Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (5 page)

Chapter Seven

My second set
of wheels is a van I use for special work such as extended surveillance and photo assignments, keep it in my garage at home most of the time because I really love the old Cad and enjoy driving it even though it guzzles gas at about twice the rate as the van. Fuel economy was not the reason I bought the van anyway. It can be very useful to a guy in my line of work. I had an assortment of magnetic decals to dress it up to fit the job. It was currently wearing identification as Consolidated Cable Services and that was good enough, all I wanted at the moment was transportation. I put the riot gun in a clip behind the seat and loaded in several other comfort items then got away from there as quickly as I could, didn't exactly feel like entertaining any more visitors.

My curiosity regarding a stake-out was satisfied when I reached the main road. A car was parked in the bushes just above the junction with my lane, two men in the front seat and they were giving me an interested

look as I stopped for the intersection. So let them look. I was dressed for the van, in utility jacket and a Dodgers cap,
hornrimmed
clear-glass spectacles and stick-on sideburns to the bottom of my jaw—best friends would not have recognized me right off. Besides, these guys were looking for incoming traffic and apparently with a single purpose. They'd allowed Gina access and departure, obviously, so . . .

So what the hell, I figured I'd better cover the bases. I turned right, uphill, instead of my usual left, downhill, and stopped directly across from them, rolled down my window and yelled over, "What?—are you guys in trouble?"

The one in the driver's seat called back, "Just checking our map. That's a dead-end road you just came out of, isn't it? You been in there all day?"

These guys were not local cops, maybe not any kind of cops. Maybe feds, maybe anything, but the guy definitely had East Coast in his voice.

I told him, "
Naw
, I just came through. What're you looking for?"

That hit him hard. "What do you mean, you came through? It shows dead-end."

I said, "You must have an old map," and I eased on up the hill.

Part of me hated to do it to the guys, the part that has empathy for long, boring vigils, but most of me served them right. Last I saw through my rearview was one of them sprinting across the roadway and headed down the lane for a quick check on foot. It would take him at least five minutes to get back to the car. By then I would be well clear of the area and rolling free. Or so I figured, anyway.

      
It was seven o'clock and getting dark when I reached the other side of Los Angeles and rolled into Beverly Hills. It's a cold city, if you know what I mean, a wallet for a heart, and you feel it immediately. Merely to get your mail there is regarded as an item of prestige and many people who do that do not live or work there. So maybe it's a business or career advantage for some people—but if it is, what does that say about the rest of us?

Whatever, it's a cold city and I don't know why anyone would live there. Well, okay, maybe I did know why
Cherche
LaFemme
would want to live there. When I call this lady a whore, please understand that this is on the same order as referring to Queen Elizabeth as a government employee. When it comes to classifying people by occupation, there are grades and levels that should be considered if you want a clear picture.

Cherche
paid five times what it was worth to live in Beverly Hills for the same reason that most other people do: it helped her image in a town where image is everything.

It is also obviously a town under siege. Down in the ordinary Los Angeles neighborhoods where the common people live you see houses with bars on doors and windows and you understand why they are there, to keep the crime outside. Beverly Hills doesn't have bars for the most part but it has walls and private security

outfits that patrol constantly and every house has a sign stuck in the yard to warn of
Maginot
Line electronic defenses to keep the crime outside. Talk about East Berlin and the paranoia of the Berlin Wall, the Hills of Beverly have become a virtual war zone where nobody walks the streets day or night or even shows themselves in the open air, and no one seems to know or care that they've locked themselves in as securely as they've locked the world out—so what is a prison or internment camp, anyway, and what price is too high for prestige?

But I can understand it, I guess. Especially for people like
Cherche
. She was born to a financially diminished but proud family who'd been undone by the Bolshevik revolution more than a quarter of a century before her birth, fleeing with their lives and little else to an uncertain future in America, but she'd been raised in the aristocratic tradition and taught that common work was beneath her, schooled in the arts but not in any practical way, and she'd emerged into young womanhood with aged parents and totally unrealistic expectations of the modern world.

But she had uncommon beauty and she could move with ease in the highest social circles, and she discovered quickly that men of wealth and power would protect her if given reason to do so.

