by Wolf Wootan
“You still don’t get it, do you, Sam? I like being part of your world—sharing things with you. You see, it’s so hard for me to share my world with you. That’s not a put down—there are only a handful of people in the world who can grasp what goes on up here.” She pointed to her head. “But we can share your world, if you teach me, and let me.”
She reached in her purse and got a tissue; she wiped her eyes, blew her nose. Sam sat there stunned.
After a beat he said, “I guess I’ve failed pretty miserably at this pseudo-father thing, haven’t I?”
“No you haven’t!” she snapped. “That’s what you don’t get! I couldn’t have ordered a better father out of a freakin’ catalog! I can never repay you—and Nana and Grandpa—for what you’ve done for me! I know you love me—even though you’ve never said it in words—or you couldn’t have been so kind and caring these last three years. And I love all of you! I know you spend a lot of time with me—like surfing, swimming, boating, fun trips—but I guess I just wanted more. I’m just too needy and selfish, I guess!”
Sam knew he loved her, but she was right: he couldn’t remember ever telling her. What an ass!
Becky continued, “I thought by helping you, it would be a small payback, I guess, but mainly I like feeling a part of your world. I want to feel like I belong!” She fished in her purse for another tissue, gave up and used her napkin.
Sam was still speechless, but he got up and went to her side of the booth, slid in, and put his arm around her.
“Beck, I’m not good at this, but I apologize for being such an ass! You certainly belong! You know I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve. I’ve kept them buried for many years. Even though it was by accident that I found you, you’re the most precious thing that ever came into my life! That’s why I was so upset with you for taking such a risk. I’d never forgive myself if I let anything happen to you!”
Becky leaned her head on his shoulder.
“I know, Sam. I’m just being pissy. Maybe it’s PMS. Oops! I’m not supposed to mention that either, am I?”
Sam laughed. “No! You’re really trying to finish me off, aren’t you?”
“I know I’m a complex beast. One hundred year old, non-stop Einstein brain stuffed into a 16-year old body. Rife with insecurities in a lot of areas. I don’t know how—or why—you’ve put up with me, but I’m so glad that you have, and I just need you to know how much it means to me. I shudder to think how my life would have been if you’d dumped me off on a foster family—like I expected you to do!”
“Who knows? Maybe you’d have been better off. You might have gotten lucky—had a nice father and mother—maybe some siblings.”
“You don’t believe that, and neither do I. Come on, let’s finish eating and go home. I’ve had my say.”
“Good idea, kiddo. I’ll try and do better from now on.”
***
After lunch, Becky headed home to Capistrano Beach and Sam took the van to Santa Ana and parked it in the locked garage. He went to the office and checked the equipment in the tech room to make sure it was receiving and recording information from the two bugs Becky had placed. She had gone to the ladies’ room and retrieved the third bug from her bra and given it to Sam before they left the restaurant. He locked it away in its proper place, retrieved his Camaro, and headed for the beach. He still had a queasy feeling about this whole thing. And he still had to find Carole Winston. She was part of this puzzle somehow.
Chapter 24
Saturday, May 26, 2001
Capistrano Beach, CA
The Crowns had returned from their trip to Ensenada on Friday night, so the entire family was together for Saturday night dinner. No one felt like cooking, so Becky volunteered to run over to Sonny’s and pick up a couple of large pizzas. Helena whipped up a green salad and they all sat on the deck and ate, listening to the ever-present sound of the breakers. Sam had Becky explain her view of what the mysterious equations meant.
John got his pipe going after eating three slices of pizza, then sipped his smooth, Spanish red wine while he pondered what Becky had told him. He did not question Becky’s assessment of the equations.
Finally, John said, “The U.S. and Russia have been experimenting with ways to make subs quieter since the height of the cold war. I’ve heard of attempts to develop an engine such as Becky described. I would say whoever produced those equations was under contract to some government. Private companies don’t build silent subs for their own account. From what you’ve told me, that Dynology outfit wouldn’t be the right kind of company to be designing engines for anybody’s navy, so the question is: who did they steal them from?”
