Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

  Pearl stood up and smoothed her skirt over her curvaceous hips and said, “I’m not that sorry!”

  ***

  Sam stopped by Sparky’s Club at 4:45 P.M. to see what damage the cop had done to the myth, if any, and to see what Sparky knew about the guy who had the Mickey Malone business card.

  The place was smoke-filled and already half full, it being Friday. Sam found a stool at the end of the bar and sat down.

  “’Lo, Sam. Usual?” asked Sparky as he moved to the end of the bar.

  “No. Just an iced tea. I’m driving to the beach in a few minutes,” replied Sam.

  “You drive down, or walk?”

  “Drove. I’m only gonna be here a minute or two.”

  “Not safe to park your Camaro on this street,” offered Sparky.

  “I’ve got a good alarm system.”

  “Nobody pays any attention to those anymore.”

  “You forget that I’m in the high-tech security business now. My car alarm system dials my pager. Then I go out and shoot the son-of-a-bitch!” laughed Sam.

  Sparky put the glass of tea in front of Sam along with a container of assorted packets of sugar and artificial sweeteners. Sam took a pink packet, tore it open, and stirred it into his tea.

  “I hear you had a visitor in here today, Sparky,” said Sam as he took a sip through a straw. “Care to tell me about it?”

  “You mean that fuckin’ cop? Asshole! Santa Ana cops never come here unless I call ’em!” growled Sparky as he speared a slice of lemon on a toothpick and handed it to Sam. Sam took it and plopped it in his tea.

  “He was a homicide cop from the Sheriff’s department. Just doing his job, Sparky. What do you know about the Mickey card and the victim?”

  “Well, like I told that asshole cop, I remember the guy being in here because he seemed out of place. You know—like you. Clean-shaven, dressed well, and he sat right here where you are, talkin’ on a cell phone most of the time. He drank double Cutty on the rocks—three of them. And he left a good tip.”

  “Why did he take a Mickey card?” queried Sam.

  “He was gabbin’ on his phone and he started pattin’ his clothes, like he was lookin’ for a pen or a pencil. I grabbed a pen from over there by the register and gave it to him. He nodded, then grabbed a card out of the box of cards there where you put ’em, and then he wrote somethin’ on the back of it. That’s all I know.”

  “Did the cop show you a picture of the vic?”

  “Oh, yeah. It was the same guy. I guess he got himself whacked, eh?” growled Sparky.

  “That’s what I hear from Pearl,” agreed Sam. “When was the guy here?”

  “I think it was a Sunday night. Yeah, Sunday. Last Sunday in April. I remember thinkin’ I had to pay some bills that night.”

  “Anything else strike you funny about the guy? Could he have been a drug dealer?” asked Sam.

  “Not like any I’ve ever seen. He’s like this yuppie-looking guy. Great leather coat. Why he came in here, I can’t even guess. Looked more like a cop than a player, you know. But he didn’t scream cop. Maybe a dot com guy. Who knows?” shrugged Sparky.

  “Did that cop ask about Mickey?” ventured Sam.

  “Oh, yeah! That fucker was askin’ everyone about Mickey. Like, what’s he like. Was he in here with the vic? Things like that. He was lucky he didn’t get his ass dragged out into the alley and stomped! Some of those bikers don’t like bein’ questioned by cops, especially if he’s trying to dis Mickey in any way.”

  “You’ve got to control these guys, Sparky. You could get shut down. Plus, I went out on a limb to get some of those guys early release and probation.”

  “Oh, Boomer and I pulled ’em aside and cooled ’em down. Good thing Boomer was here. I don’t know if I could have handled it alone,” said Sparky.

  Blaine “Boomer” Beaker was the head of a motorcycle club called “The Falcons.” It was truly a “club” rather than a “gang,” since illegal activities by its members were strictly prohibited by Boomer. Any violations meant instant expulsion from the group. Many of the members were ex-felons—including Boomer—and some were still on probation or parole, but all were dedicated to staying clean and not going back to prison.

