Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (8 page)

The rest I told absolutely straight. They dismissed the stenographer when I finished it and then there was a long "off the record" discussion of my story between the principals and my lawyer. After that the FBI went into a huddle with the prosecutors just outside the door.

Then the chief prosecutor came back in and said to my lawyer, "Without stipulating to the veracity of anything your client has told us, we do recognize his exemplary past record as a police officer and we appreciate his willingness to cooperate with the investigation. Accordingly, we will recommend to the court that his bail be set at one million dollars."

Big deal.

But my lawyer thanked him and when we were

alone again he turned to me with a big smile. "All right," he crowed. "Now we're getting somewhere."

We were getting nowhere that I could see.

"I still can't make bail," I told him.

"Sure you can." He dug into his briefcase and produced a bond commitment. "You already did. I was handed this right after I left you, a while ago."

I still didn't understand.

"Your friend put up her home this morning."

I said, "What friend is that?"

"Your friend in Beverly Hills," he said. "Mrs.
Saras
-
tova
. The one you referred to in your statement as
Cherche
LaFemme
."

It knocked the hell out of me, pal.

But it also knocked me back onto the streets. And I didn't know if that was a favor or not.

Chapter Eleven

Maybe you have
a better handle on things at this point than I did while I was experiencing it, so maybe I'm looking sort of dumb to you right now and you are wondering why I didn't just hang it up and let the proper authorities unravel the thing. But remember that a lot of stuff was coming down and that a guy can get a bit
shellshocked
when he's in the middle of something like this. Give some credit, too, to the fact that I have been officially inside many such investigations over the years, so maybe I just don't have your confidence in the system. Sure, there is a tendency at such times to want to just crawl away and find some place safe and comfortable where you can lick your wounds, say to hell with it all, let things take their course. I thought of that, yeah. Trouble was, things were already taking their course and sweeping me along with it. Get swept into a cesspool, pal, and you'd better get busy trying to find a way out if you don't want to get buried in it, inch by creeping inch, while waiting for someone to come along and pull you out.

I could feel it creeping past my chin and knew that I had to get very busy indeed.

That does not mean that I knew the way out.

But I did know that I would rather swim than sink into that mess, so I started stroking.

We had determined that neither of my cars was in the impoundment yard, so I said goodbye to my lawyer on the jailhouse steps and took a cab to the last place I'd seen the Cadillac, since it was the closest. It was still there and still intact, with a wad of parking tickets lodged into the wiper well.

It started right up, and I drove straight to
Cherche's
joint in Beverly Hills. I thought it very bizarre that she would go my bail unless somehow that would serve her own best interests. We'd been friends, sure, but what she'd done was far above and beyond the call of the very tightest friendship and we were a long way from that.

I had it by official record now that her real name was Elena
Sarastova
and she owned the Beverly Hills property unencumbered except for this new lien by the bail bondsman. It was valued at two and a half mil— which just goes to show, girls, what one can get by just doing what one does best. The name had thrown me a bit because I'd already settled onto it as belonging to Gina, since the FBI agent had referred to Gina's apartment as "the
Sarastova
woman's" and also because of questions regarding the young lady's true identity.

So I had hoped to get the answers to several questions in Beverly Hills. As it turned out, I got quite a bit more than I was expecting, and also quite a bit less. What I got was a new client. What I did not get was a lot of comfort regarding my own situation.

      
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and she was having breakfast beside the pool, looked about the same as the last time, dressed about the same—a remarkably good looking woman for any age. I accepted an invitation to join her with toast and coffee, and I'd had two cups of coffee and all the dry toast I can tolerate before another word was spoken. I guess each was waiting for the other to start. She
outwaited
me. Finally I said, "Thank you,
Cherche
."

She showed me a solemn little smile as she replied, "No thanks are necessary, Joseph. You know that I would share my breakfast with you any time."

"You know what I mean," I growled.

She leaned forward to lightly pinch my cheek, then shook it gently before letting it go. "Why are you always such a tough gorilla, my darling?"

