Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (10 page)

But it is, what the hell, a crazy world after all.

Chapter Fifteen

One strong impression
that I got from that meeting with Nicholas
Gudgaloff
was that he seemed as much in the dark as I was concerning the events of the past few days. Either that or he'd just been playing it dumb and pushing my buttons for effect, but I'd also sensed an element of fear in that interchange, experienced as extreme caution or delicacy out of place. And that had me wondering.

As soon as he and his people left the apartment,
Cherche
turned to me with a troubled smile to ask, "So now what do you think of my Nicky, darling?"

I told her, "You'll be the first to know, darling, when I find out. Next time you're going to deliver me into the hands of my enemies, though, give me a little warning, huh?"

She took it with pained innocence. "But I did not deliver you, Joseph. I assumed that you wished to meet with him. It is he who was delivered. He telephoned earlier for an appointment with Angelique. I instructed him

to meet her here, thinking it the perfect opportunity for you."

"We'll talk about it later," I said impatiently. "Right now I need a word or two with Angelique."

"That would not be possible,"
Cherche
informed me, with a disapproving shake of her head. "Angelique awaits Nicky in his car."

"Where are they going?"

Another disapproving shake, and: "Not tonight, Joseph."

I jumped right into her face, I guess, because she drew back with a start as I replied, "Don't give me that delicate business bullshit,
Cherche
! That girl is with the lions, not the lambs! Where are they headed?"

She merely shook her head in distressed silence. I beat it out of there quick and got outside just in time to see a stretch limousine and a following car pull away and circle toward the gate. I was delayed then by a brief altercation with the parking valet, who wanted me to observe the formalities and allow him to fetch my car. I gave him a buck and a push and fetched for myself, hit the gate about ten seconds behind the others, and picked them up a couple of blocks along.

It was easy to keep them in sight—maybe too easy, I thought a couple of times—as we wound north to Sunset and then sedately westward. The hour was late, close to midnight, and the traffic was light and almost leisurely. The track led past
Bel
Air and Brentwood, on beyond Pacific Palisades and then northward along the coast highway toward Malibu. I was beginning to wonder if the chauffeur of that limousine had been instructed to just meander around and kill time—if, you know, the party or whatever was inside the limo itself. That filled my head with non-tantalizing thoughts which made me realize that I did really care for that girl, whoever the hell she was and whatever her role might be in all this intrigue. It seemed obvious that Ivan and his thugs were following the limo in the accompanying car, so that would leave plenty of intimate stretch in the back seat for Nicky. And it was bothering the hell out of me, yeah.

They pulled into a small roadside shopping park on the approach to Malibu where there was a small liquor store and market. I was laying back a good distance so I didn't see what transpired there. They were moving again within a minute, and this time with a bit more zip to the trip.

I hoped they were not headed for the Malibu Beach Colony. It's a very ritzy settlement on the sands for the rich and famous with controlled access and I'd have a hell of a time getting in there. So I was thankful when the track turned into the hills and ended there.

The apparent destination was a rather unimposing
homesite
that had been scooped from the plunging mountainside to make a little "
ranchette
" with stables and corral, spectacular ocean view, lots of eucalyptus and exotic shrubbery. You could just barely see the place from the roadway and I would have missed it entirely if I had not been in position to see the other cars veer away at that point. I was far behind and running without lights, and I pulled over immediately and killed the engine, went the rest of the way on foot since there was absolutely no traffic up this way and I did not wish to advertise my presence.

The house was set below the roadway, accessed by a narrow lane that wound down to it. Lights were showing down there as a diffused glow through the vegetation. I could hear snatches of soft music and I smelled the evidence of horses nearby, if you know what I mean. There are horses out my way, too, and I live with that smell when the wind is wrong.

I cased the place as best I could from the roadway, then ventured in via the corral fencing and felt my way around to the stables and a small parking area just beyond. I could hear men talking somewhere out there and quickly determined that it was coming from the access lane
uprange
. Cars were parked all along there, maybe six to eight all told, and four more in the stables area. So it was evidently a gathering of some kind, maybe a party and maybe something else.

Turned out to be both.

Apparently some of those cars assembled there came with chauffeurs, who were having their own little party outside. I managed to catch a glimpse of big Ivan and his thugs at the periphery of that outside gathering and I got the impression that they were tensely aloof from the others. Maybe it was just a language barrier and maybe it was something else. Whatever, that glimpse served as warning that I should not get too fancy with my footwork on this turf.

      
I worked my way around the far side of the house, taking full advantage of the darkness and foliage in which it was set. The view from the front was spectacular, yeah—both ways, from the house and into the house. The whole front wall was glass and there was a deep patio area extending in a semi-circle to the very front edge of the property with nothing but a low split- rail fence to keep you from stepping off into thin air.

