brought him. So I did not even check him out. By this time I had asked her about the CIA. She had not denied it. So, when she brought Thomas ... and she hinted Mossad."

  Well, that brought a sigh. The Mossad is the Israeli equivalent of the CIA and KGB. It was getting nutty as hell. Keystone Cops kind of nutty.

  I said, "Dammit, Cherche."

  She shrugged again and said, "So I began to wonder then if Nicky was in trouble at home, you see."

  "Why would you wonder about that?"

  "Well, he has been so nervous lately. And it had been very obvious to me that Angelique had set her cap for Nicky when first she came."

  "When did you first meet Tom Chase?"

  She screwed up her face to think about it, replied, "This was about two weeks ago."

  "Tell me again that thing about Nicky. You thought he was in trouble because . . ."

  "Well, yes, because you see he was also the center of attention for Thomas, and this made Nicky very nervous. He confided to me—Nicky, I mean—he told me that he may be returning to Moscow one day soon because of the bad company that was attaching to him."

  "Bad company?"

  "Yes, and I assumed Thomas Chase to be the company of which he spoke. Nicky feared that his usefulness in this country would soon be questioned. When I pressed Angelique on this issue, she promised me that Nicky was not the focus of their investigation."

  "Wait, wait a minute, Cherche. Angelique actually told you that—"

  "No no, not quite that direct. She merely reassured me that Nicky was in no danger because of Thomas, that other matters concerned Thomas, business matters, and that he merely hoped to gain business access in Russia."

  "But you said 'investigation'—that's what you said, the focus of their investigation."

  "Yes, well, you see ... I knew that they were together in an investigation because I am well familiar with CIA."

  I said, "Jesus, Cherche, why are you giving me this line of bullshit?"

  That hurt her, if her face was honest about it.

  But I guess it wasn't the "moment" for me to get the full, unvarnished truth from Cherche.

  The young bartender came stumbling back into the room at that very instant.

  He had blood all over his shirt and his eyes were wild.

  "I need help!" he gasped. "She's hurt!—bad hurt!"

  "Who's hurt?" I growled.

  The kid was about to pass out. "Angelique," he croaked. "At the gate. She's . . ."

  I was already on the run.

  As a "moment," this one had become a total disaster.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was more bloodied than damaged, though someone had obviously beaten the hell out of her, and I found her staggering along the walk toward the house in a daze.

  I scooped her up and carried her inside. Cherche and the kid, Jimmy, met us at the door and steered me upstairs to Cherche's apartment. We cut the bloodied white sheath off of her and put her to bed, then I went to work with cold compresses to staunch the bleeding and hopefully to control the swelling around the eyes and lips.

  I'd seen worse beatings, much worse—suffered a few myself—but there's something particularly pitiful about this kind of damage to any woman, and I had an emotional involvement with this one, so the feelings were really intense.

  I was glad that Cherche was there. She is a strong woman—I mean internally strong—and knew exactly how to handle the situation. I figured she'd handled

  similar situations in the past. She again sent the bartender home and took full charge. I gladly yielded my role as medic and stepped back to give her room with the patient.

  She carefully cleaned the hurts and examined each one closely, then told her, "Not so bad, darling. This will mend. And if there are scars, then these can be made to disappear as well. Do not be concerned for that."

  Toni had said not a word, and she responded to that prognosis with eyes only, a tired fluttering that seemed to be saying, "Just leave me alone, please."

  She had not wished to talk to me or anyone else at the moment, that much had been clear. I could understand and respect that. Getting beat up is a lot like getting raped, to a woman, and maybe it's exactly the same. I'd seen enough of it in an official capacity to have become sensitive to the feeling, something like a sense of shame or degradation. I understood it.

  Cherche pulled me into the sitting room and told me, "Not to worry, Joseph. I think there is no need for medical attention, which would be better in our situation. But I shall watch her closely, never fear, and I will not hesitate to summon help if that seems wise."

  I growled, "I last saw her with your Nicky, just a few hours ago. I want his home address."

  She gave me about a ten-second, unreadable stare, then went to a desk and consulted her personal directory, scribbled an address on a card and brought it to me. "Do nothing foolish, Joseph. These things occur. She will mend and forget."

  "Not me," I muttered, and went out of there without further ado.

  I am not a "bad ass." People have called me that all my life, but it's not true. I'm as housebroken as any man I know and I really have a very gentle nature when people leave it alone. I never bullied and I never trespassed on another man's turf except when the need was unavoidable and the reason was clear. I've always been conscious of my size and strength, never liked to throw it around or to intimidate with it unless maybe that could take the pressure off a more dangerous situation.

