Crown's Law (11 page)

“Maybe when you’re 16,” he had told her.

So 16 was a big number to Becky and the Crown
family. Not because she might be able to travel to other palaces of
academic prowess, but because she would be able to get her
California Driver’s License! Getting Becky to and from UCI had been
a joint effort of the Crown clan, Sam catching the brunt of it when
he worked in Santa Ana. Two UCI students lived on Beach Road, so
Becky had hitched rides with them when she could. Fortunately, much
of her studying was done at home or with Sam at various venues. Now
she could drive herself! If she had a car.

That was taken care of her on her birthday.
The Crowns gave her a new 2001, white VW beetle/bug wrapped in a
large, red bow. She was ecstatic!

Helena had set her up for disappointment on
her actual birthday on Friday. The Crowns had their usual small
party—the gala being scheduled for the next day—and Becky received
her usual wonderful gifts, but no car keys! She was silently
crushed!

The next day, the bash was twice as big as
the one Helena had thrown for her 15th birthday. During the cake
ceremony and after the singing of “Happy Birthday,” Sam secretly
retrieved the birthday car from a neighbor’s garage and parked it
in front of the Crown house garages where they had saved a space
for it.

A few minutes later, the uniformed Chief of
Security for the District walked out on the deck; he greeted those
he knew and found Sam.

“Hey, Sam. There’s a car parked illegally out
front. Do you think you could have it moved?”

Of course, he was in on the gag they were
pulling on Becky.

“Sorry, Chief. Hey, Beck! Could you go check
this out? See whose car it is?” Sam yelled at Becky.

“Sure, Sam! Be right back.”

She left the deck and went out to the road.
They all heard her scream over the roar of the crashing waves. Sam
gave the chief a high-five and they all headed for the road. Becky
was already sitting behind the wheel, alternately crying and
laughing. She jumped out and began hugging her grandparents and
Sam.

“Thank you! Thank you! You guys really fooled
me! Oh my God!” she wailed.

Since she had her driver’s permit, she
insisted that Sam ride shotgun while she took it for a spin on
PCH.

“It’s like a dream, Sam!” she bubbled as she
sped along PCH 15 miles per hour over the speed limit. Sam’s hands
were balled into fists and his knuckles were white.

“Jeez, Beck! Watch the speed! You’ll kill us
before you even get your license!” groaned Sam.

“Sorry, Sam! Shit! This is heaven!”

***

Even though she wasn’t reliant on Sam
for transportation anymore, she still dropped by the Mickey Malone
office quite a bit. She enjoyed helping Sam with his cases. It was
a pleasant break from her crushing study load. She had gained quite
a reputation among the
Investigations
International
detectives for her deductive powers. She had helped Sam crack
several difficult cases and he had given her the well-deserved
credit.

Sam took a lot of good-natured ribbing from
his fellow detectives.

“Hey, Crown, did you ever solve anything
before the kid came along?”

“Why don’t you turn the office over to Pearl
and Becky? Give you more time to hunt quail!”

They all loved Rebecca Rogers. She had a
large cadre of protectors at her beck and call if she ever needed
them.

***

In March, Sam accompanied Becky to
Washington, D.C. where she addressed the National Academy of
Sciences and answered questions from the gathered throng of
mathematicians and physicists—even some astrophysicists and
astronomers—about her theories. The controversy heated up on both
sides. Becky came home and started reworking her equations.

“I have to make it easier for them to
understand,” she told Sam. “My new math is confusing too many of
them. I’ll have to restate things in terms that they can
grasp.”

***

On Wednesday, April 25th, Sam got a call from
Sue wanting to see him on Saturday the 28th. She didn’t say why. He
had been seeing her once or twice a month ever since that first
delicious sexual encounter. She was as satisfied as he was with the
nonexclusive dating arrangement, so he couldn’t guess what she was
up to. Maybe she had thought of something sexual to do that they
hadn’t tried yet!

He arrived at her house at 6:00 P.M. on
Saturday as he had been instructed. She greeted him at the front
door with a kiss. Her body was completely covered in a floral
muumuu.

“Come on out to the patio. I’m cooking you
dinner out there tonight. Hence, my covering garb,” she said as she
floated down the hall and out to the walled-in patio. Coals were
turning gray in the barbeque.

“What’s the occasion, China doll?” he asked
as he approached her from behind and put his arms around her,
cupping both breasts with his hands.