"You should've seen me an hour ago," I told her. "Have you ever seen a gorilla cry?"

"I would like that very much," she replied teasingly.

"Want you to know I appreciate it."

"Very well, I know it. And . . . ?"

"And what?"

      
"What else did you come to say?”

"Don't know quite how to put it," I said uncomfortably. "But . . . why?"

She smiled at my discomfort and said, "Why not?"

"What do you want from me,
Cherche
?"

"Aha. The table is turned, is it not? Usually between us the question goes the other way."

I said, "Okay, so I owe you. How do I square it up?"

"You are a very good policeman, no?"

"I try to be."

"A very tough cop, they call you. How tough are you, Joseph?"

"Depends. Tough as I have to be, I guess. How tough do you need?"

"How tough is Mother Russia?"

I said, "I don't understand."

"She has been thought dead these many decades, or else totally dominated by those who raped her. But she is not dead, Joseph, and she is not the whore they thought her to be."

"Tough old broad, huh?"

"Exactly. Do you understand perestroika?"

I replied, "As a buzzword . . ."

"Buzzword in this country, perhaps—but, Joseph, in certain quarters it is seen as the re-awakening of the tough old broad. The USSR is not Mother Russia, and perestroika is no instrument of Soviet socialism. It is acknowledgement that socialism is unworkable and dying. Can you imagine Marx or Lenin advocating free enterprise in their day? No. And they are proven wrong."

I said, "I'm not much into world politics,
Cherche
."

"Nor am I," she replied. "But I want you to understand that I am not a communist."

"Never figured you were,"

"Good for you. But some perhaps think that I am."

"Why would they think that?"

"Because of my encouragement of Mother Russia. I am not political, Joseph, but I can be very sentimental. And I remember the stories told to me at my mother's knee. I would love to see things that way again in Russia, or at least the possibility that it could occur. Do you understand?"

I asked, "What does this have to do with me,
Cherche
?"

"Everything," she said quietly.

I took a deep breath and said, "Okay. What do you want from me?"

"Find out about Nicky for me."

"What about Nicky?"

"Is he Russian?—or is he Soviet?"

"It's not the same, eh?"

"In the heart, no, it is not the same."

"I was told that he is KGB."

"Yes, I know you told me that. I believed at the time that you were wrong."

"At the time?"

"Yes. If you were wrong, then all perhaps is well with me. But if you were right... then, Joseph,
Cherche
may be in need of a very tough gorilla."

"That's why you hocked your house?"

“What good is the house, darling, if
Cherche
is dead?"

I took another deep breath, let it go, told her on the growl, "A lot of people are dead already, darling."

"This I know," she said quietly. "Save me, Joseph."

"Just like that, eh?"

"Save me."

"You'll have to help me do that."

"Very well."

"That means total honesty."

"Of course."

But she was lying in her teeth already. I don't believe she ever intended to give me even ten percent honesty. I sort of sensed it at the time, but I had to give the lady the benefit of any doubt. She'd hocked a mansion to get my sorry butt out of jail. So I owed the lady one very tough gorilla.

I just hoped the hell I could find one.

Chapter Twelve

Cherche
wanted me
to attend a "very special party" at her place that night, assuring me that we would have ample opportunity to talk during that event and also hinting that I would meet some interesting people there. Meanwhile she had many things to do in preparation for the event and wanted to be left alone. I later learned that she throws those "very special" parties almost every night. It is basically how she makes her living, so this was just business as usual and she was trying to fit me into the routine without disturbing it.

I needed the time anyway. Wanted to check on my van and find a way to get it back home and tucked away, also there were things inside it that I needed. I stopped at a U-Haul on my way through Pasadena and rented a tow bar, found the van in good shape, towed it home. Things seemed normal there too. I put the van in the garage and double-checked the premises before I went into the house.

