"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."
<
br /> 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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Andrew "Butch" Cassidy was head of security at United Talents, a bear of a man weighing some three hundred pounds with little suggestion of bodyfat in his stance. He did not speak, he barked, and that voice had been born and bred in the Bronx with little adulteration since. Maybe forty-five, fifty-five, probably somewhere in between, and I guessed accurately he'd been a New York cop.
Pedigree shows to those in the trade, and he had me pegged too—something in the walk, maybe—but he kept his big silver pistol in plain sight as he and Guilder escorted me into the security office. "Why'd you leave the force?" he barked at me as we stepped inside.
"Same reason for you, probably."
"I pensioned off. You didn't stick that long. Why not?"
Guilder didn't like the personal turn. "Watch this
guy, Butch. He's mean. Broke my window with his bare hand."
Butch Cassidy gave a disgusted look and holstered his weapon. "Didn't break your face, though. Get the man some coffee, Walter. Put some JD in it. Same for me. Then get out of here."
I sat down on a leather couch and watched the squelched junior cop play bartender and waiter while the other one went through my wallet. I got heavy black coffee laced with Jack Daniels from the one and a sour smile from the other as he tossed the wallet back to me. Guilder gave me a parting look that was like a promise, but not another word.
"You're in trouble, mister," Cassidy told me as he picked up his cup and settled behind the desk.
"Tell me about it," I said. "I've already been charged with conspiracy in several murders. What can you add to that?"
He tasted his drink. "Stupid."
"Agreed. But it gets the attention."
"Sure does. Maybe you'n me need to get together on this."
I tasted my drink, looked him over. "Okay. What're we putting together?"
"First off, I never worked for Wiseman."
"No?"
"No. You read the newspapers? Daily Variety?— Hollywood Reporter?—those kind of papers?"
"Not usually."
"Know anything about the trouble Wiseman was having with his board of directors?"
"Not the particulars, no."
"Man's a crook," he said solemnly.
"How big?"
"Big enough. Had his board worried for sure. Nickels and dimes are okay, but this guy Wiseman . . . well, they sent me out here a year ago. I report directly to Harry Klein. Know who he is?"
I admitted my ignorance.
"He's chairman of the board. Also a director of some big Wall Street outfits. The people in Manhattan have been worried about your friend Wiseman."
"Hey, I'm not sure I ever met the man."
"Then what's your interest?"
"My own neck, among other things."
"Then watch where the nose goes. Word is out that you're nosing around in other people's business. That could get you in a whole lot of trouble. Sure you never heard of Harry Klein?"
"Doesn't he sell men's suits?"
"Wising off won't help either. Klein is connected, if you get my meaning, in all the right places. He manages a great deal of money for some very important men."
I thought oh shit but said aloud, "Good for him. Myself, I'm not interested. I'd sort of like to stay out of jail and keep my license—that's my only interest. What's yours?"
"Guess I'm interested in helping you stay out of jail and out of trouble."
"Why?"
He spread his hands in a benevolent gesture. "Common background, maybe."
I thought not, but I smiled and told him, "Thanks, I appreciate it. So how can you help me?"
"Look, you're stirring up muddy waters, like I told you. That can get you nothing but trouble and it sounds to me like you got enough of that already. I've been authorized to offer you a deal. You give us Wiseman, we'll give you back your head . . . plus a nice cash bonus in the bargain."
I laughed.
"What's funny?"
"First off, you don't have my head. Even if you did I don't have Wiseman. If I did I'd give him to the cops. But I think he's dead, just like they say, and that's why I laughed. If the guy had something of yours, Cassidy, I think it went with him. So what can we put together now?"
The bear growled. "Get out of here, Copp, before I bust you for trespass."
I needed to hear it only once. I turned back at the door, though. "According to my information, the UT board of directors just recently reconfirmed Wiseman as CEO. Why would they do that if he's such a crook?"
I received a sour smile and a knowing look. "Can you imagine fifty million bucks, Copp?"