  Sam and Boomer had a history together. They had met eleven years ago when Sam was working undercover in narcotics. Boomer had been in Hell’s Angels then and Sam stumbled across a dope deal gone bad, and before his backup arrived, the gang jumped Sam and was going to kill him when Boomer intervened. When the gang heard the sirens of the backup arriving, they split. Boomer was caught because he stayed to administer to Sam’s head wound, which was caused by a hit with a chain. Sam appeared in court with Boomer and was instrumental in getting him probation. Then Sam sent him to school to learn computer repair and Boomer started a successful business—not lavish, but it paid the rent and kept him honest. More bikers were added to the list over time and “The Falcons” were born.

  “OK, Sparky, I think I’ll get in the freeway queue and go see Becky and the folks. See you next week,” said Sam.

  His cell phone rang. It was Pearl.

  “Sam, Pearl here. I ran those image files. You can call Carole Winston. Her brother’s been found. He’s in the morgue under the name of William Jackson. The picture she gave me is a perfect match for the dead guy. And I do remember now. He’s the one who left the letter for Carole.”

  “Crapola! That doesn’t surprise me! Why couldn’t you have waited until Monday to tell me this!” exclaimed Sam. “I don’t want to deal with this now!”

  “Sorry, Sam. I just thought it was quite a coincidence. Pretend I didn’t tell you. The corpse isn’t going anywhere. And this won’t be good news to Carole whenever you tell her. It would ruin her weekend, too. Do it on Monday.”

  “Thanks, Pearl. Just keep it under your hat. We’ll deal with it on Monday. Carole will have to ID the body. I’m not looking forward to that.”

  ***

  On Monday, Sam called Carole Winston at 7:30 A.M. from the beach house. He wanted to catch her before she left for work.

  “Sam! What a surprise! Can’t do without me, eh?” she bubbled.

  “Carole. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. I think I’ve found your brother, and . . .”

  “How wonderful! Where did you find him?” she interrupted.

  “If I’m right, he’s in the morgue. You’ll have to identify the body to be sure,” he interjected, before she could interrupt him again.

  “Oh, no! It can’t be true!” she wailed.

  “There’s someone in the morgue who looks just like that picture you gave me. I can make the arrangements for today, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, Sam! Thank you! I wouldn’t know what to do!”

  “OK. Do you have anyone to be with?”

  “Yes. The gal next door in Unit 2 is a good friend. I’ll be there,” she replied, and then she gave him her cell phone number.

  Sam called the Sheriff’s department and found out that Investigator John Pabst was in charge of the Jackson murder and made an appointment to meet him with Carole at the morgue in Santa Ana. Carole made the positive identification of her brother. She had been driven over by her neighbor, and after the ordeal, the two women left. Pabst and Sam were left standing on the curb. Sam waved as Carole’s car pulled away.

  Pabst lit a cigarette and said, “Now can you fill me in on what the hell you’re doing in the middle of this?”

  “Well, that’s simple, John. Ms. Winston hired me to find her brother. I found him. I think. This case stinks to high heaven,” replied Sam. “In the process of working this missing man case, the Feds came down all over me—without explanation, of course. You know anything about this guy I should know?”

  Pabst blew some smoke skyward and laughed. “Well, well. I guess I can tell you now. This isn’t my case anymore. The Feds took it over on Friday. They took everything—what little we had. As soon as I ran the victim’s prints, they were all over
me.”

  “Even your fingerprint card?”

  “Everything.”

  “Shit! I’ve got a print that I wanted to compare to this guy,” said Sam.

  “Hmm. Hell! We’ve still got the body! Let’s go and see the M.E. We’ll reprint him!”

  An hour later, Sam followed Pabst to his office cubicle. The thumbprint from Carole’s letter matched the corpse of William Jackson aka Winston.

  “So,” said Pabst, “what does that prove? She said it was her brother.”

  “I ran this print through the system and got one hit. A DUI for a guy named William Carter. Then the Feds appeared out of the blue. No hit for a William Winston or Jackson. Draw your own conclusions.”

  “Another funny thing: The thumb print on Jackson’s CDL didn’t match the corpse. It didn’t match anyone.”