  But there do come those times now and then in a man's life when he feels plain baaad and the civilized constraints lose all meaning in the overpowering need to kick some ass.

  The address Cherche gave me was one of the glitzy new highrise apartment buildings on Wilshire, and the bad was growing in me all the way there. I flipped my private badge at the doorman and growled, "Security inspection," in a tone not to be denied and went right on through without giving him a chance to think about it.

  It was five a.m. and
nothing was stirring but me as I punched the elevator to the sixteenth floor, found the door with the right number, leaned on the button of a built-in intercom and held it down until someone responded. I could feel eyes on me, spotted the little circle near the intercom that was the lens of a closed-circuit

  television system. I looked at it hard and said, "Open up."

  A thickly accented male voice growled back, "Go away."

  "The hell I will," I told it, and started kicking at the door.

  It was beginning to splinter when I heard the mechanism moving and Big Ivan threw the door open. I read no hospitality in that angry gaze so I just kept right on kicking, first to the groin and then to the chin. That did not put him all the way down so I tried another to the groin and two more to the chin. That put him on his back. I stepped across and went on through, found Nicky standing in a bedroom door in pajamas and robe, alert and worried. He had a little auto in his right hand, one of the smaller calibres, and it was pointed my way.

  I told him, "You'd better be an expert marksman with that thing, expert enough to place a shot squarely between my eyes or else directly into the heart. Because if you're not, I'll have that thing shoved down your gullet before you can get off a second."

  He replied in tones meant to reassure, "Why would I shoot you, Joe? I believed we had an intruder."

  "You believed right, that's what you've got. I came to talk about Angelique."

  "At this hour? Couldn't it wait?"

  "Not really. I just put her to bed, at this hour. She was very badly used, Nicky. That upsets me a lot. I do hate to leap to conclusions, but you're the last one I saw

  her with. Now she's damaged. I came to damage you back, if you're the one."

  He looked genuinely distressed at the news more so than the threat, said something under his breath in a language I don't understand, then asked, "What happened?"

  "She was beat up and dropped at Cherche's gate."

  Gudgaloff came on into the living room and rather absently deposited his gun on a table, dropped into a chair, said, "I did not do that, Joe."

  I had to believe it.

  But I still felt bad.

  Ivan the Terrible had struggled onto his knees and closed the front door, came lumbering over in a half crouch, misery in the eyes; he felt bad too, yeah. He also looked a bit confused and was seeking direction from his boss.

  I asked Gudgaloff, "Does he speak English?"

  "Very little," was the dispirited reply.

  "Tell him I'm sorry. He should've been more hospitable. I'll make it up to him somehow."

  The KGB chief gave me a small smile then relayed the message in appropriate lingo. He must have said more than that, too, because Ivan went out without a glance at me.

  "That's twice," Nicky said to me with the same small smile. "I fear you can never make it up. Ilyitch is a very proud man."

  "That's his name? He's Ivan the Terrible to me. Tell

  him I said that. And tell him I'm the kick-boxing champion of North America."

  "Are you?"

  "No. But tell 'im anyway, maybe it'll salve his pride."

  "Very well. But what of Angelique? Is she badly hurt?"

  "Mostly where it doesn't show," I told him. "But she won't feel like kissing anyone for a while. Lip's busted, eyes are a mess. She wasn't like that when you left her?"

  "Of course not. She was perfectly well."

  "When was that?"

  "Shortly after two o'clock. She asked me to drop her at a house in Brentwood Park. I watched her go inside and then I departed."

  "Remember the address?"

  "No. She . . . did not give an address, merely directed the way."

  "Could you find it again?"

  "I could not, no. Perhaps my driver . . ."

  "Call him."

  He gave me a go to hell look but seemed to think twice about it, went to the telephone, spoke with someone very briefly, came back and told me, "Off the San Diego freeway at Montana, west to Woodburn, turn right the second corner, somewhere near the middle of the block on the left side, a white frame cottage with brick posts and planters."

  I jotted it down and said, "I'll look into it."

  "Will you let me know what you discover?"

  "Sure. Did you notice if she rang the doorbell or. . . ?"

  "It appeared that she admitted herself."

  "How long have you known Frank Dostell?"

  He was like thunderstruck for a moment. He got up then and went to a desk, found a cigarette and lit it, didn't offer one to me, just blew the smoke back at me as he said, "That is none of your business, Joe. How do I make friends with you if you persist in . . . ?"

  I said, "Your secrets are safe with me, Nicky, if you're not using them against me. Why did your boys pick me up Wednesday morning?"

