Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) (8 page)

      
I said, "What's to script? I figured those movies were thrown together on the spot."

      
"Not all. It can be a challenging assignment. The one I did was
upscaled
a bit, good storyline, some humor."

      
"But no Oscars."

      
"Matter of fact, it won a porn award."

      
We both laughed and then I asked him, "That's when you met Melissa?"

      
"No, actually Melissa came to me and asked me to do the script. I'd known her since her first week in town. She—"

      
"This was before her marriage to Albert?"

      
"Yes, about a year before. She'd done a couple of the adult films when we first met. I didn't know about that at the time. She had an interest in writing and I was doing weekend seminars at UCLA."

      
"So you got together over the writer's version of the casting couch."

      
"Oh no, not me," he protested amiably. "I suppose she would have but—"

      
I asked it pointblank: "Are you gay?"

      
"As a circumstance of birth, yes. As a choice of lifestyle, no. I haven't slept with a man since I was eighteen. Fallen in love with a few, yes, but I never worked it out through the act."

      
"Must be difficult."

      
He smiled, relit his pipe. "Not really. There are other ways of working it out. I have a rich fantasy life. It suffices."

      
"Ever fantasize about Bernie Wiseman?"

      
"Of course." He said it easily. "I was in love with Bernie."

      
"I see."

      
"Do you?"

      
"Not really, but it's okay by me if it's okay by you. Maybe I'm out of line to say it, but you don't act like a man whose lover just died."

      
"We weren't lovers," he corrected me.

      
"Can you give me a story treatment on Melissa?"

      
"I'd prefer she be here."

      
"She may never get here. People connected to Bernie seem to be at high risk. Maybe you too. Was it for your convenience or Melissa's that you two married?"

      
"Sorry. I really can't talk about that."

      
"Even if it kills you to not talk about it?"

      
No answer.

      
"Would you give me her address? I seem to have gotten it wrong."

      
"If you find it, would you give it to me? She's become very mysterious lately. I have no idea where she is."

It had been an illuminating conversation, but I still was not sure what had been illuminated.

      
I decided I wanted another talk with Melissa Franklin.

      
And I could only hope that it was not too late for that.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When I left Charles Franklin's place in Glendale I felt I had the pieces for the puzzle but wasn't seeing how to put them together, and it was driving me crazy.

Maybe that was why it took me a couple of minutes to realize I had picked up a tail car at Franklin's. My first thought was a police tail, and I was reasonably certain it hadn't followed me up that hill because night had come while I was at the Wiseman place in San Marino and you do not drive the Glendale hills at night without lights.

Next thought was that the bodies of
Forta
and Rodriguez had been discovered at my place and now I was, again, on the want-list. It was a logical assumption . . . they had gone to my place with a search warrant, and it was past time that someone would begin to wonder what had become of them.

I tried to lose the tail. Didn't work through two

switchback turns and a high-speed run along the Glendale Freeway. But nobody else joined in the chase, so I had to revise my reading as well as my response.

I left the freeway at
Calle
Verdugo
and swung toward downtown Glendale with the tail intact, ducked into a small shopping center and parked in front of a liquor store. The other car eased on past and parked at the curb just beyond the entrance to the parking lot. Couldn't see the occupant but it was a late model Honda sedan with personalized plates—not an official police vehicle.

I went on into the liquor store and bought a pack of cigarettes, paused outside at a pay phone for a shot at Abe Johnson but could not connect, then sat in the Cad eyeing the Honda and trying to figure it.

Obviously someone other than cops of either force was interested in me and my movements. Someone had invaded my office, someone had invaded my home. Now someone was tailing me through the streets of Glendale. Why? Nothing computed, so I went for a direct answer.

The guy was sitting there in the Honda with the windows up and the doors locked, man of about thirty wearing a business suit and a worried face. I leaned on the roof and started it rocking, then shattered the window glass on the passenger side with the heel of my hand and opened the door. He was trying to start the car when I snatched the keys and tossed them into the rear.

"Put your wallet on the seat." I kept my tone as mild as possible under the circumstances.

The guy complied without a murmur of protest. I picked up the wallet and went back to my car to check it out. It contained fifty-two bucks, credit cards and a small detachable ID folder with a California driver's license in one window and a studio security ID in the other. The studio was
United Talents
, the name on the ID was Walter Guilder. The name meant nothing to me, but the position title did. A studio cop. Some cop. He'd taken off leaving the wallet in my possession without a murmur.

