“Have you met Karen?”
“Oh, yes. I nearly clawed her eyes out.” Fire flashed in Josey’s eyes.
“I have to ask this, but you did notice the similarity between you and Karen? You could be sisters.”
Josey laughed. “You obviously haven’t met Dick’s ex-wives club yet.”
“Ex-wives club?”
“Yeah, I was his fifth wife. He’s got a type. We’re all tall, leggy with big boobs. Mine are real, but I can’t speak for the others. But we’re really nothing alike. Next to Karen I’m Mother Theresa.”
“So Dick keeps marrying the same type of woman?”
“Yeah, I guess he keeps trading us in for a newer model.”
Chapter 16
Assisting Ben Johnson on a criminal case, Chris felt buried in paperwork. Good ol’ Ben loved to file motions. His defense strategy was to bury the prosecution in so much paper that they didn’t have time to build a coherent case against his client, easy for Ben because Chris had to do all of the work. He knew damned good and well that the judge would toss ninety percent of the motions out. This was nothing more than a delaying tactic.
Still, Chris had to pay his dues. There would be many endless nights doing this kind of bullshit paperwork, endless hours of investigation and research before getting a real case of his own. He knew that when it happened, it would all be worthwhile. But man, was it a pain in the ass getting there.
“Hey, Chris, you been on Facebook today?”
Chris looked up to see his step-mom in the door to his office.
“Candace.” Chris couldn’t look at the gorgeous woman without having to gasp for breath. She had that affect on men. “I would think you had better things to do than hang out on Facebook all day.”
“I must have a little more clout than you do. At least the senior partners don’t bury me with meaningless paper.”
“It’s just that you’re in a new part of the practice. We don’t have any senior partners in medical law, so there’s no one to dump on you.”
Candace moved a chair from in front of Chris’s desk to beside him. “Be that as it may, I think you should see this.”
“What?”
“Open Facebook.”
Chris did as told.
“Okay, now search for Clayton Johnson-White.”
“Oh, no. What’s the little bastard done now?” Chris groaned.
Chris typed Clayton’s name in the search box at the top of the page.
“Hello? What’s this?” Chris saw several links drop down below the search box.
“Click on the ‘I Love Clayton’ link,” Candace said.
Chris couldn’t believe it. The picture at the top of the page was Clayton’s Fly Away Dr. Seuss bird. Beneath the bird was his catch phrase, “Catch me if you Can,” and below that the phrase “Fly Away Bandit.” In the left corner was a picture of Clayton himself, slouched back in an overstuffed chair with a defiant look in his eye.
“Nice, huh?” Candace said. “It’s a fan page. Put up by a group of girls from Camano Island High.”
“Crap. Look at these pictures. This is the most incriminating stuff I’ve ever seen.” Chris clicked on the photo link. A couple of dozen pictures of Clayton in various poses popped up on his screen.
He clicked on the back button.
Back on the main page, he noticed there were more than seventy-seven thousand likes.
“I think I better call Ted.”
Chris picked up the phone and dialed. His phone beeped and chirped a minute then Ted answered.
“Flaherty & Associates, Investigations. Ted Higuera speaking.”
“Hey, amigo, I have a little problem.”
“What’s up?” his friend asked.
“Candace is here. I’m going to put you on speaker.”
“Hi, Candace. Long time no see.”
“Hi, Ted. I hear you have a new squeeze.”
“Yeah, Maria’s great.”
“Sorry, you two,” Chris cut in. “You can catch up on your own time. I have a little problem I need some help with now.”
“Super-Teddy at your service. What can I do?”
Chris turned back to his monitor. “Clayton Johnson-White. You remember I told you about him?”
“Yeah, the kid in trouble up on Camano Island.”
“Right. Well, he’s digging himself a pretty deep hole. He has a fan page on Facebook. Can you find it?”
“Is this going to be billable?” Ted asked.
