Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

  Chapter 20

  Sunday, May 20, 2001

  Capistrano Beach, CA

  On Sunday the 20th, Sam called Carole at around noon to make sure everything was going as planned. The Gala started at 6:00 P.M., but Carole needed to be there by five to oversee the final setups made by the florists, the caterers, and sundry other hired helpers. Sam was scheduled to pick her up at her apartment at 4:30—dressed in his tuxedo.

  The Diamond Gala was purportedly a big charity event with silent auctions for a variety of art pieces, cruises, jewelry, and other donated stuff. It was a social event where all the invited high society ladies got to wear their best gowns and jewelry. Armed guards were provided because the jewelry worn was supposed to be the real deal, not paste. Sam had neglected to ask Carole about the party that had been robbed last year. But he wasn’t much interested. He figured it would be the last time he would see Carole, so escorting her was a kindness he could afford to bestow. Besides, he very seldom had a chance to go to a formal wingding. He tried to avoid his mother’s formal social affairs.

  Carole was excited and nervous. “Oh, Sam! I’m all aflutter! Mrs. Gotrocks yelled at me when I gave my notice! That didn’t help my nerves any. And I want things to go so well tonight! Make a good impression on my last major task!”

  “Just calm down, Carole! Take a big breath,” he said.

  Sam had learned something about Carole that even she might not consciously recognize as a deviant behavior. When she was agitated, if she drank booze to calm down, she got sloshed and passed out on a very small amount of alcohol. She didn’t take any drugs, he was sure. The only thing that got Carole under control was offered by nature itself: orgasms—lots of them!

  “Sam, you have to come earlier than we planned! I need a . . . fix,” she blurted out. “Badly!”

  He knew what that was, and it wasn’t cocaine.

  Sam gathered his tux—he called it his 007 tux because it was specially tailored so he could wear his gun under his left arm without being conspicuous—shirt, studs, cuff links, bow tie, cummerbund, shoes, socks, and clean underwear. He would dress at Carole’s after her “fix.” He got to her place at 3 o’clock and went to her kitchen and got her kitchen timer and took it to her bedroom, where she had already stripped down to her loganberry underwear. He set the timer to 45 minutes and put it on the nightstand next to her bed.

  “That’s all the time we have! Understand?” he told her.

  She pouted. “I guess that will have to do! I’m so damned tense!”

  ***

  Only because Sam enforced the time on the kitchen timer did they make it to the Lido Isle mansion by 5 o’clock. Valet parking was being enforced and Sam hated to see the pimply-faced kid drive off in his Camaro. He had shown the kid his gun and hinted at what would happen if the Camaro came back scratched or dented. Carole was gorgeous in a white—she called it vanilla—silk gown with a low-cut bodice and a slit up the left leg to her mid-thigh. The top half of her breasts was exposed for all to admire. Just before six, she would don Mrs. Wellington’s $750,000 diamond necklace, and matching bracelet and earrings. She nearly asked Sam to give her another “fix” in the maid’s room.

  Sam was introduced to Mrs. Wellington. She was a pudgy 5' 4" matron of about 65, bleached blonde hair, and pendulous breasts. She was loaded down with diamonds. She took Carole away to get bedecked with jewels. Sam took this opportunity to get a feel for the layout and check out security. There had been a uniformed, armed security guard checking IDs and invitations against a master list at the front door. Sam spotted two other uniformed guards wandering around inside.

  The large, formal dining room was normally separated from the huge living room by a folding wall. This wall was now folded open, producing one, gigantic party room. Four sets of French doors opened onto a large deck, which surrounded a pool. Good people circulation for a party. Even so, Sam calculated that more than 50 couples would be crowded for this kind of gathering. The items up for bid were displayed tastefully on tables along one long wall. Two long tables took up much of the room—one for hors d’oeuvres, the other for later when a hot buffet supper would be served. A string quartet was tuning up in a corner near the entrance. The main body of the guests would begin arriving soon.

  ***

  Earlier in the week, Sam had asked his mother if she had heard of Mrs. Rosemary Wellington.

  “You know I don’t like to tell tales, Samuel,” she had said.

