by Wolf Wootan
“That was fast work, Pearl. Thanks,” said Sam.
“You’re welcome. Now let’s see if we got anything.”
Sam read over her shoulder. The prints from the glass belonged to a Carole Winston, aged 35, 5' 7", hazel eyes, and black hair according to the DMV. Same initials, different name.
“She told me she was divorced years ago. But why change the first name? Something’s fishy here,” opined Sam. “No hit on a marriage or divorce?”
“No.”
The other prints from the envelope belonged to William Carter, based on an arrest for DUI in San Diego, CA in 1996. No other recent hits.
“Did they run him through the FBI database?” asked Sam. “Carter could be one of his aliases.”
“Probably not. They need authorization for that and I didn’t give it until I saw what else turned up. Except for the conflict in Ms. Wright’s names, we’ve got zip here. I’ll tell them to run both of them through the works. OK?”
“Good idea. I have to meet Ms. Whateverhernameis at 5 o’clock. See what you can get for me before then. Also, scan that photo she gave me so we can blow it up.”
“I suppose you’d like a blowup of her in the bikini,” said Pearl with a sneer.
“I meant for you to cut and paste one of him, but now that you mention it, prepare one of her, too. I’ll hang it in my office,” laughed Sam.
“I won’t be a party to your lurid voyeurism,” replied Pearl.
“No, really, Pearl. Things aren’t what they seem here. I may need to flash that around later. Find out who this lady really is.”
***
At 4:30, Sam was about to head for Newport Beach and meet with Cheryl/Carole/Persimmon Panties when Pearl entered his office.
“Hot off the press, Sam! Ms. Carole’s print hit three times. She got a U.S. passport in 1990; it’s still active. She was an intern at the White House in 1986—passed the usual security checks. And here’s the kicker: one hit came back with the FBI’s ‘no access’ code. No marriage or divorce. Mr. Winston aka Carter was zippo.”
Sam rubbed his chin and contemplated this new information. Still nothing to go on. The fact that William Winston—a drifter, according to Cheryl—had no more hits puzzled Sam. He should have had some sort of arrest record. And Cheryl lied about being married. And about her name. Both sister and brother used aliases. What in hell was going on?
“Well, should I confront our illustrious client about her name?” Sam asked Pearl.
“I don’t know, you’re the detective. I’ll keep working this, but we’re pretty close to tapped out. And remember: There are rules against sleeping with clients,” said Pearl with a snicker.
“You know I was never much for rules, Pearl. That’s why they kicked me off the job,” laughed Sam with a wink.
***
On the way to Newport Beach, Sam mulled over how he should handle Ms. Persimmon Panties—the only name he knew was true—when he got there. He could snoop around some more first, or just confront her. Most of all, he wanted to get her into bed. Hmm. What’s the best approach? At this point, I’m not sure she even has a brother! Damn that woman! What’s she up to?
Sam delivered the contract, she signed it, then he put it in his inside jacket pocket. He gave her the still-sealed envelope back. She looked delicious in a tight, white tank top—red anchor embroidered above her left breast—navy blue wool slacks, and white deck shoes. She put on a navy blue blazer when they left her apartment. He wondered if she was wearing persimmon panties. Her persimmon lipstick of yesterday had been replaced with a red that matched the anchor on her chest.
Sam told her, “I think it best if I drive.”
She laughed, deep and throaty. “I guess you’re right. You have no reason to trust me!”
“I like to play it safe. Where to?” he chuckled.
“The Bluewater Grill over on Lido Park Drive. Know it?”
“Quite well. It used to be the Sea Shanty, right?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been here as long as you have,” she laughed.
He helped her into the Camaro and wound his way over to 31st Street, then to Lido Park Drive and the Bluewater Grill. After they were seated in a booth and served a glass of White Zin wine each, Sam decided to confront her with what he knew. He had considered calling her “Carole” to see if she responded, but it was close enough phonetically to “Cheryl” that any reaction would not be definitive. Before he could make his move, she spoke.