Chris chuckled. “We’re not there yet. Just asking for a little IT advice.”
Chris heard Ted clacking away on his keyboard.
“Just a minute. Okay, Facebook. Clayton Johs... Whoa. What’s this? It really is a fan page.”
“Ted, can you tell who’s seen this?”
Ted tapped away for an instant before replying. “It would be easier to tell you who hasn’t seen it.”
“What? That bad?”
“Your boy’s a hit. This page has gone viral.”
“Jesus. Is there any way to take it down?”
“That ship has sailed. It’s been liked and shared so many times, you’d never be able to find all the references.”
“Well, Chris,” Candace said. “It looks like your client is a folk hero.”
“Yeah,” Ted said. “A real modern-day Jesse James.”
****
“You’ve got to try Gas Works Park,” Maria’s TA told her. “It’s the coolest park in Seattle.”
He was right. Maria strolled through the acres of green grass and rolling hills in the heart of the city with Popo by her side. Every few minutes someone came up to her, man, woman or child, and asked the same questions over and over again.
“What kind of dog is he?”
“How much does he weigh?”
“How old is he?”
The “Does he bite?” question seemed sheer folly to Maria. Anyone could see that her giant dog was a cream puff
Then there were the people who were amazed at their own wit.
“Is that a dog or a horse?”
“Do you have a saddle for him?”
“Can I ride him?”
She had heard all of the big dog jokes so many times she could repeat them in her sleep.
She made her way over the hill and down the slope to the edge of Lake Union. Across the blue waters of the lake she saw the shining towers of downtown Seattle. To her right the Space Needle and Queen Anne filled the vista. Dominating the scene to her left was the I-5 Bridge across the ship canal.
What could be better than this, a sunny fall afternoon in a gorgeous park with her dog? She reached in her purse and pulled out a green tennis ball.
Gas Works Park didn’t have an off-leash area, but her dog friends told her that no one would object if she let Popo run free. Everybody else did.
“Popo, fetch, mijo,” she said, tossing the ball down the slope.
Popo took off like demons were after him. She loved to watch him run. Danes were originally bred from Irish Wolfhounds, English Mastiffs and Greyhounds. The Greyhound heritage was evident in the form of her dog, but she never saw it so much as when Popo ran. He took long, elegant strides that covered the distance in an instant and reaching the ball so fast, she hardly had time to pull her arm back before he was dashing back again.
Popo was back, tennis ball in his giant jaws. Maria grabbed at it, Popo pulled away. They played an extended game of hide and seek until Maria feigned disinterest and Popo dropped the ball. Maria pounced. She grabbed the ball, tossed it as far as she could and the game started all over again.
It seemed that Popo was tireless and could go on for hours. Maria wearied of the game long before her dog.
A tall, elegant old man with a Siberian Husky came over the hill. Popo instantly lost interest in the ball and went over to meet the new dog. A chance to play with a dog his own size? Well, close to his size. That didn’t happen too often.
“He’s beautiful,” the man said to Maria. “What’s his name
?”
“Popo.”
“I love Danes. We had one when I was growing up.”
Maria had been part of this conversation numerous times. It seems that someone at any dog park she visited had Great Dane stories to tell.
“What’s your dog’s name?” she asked.
“King. I named him for Sergeant Preston’s dog, Yukon King.”
“Sergeant Preston?” Maria asked.
“An old TV show when I was a kid,” the old man said. “Way before your time.”
Popo and King dashed off down to the edge of the lake.
“I need to get his ball back. Excuse me.” Maria politely waved to the man and headed towards the ugly old pile of machinery from which the park gets its name.
The structure, made from rusting iron, still dominated the park. Now surrounded by a chain-link fence it looked like something out of a steam punk novel. Riveted boilers, chimneys and giant fly-wheels seemed to be thrown together in a Rube Goldberg nightmare.
As Maria got closer to the big pile of iron, she realized that it was getting dark. The days seemed so short here in the Northwest.