He puffed on his pipe, but it had gone out. He began the process of relighting it.
Becky took the opportunity to say, “You mean they stole this design from some company under contract to some government’s navy? Like the U.S. or Russia?”
“Or China. Or Iran. Lots of possible players. The most obvious would be the good old U. S. of A.,” John replied. “Could you tell how good that design was, Becky?”
“Yes, sir. I spent all afternoon trying to reconstruct the missing equations and I think I was successful. At least, I came up with something that is consistent. Whoever designed this engine is no dummy. He—or she, of course—did some clever things with ramjet techniques and step-down venturis. The mathematics were expressed as polynomials, which leads me to believe that they were doing computer simulations to fine-tune the various variables,” explained Becky. She took a sip of her Coke and waited.
Sam finally spoke. “All I understood of that was that it’s a good design done by someone smart. Can you tell from the math whether it was done by an American say, or a Russian?”
“Good question. Mathematics is, more or less, a universal language, but different Greek letters are sometimes preferred by different countries to express certain constants and physical variables. I would say that this was done by an American. Plus, the preference for analytic integration to speed up simulation is strictly an American invention going back to the early sixties,” replied Becky. “That doesn’t mean others couldn’t be involved. It’s just an educated guess.”
“Good enough for me,” laughed Sam. He sipped his wine. “Looks like Dynology could be involved in some industrial espionage, eh, Dad?”
“If that’s true,” mused John, “it’s more than ‘industrial,’ since the contractor doing the work would be under contract to the U.S. government. That makes it treason. Very serious stuff.”
Sam said, “Maybe that’s why the FBI took over the Jackson murder case. Maybe it ties in with the whole espionage theory somehow. And Jackson was involved in some undercover maneuver. I wonder if we should pass this tidbit along to the FBI.”
Becky piped up, “Maybe we should listen to the tapes from those bugs first. It might strengthen our theory.”
“We can never mention those bugs to anyone, Beck. Especially not the FBI. Did I fail to tell you how illegal those bugs are?” cautioned Sam. “But that’s a good idea—as long as we only use the info to support your theory. Tuesday—Monday’s a holiday and I’m staying down here—I’ll see what’s been picked up. If our espionage theory is confirmed, Becky and I can go to the FBI with those equations and let the FBI draw their own conclusions. There’s nothing illegal about her taking that test—except the age thing, which we won’t mention. They already know more than we do, or they wouldn’t have taken the Jackson homicide away from the locals.”
They all went silent again, and Sam got up and fixed himself a brandy.
“Brandy, Dad?”
“No, I’m fine, Sam. I think I’ll go up and join your mother. Watch the tube for a bit.”
John kissed Becky on the cheek and said, “Good night, you two. Stay out of trouble.”
“Goodnight, Grandpa. I love you,” said Becky.
“Love you, too, Beck.”
Sam sat back down with Becky and swirled the amber liquid around in his snifter.
/>
“Quite a day, Beckster.”
“Yeah. Hope you’re still not mad at me.”
“I wasn’t mad—just scared. Sorry I took it out on you.”
“I didn’t think you got scared.”
“You’re wrong. Especially if I put someone else in harm’s way,” said Sam.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Becky remarked, a gleam in her eye.
“Oh, no!”
“No, Sam, it’s not bad!”
“What then?”
“I told you that engine design was good. It was, but it had several shortcomings. I rewrote the whole thing—created a much better engine! Roughly, I estimate my engine is 40% to 50% more efficient, and probably 30% quieter!” Becky said. “Should we tell the FBI that?”
Sam pondered what she had just said. A flash of understanding zapped his brain. He had assumed all along that Becky would eventually end up as a professor in some university, sharing her ideas with wave after wave of students. That was OK, but the pay was mediocre, not that she would ever be in need of money. He would see to that. But he now saw a way for her to be properly recompensed for her brilliance.
