Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (14 page)

"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?"

"Guess I want to live to retirement age," I replied. "How 'bout you?"

"Is that a threat?"

I raised eyebrows at him. "Had nothing like that in mind, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Maybe a friendly warning. I think things are getting to a crunch. What do you think?"

"Too much crunch already," he replied sourly. "Get to it,
Copp
. I didn't invite you for breakfast."

"Toni
Delancey
got the hell beat out of her this morning."

That brought another jerk of the eyes, but all he said was, "Why are you telling me?"

I looked at the smoothly manicured FBI hands and said, "I've never hit a woman. Does it hurt the hand as much as hitting a man?"

He growled, "Careful, you son of a bitch. Don't start that crap with me."

I said, "If I'd wanted to start some crap, Browning, you'd be sitting on the sidewalk in a shower of plate glass by now. What is it with you FBI guys? Don't they teach civil manners at J. Edgar Hoover University? Most difficult bastards to work with I ever tried. Was Hoover gay?"

He showed me about one half of a very tense smile as he replied, "I couldn't say. You've got a smart mouth for a two-bit P.I. accused of multiple homicides."

"Not smart enough, obviously, to keep me out of this mess."

"And the one before that, and the one before that, and . . ."

I said, "So it's the hazards of the game."

I was sensing a bit of a thaw even before he told me, "I'll have to admit,
Copp
, that you do usually play a pretty tight game. Our file on you is thicker than any I've ever encountered for a peace officer. What are you trying to prove?—no, never mind, don't tell me. Let's keep it simple and pointed. What do you want from me?"

"Cooperation. As you noted, I'm accused of terrible crimes. I am not guilty of any terrible crimes. I did pull the trigger on
Mathison
but I did not know who he was at the time and I had absolutely no options. He pulled on me first, without warning and without provocation. What's your connection with Toni
Delancey
?"

He showed me a bit more smile and said, "I like the way you leap from one line of thought to another. That's very effective."

I told him, "I figured
Gudgaloff
was responsible, but he told me that he dropped her at your place at about two o'clock this morning."

"When did he tell you that?"

"About five."

"Uh-huh. And of course you believed him."

"Had to."

"What did you say happened?"

"Someone beat her and dropped her from a car, somewhere around four o'clock."

"Is she hospitalized?"

"No. A friend has taken her in. She'll get over it, I guess. Not sure I will."

"Who did she say did it?"

"Didn't feel much like talking, I guess, didn't say. We'll get to it, I'm sure. Meanwhile I've got this sleep disorder, can't seem to close my eyes with all this crap clinging to me. I can't wait for Toni to tell me about it. So I was hoping that you and I could . . ."

He was giving me the silent stare, kept on doing that while the waitress brought his waffle and topped off the coffee cups. Then he turned his attention to the breakfast and had eaten about half of the waffle before he said to me, in an almost civil tone, "It's a very convoluted case, Joe. I'm not sure that I could or should do anything at all to give you aid and comfort. But I'll think about it. Go home and get some sleep. Call me at the office this afternoon. Then we'll see what can be done."

It almost disarmed me, but not entirely. I bluntly told him, "Some of your people are kinky."

"Can you back up that statement with hard facts?"

"Not yet, but I'm working on that. You'd better start working on it too if you don't want to get eaten by it. Who ordered my arrest Wednesday morning?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because we had you going in. We knew that Chase had involved you. We knew that you had burgled the Soviet consulate. We knew that you shot Walt
Mathison
. And we'd known from the start that you are a bull in a china closet. We had a lot invested in that china closet, see. So we had to get you out of there."

I thought about it for a minute, then told him, "I take

back what I said about you feds. Well, most of it. But it was a sloppy collar. How come one lone
Chippy
on | a motorcycle, and how'd you even know I was there?"

Browning finished off the waffle and took a sip of I coffee to wash it down before replying, in a very quiet voice, "Wasn't CHP, it was one of our special units hastily thrown into play. Couldn't risk getting the local constabulary involved but we wanted you in our hands. As | for knowing you were there . . ." "Yeah?"

"We had known where you were every minute of
Ithe
day and night since that cute thing with Chase at | the service station Sunday night."

I sighed, wished for a cigarette, and told him, I "Yeah, you had me coming in. But you lost me, didn't
lyou
. The minute you got me into your hands, somebody I tried to whack me off. I thought at first it was
Gudgaloff
. (Now I'm not so sure. Who else would want me out of |hand, Browning?"

"Call me this afternoon and we'll talk about it."

"I may not be alive this afternoon."

He sighed, told me, "Guess I'll have to risk that."