"Not really, no. My numbers don't run that high."
"Then I guess you couldn't imagine losing that much to a thief, could you."
I guessed I couldn't. But I guessed I could imagine why the losers would reconfirm someone who'd stolen it from them. What better way, really, to keep the guy around and in sight.
And if "connected," as applied to Harry Klein, still meant what it once meant, I could also imagine why the thief would want to drop out of sight for good, even to staging his own death. Especially if he'd lost the fifty million to his own numbered account somewhere.
So what did I have now?
Snakes, I had a bag of snakes.
I got back outside just in time to rescue the Cad from an assault by Guilder. The guy was apparently still smarting over his loss of face, and figured to restore some of it by retaliating tit for tat. I caught him with an iron bar poised over my windshield.
"Go ahead, break it," I told him. "Then I'm going to shove that bar someplace warm and keep it there."
He tried to laugh it off, then came to me with the bar.
I took it in the palm and kept it, hoisted him with the other hand onto the roof of the Honda. "I apologize for busting your window. I brought your wallet back."
"I got it . . ."
"So let's just call it square."
I let him down and gave him back the bar. "No reason we can't be friends then."
Actually he seemed anxious to be friends. I took the iron bar back and examined it, hefted it, placed it against my head for a fit, handed it back to him. "Were you at my office yesterday, Walt?"
The question seemed to add to his nervousness. "I don't know where your office is at, Joe."
"Lady next door described you perfectly," I lied.
"Not me, I've never been out there. I stick pretty close to—"
"Out where?"
"You said—"
"I just said my office, Walt."
"Well, I knew you're from out around Covina or Azusa, that area. I never go out there." He tried to smile. "Anything east of civic center is another country to me."
"Butch thinks you're with Wiseman."
"What?"
"He thinks you helped Wiseman set up this scam."
"Why would he think that?"
I kept on lying. "He knows about Melissa."
"How could he—?" Guilder caught himself, gave me a stage wink, tried to smirk, and, "Has to be some bonus to this work, Joe. If the lady wants to play, hey . . ."
"Don't try that with Butch, he's a bear. Bear'll eat you alive. Myself, I don't care. But the people back East want the fifty million, want it bad. I've heard of people like them hanging guys like you on a meat hook through the rectum and skinning them alive. So from one private cop to another . . ."
&
nbsp; I now had Walter Guilder's full attention. He leaned against his car, looked me in the eye and told me in sober tones, "I don't have the fifty mil, Joe."
"Well, they're going to think so. They know about you and Melissa. They know about Charlie Franklin. And they believe that Bernie Wiseman is still alive."
"This is crazy, Joe. I bought into nothing like this. What can I do to square myself?"
I said, "I'm sort of on the same spit. Maybe we ought to put our heads together and see what we can do about it."
That made him nervous again. "I don't know, I just don't know. Did Butch tell you that?"
"Sure."
"I just don't know . . ."
"I need to talk to Melissa, Walt. Maybe I can cut a deal with these guys."
"What kind of deal?"
"Throw them some different meat."
"Oh. I see what you mean."
"So how about it?"
"How about what?"
"Set me up with Melissa."
"I don't know . . ."
"Hey, wait, it's her or us."
"I don't want their damned money."
"We'll have to prove it," I said. "Set me up with Melissa."
"I'll try."
"Meet me at midnight. Hollywood Bowl, lower parking lot. You'll recognize my car."
"Yeah, okay. I'll try."
"Anything beats a meat hook, Walt. Hold that thought."
Guilder looked like he'd have no trouble doing that. "Better her than us, yeah."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I still was interested in my official police status so I stopped at a public phone and gave Abe Johnson another try. I'd left my name on the earlier attempt, told the fellow I'd be checking back in a little while. I knew that the hour did not matter. A man in Johnson's position would be spending more time at work than at home with a case like this one. It also figured that I would get through to him this time, especially if I was hot.
I was hot, all right. First thing he said to me was, "You been home today, Joe?"
Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) Page 7