Where did her ball go? She walked around the perimeter of the plant, looking for a green ball in green grass in the growing darkness.
“AGHH!” An arm grabbed her around the waist and a hand tried to cover her mouth.
She bit down on the hand.
“Shit!” A deep throated voice shouted.
A sharp blow to the head sent her spinning to the ground.
“POPO!”
The short, heavy man in a dark hoodie grabbed her purse and tossed it to a man in a T-shirt and jeans.
“You asked for this baby.” The short man unbuckled his jeans.
Maria leapt to her feet. The skinny man in the T-shirt pinned her arms behind her back.
“You goin’ first, Duke?” he asked.
Hoodie man unzipped his pants and reached for her belt buckle.
Then it happened. A hundred and ninety pound bolt of lightning came from out of the darkness. The man never knew what hit him.
Popo leapt and hit the man square in the chest with his front paws. The man went sprawling, taking Marina with him, the breath knocked out of him.
Popo turned to face the other man, his front legs planted stiffly on the ground, spread apart, his chest thrown out, a ridge of hair on his back. The expression on his face said, “Don’t mess with me.” His ears pointed straight back. A low growl emitted from his throat, curling his snout he exposed massive teeth as his eyes drilled into his quarry.
Popo’s bark froze Skinny man. A wet spot spread down the front of his pants.
The giant dog took a slow, menacing step in his direction.
“GRRR …” Popo advanced on the man.
The man panicked, turned and ran.
In an instant Popo was on him. He lunged at skinny man’s back, flattening him with massive force.
“Popo!” Maria shouted. “Come.”
Popo looked longingly at the man on the ground.
Hoodie man recovered his breath, sprang to his feet and beat a hasty retreat. Skinny man leapt up and ran.
“Popo, you big goof.” Maria threw her arms around Popo’s neck, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You’re my hero.”
****
Dick Jr. didn’t know why Weinstein wanted to see him. That old shyster’s secretary gave nothing away on the phone.
Of course, there was nowhere to park anywhere near Weinstein’s office. Junior had to park in a lot, at exorbitant prices, and walk six blocks. Why couldn’t the old bastard have an office in a building with parking?
And the crappy parking garage? It was made for Matchbox cars. His Ford F-350 pickup with dual rear wheels wouldn’t fit into a “compact” parking spot under any circumstances. Cursing under his breath, he found a place with two spots open, and parked in both of them. Take that, damned tree huggers.
Junior had been around the block, spending a couple of tours in Iraq as an MP at the Tallil Air Base in Nasiriyah, Iraq and seeing the world. Why was it so much trouble to fit back into civilian life?
Working for his dad? C’mon, a grown man should be able to make it on his own. Now his dad’s old lady was trying to take the business away from him.
Hell, he’d practically been running it by himself anyway. His dad spent so much time flying down to LA to see his little chippy there that Junior was The Man.
Surely, that shyster Weinstein could figure it out for him. Get rid of Karen. Let him get on with life.
“Dick Randall to see Mr. Weinstein,” Junior said, entering the door to Weinstein and Associates, Attorneys at Law.
“Good morning, Mr. Randall. Please have a seat. I’ll see if Mr. Weinstein can see you now.” Rose smiled her best official smile. “Would you like coffee?”
“No thanks. I just want to see what Weinstein wanted.”
In a moment Rose was back. “Mr. Weinstein will see you now.” She led Junior to Weinstein’s office.
“Richard, good to see you.” Abe Weinstein pulled his decrepit old bones out of his chair and extended his hand.
“Abe.” Junior took his hand then sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “What’s up? Why did you need to see me?”
Weinstein fumbled around with a stack of papers on his desk. “Just a minute. I had it right here. Where did it go? ROSE. Oh, here it is. NEVER MIND,” the old geezer screeched towards his office door.
He pulled a manila file folder from the pile on his desk. “Let’s see. Yes, this is it.”
