by Wolf Wootan
Bo gave Sam a précis of what she had found out.
“Well, at least something is finally happening,” he conceded.
“Thanks to you and Becky. Come on, Sam, the FBI is the greatest law enforcement agency in the world. No one can match their resources,” she pointed out as she buttered her English muffin. “We’re on the home stretch.”
Sam shrugged and ate a piece of cantaloupe.
“We still go with our plan. You and Becky to Oceanside, my parents back to wherever they want to go. I’ll work the streets. If the FBI gets them first, good. After breakfast, I’m going to talk to some people—widen the net. Then we’ll go pick up Mom, Dad, and Becky and tell them the score.”
While Bo showered, Sam called Danny, told him what was happening, then faxed him the pictures.
“Tell your guys to be very careful. The FBI is everywhere. I just want your street dealers to keep an eye peeled for these assholes. Then give me a call. Don’t—I repeat—don’t try and do me a favor by taking them out.”
“Whatever you say, Bro. The word will go out as soon as we hang up. Sam, you should have let me handle this earlier.”
“I know. But now the rules have changed. Be careful.”
Next, Sam called a realtor friend who owed him a favor and told him what he needed: Search all real estate transactions and see who had moved into a building recently. He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try. They could have leased or bought a back-up building months ago. Or, they may be using a house or an apartment. But there would be records. They only had to be found. Quickly.
***
Sam got all of the Crowns back to the beach house by 5:15. He and Bo had briefed them on the situation on the drive from the airport. They had taken the Lincoln Town Car so there would be enough room for all of them and the luggage.
John Crown grasped the predicament immediately, but Becky wasn’t too happy about going off to a motel and leaving Sam by himself.
“Why should you face the danger alone, Sam?” she asked. “We should all stick together.”
Later, Sam would curse himself for not taking her advice.
“Too dangerous, Beck,” he replied. “I want all of you guys off to some safe places. I don’t want them to be able to snatch anyone to put pressure on me.”
John Crown said, “I agree with Sam. How about I call a couple of ‘security specialists’ to watch your back, Sam?”
Sam knew that the kind of ‘security specialists’ his father was referring to were probably ex-CIA assassins, trained in invisibility and lethal force.
“No thanks, Dad. I’ll be fine once I don’t have to worry about all of you. If I need backup, I’ll get some.”
***
The next morning—Tuesday, July 10—a limo arrived at 11 A.M. to take John and Helena to the airport. The driver was an old buddy of John’s and was armed. John wanted to be sure that he and Helena got out of there safely. When they were gone, it was time for Bo and Becky to head to the motel in Oceanside.
Bo said, “You be careful, Sam. Becky and I will be fine. Call us every chance you get. Keep us posted.”
He hugged and kissed her. “I will. You can walk to the beach from the motel. But keep your nine close by.”
Then he hugged Becky. “Stick with Bo, kiddo. This will be over soon. Teach her some calculus or something.”
“Sure, Sam. Whatever you say. I’ll look after her for you.”
Becky wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She didn’t like this plan at all. They took the bags through the kitchen into the garage and loaded them into Becky’s VW. Another round of hugs and they were gone. Sam got into his Camaro and headed north on the I-5, one eye on the rearview mirror—hoping for a tail. Someone to hurt.
Chapter 51
Tuesday, July 10, 2001
San Clemente, CA
By 11:20, Becky was driving her white VW south on I-5. She was just leaving San Clemente and heading into the 17-mile stretch that skirted Camp Pendleton when she saw the CHP cruiser in her rearview mirror. She checked her speed, which was right on 65, then mentioned to Bo, “We’ve got a Chips on our six, but my speed’s OK, so we should be all right.”
Bo smiled. “Wow! Real NYPD Blue talk. Let’s hope he stays close till we get to Oceanside.”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t hurt. Keep the bad guys away if they’re watching.”
The black-and-white was closing quickly and after a minute was right on Becky’s bumper.