“How long do you think this might take? I don’t have a lot of money to spend on this search. And, as you know, not much time.”
“There’s no way to predict that. I may never find him. I’m not sure that he even exists. I’ll tell you what I’ve found out so far. A print on that envelope belongs to a William Carter. Is that name familiar to you?”
“No.”
“The other prints belong to a Carole Winston.”
He let it hang there, watching her. She dropped her eyes. After a couple of beats, she looked up.
“I’m sorry, Sam! I just felt uneasy giving my name to a private investigator. I thought it might get back to my employer some how and cause me trouble. I’m social secretary to Mrs. Rosemary Wellington, and I didn’t want her to find out,” she said. “I am Carole Winston.”
“Well, glad to get that straight, but you’re still holding something back. That letter you picked up was addressed to Cheryl Wright and you had ID or Pearl wouldn’t have given it to you. You didn’t make that name up just for me,” replied Sam.
“It’s a name Billy always used to send me stuff. It was just convenient to use it with you.”
Sam stared at her, knowing she was still lying, but let it drop for now. “I’ve heard of this Mrs. Wellington somewhere. Fill me in.”
Mrs. Rosemary Wellington was a high mucky-muck in Orange County society circles. She had appeared on the scene two years ago. Mr. Wellington was apparently deceased. Carole went to work for her six months ago. Sam made a mental note to ask his mother about Wellington. There was no bigger society mogul in Southern California than his mother. Sam felt he had to check out everything Carole said. He didn’t trust her so far, even though her explanation could be true.
“What I have so far, Carole—I guess I should call you Carole, right?”
“Yes. Sam . . .”
He held his hand up and said, “No more apologies. Anyway, that print that came back as William Carter tells us nothing. It could be anyone’s. We’re just assuming it’s his. However, what bothers me is this: there was only one hit. That’s not normal. Most people have some history. Mr. Carter has one DUI arrest. No military service, no driver’s license, and so on. That raises a flag to me.”
She leaned back in the booth and took a deep breath. Sam was momentarily distracted by the stretching of her tank top. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
She leaned forward and exhaled. Her nipples were now fighting to break free. Sam was mesmerized. He was losing his train of thought.
He finally said, “Well, one thing it could mean is this: the actual person who left that print on your letter is being protected by the system. They screwed up and missed the DUI.”
“System? What system?” she asked as she leaned forward. He looked down her blouse and admired her cleavage.
Damn! Sam thought. She’s driving me crazy! On purpose, I think. What’s her game?
“When we check fingerprints through the FBI database, if someone is in Witness Protection, or is undercover from one of the zillion Federal agencies, they can block any match. In my business, ‘no match’ is like a red flag. Take your brother. Suppose that print on the envelope is his. Considering that he moves around a lot, changes jobs at will, and changes names, it is not very likely that he wouldn’t leave a trail of some sort. Arrests, licenses, passports. Things that require fingerprinting. Understand?”
“I see. You’re saying my brother could be in Witness Protection or be a Federal agent?” she said, frowning.
/> “Something like that—if that print is his. I need to do more digging, and you need to give me more to go on. And don’t ever lie to me again.”
“I’m sorry, Sam! I’ve never done anything like this before!” Her hazel eyes were flashing. “I suppose you ran a background check on me, too!”
“No, just the prints on the letter you gave me. If I had run a background report on you, I’d know things like when you had your first period and when you lost your virginity. Real details.”
“First period at 12, virginity gone at 15,” she replied dryly. “What do you need to know? I thought you were supposed to find my brother, not investigate me!”
“Sometimes, one leads to the other.”
Sam pulled his Camaro into a parking space in front of her apartment at 7:25 P.M. He looked over at her profile. Her chest was slowly rising and falling.
“Well, dinner was wonderful, Carole, and we cleared the air. I’ll keep you informed about anything I find out, but don’t get your hopes up,” he said, wondering how long it would take to bed her.
She turned her head and looked at him. “Would you like to get lucky tonight?”