What else was a girl to do?

She gave them reason.

But she was not a total airhead, either, knowing that both youth and beauty were fleeting, so she set out early to carve a lasting niche for herself in the financial fabric of this country. When I first came across her in San Francisco, she was about twenty-eight years old but already firmly established in the fabric of that city. I remember that I had been surprised to discover many years later that she had relocated to Southern California, so well entrenched and protected had she been up north. It's two entirely different worlds, you know, San Francisco and L.A.—different kinds of folks, different kinds of strokes, and seldom do the two come together in any accommodation or agreement.

But, as I said, I'd been busy with other things when I found
Cherche
in L.A. We had briefly renewed our entirely casual friendship then gone our separate ways, and I guess I'd never have thought of her again but for a cryptic note in a mysterious book viewed briefly in the dead of the night at the Russians' new consulate in L.A.

I could understand
Cherche
in Beverly Hills, yeah. She could feel right at home there. It was a cold city, sure, but a natural environment for anyone in
Cherche's
business because any guy living there was willing to pay five times what anything was worth.

She had one of the older places closer in, just north of Santa Monica and east of Rodeo, on a palm-lined street and behind five-foot walls. Had to announce myself at the gate to get an electronic unlock so she knew I was there and had plenty of time to prepare herself but just the same I found her in a slinky negligee and bedroom slippers—and, yeah, she still had it, all of it, a very beautiful woman who'd made a business all her life out of being beautiful.

As usual, too, she was attended by beautiful younger women—undaunted by that kind of competition and always mindful of the importance of catering to male fantasy. One was her secretary, she said, and the other obviously a maid, but you wouldn't know for sure which was which by the difference in attire and you found your eyes always drawn back to
Cherche
anyway.

I knew she had to be close to fifty but who gave a damn when the woman looked like this woman, sounded like this woman, moved like this woman. We'd never gotten it on, in case you're wondering, but not from any squeamishness on my part. I never held whoring against a woman if it was done artfully, and I'd as soon lie with one of those as any other where true love is not involved. The flirtation had always been there but time, place and circumstance had just not converged for the two of us so it had never gone beyond that.

She made me comfortable and plied me with cognac but kept the other two nearby as we talked old times in her "game room." I don't know what kind of games she usually played there but it was loaded with expensive couches and chairs, had a small dance floor and bar, pool table, several electronic arcade-style games.

Presently there was no way to avoid the reason for my visit so I told her straight out: "Your name came up in a current investigation. I was wondering if you know Nicholas
Gudgaloff
."

      
She pursed lips that can pout so prettily, looked me

straight in the eye and replied, "Of course I know Nicky. We are cousins, darling. Well . . . kissing cousins, I hope—second or third, maybe. Why do you ask?"

Well of course I was a little bowled over.
Cherche
had never expressed anything better than utter contempt for anything communist and it had always been my impression that she was a couple of steps to the right of Ronald Reagan when it came to American politics. So I said to her, "That must be a bit awkward for you.
Gudgaloff
is the KGB boss for this district."

Cherche
found the statement quite amusing. "Don't be ridiculous, darling. Nicky is the perfect gentleman, descended directly from Catherine the
Great's
branch of the family. He is the new trade attaché in Los Angeles, and it is a perfect stroke for perestroika, the new capitalist movement in Russia."

"Capitalist movement, eh?"

"Well we knew they would have to realize the error sooner or later, didn't we? But heavens, who would have thought it would have taken them this long? KGB!—really, Joseph, this is too funny, my darling. I cannot wait to tell Nicky about this."

"Do you see him often?"

"Oh, well, often enough, I suppose. One has duties. We manage."

I asked her, "Are you working with him on this perestroika stuff?"

"One does what one can, darling. Is it not time now to encourage Mother Russia to rejoin the community of civilized nations?"

"How do you do that,
Cherche
?"

"Do what, darling?"

"How do you encourage . . . ? Uh, what do you do for Nicky?"

She gave me an impish smile and replied, "One does what one does best."

"I see," I said.

"You do?" She was teasing me.

I was grinning as I replied, "One cannot look the other way all the time, can one?"

