Copp For Hire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (7 page)

      
"No kidding."

      
"It was the title of an oracular priestess. Linda is a diminutive."

      
"You don't look much like a serpent to me," I said.

"Especially not on stage."

      
"You're forgetting Eden. The serpent is mankind's oldest symbol of temptation."

      
It was a symbol for something else, too.

      
But actually I don't put that much stock in names,
Copp
notwithstanding. And I really did not want to think about snakes.

      
Besides...we had a tail. And it was crowding closer and closer as we sped down the mountainside.

Chapter Nine

IF YOU MEAN to play vehicular games on a winding mountain road at night, you should know the territory better than your opponent knows it.

      
I had been driving that road for five years, at all times of the day and night.

      
This guy had come to play games.

      
It was his tough luck that he had come to

play in my territory.

      
He was crowding my rear bumper close enough that I could see the orange flames decaled across the hood in my rearview. I sent Linda a warning signal with the eyes and

told her to buckle up.

      
She obeyed quickly. Linda was no dummy.

She knew what was coming down, even before the guy rode up and tapped my bumper.

      
I drive an old Cadillac, one that was built before the EPA standards scaled them down to economy size.
Sumbitch
weighs three tons, believe it or not, and packs five-hundred cubic inches beneath the hood. It's like an armored tank, and that's why I love it so, even when the monthly gas bill comes.

      
So I was not going to let that
TransAm
push me off the road.

      
In fact, I damned well dared him to try. Next time he surged forward for the tap, I tapped my brakes. The tap became a cruncher and sent him swerving away in reaction. He lost a headlight in that exchange but not a lot of nerve because he came right back for more, this time nosing up past my rear end on the passing side.

      
Bad timing on that one, though. Another vehicle swept around a curve headed our way about a hundred feet ahead, sending the guy swerving back in line. Even with that, he tried to clip me as he swung back in, caught maybe a silly millimeter of bumper, which affected him more than it did me.
     

      
By the time he was in control again we were riding the final ridge before the road curved abruptly into a descent to level terrain. It was about a three-hundred-foot drop

graded over maybe a quarter of a mile if you stayed on the road; if you didn't it was just about foot for foot on the descent—not the way you want to do it in a vehicle.

      
There was a turnout at the curve, a widening of the shoulder to allow a park-and-view of the valley below. It was on the uphill side. I went for it, with the
TransAm
again crowding the rear.

      
I did not go all the way.

      
He did.

      
Maybe because he was so intent on me, maybe because of the limited visibility resulting from the smashed headlight; maybe because he was a jerk and had been trying for three miles to buy something like this.

      
Anyway, I did a sliding
Uey
with the Cad; he tried too late to do the same with the
TransAm
. It teetered broadside at the edge, then went on over in a slowly rolling descent.

      
I sprang a backup .25 automatic from the glove box and dropped it on Linda's lap, hate them or not, and bailed out of there with my big piece leading the way.

      
One of the nice things about being a big man is that it enables you to pack a big piece without unnecessarily advertising the fact that you're carrying. Not that I ever considered it necessary to carry a cannon. Most of the shooting I've ever done was on a pistol range. That's true of most cops. You have to fill out too damned many forms if you fire your weapon in the line of duty. But there is a psychological advantage to a big piece if you are in a stare-down with some dude holding a little
snubnosed
pocket piece. So years ago I adopted a Smith & Wesson Model 57 double-action revolver. It's a 41 Magnum, which is a bit unusual; has an 8-3/8" barrel, more than a foot long overall and weighs over four pounds loaded. Theatrical as hell, I know; but then half of what a cop does is theatrical, so what the hell. If I can prevent a shooting just by unbuttoning my jacket, why not? But if it does get to a shooting, the S&W 57 is very accurate and reloads quickly.

I had a shooting now. My boy had ridden the wreck all the way, I guess. I went scrambling down the hill behind him and drew fire about halfway down. I sent two quick rounds sizzling into the wreckage and got no answer. But I had to respect the return-fire capability, so that slowed me. By the time I got down there my boy was gone. I found some blood on the front seat and a smear on a rock just outside the car, and that was as close as I got to the guy.

      
I jotted down the license number and took the pertinent info off the registration, which I found in the glove box. Registered to a guy who lived in La Canada, which is the other side of Pasadena. Had no doubt at all that the vehicle would show up on the stolen-car list.