 
I said, "Thanks much. But I guess I don't want to. Why were you shadowing Tom Chase?"

He pushed his plate away and reached for his
wal
- let. "Have to go, Joe. Early appointment."

      
"Why are you keeping him incommunicado?"

      
"I really have to go."

"What's your connection with Toni?"

      
He walked away and left me sitting there with little more than I'd come in with. Didn't even pay for my coffee.

Bull in a china closet, eh?

We'd see about that.

I dropped a buck on my ticket, handed it to the waitress, and returned immediately to the white frame cottage in Brentwood Park.

Bulls this guy hadn't seen yet.

Chapter Twenty

Don't ever rely
on a remote-controlled garage door to protect your home against intruders. The operative devices are actually miniature radio transmitters and receivers. The commercially produced systems are limited to ten or twelve different radio channels at most, any of which can be keyed from any of the easily available remote control units that are carried in the car. You can buy a remote most anywhere for about twenty-five bucks and use it like a skeleton key; it will open any garage door, and at a pretty good distance. All you have to do is slide open the back panel and push the little switch along to find the radio channel that matches the receiver on the door.

That is the method I used to gain entry to the house in Brentwood Park. I knew that the garage door was remotely operated because I'd seen Browning close it from his car. All I had to do was open the back of my unit and step along the channels while holding the button down. Hit it on the third try from the middle of the street and just pulled on in alongside another car as though I belonged there.

Another tip: the door leading from the interior of the garage into the house should be an "outside" door. This one was, but it was framed for inside service. One kick and the whole thing fell to the floor inside the house, framing and all.

It was the kitchen floor.

A guy was seated at the far wall with a telephone at his ear. He was in shirtsleeves, wore a tie pulled loose at the neck and a shoulder holster filled with heavy hardware. Took him about two seconds to react to my crash-band entrance, by then it was too late to meet my charge with anything but the chin. He went out like a light. I grabbed the phone and eased it to the floor without a clatter, went on immediately to discover what was what but already with a glimmer.

It was a "safe house," yeah, and I found Tom Chase just emerging from a shower off one of the bedrooms.

He gawked at me and said, "Jesus, Joe!"

I returned to the kitchen without a word to my old pal, checked out the guy in there. FBI, yeah. There should have been at least one more in residence but I found no one else.

Tom was half-dressed when I returned for him. I grabbed the rest of his outfit and said, "There's no time. Finish in the car."

He said, "No, you've got it wrong. I'm staying here."

I said, "Like hell you are," and I put his lights out

too.

I carried him to the car and tucked him into the front seat, threw his shoes and shirt inside, got the hell out of there quick. All told I guess I was two minutes inside that house. Depending on who was on the phone at the other end when I entered, I figured maybe I got out with perhaps a minute to spare.

I took off west along surface streets, headed into Santa Monica, just wanting to get clear. Tom came out of it mad as hell and pouting before we'd gotten a mile away.

"Put your clothes on," I growled at him.

"Go to hell."

"That's where we're headed, pal. You can arrive half-dressed if you want to."

"This is crazy."

"For you, maybe, not for me. First sane moment I've had since Sunday night. Why'd you set me up, Tom?"

"You're crazy, I didn't set you up for anything."

"Sure you did. You set me up for
Mathison
, then you set me up for Putnam and
Delancey
. That took it off your back, didn't it. What kind of a deal did you cook with Browning?"

"You've got this all wrong, Joe."

"So lay it out for me."

"It started with Morris Putnam. He's my boss, you know."

"Was."

"Okay, was. His specialty was finance but he was basically CEO and General Manager for our division. Started going a little crazy several years back, I guess,

but then it really got bad when George
Delancey
came over from the Pentagon. He was a contracts administrator for the Department of Defense. I found out that he'd been cozy with Putnam for years, feeding him inside information to cinch
PowerTron's
bid for fat defense contracts. Kickback scheme."

"And more than that."

"Well, yeah, after
Delancey
came to
PowerTron
. Between him and Putnam, they had the whole damned division locked into a network of
ripoffs
and kickbacks stretching from the Pentagon to subcontractors, I mean laterally and vertically. But they were working for themselves in that, not for the company. None of that money ever hit
PowerTron's
accounts."

"How'd you get onto it?"

"Pure accident. I spotted the two of them in a restaurant one night, wining and dining a guy I had just investigated as a possible subcontractor. The subcontract was awarded exactly two days later and I took a look at it. God, it was totally rigged."

"So what'd you do?"

"Nothing, at first. Didn't know where to take it, Joe. Didn't know who else might be involved. My loyalty is for the company, not for its Goddamned kinky executives. But here now I felt dirty myself. Just didn't know where to take it."