“What? Did I hear you right?” he gasped.
“Yes. I’ve never been laid by a private eye before. I’m horny as hell right now! Why don’t you come in for awhile? You can get up close and personal with these,” she replied as she took his hand and put it on her breasts. “For starters.”
“Er . . .”
“Yes, they’re real. No silicone!”
“Well, Carole, I . . . ,” he stammered, caught off guard by her forwardness.
“Come on, Sam! You’ve been ogling me all evening. I know you want me! And since I want you, too, I’m making the first move. Is that what’s bothering you? Male ego? You have to make the first move? That would waste a few days before we had sex.”
“Lead the way! I do want you!”
“Men can be so damn dense at times!”
***
Sam was exhausted when they finally finished. She was an energetic lover. A sexual dynamo! As he lay naked on her bed, she got up, opened the sliding glass door that led to her small patio, and lit a cigarette. Her large breasts sagged a bit and her nipples were still stiff as she blew smoke outside.
“You’re very good, Sam,” she said, turning toward him, giving him the full frontal view of her firm body. It was the first time he had seen it at a distance.
Definitely Penthouse material! he mused as he memorized her body features.
She glanced at him, smiled, and said, “That was one glorious romp! I hope you’re not planning on leaving right away. I’m going to let you rest for a bit, then I’m going to suck some life back into you. Have a second go at it!”
God! I’ve got a nympho for a client! I should’ve listened to Pearl!
Chapter 15
Thursday, May 3, 2001
Santa Ana, CA
On Thursday morning, Sam dragged into the Santa Ana office at 10:30 A.M. Pearl glared at him.
“What happened? Get hit by a bus? You look terrible!” she snapped.
“Good morning to you, too. I need coffee!” he replied as he went to the pantry area and poured a mug of coffee.
Pearl went on, “I’ll let you have your coffee before I give you the bad news. Take some aspirin.”
“Already did. Come on in and lay it on me. I couldn’t feel any worse,” he grumbled as he went to his office and plopped down in his swivel chair.
Pearl was wearing a tight, blue T-shirt with a V-neck and a short blue denim skirt, all designed to punish him, Sam was sure. But after last night, he wasn’t even fazed by her cleavage and thighs. Maybe later, but not now.
She sat down across from him and crossed her legs. “The news isn’t ‘bad’ as much as it is ‘interesting.’ Our ID Unit in L.A. got a call this morning from the FBI in D.C. wanting to know about the prints we ran. L.A. referred them to you and me down here. I got a call from Carl Fenster, the FBI honcho over on Civic Center Drive, about half an hour ago asking for you. You’re supposed to call him back ASAP.”
Sam took a gulp of coffee, leaned back and put his feet on his desk. “That is interesting. It partially confirms my conjecture that this Winston guy has a protected identity. I got our client to admit that she lied to us about her name. She is Carole Winston. Here’s the signed contract by the way.”
“Is she the reason you’re so trashed today?” asked Pearl.
“Be careful what you wish for, Pearl,” was his enigmatic reply. “I guess I should call Carl. You got his number?”
“I’ll get him for you. Play secretary,” she said as she rose and went back out to her desk.
Carl Fenster was the Resident Agent in Charge of the Santa Ana FBI office. His boss was the SAC (Special Agent in Charge) of the L.A. district. Sam had worked several cases with Carl when he was with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. They got along all right, considering the natural competition between local cops and the Feds. Sam had always been more interested in catching the bad guys than who got the credit.
Sam saw Pearl at her desk swivel around and point to him. He picked up his phone and pushed the blinking button.
“Carl! How are you?”
“Hey, Sam! Long time no see! How’s the gumshoe business?”
“Beats retirement. This is your nickel, Carl. Shoot,” said Sam, feet on his desk.
“I need to get with you ASAP. I can’t discuss this on the phone. Can you drop by this morning?” asked Fenster.
“Hmm. I don’t trust your office, Carl. Maybe you should dash over here. I might be able to fit you in,” laughed Sam.