"Always the policeman," she said.

"Do you know Tom Chase?"

"Oh yes, charming man and quite handsome too. But how do you know him, Joseph?"

"We were cops together," I said. "Here in L.A., before I went private."

Guess I'd said the wrong thing, from her point of view—the right thing, from my own.
Cherche
was aghast at that information. "But when was this?"

"Just a few years ago."

"That is quite impossible, Joseph!"

I spread my hands and gave her the knowing look. "Would I lie to you,
Cherche
?"

She turned immediately to the secretary and commanded, "Bring Angelique!"

The secretary went softly away.
Cherche
agitatedly offered me a long cigarette which I thought about very strongly before declining. She lit one and settled back onto her couch, keeping her eyes averted.

The girl came in behind me and stood in the doorway to ask, "You sent for me,
Cherche
?"

I didn't even have to look around. I knew the voice. And I knew "Angelique." I would have died for her earlier that day.

Chapter Eight

I will have
to say, she handled it very well. Better than I did, maybe. She gave me only a cursory glance as she came on into the room, showing no reaction other than a clenching of one tiny fist.
Cherche
introduced her as Angelique and me as Joseph, offered her a drink which was declined, offered to top mine off and I accepted, then she got right down to it.

"My dear, such a delightfully small world, Joseph is a friend of your Mr. Chase."

"Which is to say that he was referred by him," Gina replied, without a look my way.

"Oh no."
Cherche
laughed softly, took a sip of cognac and a swipe at the cigarette. "Joseph is an old friend of mine also. But there seems to be some confusion about... he says your Mr. Chase has lived in Los Angeles for many years."

I got a veiled look from that one, just a quick sweep of the eyes—a bit defiant, a bit pleading. "Then obviously it could not be the same Mr. Chase."

Cherche
explained to me, "Angelique's Tom Chase is a businessman from Tel Aviv."

I grinned and replied, "So what's in a name? I haven't seen Tom for years. But I saw the name on a report and figured it was the same guy." I looked directly at Gina, nearly caught her eye. "I was hoping it was. But it's not a small world, after all."

Cherche
was not ready to let it go at that. "What does your Tom Chase look like, Joseph?"

I said, "No, I figured it was the wrong guy when you called him charming and handsome. That's not mine. Mine's a cop, ugly and mean."

That seemed to settle the matter to
Cherche's
satisfaction.

Couldn't tell how Gina took it. There was nothing in the eyes or voice to clue the feelings as she said to
Cherche
, "It is a common name in America, no? Like Chase Manhattan bank."

Cherche
winked at me as she replied to Gina, "Bring that one over too, my dear, if you should meet."

Gina smiled and immediately withdrew, recognizing the dismissal in
Cherche's
voice. As soon as she was out of earshot, I asked, "Who is Angelique?"

"The daughter of an old friend,"
Cherche
explained. "She is new in this country, from Israel. Do you like her?"

I ignored the question. ' Mind telling me who that old friend is?"

"Why should I, darling?"

I said, "Okay, you mind. Did the guy come with her?"

"Which guy?"

"Tom Chase."

"Why do you ask?"

"Why do you care if I ask,
Cherche
?"

She put out her cigarette, made a small face at me. "Always the policeman, Joseph. You make me nervous sometimes. Please don't."

"I am not a policeman anymore."

"Ah, but I think you are. You are playing mind games with me, are you not? All this business with Tom Chase!—were you merely angling for an introduction to Angelique?" She laughed suddenly, set down her cognac to shake a playful finger at me. "Nicky, ah?—the KGB? Come now, Joseph. What do you want from me?"

I grinned back at her, reminded her, "We go back a long way,
Cherche
. Have I ever been anything but a friend?"

"Ah, but . . ."

"But?"

She studied me for a moment then relaxed back onto the soft couch with a smile. "Very well. How can I help you, darling?"

"Just give me straight answers to a few simple questions."

"If they are simple, fair enough. Ask. But hurry. My business is night business and it does not await my pleasure."

"Are you still in business?"

"Yes."

"Is Angelique one of your girls?"