“Shit! He’s tailgating me! Why doesn’t he go around? The fast lane is open.”
Then the light bar started flashing. Becky checked her right mirror, saw that there were no cars, turned on her turn signal, and moved into the slow lane. The cop followed her.
She exclaimed, “Crapola! He’s still there! I guess I’d better stop. I thought he just wanted me to get out of his way.”
Bo looked back over her left shoulder and saw that the patrol car had two cops in it. “Maybe it’s a broken taillight or something, Beck.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. Sam’ll kill me if I get a ticket! I hope I know them so I can talk my way out of this.”
She eased to a stop on the right shoulder and the cops stopped behind her. They both got out and approached the car, one on each side. Bo thought that was unusual. Becky lowered her window and looked back at the cop on her side.
“I don’t know him. Shit! I thought I knew all the guys on this run. I grew up hanging out with these guys.”
From behind his mirrored sunglasses, the cop said to Becky, “Step out of the car, Miss.”
The other cop was next to Bo’s window now. She didn’t like this. Becky spoke up. “What’s wrong, Officer?”
He repeated, “Step out of the car, please. You do the same.”
He pointed at Bo. She started to reach in her purse to retrieve her FBI ID wallet. The cop next to Becky drew his service revolver and pointed it in the car.
“Keep your hands in sight! Step out of the vehicle! Now!”
Becky looked at Bo.
“Shit, Bo! These guys aren’t cops!”
They took Bo’s gun and handcuffed both women, then put them in the backseat of the black-and-white. They zoomed down to Las Pulgas and exited. Two minutes later, they were speeding north on I-5.
About 45 minutes later, a real CHP officer pulled up behind Becky’s parked car. He checked it out, noticed the keys were still in the ignition. He called in the plates.
The dispatcher called back. “That’s Becky Crown’s car. What’s going on?”
“Shit! I thought it looked familiar. Lot’s of these white bugs around. No signs of foul play. Maybe she ran out of gas. See if you can track down Sam Crown. Maybe she called him. I’ll stay here until you get back to me.”
***
Sam was at his realtor friend’s office in Dana Point when his cell phone rang.
“Crown.”
“Sam Crown? This is Amy Townsend, CHP dispatcher. Remember me?”
“Oh. Hi, Amy. What’s up?”
“Becky’s car was found abandoned on the I-5 just south of the San Clemente line. Did she call you?”
Sam’s blood turned to ice. He couldn’t speak.
“Sam? You still there?”
Finally he croaked, “You’re sure it’s hers?”
“We ran the plates. It’s hers. Stan’s with it now. Keys still in it. He thought she might have run out of gas and called you.”
“No. I haven’t heard from her. Tell Stan I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
He hung up and told the realtor he would be back later and dashed to his Camaro.
CHP Officer Stan Wilson and Sam looked the car over inch by inch. No blood. No clues. Nothing.
“Well, Stan, this stumps me. The gas tank’s full. I’ll call someone to come drive it home. I don’t want to leave it here.”
“You want me to put out an APB? See if we can find her?”
“No. Not yet.” He knew it would do no good. Somehow D’Orr had gotten them.
Both of them. How? He figured it wouldn’t be long before he got a call. He was scared for the first time in his life. Scared shitless!
Part 4
High Noon
“Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die.”
G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, 1908
“I’ve got to, that’s the whole story.”
Sheriff Will Kane, High Noon, 1952 movie
Chapter 52
Tuesday, July 10, 2001
Capistrano Beach, CA
Sam called the auto club and had Becky’s car transported on a flatbed to the beach house where he put it in its usual spot in the garage. He called Boomer, and then Danny—updated them both on the disappearance of Bo and Becky. Neither man had any good news, though large sections of the county had been ruled out as possible hiding places. They would pass the word to their teams to keep an eye out for the two women as well.
At 3 P.M., Sam drove back to the realtor’s office in Dana Point and reviewed the list of “possibles” prepared by his friend.
“This is just Irvine and South County. I’m still working the rest. Lot’s to do,” said the realtor.