“You’re the friggin’ Bugmaster! I’d have to spray your place with Raid!” chuckled Carl. “Let’s compromise. How about lunch?”
“That would work. How about Sparky’s?” replied Sam, baiting Carl.
“That’s not neutral turf! Shit, you’re the only cop who has ever been safe in there! How about The Revere House over on First Street?” countered Carl.
“Yeah, that’s OK. They have good Bloody Marys there.”
***
Carl Fenster was 51 years old, 5' 11”, paunchy, with thinning blonde/gray hair. He had a thin, Clark Gable mustache. He had been in the Bureau for 26 years and had been “buried” in the Santa Ana office for ten of those. Sam never found out what happened to cause that. He must have pissed off someone high up very badly. At least his family had had a stable home life for ten years—no moving around.
Sam joined Carl in a booth in the bar area. The booth provided them some privacy. They shook hands and Sam sat down. He ordered a Bloody Mary when the waitress came over.
“Bad night, eh?” laughed Carl.
“Not in the way you think!” chuckled Sam. “So what rock have I turned over by accident?”
“As usual, I can’t give you any details. In fact, I don’t have any. I’m just a messenger boy for the heat in D.C.”
He pulled a folded paper out of his inside jacket pocket and slid it over to Sam.
“This is a fax I was instructed to deliver to you. The original will arrive at your L.A. headquarters by FedEx tomorrow. Somebody is so freaked out that they wanted me to give you a heads up. In essence, it’s a court order demanding that you turn over to me the source of those fingerprints that you ran through the system. And to keep your mouth shut about the entire thing. You never had any fingerprints. Got it?”
Sam wasn’t going to roll over easily. “The FBI can’t order me to do shit like that, Carl!”
“They know that. That’s a Federal judge ordering it. He can do it.”
“The property in question doesn’t belong to me, but to a confidential client of mine. She has said property. Tell the judge sayonara.”
“What you’re screwing with here is the JTFE. That’s not smart. You could end up in the slammer on contempt of court,” warned Carl.
“What the hell is the JTFE?” growled Sam.
“Joint Task Force Espionage. It�
��s kinda like a super FBI internal affairs outfit charged with plugging all the leaks that have sprung up over the last few years. They’re mole hunters with very broad powers. They have FBI, CIA, ATF, and DEA representation. Probably the Coast Guard and some military brass as well. The President has given them a very broad charter.”
“Well, shit!” exclaimed Sam, knowing for sure now that either Carole Winston, or William Winston, or both, were involved somehow with espionage. He knew that in the end, the government would have its way, so he decided to throw in the towel.
“OK, Carl. I have no interest in jail time. All I had was an envelope given to me by a client. Her brother went missing and she hired me to find him. The envelope was handled by him and I thought it might have his prints on it. I essentially struck out. Or, so I thought. You being here with this bullshit gag order makes me wonder.”
“Well, I’m not privy to what’s going on. You can either wait until the original, certified order is served, or I can pick up that envelope after lunch,” said Carl with a shrug.
“Hell, I don’t give a shit! I don’t have it! Have the judge change that order for me to give up the name of my client and I’ll think about it. I’ll tell the client what’s going on. Now, I’m gonna have another Bloody and a Monte Cristo. I recommend them. Lunch is on you, by the way,” said Sam.
***
Later, at the office, Pearl handed Sam two pink message slips.
“Ms. Winston has called twice. Something about a reprise of last night,” smiled Pearl.
“Oh, crap no! If she calls again, tell her I had to follow a clue to Ensenada! I’m going to the beach and take a nap on the deck. In fact, I won’t be back here till Monday or Tuesday. I have a Hollywood Bowl personal security gig on Sunday. Try not to call me unless the world is coming to an end,” ranted Sam. He couldn’t face another go around with the nympho client quite yet! And he didn’t want to tell her about the FBI swooping in. Not until he knew more. He wasn’t even sure which prints caused the alarm, William’s or Carole’s? Or both?