“No, Becky! You’re now in an area where I actually know more than you do! You don’t give away such brilliance. Do you think the people who designed that engine on your test did it for free? Oh, no! They charged millions! Your design, being even better, is worth a fortune!”
“Really?” queried Becky.
“Really. Here’s what I’m going to do—next week if I can. I’ll have Nana’s lawyer set up a corporation. We’ll need a name: maybe Rebecca’s Folly, Inc.,” he laughed. “Isn’t that what some of the press call your theories? Anything you dream up that has commercial value will be marketed to the appropriate consumers. You’ll make a mint!”
“You mean I could make money by selling my doodles?” she asked seriously. Then she grinned. “That way I could pay you guys back for all the money you’ve spent on me! I’ve been keeping track—just like I promised Nana when I came here. I figured it would take a long time on a professor’s salary!”
Sam’s eyes got moist. He couldn’t believe how precious this child was to him—and his parents.
“Beck, there’s another discussion we need to have,” he said, his voice low, serious.
“Uh oh! It can’t be the birds and bees thing!” laughed Becky. “I know about that in spades!”
“No, Beck, it’s about you, your future. Your status.”
Sam began to choke up, so he took a swig of brandy. This was a subject he had not wanted to ever bring up, but Dr. Sue had convinced him that he had to.
“You OK, Sam?” queried Becky. “This is serious, right?”
“Sorry, Beck. For selfish reasons, this is a discussion I’ve been avoiding. Have you, in your vast reading regimen, ever heard about the emancipation of minors?” said Sam, his heart aching.
“Shit!” exclaimed Becky. “Of course I have. I researched all of the options available to a kid when I was 13. Foster homes, orphanages, juvy, adoption. I don’t like where this is going! You’re talking about my own company, emancipation—all in the same discussion. Are you dumping me, Sam?”
Tears were running down her cheeks.
“Hell no, Beck! I just thought it was my duty to discuss your options with you. I told you I didn’t want to have this discussion! I’ll never dump you! How could you even think that?”
“Thank God! You scared me! I know I meet all the requirements for emancipation: Job, wheels, education, maturity—kinda. I would never choose that unless you wanted me to,” wept Becky.
“Thank God, is right! I’d never ask you to do that. Well, that didn’t go well, but at least the subject was broached . . . and dismissed, I hope. I’ll never bring it up again.”
“Sam?” Becky said.
“Yes, Beck.”
“Is a 16-year-old girl too old to sit on her father’s lap?”
“I don’t know, Beck. I wouldn’t think so,” he replied. He held out his arms and she came to him, sat on his lap, her arms around his neck. She wept silently on his shoulder. He put his arms around her. It felt right.
She sniffled, “Thanks, Sam. This is something I’ve never been able to do, and wanted to do very badly. You know, my stepfather . . .”
“Shh! I know,” he whispered as he stroked her hair.
They were silent for a moment. She gradually stopped crying. Finally, Sam broke the silence.
“I want to clarify something, Beck. The talk about the company and making money had nothing to do with the emancipation thing. You don’t have to do the company thing if you don’t want to. You’ll be well set for the rest of your life in any case.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, lifting her head from his shoulder.
“As you know, your Nana is a very wealthy woman. She set up a trust fund for you some time ago. Part of it vests when you’re 18. The rest vests at various other ages.”
“She shouldn’t have done that! I owe her so much as it is!” exclaimed Becky.
“This time, you don’t get it, Beck! You don’t owe her—us—anything! Anything spent on you was because you belong here. It was what we were supposed to do. It’s because you’re loved—a part of the family forever.”
“Oh shit, Sam!” She started crying again, nuzzled his shoulder. “I don’t deserve this!”
“That’s not your decision to make. We made it for you. Also, you’re in Nana’s will. When my parents die—hopefully a long time from now—this house will be yours, along with most of their estate. You’ll be a rich woman, Beck, so your financial future is secure. That shouldn’t stop you from making money with your fabulous mind, however.”