  “Cut the crap, mother. You love to gossip,” Sam had replied.

  “Well, dear, in the world of high society—which you have eschewed all of your life, regrettably—there are the true bloodline ones, and then there are the wannabes.”

  “Are you talking about race horses . . . or people?”

  “Don’t be rude, dear! You know very well what I’m talking about. Mrs. Wellington is a faux socialite. No one had ever heard of her until two years ago when she appeared in Lido Isle and began thrusting herself into Newport Beach society,” his mother had said. “She, of course, has not been admitted into any of the more legitimate clubs and cliques. I can’t believe you’re going to that tacky gala of hers! You never attend any of my charity events!”

  “I’m just escorting a lady, mother. Actually, it’s a job. I’m her bodyguard. I heard a similar gala last year got robbed. Know anything about that?”

  “It was the scandal of the year! The insurance companies got hit very hard! Even though I wasn’t involved, mine tried to raise my rates, but I held them to their contract! I’m sure all of Wellington’s jewelry was over-insured. People like her make it hard on all of us!”

  Old money never likes new money, Sam had thought.

  ***

  Carole came back loaded down with diamonds and emeralds. Sam thought that she had looked better before. Too much jewelry, real or not, cheapened one as far as Sam was concerned. Now everyone had an excuse to stare blatantly at the breast mounds erupting from her dress: she had a huge diamond nestling in her cleavage.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed, more to impress Mrs. Wellington than Carole. He was sure that Carole had simpler tastes, but she had been hired to be a display dummy for the night, and he was her hired stud. He was determined to have a good time: eat, drink, and be merry. He snagged two glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to Carole.

  “Go easy on this,” he laughed. “I don’t want to carry you over my shoulder again.”

  “I will. Thanks for this, Sam. I like it when you look after me. Don’t feel snubbed if I leave you from time to time. As Social Secretary, I have certain duties to perform. There will be dancing later. I’ll save some for you,” she smiled.

  Then she put her glass down and moved into the crowd, shaking hands, laughing, letting the men look down her dress, and doing other Social Secretary things.

  By 8:30, the party was in full roar. Everyone except the most devoted alcoholics had eaten, and dancing was available now that the quartet had been replaced by a trio of keyboard, bass, and guitar. Most of the guests were tipsy and loud. Sam had paced himself, as had Carole, so they were both sober.

  Carole grabbed his hand and led him down a hallway towards the bedrooms.

  “No, Carole! You can’t have a fix now!” he exclaimed.

  She giggled. “No, silly! We’ll do that after. I need a cigarette badly. There’s a small garden patio off the master bedroom. I can grab a smoke out there.”

  She clutched her small, beaded purse in her other hand.

  Once she had lit up, she said, “Thing’s are going well, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had to shoot anybody to protect your honor, in spite of the fact that your tits are hanging out. I’ve enjoyed myself though. Except for that dance I had to suffer with that old bat with the blue hair,” he chuckled. “At least, the place hasn’t been robbed yet. Half hour to go and we’re home free.”

  As if his statement were prophetic, from their secluded vantage point on th
e dark patio, Sam saw a dark, windowless van pull up to the front entrance and stop. Three men wearing ski masks emerged from the van carrying automatic weapons: Sam recognized them as H & K MP5s, silencers attached.

  Carole saw them, too. She gasped. Sam put a finger to her lips.

  “Shh!” he said in her ear. “Go sit over there, douse the cigarette, be quiet, and don’t move no matter what happens.”

  She obeyed him, but she needed to pee badly all of a sudden.

  Sam stood where he was and watched. In his black tux, he was essentially invisible on the dark patio. The three men approached the guard at the front entrance. Sam braced himself for the confrontation he knew was about to take place. There was none. The security guard looked at his watch and nodded.

  The fucker’s in on it! thought Sam. Are all of the guards in on it, too? Probably.