      
Linda was waiting for me all
a'sweat
outside the Cad when I finally got back topside. I noticed that she did not have the little pistol I'd dropped on her.

      
"Where's your gun?"

      
She pointed to the car, then nearly fainted in my arms. I provided physical support but I was fuming. "Wouldn't have done you much good, would it," I groused, "if the wrong guy had come back up that hill."

      
She did not reply to that but only clung closer. I gave her time to get it back together, then disentangled and led her to the car.

      
Neither of us had a lot to say about anything at all. So it was a pretty quiet ride the rest of the way. I took her to a luxury hotel in Covina and checked us in with fictitious names. That's only a misdemeanor offense so my crimes were getting lighter. I did not want to advertise her presence anywhere, not even in Covina, which is another jurisdiction. In case someone might go searching, I figured the classy joint would be among the last places to look. It was built entirely around interior courtyards and every room was a suite with kitchen capabilities, so it could also be a comfortable place to lie low for a while, if that should be necessary.

      
I tucked her into the suite and went looking for provisions, first making sure that she understood she was not to open the door to anyone but me. Cops or anyone else; let them kick their way inside if it should come to that.

      
I found a twenty-four-hour mart just a few minutes away; bought instant coffee and milk, some fruits and a few snack foods; also filled a requisition from Linda for cosmetic necessities.

      
She was wrapped in a towel when she let me back into the suite, and I noticed the phone was off the hook. "Why the phone?"

      
"I'm talking to my mother. Please be quiet."

      
Be quiet, my ass.

      
I went over and picked it up, covered the transmitter with my hand. "No goddamned phone calls, Linda."

She said, "Don't be silly. I always call her when I get home from work. She would be worried silly. I didn't tell her what's going on.

      
"You don't tell her where you're at," I said, properly contrite.

      
"Of course not."

      
I gave her the phone and she quickly ended the conversation. Didn't even know she had a mother. How was I supposed to know who she was talking to?

      
I put the perishable stuff in the refrigerator and took the cosmetics to the bathroom.

      
She was staring at the phone when I returned to the sitting room.

      
I said, "Sorry 'bout that, kid."

      
She said, "It's okay. I understand. You're worried for me."

      
"Worried as hell, that's right. There have been two attempts on your life in the past hour. So ..."

      
She shivered. "Why do you think?"

      
"Hell, I don't know what to think. Unless Juanita was into some very hard trouble and the people who are mad at her think you might know something about it. Do you?"

      
She gave me a blank look. "I don't know anything about it."

      
"Maybe you do but don't know that you do."

      
"What could it be?"

      
I said, "Anything, just anything."

      
"Well, I don't know how to account for just anything, Joe."

      
I growled, "Neither do I. Was Juanita screwing around with extracurricular stuff?"

      
"You mean, literally screwing around?"

      
"Professionally, yeah."

      
She shook her head. "I don't know, Joe.
 
Some of the girls are in business for themselves, but I never saw anything to make me think that Juanita was. That doesn't mean that she could not or did not make dates. I think she was the type to weigh the pros and cons of any offer. It would be entirely a matter of practicality for Juanita. I do believe, though, that she was very careful about her involvements."

      
"What about her roommate? Know her?"

      
"I've met her."

      
"So?"

      
"So her name is Maria Avila. She tried out for the club about a year ago. Oh, I guess she tried several times. I don't know—something's lacking in Maria. Pretty as a picture and a fair dancer but...I don't know, no
pizazz
, I guess. Juanita told me that she'd made a connection with one of the party agencies. You know, private parties."

      
"Sometimes very private parties?"

      
"I suppose. Some of these agencies are straight and some are not. Some will book a party or whatever."

      
"Whatever covers a lot."

      
"Covers everything," she said simply. "I believe Maria does everything."

      
"What if I told you," I said, thinking about it and wondering if I should, "that Maria is dead too?"

      
She blinked. "Is she?"

      
I decided against all the cards face up, said instead, "I said what if. Why would you think she is dead?"

      
She looked at me through clouded eyes. "I would figure she finally took that step too far."

      
Step too far. Well. Maybe so. Maybe she and Juanita had taken it together. And it was now catching up to Linda and me.

      
I had to do something quickly to halt the fall of dominoes.

      
Sudden death, after all, had already knocked twice at our door. I did not want to be standing around dumb and defenseless when it came again.