  Pabst went on to tell Sam about the 8 ounces of coke, the drained body, and what little else he knew. The autopsy had revealed that the man had been beaten unmercifully—many broken bones and internal injuries. Obviously tortured.

  Sam said, “By the way, John, who was the asshole you sent to the office looking for Mickey? He went to Sparky’s and stirred up a hornet’s nest. Now the word is out on the street that the cops are looking for Mickey in connection with a murder. I can’t let that rumor go unchallenged. I have to find out who the killer is ASAP. Clear Mickey’s name.”

  “I thought I was having some fun with Willie Woodward—a new guy from SFPD. I fucked up I guess. I’ll straighten him out.”

  “That doesn’t solve my problem—the damage is already done. Did you run the phone number on the back of the Mickey card,” asked Sam.

  “Didn’t get a chance. Feds took over too fast.”

  Sam thought, I know more than he does.

  “Well, I wish you still had the case, John. It’ll never get solved now. Not with the Feds putting a lid on everything. I’ll still nose around a bit, though. I’ve got to quash the rumors about Mickey somehow.”

  “Officially, I can’t help you, but if I can do something for you that won’t get me canned, give me a call,” replied Pabst.

  “Thanks, John, I will.”

  ***

  Sam drove to Newport Beach to check on Carole. She was in Unit 2 with her friend. When Sam arrived, she took him by the hand and led him to her apartment, where she flew into his arms. She sobbed for a bit, then stepped back and stripped down quickly to her blueberry bra and panties.

  “Please console me, Sam! I need you so badly right now!”

  After the intense bout of consoling, Carole had her usual cigarette by the patio door.

  “I’ve made a decision, Sam. I’m going to give my notice to Mrs. Wellington. After the party on the 20th, I’m quitting and going back home to Wisconsin. My mother wants to go there to die. I want to ship Bill’s body there for burial. They said at the coroner’s office that they couldn’t release his . . . body to me. What does that mean?” she stated.

  “The FBI took over, as I told you. I have no idea why they can’t release the body for burial. I’ll look into it,” he replied, wondering if he had the strength to stand up and make it to the shower. He had to get to the office.

  “Thank you, Sam. You’re so kind to me,” she said, smiling.

  I have to get out of here before she needs more consoling!

  Chapter 19

  Monday, May 14, 2001

  Santa Ana, CA

  Sam called Pearl on his cell phone at 1:00 P.M. on the way back to Santa Ana from Carole’s consoling session and told her he’d bring in a pizza if she wanted. She said that would be great. She hadn’t eaten yet.

  They had pizza and beer at his desk as he brought her up-to-date. She said she would update the Winston file, but not close it yet. Sam wanted to find the killer if he could, and he still had doubts about who Carole really was. There were too many unexplained coincidences.

  At 2 o’clock, Pearl cleaned up the lunch mess and went to her computer and started typing. Sam called Carl Fenster.

  “Carl, Sam Crown here. My client, Carole Winston, is leaving the state shortly after the 20th of the month. She wants to ship her brother’s body to Wisconsin for burial in the family plot. Any idea when the body will be released?” said Sam.

  “JTFE has it on indefinite hold. So, I don’t know, Sam,” replied Carl.

  “Well, I have a message for them. If they don’t release the body to my client by the 20th, I’ll have a little chat with Chandra Claudet about how Big Brother is treating its citizens. You know how she loves to take on the establishment. Especially fucked-up law and order. You can watch it all unfold on the 5 o’clock news,” chuckled Sam.

  “You do have an in with that bitch, don’t you?” laughed Carl. “I wonder why? I’ll pass your message along, but they won’t like extortion.”

  “Screw ’em! They have no reason to hold the body longer than the 20th. You know it. I know it. I’ll be waiting for an answer. See ya, Carl,” Sam said as he hung up.

  While Sam was on the phone, Becky had sauntered into his office and plopped down on his couch, soda in hand.

  “Hey, Beck! What a surprise! Slumming?”

  Becky got up from the couch and went to him, leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Yeah, why not? I finished up with Dr. Danforth early, so I thought I’d swing by on the way home and talk you into coming to the beach tonight, instead of staying in your ratty apartment.”