  Sam’s only responsibility was to Carole as far as he was concerned. He unbuttoned his jacket so he would have easy access to his weapon. He was carrying his Smith .40 under his arm and a spare clip in each pocket of his jacket. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could try and slip Carole through the patio gate and away from the house. Then he could call 911 and tell the cops what was going down. He didn’t really give a shit about Mrs. Wellington and her house full of jewels. Even if he were still a cop, he wouldn’t be able to be proactive. Too many friggin’ laws protected the criminals. Sam could easily shoot all of the perps from his vantage point before they knew what was happening. The law prevented him from doing that. You can’t kill people to prevent a crime. They had to commit the crime first, and once they were inside the house, things would get way too dangerous for him to start shooting.

  He moved very slowly over to Carole and took her hand. He led her to the small, low gate. He didn’t want to open it—it might squeak. It was only two feet tall, so he motioned for her to lift her long dress and step over it. He held her arm to steady her as she did so. He fished his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  He whispered, “Walk a block or so and call 911. Tell the police what’s happening. Also, warn them that the security guards are in on it. Then hide somewhere. I’ll find you when this is over.”

  “Don’t leave me, Sam!” she whispered back. “Don’t get in the middle of this! Let the cops handle it! You’ll get killed!”

  “Shh. Go. Call 911.”

  Then he disappeared into the shadows. Carole ran a block down the street, made a quick call, then called 911.

  Sam eased back into the patio just in time to see the masked gunmen hit the security guard on the back of the head with a leaded sap. They cuffed him and taped his mouth with duct tape. They dropped the tape and readied their weapons. They were dressed all in black and looked bulky.

  Probably wearing body armor. Vests at least. If I have to shoot, I’ll have to use head shots! Maybe I can stay out of this, but slow ’em down so the cops can get here and handle things. At least, they took care of their guard buddy for me. I’ll see if I can take care of the driver and disable the van.

  The three men went into the house and he could hear women screaming. If all the guests did as they were told, give up their jewels, then maybe there would be no shooting—or killing. Sam got to the rear of the van and pulled his gun. He had jacked a shell into the firing chamber when Carole had left him. He cocked it, made sure the safety was on, then walked swiftly down the driver’s side of the van. The driver was watching the front entrance, which was on the passenger side. He never knew what hit him. Sam yanked open the door and hit him in the back of the head with his gun. He retrieved the duct tape from beside the still unconscious guard and taped the man’s hands to the steering wheel, then taped his mouth. He secured his ankles with tape and took the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. For good measure, he found a twig and let the air out of both tires on the driver’s side.

  Now what? he thought. Where the hell are the cops?

  ***

  Inside the house, the three gunmen had easily disarmed the two security guards—they were in on it and offered no resistance—and while one man stood on a chair with his MP-5 sweeping and menacing the room, the other two worked diligently at plucking all the jewelry from the ladies, wallets and Rolex watches from the men, and putting the loot into large, cloth sacks. Things couldn’t be going more smoothly. Some of the women had fainted, of course, but that was to be expected. Fear controlled the room.

  ***

  Sam now wished he had his cell phone so he could talk to the police directly—give them an update about the disabled van and its driver. He hoped Carole had obeyed him. If she came back in that neon vanilla dress, she could fuck up everything. Sam positioned himself behind a tree that gave him a good view of the front entrance—two doors wide and 7 feet tall.

  A good killing field, he mused.

  Sam finally spotted a black-and-white, lights off, ease around the corner to his left. He looked in the other direction and saw another one. Sam fished out his P.I. license, holstered his gun, and jogged down to the corner. A uniformed cop confronted him. Sam showed his ID and whispered, “I’m Sam Crown. I assume Ms. Winston called you guys?”

  “Yeah. She told the 911 operator that you’d be skulking around here somewhere. What’s the situation?” asked the cop.

  Sam briefed him quickly, and the cop relayed the information by radio to the other cops in the area.

  “They’ll be bursting out of that house any minute now. With their van disabled, they’ll try to get away on foot, or shoot it out. You’re out-gunned. They have MP-5s and are wearing body armor,” said Sam.

  “Shit! SWAT will never get here in time!” exclaimed the cop.

  An unmarked detective’s car pulled up behind the cruiser and two men in plain clothes got out and walked over to Sam and the cop. The big guy on the left recognized Sam.