I decided to go out of my way to return the wallet. The studio was only about ten minutes away. Guilder's ID passed me through the automated gate at the employee entrance. It was nearing nine o'clock and the whole place seemed buttoned down for the night, the parking area almost empty. I took a space near the executive offices reserved for "Studio Security" and entered through a rear door. It was not a particularly large building, had two U-shaped floors with wide corridors, small offices, a front reception lobby now manned by a uniformed studio cop watching a small portable television—not closed-circuit but a rerun of "Gilligan's Island."

I surprised the guard from his backside, flustered him a bit. "Did you see Guilder come in?"

"Who, sir?"

"Walter Guilder, Security. Is he here?"

The guard switched off the TV. "Guess I don't know Mr. Guilder, sir, but I'm sure the building's empty. I mean, I thought it was."

I placed the wallet on the desk. "He left this in my car. See that he gets it back."

I left the guard impressed and flustered as he eyed the wallet and I went upstairs. I'd already checked the directory and knew where to look for Wiseman's offices. They were behind locked glass doors, had a glitzy reception area large enough to seat a dozen visitors in comfort, boardroom-style doors set into the back wall.

The glass doors were no problem but it took me minutes to get past the other ones and into a smaller lobby. Other doors opened to my touch into a conference room, a small secretarial office and the inner sanctum—a suite of rooms outfitted for work and relaxation, also physical therapy equipment and a whirlpool bath.

I didn't exactly know what I was doing there. I'd come on impulse—opportunistic impulse—and now that I had it I didn't know what to do with it.

So I went into Wiseman's private office and sat on the edge of his mahogany desk and wondered. A movie or TV cop might rifle the desk or file cabinet and out would pop the big clue or solution. But real life ... Well, what the hell, I did go through the desk but nothing popped out at me. The man was too incredibly neat: couple of old shooting scripts, a neat stack of legal-size ruled tablets, box of blue pencils, a thin breast-pocket-size business diary embossed with the Platinum Card emblem. I pocketed the diary and kept on looking, but it was just the usual stuff.

There was no chair behind that desk, which made me think of the wheelchair, which in turn made me wonder about a second-floor office for a man with nonfunctional legs. Which led me to look for the elevator. I found it behind a door in the therapy room and took it down to a private entrance off the parking lot and went on out that way.

A big white stretch limousine sat just outside. It looked like the one that had brought the client to my office at the beginning of this business, except that this one had a different interior arrangement. Instead of a divan-seat in the rear it had a single swiveling seat with arm rests and floor mounts for a wheelchair.

I carry a "ladies' helper" in the trunk of my car—a little steel strap about eighteen inches long, like a hacksaw blade without teeth, fine little aid for those who lock their keys inside the car away from home. I went to the Cad and got it, popped the
doorlock
on the limo, searched the glove box. It too was incredibly neat, especially compared to my own. Vehicle Owner's Manual, registration papers in the name of
United Talents,
a rack of audiotapes—all operatic,
Aida
and
Otello
stick in the mind.

I was about to close it up when I noted the edge of a road map that apparently had become misplaced and was wedged into a small space between the top of the box and the panel. I managed to get a finger up in there and coax the map clear. It was a California road map, neatly folded to a detail of the Palm Springs area and marked with a circled number. I put the map in my pocket and shook down the rest of the car but it was clean.

It was not what I found but what found me at
United Talents
that changed that night. I'd been sprawled across the front seat while I dug for treasure in the creases. I came out backward and turned into the muzzle of a big silver revolver that found dock space at the tip of my nose. The hand that held it was as big as mine and certainly as competent, thumb on hammer in a knowledgeable fashion and discouraging rash acts.

"Is this the guy?" said a voice behind the gun.

My new pal Walt Guilder responded to that query.

He stood beside the other man and was looking at me with the purest hatred. "Yeah, bad Joe
Copp
. Blow the asshole away."

      
I delicately pushed at the barrel of the pistol with an index finger, smiled prettily and told them, "I'll tell you why I sent for you."

      
Nobody laughed.

      
At last I had a small clue.

      
Guilder had called me by name.

      
Which eliminated the possibility I'd been considering that he'd crossed my path by chance at Glendale, or at least it put a dent in it.

      
So maybe now I was going to find out why a
United Talents
security cop had been on stakeout at Charlie Franklin's, why he had followed me from there, and how he knew me on sight.

      
Maybe.