This was the area, I remembered, where the foundations of very expensive houses occasionally slide down the mountainside. I could see why, and I would not want to be inside this one in a heavy rain.

I had worked my way into some shrubbery about twenty feet from the house and had a pretty good view into the large room at the front. The only tux I saw was on Prince Nicky and he looked very out of place in that crowd. Most of what I saw were faded denims and T- shirts, on male and female alike, and I guess there were fifteen to twenty people in that room. I did not see Gina- Angelique-Toni right away, but I did see another familiar face in that crowd—and it gave me quite a pause.

I had not seen the guy face to face for several years but there was no doubt that this was one Frank
Dostell
, an infamous Hollywood insider once referred to as "the Pusher to the Stars." The guy dealt in cocaine and everyone knew it. He'd been charged several times but never convicted, never even brought to trial. Some of us cops used to sit around the table and wonder out loud who was running interference for
Dostell
. It had to be someone big, someone with political clout, and maybe

that is why there was never heart enough among the cops to pursue the matter.

Anyway,
Dostell's
presence here was a shiver for me, even though it might mean nothing whatever to the overall weave of my present problem. You don't forget a guy like
Dostell
, and you never get over the frustration of seeing someone like this strutting around and thumbing his nose at the law.

While I was looking at him, this time,
Gudgaloff
took him by the arm and drew him aside in a sober conversation. That's when I spotted Angelique, dressed in a devastating skintight white sheath that weighed maybe eight ounces and measured no more than twenty inches overall. She slid open a patio door and stepped outside, stood there for a moment just sort of sniffing the air, then sauntered out to the railing at the overlook.

She was close enough at that point that I could almost reach out and touch her. I watched the house for a moment to be sure that no one was joining her outside, then I spoke to her, very quietly, from my cover.

"Don't react, don't look around."

She didn't, but the tremor in her voice told the tale of sudden emotion as she gasped, "Joe! Are you crazy?"

"Sure I'm crazy. So are you, kid. What's going down here?"

"It's just a party!"

"Is this
Dostell's
place?"

"No. A film director lives here, Dan somebody. What are you doing?"

      
"Watching your ass, pal, that's what. Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay! Get away from here!"

"In a minute. You're in terrible company, kid. What brought you here?"

"Frank
Dostell
."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Nicky searched for him by telephone from the car. He located him here, so on we came. Why does it matter?"

"Maybe it doesn't," I told her. "Then again ... do you know what this guy is into?"

"I know, yes. And at the moment it also is what Nicky is into. He can act quite irrationally at such times. Know what I mean?"

"He's hooked on the stuff?"

"I think he is hooked, yes."

I said, "Well, well."

It was a powerfully seductive idea, almost a stunning idea. A KGB station chief? Hooked on cocaine?

"Please get away from here, Joe. Do not be concerned for me. I can handle Nicky."

I said, very soberly, "Guess you can, at that. You can handle any man, can't you, Toni?"

I'd placed heavy emphasis on the name, and it hit home. She sort of drooped and leaned against the rail, took a deep breath before replying to that shot. The voice was entirely flat as she said, "So now you know it all."

Maybe it would have been easier if we'd been standing toe to toe, eye to eye. This way it was just cold and weird, me speaking to her backside while she spoke to the Malibu wind. "I know a lot more than I understand, kid. Any time you want to sort it out for me . . ."

After a moment she replied, "I did not know about the gun, Joe."

I said, "That's okay, I didn't know about Putnam and
Delancey
either. How'd they get shot with my gun?"

"This I do not know. It was in my possession all that day, but I shot no one. Especially I did not shoot..."

Her husband, yeah. I'd been wondering about that and I had to ask her about it. "Who do you think did it?"

"Someone with very good reason, I would say."

"Uh-huh. Well . . . my condolences, for what it's worth."

"I stopped grieving for lost love a very long time ago," she said with a tremor in the voice.

I said, "Okay."

"George and I separated quite a long time ago."

"Okay."

"So it was you who called earlier tonight, not the man from the morgue."

I said, "
Yeh
."

"Do you hate me?"

I said it, and meant it at the moment. "I don't hate you, kid."

"That is good. Because I have been thinking since yesterday that perhaps I have found love again."

      
I said, as tough as I could say it, "Don't count on that, pal."

That cost me a ton of agony, I'll level with you.

Maybe it cost her something, too. She straightened up, said, "Very well, pal," and marched back inside.

There have been times, I'm sure, when I have felt worse than that. But I could not remember any of them.

I tried to shrug the feeling off as I cautiously made my withdrawal and returned to my car.