"So what'd you do with it?"

"Nothing. Just kept the eyes and ears open and waited for a chink. That finally came from the old man

upstairs, Gordon Maxwell. He's Chairman and CEO of the entire company, offices back east."

"Uh-huh."

"We had a secret meeting, out here. He told me that he had it on reliable information that my division was in terrible trouble, under FBI investigation and maybe headed into a scandal strong enough to destroy the whole company, wanted to know what I knew about it."

"So you told him."

"Some . . . some. Still didn't know . . . well, I just didn't feel that I could trust any of them. I was scared, Joe, I don't mind admitting that. When it comes to the life or death of a multi-billion dollar corporation— maybe years in jail for these
highpowered
executives— well, the only rule is win. You know that. Men like that are capable of anything. So sure I was scared."

"What do you know about Toni
Delancey
?"

"Who?—oh, George's wife. Never met her."

"Why not?"

"She just never was around much, I guess. Why?"

"How 'bout Barbara Putnam?"

"She wasn't around much either, but I did see her at a few company functions. Very glamorous woman. But I don't know anything about her."

"
Cherche
LaFemme
?"

"You've been hard at work, haven't you."

"Had to be. Tell me about
Cherche
."

Tom started getting into his shirt as he told me, "She operates a high-class brothel and call girl service, runs it like a club for millionaires. Some of our executives were involved."

"So?"

"So she is also involved with Nicholas
Gudgaloff
. And already I had begun to smell something more in all this than corporate crime. So I penetrated
Lafemme's
operation."

"Not very well," I sniffed.

"What?"

"Why'd you use your real name?"

He shrugged. "It just shook out that way. My entry was via a girl who already knew my name."

"Angelique?"

He gave me an irritated look. "Real name is Gina
Terrabona
. I recruited her. She cooked up a story to get me inside."

I just let it pass at that, for the moment, and instead asked him, "Why'd you try to call off the hit at the consulate?"

He said, "Gina was making headway with
Gudgaloff
. She was afraid that an overt action could blow everything up."

"It did," I said.

"Yeah," he agreed.

"Since then six people are dead and I've been charged with murder."

He said, "I'll square it, Joe."

"Sure you will. From your Goddamned safe house."

"Well . . . I'll do everything I can to . . ."

"What are you feeding Browning?"

"Cooperation, that's all."

"In return for . . . ?"

"Well, of course, to square myself."

"What about your
loyalty
to
PowerTron
?"

"Don't have that sorted out yet," he muttered.

"Lot of things you don't have sorted out," I informed him. "What happened to that fine police mental muscle you once had, pal? All gone into corporate flab?"

"Not entirely. Where are we going?"

I don't know why I said it, it just popped out of nowhere: "We're going to have a little talk with Frank
Dostell
."

It flipped him.

"Count me out," he said nervously. "I want no part of that guy. Stop the car. Let me out."

I said, "If I stop the car, Tom, it will be only to beat the shit out of you. You pulled me into this Goddamned mess, now you're going to help me find a way out of it. Why are you so afraid of
Dostell
?"

"Didn't say I was afraid of him," Tom growled. "Just want nothing to do with him."

"Too late," I said.

He said, "
Dammit
, Joe, I didn't know . . ."

"Didn't know what?"

"That it would ever come to this. Believe me, I'm sorry. I'll do what I can to square it."

"Start right now," I suggested. "What's the story on
Mathison
?"

Tom began putting his shoes on as he replied to that. "One of those rare birds, I guess—a kinky fed. You know the FBI has all these Russian offices under electronic surveillance all the time. It's a game that both powers play. All the phones are tapped and all radio communications are monitored. Occasionally the FBI gets a line on some guy who's trying to set up a sell for secret documents. Sometimes it's service personnel with access to classified training and maintenance manuals, sometimes it's people in industry with secrets to sell—and the jerks try to set it up by telephone."

"That's where people like
Mathison
come into it."

"Right. The FBI guy poses as a Russian agent and follows up on the contact. Classic sting operation, see. Then when the documents are actually passed, the jerk gets a handcuff in lieu of cash."

"
Mathison
was working a wrinkle on it."

"Yeah. He would position himself right in the middle, let the deal go through, share in the proceeds. Then I guess he got greedy, decided he wanted more than a share. Sometimes he would sting the jerk, make an arrest, copy the documents, then sell the copies. The jerk ended up in a prison cell and
Mathison
ended up with all the cash. If it couldn't be done tidily that way, the jerk might get dead suddenly and
Mathison
still got the cash."

"You know that for sure?—that last part?"