All was shipshape inside so I threw a frozen dinner into the microwave and ate it in the study while reviewing the papers that Tom Chase had given me earlier. Found nothing that meant much more than it had at the start, except I noted that both of the murdered
Pow
-
erTron
executives had families and I had to wonder about the survivors. Wondered also about the circumstances at the Putnam home that allowed his death to go undiscovered those many hours.

The cops had been very cagey about all that, gave me no information whatever concerning time of death or anything else. But if the men had been killed with my gun, and if death had occurred prior to my second encounter with Gina—which was the next time I'd seen the gun—then Putnam and
Delancey
had apparently lain dead since some time in the early afternoon. If I had been the first to discover the bodies, then why were all the lights on inside and out?—and where were the families of these men during all this?

If, on the other hand, death had occurred after that afternoon encounter with Gina, then the timeframe could narrow somewhat and maybe all the lights had been on because it was dark or getting that way and Putnam had been expecting company. That would put quite a squeeze on, though, because I'd hit Beverly Hills at nightfall and obviously both Gina and the gun were there when I got there. Since I'd left home shortly after the encounter with Gina and went as straight to Beverly Hills as I could under the circumstances, that would not seem to leave her much time for a swing through the Al-

tadena
hills, and since the gun had been in her possession both times . . .

No, I had to go with death in the afternoon.

I had to wonder, then, about the
PowerTron
security cops who'd tailed me away from Beverly Hills. The guy I busted had told me that he was moonlighting for Putnam, that he was being "dispatched" privately by someone under Putnam's direct control—and they had made tracks straight toward Putnam's place after I let the guy go.

Had I given those guys enough time to discover the bodies, turn on all the lights and get the hell away from there before my arrival?—and could that account for the presence of the sheriffs minutes after my arrival on the scene? But why would they run through the house turning on all the lights, either before or after the discovery? If before, would that be any way to act in their boss's house?—and why do it afterward if they did not mean to report the crime and hang around until the cops arrived?

But wait... what or who sent them up there to begin with? The guy said they were radio dispatched. The one must have called it in when I pulled his partner out of the car. When I let the partner go, I saw him go straight to the telephone and the same car came along minutes later and picked him up, so that sounds like a dispatch. Then they hightailed it for Altadena. Why? And if they found the stiffs, who would they report it to?—and who would have ordered them to get the hell away from there before the cops came?

There was much to be considered, see, and it did not all necessarily revolve around Gina. Then again, it could. Now she had flat-out told me that she worked for
PowerTron
and Tom Chase. No mistake about that. Even told me that she got the job via her Pentagon connections. So where did she fit into all this? Could it be that she worked for
PowerTron
but not for Tom Chase?

My lawyer had been trying to get a line on Chase while I was in jail. No way. The feds had him under tight wraps, virtually incommunicado. We couldn't even get a line on his lawyer, if he had one, and it seemed likely that, based on past experience with these guys in similar situations, they were moving him around from one federal facility to another in an attempt to keep him buried in the system. They can get away with stuff like that, sure, especially when there is a "national security" cover for it.

So I had damn little hope of getting any information from Tom in any foreseeable future. Which is to say, in any useful future. Time was closing in on us, I was certain of that. I couldn't afford to just sit around and wait for the feds to remember the Constitution, so I had to write Tom off as a source of useful information in the meaningful future. I was alone in the mess and I knew it. And most of what I had—even from Tom himself, maybe—was either misinformation or disinformation.

See I'd been set up by Tom himself to leap to conclusions concerning Gina when he hinted that a woman was involved in his problem. You remember what he told me, and you've seen how his wife Miriam reacted

to his arrest. Gina herself had helped strengthen the perception by her emotional show of concern for Tom and her apparent determination to "build the case" for him. But what if she'd been building a case against him? What if she'd been working for Putnam all along?

And what if she was really working for Nicky?