  “Shit, Crown! I heard on the radio that you were here. What’s the drill?” said Bill Dragon, a man Sam had known for years.

  Sam briefed him.

  “Three of them in body armor, eh? The old Sam Crown would have already gone in there and shot the assholes—between the eyes,” chuckled the detective.

  “The old Sam Crown lost his badge for doing things like that,” replied Sam. “Besides, even the old Sam Crown wouldn’t have handled this situation that way. He’d have done just what I’ve done. Now it’s your problem. I’m going to find my date.”

  “Wait up a sec, Sam. How would you handle this if you had to?” asked Dragon.

  “Well, if you hurry, you can get two cops behind the van on the driver’s side, and two on each side of that big door. Throw down on them when they come out. They won’t be expecting anything. They haven’t been warned by their lookout. If you have to shoot, take head shots. I’ll be back after I find my woman,” said Sam, then he was gone.

  Sam found Carole huddled in an alley, still on the phone with the 911 operator. Her vanilla gown was ruined, but her array of jewels was still intact. Sam took the phone and told the operator that Dragon was in charge of the scene and hung up.

  Carole jumped into Sam’s arms and kissed him. “You’re all right! Thank God! I’ve been scared shitless, not knowing what was going on!”

  “You did fine, Carole, just fine,” said Sam.

  Four rapid gunshots echoed across the night. Then four more. Sam felt Carole flinch. He hugged her tighter. She was shivering, even though it wasn’t really cold. He kept his arm around her as they went back to the scene. Sirens were audible now. Sam wondered how many died tonight. At least, he hadn’t done the killing.

  The three robbers had decided to shoot it out with the cops, confident that their body armor gave them the advantage. All three were killed instantly by shots to the head. The mansion was now a massive crime scene. The three security guards and the van driver had been arrested and whisked away. It would take weeks to sort out the two sacks of loot. Carole took off her jewelry and gave them to Mrs. Wellington. It was two hours before Sam was allowed to take
Carole home. He decided they both could use a stiff drink followed by a “Winston fix.”

  ***

  During Carole’s after-sex cigarette break at the patio door, Sam fixed himself a scotch and water and sat back down on the bed and watched her.

  “You know, Carole, something about that whole gala thing still bothers me. You said you arranged everything except the security, right?” Sam asked Carole.

  “Yeah. I told you that Mrs. Wellington insisted on doing that. It kinda pissed me off. I’m glad I don’t work for her anymore. The only thing I’ll regret about leaving this place is leaving you. We have a good chemistry,” she smiled as she gave him a full frontal view. “By the way, I forgot to tell you. The FBI released Bill’s body. Mother and I should be out of here by Wednesday.”

  “That’s good news—I mean about . . . Bill. I’ll miss you, too, Carole,” replied Sam. Sam’s threat to the FBI must have worked. “Did Mrs. Gotrocks hire the security last year for her party? You know, the one that was robbed, also?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t work for her then. How strange. Do you think she’s actually in on it?” exclaimed Carole.

  “Hmm. You never know. Nothing for you to worry about. You’re out of here in a few days. Since this is the last time we’ll be together, I’ll let you have another round, if you’re up for it. For the good times.”

  She crushed out her cigarette, took his drink and sat it on the table, then pushed him back on the bed and knelt between his legs.

  “Can I talk dirty?”

  “Whatever turns you on, Carole. Whatever turns you on.”

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday, May 22, 2001

  UCI, Irvine, CA

  On Tuesday the 22nd, Becky received a call from Dynology on her cell phone informing her that she was cleared to come in and take the test for the entry-level mathematician job. She now had a dilemma. She could go take the test without telling Sam and just see what she could find out about the company—without planting any bugs, of course. But even to do that, she needed a picture ID with the false birth date. If she asked Pearl to do it, Pearl would undoubtedly rat her out to Sam. More importantly, Sam had told her “no” and she had never disobeyed him before. She finally decided to tell Sam what she had done and try to convince him one more time. It couldn’t be very risky to plant a bug in the conference room, or whatever room they used for the testing. Could it?