  “Well, you could have called. Saved you coming up this way.”

  “I’m more persuasive in person. You have a hard time turning me down when I look you in the eye—and pout!” laughed Becky.

  Her laughter made him feel good all over. Her mirth was infectious.

  “You do have me trained. What’s special about tonight?” he asked as she went back to the couch and plopped down.

  “Nothing. With Nana and Grandpa gone, I’m lonely. You know I’m not allowed to have people over when I’m alone. We could barbeque burgers and corn, or something. Hang out. Unless you have a date . . .” She let it trail off, eyebrow raised.

  Sam looked at his watch: 2:33 P.M.

  “You’re in luck. I haven’t called anyone for tonight yet. So I guess we’re on. No chess, though. I’m tired of losing! Maybe backgammon?”

  He hadn’t planned on calling anyone anyway since his morning with Carole!

  “Sure. Or just talk. What was that phone call about? A murder? You don’t do murders anymore. Private eyes only get involved in murders in fiction,” chuckled Becky. “So you’ve always told me.”

  Sam gave her a brief recap of what had been going on, as he usually did when she showed an interest in his cases.

  “Dynology? That rings a bell. Where have I run across that name? Oh, I know! I was scanning the bulletin board at school the other day, and a company by that name was seeking to hire a mathematician for their Irvine office. They have a testing session for applicants on Saturday the 26th. You know, take some sort of test to see if you’re qualified. Maybe an interview,” Becky related.

  “God, what a memory!” said Sam. “I’ll never get used to it. How do you remember shit like that?”

  Becky shrugged, then went on, “Wonder what the victim’s connection to Dynology was?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to be a fly on the wall in that place. Find out what’s going on there. I had Pearl do a quick check on them. They sell parts for phones, modems, computers—shit like that.”

  Becky thought for a moment, then said, “Why don’t you put a couple of your super-sensitive bugs in there? See what they talk about?”

  “Pearl said they have security like CIA headquarters. Too much of a risk for just a fishing expedition,” replied Sam. “Well, tell you what. Let’s get out of here—beat the traffic. I’ll see you at the beach.”

  Becky smiled. Am I good, or what?

  ***

  When they got to the beach house, they took a swim, then played a game of backgammon. Becky won. As the orange ball of the sun eas
ed down on Catalina Island, they started fixing dinner. Becky shucked the corn, buttered it, and then wrapped it in foil while Sam formed beef patties. Sam fired up the gas barbeque while Becky sliced a tomato and a red onion.

  When the barbeque was hot, Sam put the patties and corn on the grill. While they cooked, Sam fixed himself a second Cutty and water and sat down next to Becky at one of the round tables.

  Becky glanced at him and said, “You know, Sam, I could plant those bugs for you at Dynology.”

  He was astonished. “What? Come on, Beck! It’s way too dangerous to even think about! There’s no way to even get in that place.”

  “Sure there is. I go apply for the job they advertised. The only requirement was a BA in math. I have a Masters—nearly a PhD. It’s only an entry-level job. I shouldn’t have any trouble with their test. Besides, I’m not really after the job, just entry to the place.”

  “I can probably agree that you’d pass the test, but I doubt they’d want a 16-year-old. Besides, it’s way too dangerous!” replied Sam. “I won’t allow you to put yourself in danger.”

  “I’ve helped you before! Remember when I slipped that GPS locator in that guy’s pocket so you could track him without being too close? And . . .”

  “Enough! Those were much simpler cases,” exclaimed Sam. “I don’t know that there’s anything to find out anyway. The answer is no. Case closed!”

  ***

  The next day at UCI during her lunch hour, Becky called Dynology and asked them to send her and application and information package to her UCI P.O. Box, the one she used for corresponding with other academic types.

  How dangerous could it be? I’ll just look things over during the test, see if it’s possible to plant a bug. I’ll need a fake driver’s license upping my age. Wonder if Pearl will make me one? Hmm. One thing at a time. I’ll see if they accept my application first.

  Later in the week—Friday the 18th—Becky sent in her filled-out application along with a certified copy of her BA in Mathematics. She stated her age as 22. She had no idea what trouble awaited her.