“Christ! We’ll never find them this way! Look at this list!” exclaimed Sam. “But keep at it. I have to try.”
He divided the list into two parts; he faxed one stack to Danny and the other to Boomer at Sparky’s. Their teams would check out all addresses to determine if they were possibles.
“I’ll call you as soon as I have some more, Sam.”
“Thanks, Ken.”
Sam made the rounds of several of his snitches—gave them copies of the pictures, including ones of Becky. He realized that he didn’t have one of Bo. That saddened him. He told each of them he would give them a good reward if they found them and called him.
***
Back at the beach house at 6 o’clock, Sam went to the bar on the deck and fixed a Cutty and water to calm his nerves. He sat at a table and stared out to sea, contemplating his failure to protect Becky and Bo. In retrospect, he wished he had let Danny take care of the problem when he had offered. At the time, he couldn’t see himself being a party to something illegal—like murder. Now he could. He would kill them with his bare hands if he could find them!
His cell phone rang.
He froze.
When he looked at the Caller ID, it displayed “Unknown Caller.” It was them!
He answered, “Crown.”
“Ah, Mr. Crown. You’ve been quite a pest,” said the man on the other end of the call. “And, I will add, quite a formidable opponent. But that is over.”
Sam yelled, “You bastard! You’re that asshole D’Orr, aren’t you? If you touch one hair on . . .”
D’Orr interrupted. “Quiet! If you want to see your daughter alive again, shut up and listen! I see you’ve figured out who I am. That confirms that you have what I want. The tapes from those bugs your daughter planted.”
Sam was panicking! D’Orr hadn’t mentioned Bo. Had he already killed her? Sam wanted to climb through the phone and throttle him! He took a gulp of his drink and tried to calm himself.
D’Orr continued, “And Ms. Special Agent Trout will also be killed. First, I think I’ll turn them over to our horny Mr. Chase. You know about him, too, don’t you? He has weird sexual practices, but . . .”
“Damn you, D’Orr! What do you want?” screamed Sam. He was having trouble controlling his rage. He knew he had to suppress it or Becky and Bo would be even more endangered.
D’Orr replied, “Calm down, Crown. It’s very simple. You bring us the tapes from those bugs and everyone will be happy. Your FBI girlfriend here has assured me that the FBI knows nothing about any bugs or tapes. Is she right, or blowing smoke?”
“Unfortunately, yes, she’s right. They’re useless in our legal system. You should know that.”
“They could lead somewhere. I want all loose ends tied off. Go get the tapes and make sure there are no copies anywhere! I’ll call you in the morning and give you instructions. Do not call the police or FBI or your women will suffer a horrible death. Their health is in your hands, Crown.”
The connection was broken. Sam drained his drink and threw the glass at the bar. Luckily, it didn’t shatter. Since they might be watching—they certainly had been watching to be able to snatch Becky and Bo—Sam decided to drive to the Mickey office and go through the motions of retrieving the tapes they wanted. At least it would keep him busy while he decided what his options were.
Once he was in the offie, he went to his desk and called the security firm that was watching the office and told them he was there, but would be leaving in 30 minutes or less. He grabbed two audio tapes that were being recycled by Pearl, having transferred all the data to other storage media. It didn’t matter what was on the tapes. He just needed tapes.
He was now in a dilemma: a crime had been committed—kidnapping—and he knew he should involve the authorities. But he also knew he had to keep them out of this—at arms length—until he rescued Becky and Bo.
He called Carl Fenster’s office. He had gone home. Sam had his home phone number from a previous collaboration so he dialed it. Carl answered.
“Hello.”
“Carl. Sam Crown. Hate to bother you at home.”
“No problem, Sam. Dinner’s not till eight. What’s up?”
“I hate to say it on the phone. Could we meet?”
“That bad?”
“Yes.”
Silence for a beat.
“OK. Where are you?” asked Fenster.
