Of course I told about the encounter with Gina out-
side the consulate but for some strange reason I covered her the best I could, said I didn't know her last name and that was not exactly a lie, explained how we'd spotted the police stakeout on my car so she'd offered to put me up for the night, told about the shooting at her apartment and my decision to take her to the mountain cabin.
The FBI guys wanted minute detail concerning Mathison. They kept interrupting, probing, trying their best to trip me up and make me admit that I had surprised Mathison in Gina's apartment and shot him cold. So I finally had to make a big deal out of the fact that I had not tried to conceal the shooting but had actually reported it by telephone to LAPD. I also pointed out that only two shots had been fired, one by me and one by Mathison, and his had buried itself in the wall beside my head right at the front door—so who had surprised whom, and where the hell was his authorization to enter that apartment anyway?
The chief prosecutor had to step in and break that up. I was invited to continue the story, which I did but without all the personal stuff between Gina and me. I just told them that we went to sleep and she was gone when I woke, also gone was my evidence and my pistol. I related the whole thing about being picked up on the mountain road by the people from the consulate, the CHP pullover and the quick switch between cars, the ensuing shoot-out on the freeway ramp. Again, here, I got into it with the FBI. I had to show them my cuts and bruises and they still couldn't believe that I had walked
away from that if I had been inside the car with the victims.
The LAPD guy wanted a physical description of the CHP motorcycle officer who'd pulled us over while I was in the Russians' car. Who the hell can give a description like that? Those guys all look exactly alike, describe one and you describe them all. I asked if they couldn't get verification from the CHP but nobody volunteered to answer that so I went on with the story. Told them about my second encounter with Gina at my place and the third one in Beverly Hills—though I covered Cherche, too, all I could—how I got my gun back and how I busted the tail I picked up there. The FBI was all ears again as I related the PowerTron security connection but this time they let me continue without interruption.
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 understa
nd."
"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?"
Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 7