Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (15 page)

"Might be hard to prove in court . . . but, yeah, I know it for a fact, in at least two cases."

I said, "You've helped a little already, then. Feels a bit better to know what kind of guy I pulled a trigger on. How 'bout Browning? He's lily white?"

"Oh, he's lily white, yeah. Tough as nails but as square as they come."

"Why are they
safing
you?"

"They were nervous about uh . . ."

"About what?"

"Maybe they haven't uncovered all the bad apples.
Mathison
could have had conspirators in the ranks. They didn't want me found dead in a cell."

"You're that important to them?"

"I guess so."

"What about this Gina
Terrabona
? What's happening with her?"

"I don't know, Joe," he replied innocent-eyed.

"You've had no contact with her since Tuesday?"

"Browning picked me up on Tuesday. I've had no contact with anyone."

"You didn't see her about two o'clock this morning?"

"Don't be crazy. I told you, I've been in custody all this time."

"But you could have visitors."

"Hell no. They watch me like a hawk."

I gave him a hard look and said, "I talked to Miriam."

"Screw Miriam," was his response to that.

"Said she's contacted a lawyer to file for divorce."

"That's fine with me."

"You gave up your police career for that lady, pal."

He said, very quietly, "I gave up nothing for Miriam, Joe. Let's just leave her out of this."

"She called you a pervert."

He flinched, tried to cover it with a nervous laugh, asked, "What else did she call me?"

I replied, "I guess that covered it all."

"Didn't call me a junkie, huh?"

"No. Are you a junkie?"

"She probably thinks I am. We went to a couple of parties that turned out to be coke parties."

"But you don't use the stuff."

"You know me better than that."

"Yeah," I said agreeably. "But we still need to talk to
Dostell
."

That is where Tom Chase bailed out on me. He hit the lever and was rolling through the doorway before I could get a hand off the wheel.

I hit the brakes but I was only doing about twenty so I guess he had a tolerable enough landing. He was off the pavement and running by the time I could look back.

And that was the last time I saw my old pal Tom Chase alive.
   

Chapter Twenty-One

Sure, I knew
I'd done something really stupid. I'm | not trying to alibi it when I say that I was simply playing the ear, taking it as it came, improvising as I went along. Hadn't known it was an FBI safe house when I went busting in there, had no particular plan in mind; from that point on, though, it was sheer stupidity.

Of course, I hadn't expected it to work out the way it did, either. I'd been wanting a crack at Tom Chase for a couple of days, thinking he could fill in some gaps for me. When I saw him standing there in that bedroom in Brentwood Park, it was like instant gratification and I simply seized the moment. Meant to take him back after we'd had our talk.

But now I was really into it.

What I had done, in essence, was to break a prisoner out of federal detention.

In a larger sense, I had kidnapped a prisoner from protective custody and exposed him to the very danger

from which he was being protected. I had also assaulted a federal agent and interfered with due process.

I was sure that Browning would be able to think of several other charges, if those were not enough to inspire the judge to revoke my bail and maybe even order it forfeited. So I was not worried only for myself. I had to think about
Cherche
, too, and where a forfeiture would leave her.

So yeah, I was kicking my own ass up and down the streets as I cruised around hoping to find Tom Chase and take him back to where he belonged. Maybe then Browning would not be mad enough to throw the book at me.

But I did not find even a sniff of Tom, not until it was too late. I'd been cruising for fifteen minutes, back and forth across the area, and had decided to give it up when I spotted a crowd of people and the telltale red and blue flashers of a police cruiser at the next intersection. This was on Santa Monica Boulevard just outside the L.A. city limits, at a small cross street. The crowd was gathered outside a smoke shop at the corner. A patrolman was trying to handle the crowd. I could hear sirens approaching in the distance, and I had that sinking feeling in the gut that I already knew what was attracting that crowd.

I double-parked behind the cruiser and joined the onlookers, pushed my way inside. The gut had known, yeah. Tom Chase lay there oozing blood from about forty holes. An ambulance screamed in with several more police cars in tow. But it was all over, pal. It was all over. And it was my damned fault.

They talk about a guy's life flashing in front of his eyes as he's about to die. That happened to me, standing there in that crowd over my old pal's body, but it wasn't my life that flashed, it was his, and ours together. That flash contained all the lousy patrols and stake-outs, shoot-outs, drinking bouts, locker room jokes, the good times and the bad times, the dreams and the fears of two young cops on mean streets together. It was all there in a single flash, yeah, and I wanted to just sit down on the Goddamned curb and cry.

But there was no place on the curb to sit and I guess I never learned how to cry like a man in public. The cops had arrived in force, too, and were taking control of the situation. I allowed myself to be shoved back against the front of the smoke shop and I just stood there for a couple of minutes, too stunned and stupid to think or act, but then my policeman's brain began to assert itself as I overheard one of the cops talking to a witness.

