Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Read Online Free
Author: Don Pendleton
anxiously.
"My car is staked out," I told her. "And those aren't Russians, they're L.A. city cops. So what the hell is going down here, lady?"
She looked scared for the first time, definitely flustered. "I don't know what it means," she assured me. "But I'm sure Tom didn't . . ."
"Didn't what?"
"Break already. How could the police know about you?"
"How could anybody?"
"Indeed."
Indeed, sure. I get it later that her name is Gina Ter - rabona . Don't ask what kind of name that is, I have no idea—sounds sort of Italian, doesn't it, but she told me that she was American-born to an American father and Israeli mother. The marriage failed a few years after she was born and her mother returned to Israel and took Gina with her. She grew up over there, educated there, served in the Israeli army and worked in military intelligence, came back to this country and claimed her birthright as an American citizen, worked at the Pentagon for a while—again in intelligence—got the job with PowerTron through her Washington connections.
See, this is all starting to sound too damn squirrely and I am starting to wonder if I am caught up in Tom Chase's weird idea of a practical joke. Meanwhile I am scratched and bruised all over, I think maybe I have a wrenched back and definitely a tender ankle, and my head is beginning to throb.
The kid is starting to fall apart. She's crying silently and her knuckles are white she's gripping the wheel so hard. I'm feeling like an ungrateful bastard but still I'm clinging to the hostility I'm feeling deep down inside
somewhere and I am wondering what in the hell I am doing in this fucking mess. I'm a private cop, for God's sake, and maybe my license to make a living that way is on the line—forget that, maybe my freedom to sleep where I want and eat what I want is on the line. It was all for nothing anyway, the goddam guy was guilty as sin—always knew he was too ambitious for his own good, and then that wife of his just made it doubly worse. If she didn't want to be a cop's wife then why the hell did she marry a cop?—it's dumb, he went crazy for that snooty little bitch and sold out his country and now he's sold me out—he was in jail and I was going to be right beside him—Jesus Christ, an accomplice to espionage!—I couldn't believe this shit!
I told the sniveling kid from Israel, "Get ahold of yourself, God dammit , and get ahold of this car too! You're weaving all over the God damned . . . aw shit— forget it, forget it—look, we'll work this out. Don't cry, dammit , we'll work it out!"
She really did have great eyes. Like I said, Siamese- cat eyes—you know that color?—and set into the head sort of that way, too, real slanty , but not an Oriental look, I mean not a human Oriental look but like the cat—and that skin as smooth as silk and just begging to be touched.
So maybe I'm a jerk and I would let Mata Hari herself walk away free if she dropped a couple of tears my way, but I really had no reason to be shitty with this kid, not yet anyway, and I did have a lot to thank her for. It was a damn gutsy thing she did for me back there
with the hounds at my heels, and I hadn't even thanked her.
"I don't know what to do!" she wailed.
Well, hell, neither did I.
But I patted her arm in what was meant to be a comforting way and told her, "Just go home. I'll handle it. Trust me. I'll handle it."
"Where will you go? For now, I mean? You can't go to your car. And if they are watching your car . . ."
Yeah, I got that. I couldn't go home, either. Shit, I didn't know where I could go. Blind, maybe.
But I'm a guy, see—I'm big and I'm tough when I need to be—and there's a certain image to maintain, for us guys. So I just shrugged and told her, "Don't worry it. I've been here before. I'll be here again. Meanwhile . . ."
"Come home with me," she said quietly.
I didn't give it a second thought. I just said, "Okay."
But it wasn't okay. Not at all. It was sheer hell.
A guy was waiting
"My car is staked out," I told her. "And those aren't Russians, they're L.A. city cops. So what the hell is going down here, lady?"
She looked scared for the first time, definitely flustered. "I don't know what it means," she assured me. "But I'm sure Tom didn't . . ."
"Didn't what?"
"Break already. How could the police know about you?"
"How could anybody?"
"Indeed."
Indeed, sure. I get it later that her name is Gina Ter - rabona . Don't ask what kind of name that is, I have no idea—sounds sort of Italian, doesn't it, but she told me that she was American-born to an American father and Israeli mother. The marriage failed a few years after she was born and her mother returned to Israel and took Gina with her. She grew up over there, educated there, served in the Israeli army and worked in military intelligence, came back to this country and claimed her birthright as an American citizen, worked at the Pentagon for a while—again in intelligence—got the job with PowerTron through her Washington connections.
See, this is all starting to sound too damn squirrely and I am starting to wonder if I am caught up in Tom Chase's weird idea of a practical joke. Meanwhile I am scratched and bruised all over, I think maybe I have a wrenched back and definitely a tender ankle, and my head is beginning to throb.
The kid is starting to fall apart. She's crying silently and her knuckles are white she's gripping the wheel so hard. I'm feeling like an ungrateful bastard but still I'm clinging to the hostility I'm feeling deep down inside
somewhere and I am wondering what in the hell I am doing in this fucking mess. I'm a private cop, for God's sake, and maybe my license to make a living that way is on the line—forget that, maybe my freedom to sleep where I want and eat what I want is on the line. It was all for nothing anyway, the goddam guy was guilty as sin—always knew he was too ambitious for his own good, and then that wife of his just made it doubly worse. If she didn't want to be a cop's wife then why the hell did she marry a cop?—it's dumb, he went crazy for that snooty little bitch and sold out his country and now he's sold me out—he was in jail and I was going to be right beside him—Jesus Christ, an accomplice to espionage!—I couldn't believe this shit!
I told the sniveling kid from Israel, "Get ahold of yourself, God dammit , and get ahold of this car too! You're weaving all over the God damned . . . aw shit— forget it, forget it—look, we'll work this out. Don't cry, dammit , we'll work it out!"
She really did have great eyes. Like I said, Siamese- cat eyes—you know that color?—and set into the head sort of that way, too, real slanty , but not an Oriental look, I mean not a human Oriental look but like the cat—and that skin as smooth as silk and just begging to be touched.
So maybe I'm a jerk and I would let Mata Hari herself walk away free if she dropped a couple of tears my way, but I really had no reason to be shitty with this kid, not yet anyway, and I did have a lot to thank her for. It was a damn gutsy thing she did for me back there
with the hounds at my heels, and I hadn't even thanked her.
"I don't know what to do!" she wailed.
Well, hell, neither did I.
But I patted her arm in what was meant to be a comforting way and told her, "Just go home. I'll handle it. Trust me. I'll handle it."
"Where will you go? For now, I mean? You can't go to your car. And if they are watching your car . . ."
Yeah, I got that. I couldn't go home, either. Shit, I didn't know where I could go. Blind, maybe.
But I'm a guy, see—I'm big and I'm tough when I need to be—and there's a certain image to maintain, for us guys. So I just shrugged and told her, "Don't worry it. I've been here before. I'll be here again. Meanwhile . . ."
"Come home with me," she said quietly.
I didn't give it a second thought. I just said, "Okay."
But it wasn't okay. Not at all. It was sheer hell.
A guy was waiting
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