Why had she taken my gun?—and then why had she been so determined to give it back? Had she come to my house that afternoon merely to plant a murder weapon to incriminate me?—and had she then seized a golden opportunity to doubly incriminate me by luring me to that house in the hills with the murder weapon on me? What was her real connection with
Cherche
, and why had
Cherche
hocked her home to get me on the streets again?

These were things to ponder.

Believe me, I was pondering like crazy while I cleaned up, dressed up, and set off for the party in Beverly Hills. It was, I hoped, going to be a very interesting night.

      
Something had been nagging at my lower mind all evening so I stopped along the way to make a call from a public telephone. A cool female voice responded to the first ring with a very controlled, "Putnam residence, Mary speaking."

I didn't know from Mary but it figured to be housekeeper, family, or close friend at such a time. According to my record, Mrs. Putnam's name was Barbara. So I

asked Mary, in the same sober tones, "How is Barbara doing?"

"Much better now, thank you," said Mary. "Could I tell her that you called?"

"Please," I replied. "Just tell her Joe. When is the funeral?"

"We're not sure yet. Not all of the family has been notified so it's still up in the air. Call again in the morning. We should know more by then."

I followed a wild hunch to ask, "Do the kids know?"

"Yes. We found Beth finally. Her group had taken a side trip from London to Stonehenge, but she called just a few hours ago. She'll be back tomorrow."

I glanced at my poop sheet. "How is Morris Junior taking it?"

"Well now he is head of the family, isn't he? I believe that he is the only thing keeping his mother sane right now," Mary replied chattily, warming to me. "He won't be returning to UCLA until—well, for a while."

"Must have been devastating for Barb to find out that way," I guessed again.

"Well, yes, she just couldn't get it out of her mind that he'd been lying here dead while she was partying in Aspen. But she's coming to grips with it. Thank you for calling, Joe. I'm sure it will be a comfort to her."

"She may not remember, I just met her in Aspen. But tell her anyway."

Mary's voice was tinged with an unspoken question as she replied to that. "Oh, of course, I'm sure she will

remember. Are you ... in town now? Coming for the funeral?"

I said, "No, probably not, it's a private time, I respect that. Just tell her I called. And uh . . ."

"Yes?"

"Well I was wondering about Toni
Delancey
. Have you heard . . . ?"

"Oh, you're with the company."

"Not exactly, but . . ."

"Yes, Toni came by today, she's okay, quite a trooper. She's planning cremation for George as soon as the authorities release the body."

I said, "You're quite a trooper too, Mary. Thank you very much."

That voice was warm and almost intimate as she said good-bye. "Thank you too, Joe. Come see us when it's convenient."

With that tone of voice, she could have meant "safe" instead of "convenient." I'd heard it before, that tone, when women share delicious secrets. So what kind of partying, I wondered, had Barbara Putnam been enjoying in Aspen while her husband lay dead?—and how tight a marriage could it have been if the impression was accurate and the death and burial of a husband was a mere inconvenience?

But of course I could have been entirely off base on that. I had called merely to satisfy the curiosity about why the bodies had not been discovered before I stumbled onto them. Apparently I had the answer to that.

Wife vacationing in Aspen, daughter apparently touring Europe with a group, son living on campus at UCLA.

But now I had to call the other widow. Just had to.

Damned glad I did, too.

I recognized the voice, you see.

Had just a light touch of very soft accent, one of those indeterminate foreign touches that can be so very pleasing when the mood and the moment is right.

It was not all that pleasing this time but I recognized it with the first hello.

I disguised my own voice the best I could as I inquired, "Mrs.
Delancey
?"

"Yes. Is this Mr. Williams?"

"Yes. How can I . . . ?"

"I must leave for Europe as quickly as possible. How much longer must my husband's body be detained?"

I guessed that she'd been expecting a call-back.

But I did not know what to tell the lady about her husband's body so I merely hung up the phone and went on to the party.

But something else had been settled, as well. Gina's name was not
Terrabona
or
Sarastova
or even Gina. It seemed that her official name would turn out to be Toni
Delancey
, and wasn't that a shocker.