“My office. You live in Tustin, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll come to you. I don’t want to mess up your dinner. How about I pick you up at your place and we drive around the block? This won’t take long.”
“God, you’re enigmatic!”
He gave Sam his address and hung up.
***
Sam picked up Carl Fenster and drove slowly around the block, telling Carl what had happened.
“Shit, Sam! You should have called me as soon as you found the car! And you placed illegal bugs? What were you thinking? All right, we’ll table that. We’ve got a kidnapping here. Plus, kidnapping of a Federal agent. I’ll have to call the SAC and get things moving.”
“Not so fast, Carl. Let’s discuss this a moment. I don’t want any SWAT shit! When they tell me where to bring the tapes, I’m going alone. They’ll kill Bo and Becky if they see or smell anything! I want you in the loop, but for later—to mop up in case I’m dead.”
Sam told Carl about the chopper attack in Colorado, and that the JTFE knew about it.
Carl exclaimed, “Shit! They never told me about that!”
“I think they’ll try and escape from wherever they are by chopper. So I need—we need—an armed chopper, maybe more, ready to stop them in case . . .”
“We’ll set it up so we can listen in on your phone, and when they call, we’ll be able to move . . .”
“No, Carl! You’re not listening! When they call me tomorrow, they’ll tell me where to deliver the tapes, and when. Based on what they say, I’ll call you and tell you an area to direct the choppers to. I will not give you an exact location until I’m ready to go in. Then you can move the choppers in. You can have some SWAT guys on board if you want. They can mop up what’s left.”
“I can’t allow this!” exclaimed Carl.
“You have no choice. After I talk to them tomorrow, I may change plans—based on what they say. In the meantime, you just arrange your forces and stand by.”
“I don’t like it, but here’s my cell phone number. Keep me in the loop. If I don’t hear from you by 10 A.M. tomorrow, I’ll come arrest you and . . .”
“Thanks, Carl. I’ll be in touch.”
***
As Sam was on I-5 heading south, his cell phone rang.
“Talk to me.”
“Sam? Boomer. One of my guys spotted a man who looks a lot
like that Chase guy coming out of a restaurant in Costa Mesa. Several bags of takeout food.”
“Damn! Great! Did your guy follow him?” exclaimed Sam.
“Of course. The restaurant’s at 19th and Harbor Boulevard. From there he went north for about a mile, then left for a block to a 3-story office building.”
He gave Sam the address.
“You’re sure it’s Chase?”
“Can’t be positive, of course. The guy looks like the photo. And who would bring take-out food to an office building this time of night?”
“Some guys having a late business meeting? I don’t know. It’s still worth checking out. It’s all we have. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. I have to get turned around—I’m heading south on the I-5.”
“OK. I’m in Santa Ana. I’ll beat you there.”
***
It was 7:45 P.M. by the time Sam parked his Camaro behind Boomer’s Harley—a half block from the suspect building.
“Anything new?” asked Sam.
Boomer shrugged. “All quiet. Jerry’s watching the back. Couple of offices lit on the third floor. Lights on in the small lobby. Two guards. Maybe rent-a-cops, I’m not sure.”
“Let’s walk down and get a better look,” said Sam as he strode off down the block. Boomer followed a step behind as he lit a long, brown cheroot.
They stopped across the street in the shadow of an awning that covered the entrance to a building and watched in silence for a few minutes.
Sam finally remarked, “Flat roof. Perfect for a chopper to land on.”
“I noticed.”
More silence. A car went by. Then another the opposite direction. Not much traffic at the moment.
Boomer asked, “You gonna call in the FBI? Have ’em check it out?”
“No. Not yet at least. If they’re really in there, I don’t want a SWAT standoff. They’ll kill Becky and Bo and try to get away in a chopper. I’m sure of that. When they call me tomorrow, they’ll have to tell me where to bring the tapes they want. Then we’ll know for sure if this is the place. They might even have the women stashed somewhere else. We need this place watched all night—in case they try to go elsewhere. Can your guys handle that?”