"Yes and no. Do you like her? I must warn that you perhaps cannot afford Angelique."

"Maybe you can't either. Are you supplying girls for Nicky?"

"From time to time, yes. Oh, but not for his personal use, you understand. What did you mean, I cannot afford . . . ?"

"Just kidding. How long has Angelique been with you?"

"A few months. Why are you so—?"

"Have you sent her on appointments for Nicky?"

"I will not answer that."

"How does Tom Chase figure into anything?"

She stared at me blankly for a moment before replying, "Business arrangements."

"What kind of business arrangements? Per-
estroika
?"

"I think so, yes."

"So Chase has been doing business with Nicky?"

"This I do not know."

"But you said perestroika, yes. So . . ."

"As an intermediary, perhaps."

"Involving Israel?"

She daintily shrugged her shoulders. "He is from Israel, so perhaps. Perhaps not. Israelis are not always interested only in Israel. Business is business, Joseph, you must know. None of this is my concern. My business is

entertainment, and this is all I know, but also my business is discretion. Already I have been entirely too indiscreet in matters involving clients, so please do not keep on with this."

I got to my feet, said, "Okay. I can respect that. Just satisfy my curiosity about something. How did you and Nicky happen to get together? How long has he been in this country?"

"He came with the new trade delegation last year," she replied.

"He looked you up?"

"To be sure, with greetings and messages from long lost relatives."

"He wasn't looking for
Cherche
LaFemme
, was he," I said teasingly.

"In a way, yes, it seems he was," she teased me back.

The French phrase she borrowed for her professional name means "look for the woman."

It seemed to fit this case very well.

But which woman?

      
It had occurred to me at some point during that tense confrontation with Gina
Terrabona
that all I knew about the lady was what she herself had told me. So, hell, I knew nothing at all about her, for sure—didn't know her real name, for sure—didn't know her real background, for sure—didn't know for sure if she'd given me a single word of truth. Her name could be Gina or Angelique or Molly or whatever. I didn't know what her real connection was with Tom Chase, or if she worked for
PowerTron
or had ever seen the Pentagon or Israel. The whole thing could be a fabric of lies.

Something else clicked at me during that moment of questions, too.

Tom had tried to call off the consulate job, even said he was sending someone to intercept me in case I missed his message. Gina, on the other hand, had told me that Tom had been preparing to back me up outside the consulate when he was arrested—and though she knew he'd been arrested, she'd said nothing about his attempt to cancel the burglary. But wait a minute . . .!

How did I even know that Tom had been arrested?

I knew it only because Gina had told me that.

So,
dammit
. . . how could I even believe that?

Another thing . . . how did I know that Gina had gone down there to back me up? My first impression of the intervention was that someone was trying to run me down with a car. What if I'd been right about that, and what if that someone had simply run out of nerve when I planted and challenged, opted for a softer game?

See, all of that was boiling through my head and I was feeling sort of sick about it all when I said goodbye to
Cherche
and let myself out. Night had fully fallen and no lights were helping relieve the darkness outside, so I was groping half-blind toward my car on unfamiliar turf when a soft hand grabbed mine.

It was Gina, she had my S&W and she was handing it over. "Thank you for the loan," she said quietly. "And

thank you for not blowing my cover in there. Now I must go quickly before I am discovered."

I said, "Wait, wait . . ."

"There's no time. Tom got a message to me. He says you should go for Putnam and
Delancey
. They—"

"Who?"

"Morris Putnam and George
Delancey
,
PowerTron
executives. He says they are the key."

"What did you do with the stuff from
Gudgaloff’s
office?"

"I put it into the proper hands. Please, Joe ..." She stretched up and planted a moist kiss on my lips then danced away and disappeared into the shadows beside the house.

I stood there for a moment wanting a cigarette in the worst way. "Bullshit," I said out loud to the quiet Beverly Hills night, then went on to the car.

It was all bullshit, sure.

But it was all I had to work with. I would do that, sure, for a while. I just did not want to die for it.

I especially did not want to die for a woman who did not deserve it. But I was hooked, yeah. I was hooked on Gina-Angelique-whoever even standing neck deep in total bullshit.

And I guess that scared me most of all.