Becky straightened up and looked Sam in the eye. “This house and their estate should go to you, Sam! You’re their only son. I’m just an orphan!”
“That’s the way they want it. The way I want it. Besides, they took care of me years ago. I have a fully-vested trust fund my mother set up when I was your age. I haven’t touched much of it, so it’s been growing hand over fist for all these years. I have plenty of money,” he told her.
“But . . . the house. It should be yours!” she insisted.
“I have a house. You know the big house next door to the pool area? That’s mine. It’s too big for one person, so I rent it out. Maybe I’ll use it someday. After you grow up and get married and kick me out of this one,” he laughed.
“Never!” she exclaimed.
“That’s ambiguous,” he chortled. “Never get married, or never kick me out?”
“Both . . . probably. Sam?”
“What?”
“I want to be a ‘Crown.’ I want to dump my friggin’ stepfather’s name. Can you adopt me?” she said with fervor.
This took him aback. He had considered adopting her in the past, but thought that a single man adopting a teenaged girl might not fly well with the courts. Especially with his well-known reputation as a skirt chaser.
“Well, Beck, I’ve actually considered that, but there were two stumbling blocks. One was this damned emancipation discussion—which I kept putting off—and two, the fact that I’m not married. There are a lot of men like your stepfather out there, you know. It’s the judge’s job to look after your best interest.”
“What if I told the judge that’s what I wanted?” Becky pressed on.
“That might help, but it’s still a long shot.”
“But you know that judge. Talk to him. And if you can’t adopt me, I’ll change my name anyway. I can do that can’t I?”
“Yes, you can do that. I’ll talk to Judge Manley. One way or another, you’ll be Rebecca Crown,” replied Sam. “If that’s what you want. It would please me!”
Becky kissed his cheek and got off his lap. “Thank you, Sam! I’m glad we had this chat. I am very, very happy!”
“I’m happy, too, Beck.”
“I’m going to embarrass you again.” She waited a beat, then said, “I love you,” as s
he went to the sliding screen door.
“Er . . . I love you, too, Becky. Goodnight.” He had said it out loud! It felt good. He felt like a father.
***
Sam stopped by the Santa Ana office on Tuesday to give Pearl her instructions concerning the bug tapes, then headed for L.A. Another Investigations International detective, Freddie Funk, would cover the Mickey Malone office Wednesday and Thursday, and Sam would be back on Friday to see what Pearl had gleaned from the bugs. Pearl set up the high-tech system so she could operate from her desk and got to work listening to tapes.
***
Friday morning, June 1, Sam showed up at the Mickey office at 9:00 A.M. and he and Pearl settled into his office to discuss what she had found out during the week.
There was a lot of evidence of criminal activity in the excerpts that Pearl had typed up for him on her computer. The excerpts had been digitized and stored on high-density computer storage devices for later reference. Dynology was obviously involved in various kinds of international smuggling—diamonds, weapons, people, cigarettes—using secret compartments in the containers they placed on container ships on a regular basis. The component testing business—though real—was just a front. There were three excerpts that Sam was particularly interested in:
1. The person who had actually killed William Jackson a.k.a. William Winston was a man named Bobby Door—or Dior. He was a security guard and muscle man at Dynology. They had discussed the murder in detail. They suspected Jackson of being an undercover cop and Door beat him unmercifully for days to break him. They got nothing from him. Door executed him, bled him, planted dope on him, then dumped the body.
2. A man, purportedly CEO Bryce, was yelling at a woman named Rosemary for failing to deliver an expected cache of jewelry as expected. She yelled back, saying it wasn’t her fault. She’d been betrayed by that Winston bitch!
3. They were expecting their sweetest deal yet to take place on Sunday, June 10th. Someone named Anemone was to deliver some highly classified material to them at a park in Irvine at high noon. They had to have $10,000,000 in cash ready. Their buyer was paying $100,000,000 for the information, whatever it was.