“What is it?” Junior rocked back and forth in his chair.
“I’m afraid this isn’t good for you, Richard.”
“Yeah?” Junior leaned forward.
“I have here a last will and testament for your father. And a signed, notarized power of attorney. Karen delivered them to me yesterday afternoon.”
“So, we got a copy of his will. What’s the big deal?”
“This is a new will, Richard... It leaves everything to Karen.”
“No. That’s not right. Dad wouldn’t do that.” Junior shot out of his chair and leaned across Weinstein’s desk. “Dad told me I’m his only heir. I’ve been working for him for years, running his business, because I knew it was going to be mine.”
“Well, Richard, I’m afraid this is all legal. The will is dated a month ago, signed by your father. Witnessed and notarized. If it turns out that your father is dead then this will be the will of record.”
Junior slumped back into the chair.
“I can’t believe it.”
“And the power of attorney. That gives Karen the right to run the businesses as she sees fit. She can sell any property your dad owns, buy anything she wants in his name.”
“That’s not right. Why would Dad do that? I was running the business. I don’t understand.”
“Who knows why anyone does anything?”
“He didn’t even love her anymore. Hell, he lived in Seattle and she lived in Vegas. Dad was going to divorce her, you know, and all those trips to LA? The old letch had a hottie down there, a nurse or something. They were going to hook up.”
“Well, these documents are legal. She has the right to enforce them.”
“It’s a forgery.” Junior sat up straight as the thought hit him. “She forged it, them. She’s a master forger. She forged my name on Bobby’s adoption papers. I know for a fact that she forged Dad’s divorce papers.”
Junior jumped to his feet and started pacing. “She found out... She knew that Dad was going to dump her. That she would get nothing. That’s why she forged those papers. That’s why she killed him. The woman has no conscious. She’s a demon.”
“That’s a pretty heavy charge. Can you prove these are forgeries?” Weinstein handed the folder to Junior.
“It’s pretty convenient, don’t you think? That a will and a power of attorney show up right after Dad disappears? Why didn’t we see this sooner? Why didn’t Dad say anything about it to you?
You’re his lawyer. Who drew up this will anyway? I saw him every day. He never said a word to me about this.”
“All very good questions, but can you prove that these are forgeries? I checked the signatures. I sure can’t tell that they aren’t your fathers.”
“Aren’t there some kind of experts we can hire? You see that kind of thing on TV all the time.”
“I have an investigator I can engage, but it’s not cheap. He can run these down. Find out when they were printed, when they were signed. He can investigate the notary. Was your dad there when they were signed? Who was the witness? My investigator can have an expert take a look at them, but if it goes to court, they’ll have an expert who says they’re legit. You know Karen will have her witnesses all lined up.”
“Get him. I don’t care what it costs. I’m not going to stand by and watch that bitch steal my legacy”
Chapter 17
Ed Jorgenson paced back and forth at the front of the meeting hall in the Camano Island Community Center. His palms were sweaty and his heart raced.
People slowly shuffled in to the big hall. Mostly senior citizens, they took the most interest in their community. A few middle aged couples attended, but few young people. Most young people tended to move into Seattle to get jobs. There wasn’t much work here on the island.
“Ladies and gentlemen, folks, let’s get started.” Ed was no stranger to public speaking. As the principal of Jorgensen Associates, Realtors, he had lots of front of the room experience. But this was different, getting a group of diverse people who owned him nothing to agree to his plan.
People settled into their chairs as Ed walked to the podium.
“Testing, testing.” He tapped the microphone. “Can you hear me in the back?”
“Yeah, Ed. We hear you fine,” Tom Monroe shouted.
“Okay, I think you all know why we’re here tonight.” Ed took a deep breath. “We need to do something about this so-called Fly Away Bandit.”
There was a murmur of assent in the room.
“This boy is making us all look like fools. And the sheriff doesn’t seem to be able to do anything about it.”
Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4 Page 16