  He frowned but replied, "You were the miscreant. I wanted my property. And I wished to talk to you concerning your reasons for taking it."

  "How did you know where to find me?"

  "Can we have a mutually advantageous dialogue, Joe?"

  I said, "Sure."

  "Very well. We knew where to find you because we knew where to find Angelique. Now you tell me—"

  "No, hold it, that's only half an answer. Doesn't qualify. How did you know where to find Angelique?"

  He studied my face for a moment, then replied, "Angelique had been under surveillance."

  "Had been?"

  "Yes. Since—well, that's another question, for later. Now my turn. Why did you take my property?"

  I helped myself to one of his cigarettes but didn't light it, just let it dangle from my lips. Sometimes that's

  almost as good as lighting up when it's all stress and no action. "Someone hoped it would keep his ass out of jail."

  "Did it?"

  "Apparently not."

  "I see. So where is the property now?"

  I sucked on the dead cigarette for a couple of seconds, then told him, "I think the feds have it."

  "The FBI?"

  "Yeah."

  That was unhappy news indeed for our Nicky. He didn't seem to know how to continue immediately so I figured it was my turn again. "On the way into town that morning, the feds pulled us over and I transferred to their car."

  "Is that when they took the property?"

  "No, before that. If you had Angelique under surveillance, how come your boys didn't stick with her instead of hanging around and waiting for me?"

  "It took them a while to locate Angelique. By then. . ."

  "Locate? First you say surveillance and now you say locate. Are we talking electronic surveillance?"

  He smiled. "Very perceptive. Yes. There was a tracking device on her car."

  I said, "That's bully. So you had two cars out there."

  "Yes."

  "And shortly after I transferred to the FBI car, that second car came alongside and blew it off the freeway."

  "You have that wrong, Joe."

  "Sure about that?"

  "I am sure about that. The second car was already back in Los Angeles and keeping Angelique in sight."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged. "She was acting highly suspicious."

  "What did you think she was up to?"

  The KGB chief sighed, ground his cigarette into an ashtray, gave me a sad look as he replied, "The agent of my destruction, perhaps."

  "How so?"

  "There are enemies even at home, Joe."

  "You talking about Moscow?"

  He sighed again and this time looked even sadder. "I may need political asylum. Could you help me with that?"

  I told him, "I don't know pal. I think right now what we need is an insane asylum."

  But none of us were crazy.

  It just seemed that way.

  The unfortunately violent encounter with Ivan had drained off most of my rage but I guess I was still a bomb looking for a place to explode. Difference was now, I think I was more angry at myself, and I believe I was beginning to develop some
anger at Toni, too, at that point. I knew that I had to unravel the mystery of her and that I had to be prepared to deal with what finally fell out as raw truth.

  So I made what peace I could with the Russians and went on to the next front.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was a quiet, modest neighborhood of custom homes on the west side of Los Angeles that had been developed probably forty years earlier—sort of upper middle class, I'd say, and no evidence of deterioration. The streets were narrow and straight, tree-lined, and the houses occupied fairsized lots with plenty of well-tended vegetation. American Dream made manifest, Los Angeles style. It was called Brentwood Park and enjoyed a reputation as one of the nicer abodes of the not-quite rich and famous.

  I got there in early daylight with a sack of doughnuts and a carton of coffee, located the "white frame cottage with brick posts and planters," took station at the curb several houses down and across, and settled into the wait. I was expecting everything and nothing while trying to get mentally prepared for anything, spotted movement over there with the second doughnut as an automatic garage door opened and a car came backing out, quickly decided I hadn't been mentally prepared for this.

  Had a perfect view of the face through that car window as it arced across in front of me, recognized it instantly, did not know exactly what to do with it but decided I'd better do something so I followed the car away from there and it led me to a restaurant on San Vicente, about five minutes away. I sat there still well- welling it and watched the guy park and go inside, then I did the same.

  Seemed the only logical thing to do.

  I slid into the booth across from him without announcement or invitation. His eyes jerked at me but there was no other visible reaction as he looked up from his menu. The waitress brought me one but I shook my head at her and said, "Just coffee. I ate outside."

  She smiled at me and went to fetch the coffee.

  Special Agent Browning put down his menu and said to me, "You're out early, Copp. Or is it just the tail end of a long night?"

  "Both," I replied.

  "Figures." He was eyeing me distastefully. "You look terrible."

  "Feel worse," I assured him.

  The waitress interrupted it with coffee for both of us. Browning ordered a waffle. When we were alone again, he asked me in a cold voice, "What do you want?"