It was the proprietor of the smoke shop, an old man with excitement in the voice, and apparently he'd seen it all and more. "He come busting in just as I was opening the shop. He was all out of breath, panting like he'd been running a long way, wanted to use the telephone. Flashed a badge, see, and grabbed the telephone. Talked to someone for just a second, didn't say more than three words—just gave the corner here, I think— then went to stand just inside the door, watching the street. Stood there for about five minutes and I was getting damn nervous about it. I didn't really see that badge good. Any jerk can buy a badge. But then this car came along and I guess he saw it coming. He turned and waved at me and said thanks, and went out to meet the car at the curb. They shot him from the car as he was walking toward it. They shot him with a machine gun from the car. Was he really a policeman?"

Had been, yeah, a long time ago . . . damned good policeman.

I had to get away from there. Anywhere, just away. So I went away. And had a good cry in private. I think it was for both of us, Tom and me.

      
I called Browning and broke the news to him myself. Took a while to reach him. He was out of the office but they relayed the call via mobile service and I caught him in his car. He said not a word in reaction for a good ten seconds, then all he said was, "Well that's beautiful, just beautiful."

I said, "Yeah."

He asked me, in a curiously controlled voice, "What time did you lift him out of there, Joe?"

"From the safe house? It was about ten minutes after you left me. Why?"

I guess he'd been reading the emotion in my voice, because he said to me, "Don't beat yourself up over this. You didn't shorten his life any. You extended it."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Where are you now?"

"I'm in Santa Monica. What do you mean by—?"

"I'm at the safe house. Come on back."

I was thinking about it when he broke the silence o say, "It's okay. Come on over. Want you to see this."

"Okay," I replied. "I'm about fifteen minutes away."

"I'll be here," he assured me.

I couldn't figure it Just couldn't figure it. But I drove jack to Brentwood Park. And then, yeah, I stopped beating up on myself just a little.

      
I could not get within two blocks of the place by car. Streets were filled with firefighting equipment and a lot of hell was still going down, throughout that neighbor- hood. Browning must have passed the word to admit me through the periphery containment because I was passed right on through on my name alone.

It had appeared from a distance that the entire neighborhood was on fire but it turned out to be only three houses involved in addition to the safe house, and he firemen had knocked down the blaze in all but one when I arrived.

There was a black hole in the ground where the safe house had been. Charred rubble was flung all over the area. I found Browning talking to a fire captain. He ex- used himself and came over to join me while I just stood there gaping at that hole in the ground.

"Looks nuked," I commented.

"Had to be a hell of a charge," the fed agreed. Someone really wanted it to blow."

"When did it happen?"

"It blew at seven o'clock. That must be very close to the time you were here."

I asked him, "What time did you leave the restaurant?"

"It was six-forty."

"Very close, yeah," I said. "I came straight bad here, so that's about six forty-five. I wasn't here five minutes. But close enough, for sure." A thought hit me so I expressed it. "One of your agents was here when I left. He was unconscious. Have you found . . . ?"

"We've found nothing yet. Just one agent?"

I said, "Just one, yeah."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Guy about average height,
thirtyish
brown curly hair, wore a big six-shooter in shoulder harness."

Browning said, "Uh-huh. Only one?"

I said it again. "Only one, yeah."

He sighed deeply and said, "Let's get away from here."

The fed gave me a ride to my car, then I followed him to the same restaurant where we'd talked before We had coffee and talked some more. He turned out t be an okay guy, it seemed. The barriers of officialdom were down and we just talked like men. I explained how I had blundered into the safe house looking for anything and nothing, how surprised I'd been to find Tom there and why I took him out of there. And I gave it to him straight, the gist of the whole dialogue with Tom, the

curious bit about Frank
Dostell
, Tom's dash from the car and my attempt to get him back.

Browning did not act surprised at any of it.

When I told him about the shooting in Santa Monica, he just nodded and said, "That's twice. I'll alert the Santa Monica police to check for a ballistics match with the freeway shooting. That could prove interesting."

I asked him, "What kind of gun was it, the freeway hit?"

"Uzi," he replied pithily.

"Well, that narrows it down. There are only about a million of those in this town."

"We need only one," he said.

I liked the way he said "we," so I told him, "I feel like a jerk about all this, Browning, but I'll try to set it right. What can I do to make your job easier?"

"You can go back to jail," he said soberly.

"Other than that," I said.

"Just keep doing what you're doing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I won't have it on my conscience."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you are a lightning rod, Joe. You'll likely end up in a grave beside your friend, Chase. But while you're with us, things do happen. I'm content for now to watch it happen."

"Like that, eh?"

"Exactly like that."

"You won't revoke my bail."

He sighed. "No. I should. And I should throw your

key away. That would be doing you a favor. But I'm all out of favors for a while." He stood up, picked up both tickets, said, "The coffee is on me, but don't try to make it a habit."

"Will you be taking a look at Tom now?"

"Yes. Want to tag along?"

I waved it off, said, "Thanks. I already did my requiem."

"Whose china closet?" he asked lightly, "are you contemplating now?"

"Maybe my own," I replied.

"Your own?"

I nodded my head, offering no further explanation.

The fed said, "Don't get too wild," and walked away.

I think all the "wild" had left me, at that point.

That, I could understand.

But I wasn't sure I understood why Special Agent Browning was being so damned nice to me.

Unless, of course, I could simply take him at his word and he was not being nice in the deeper sense.

Or unless he had blown up his own safe house.