“As you know, we’ve enjoyed a comfortable,
nonexclusive relationship. I met a man about six months ago. It’s
become serious. He asked me to marry him and I’m going to say yes.
I would’ve said yes already, but I wanted to see you one last time.
This is our farewell fling, Sam. I plan to be a faithful,
monogamous wife. We can still be friends, of course, if you wish. I
hope you do.”

He was sad it was over. She was special.

“Well . . . I wish you all the happiness you
can grab, Sue. You deserve it. Since you’re engaged, we can skip
the farewell fling.”

“Technically, I’m not. I haven’t said ‘yes’
yet,” she said as she leaned into him.

“That’s a quibbling technicality. You’ve
already made up your mind,” he said as he nuzzled her hair, missing
her already.

“We’re both good at quibbling with
technicalities. I couldn’t tell you this over the phone, and I knew
if I saw you, I’d want one last fling. OK?”

“OK. Are you moving?” asked Sam, thinking of
Becky.

“No. I’ll drop some patient load by attrition
and cut back to a 3-day week. He lives in La Jolla, so we’ll split
time between here and there. He’s an art dealer and his store
wouldn’t do as well in San Clemente as it does in La Jolla. Don’t
worry, I’ll keep Becky for as long as she needs me.”

“Thanks for that. Does she still need you? We
never talk about it,” said Sam.

“For a while yet. I’ve become quite a
lifeline for her. Maybe I can start cutting her time back from once
a week to twice a month. She’s maturing quite nicely . . .
considering.”

“So . . . you’re settling down. At times, I
thought you might make a good mother for Becky,” mused Sam.

“No! Definitely not! One can never be both
mother and analyst, Sam! I have to play adversary at times.
Sometimes Becky hates me, sometimes she clings to me. A mother
can’t handle the swings in emotion,” exclaimed Sue. “She wants a
mother desperately, however. I can reveal that much. Why don’t you
put an end to your endless search for new women and find a wife?
It’s time.”

“I don’t have any candidates right now.”

“You avoid the right kind of candidates. For
example, what would you have done if I had asked you for a
commitment?” she asked, a coy smile on her lips.

He thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t
know.”

“Find someone, if not for yourself, do it for
Becky,” she said. “If she’s not enough of an incentive, then you’re
hopeless.”

***

The sex had been slow and satisfying, Sue
riding him on top. They both held back as long as they could, not
wanting it to end. But it did. They lay on her bed in silence for a
bit, absorbing the impact of Sue’s decision to marry.

Sam finally spoke. “I know you’re not
supposed to talk about Becky, but something has been bothering me.
She’s 16 now, has her own wheels. In June she’ll get her
doctorates. She’ll be a professor of some sort at UCI—or anywhere
she wants. Several universities have already approached her. So
she’s a perfect case for emancipation whenever she wants it. I
wonder if she’s ever talked to you about it.”

“Are you for or against it?” she asked, back
in shrink mode.

“Against, of course. I would never stand in
her way, but it would complicate my job.”

“Which is?”

“To look after her. Protect her. Like I’ve
always done.”

“You wouldn’t be obligated if she were
emancipated,” observed Sue.

“I’ll never abandon her, even if she does
something foolish.”

“Why, Sam! You sound like a father! You
should discuss emancipation with Becky. Let her tell you how she
feels about it. You won’t be sorry.”

“So, you won’t tell me.”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Some rules you never
bend.”

“I’m going to sleep now. You can spend the
night if you promise not to roll over and crush me. We could have
an encore in the morning,” she said as she kissed him
goodnight.

Tuesday, May 1, 2001

Santa Ana, CA

Sam was sitting on a bar stool
in
Sparky’s Club
, a local bar
that he frequented often because it was only two blocks from the
Mickey Malone office—and he was friends with the owner. Also, they
served good basic food and poured good booze. The room was much
deeper than it was wide. The long bar was along the left side as
one entered the front door and several booths lined the right side.
There were three pool tables in the far back with low hanging lamps
over them. There was a small kitchen beyond the bar where the cook
served up food from a small menu: burgers, hotdogs, fries, onion
rings, chili, and their famous French dip with cole slaw. The place
had a varied clientele, but it was mostly a hangout for rough
bikers.

It was 5 P.M. and Sam was enjoying a Cutty
and water and chatting with Sparky, the owner, who was behind the
bar. Sparky was a big Irishman with white, thinning hair, a big
nose that had been broken more than once, and clear blue eyes. He
stood about six feet two inches and weighed in at 250 pounds. No
one knew his exact age, but he performed the bouncing job himself
and it was said not even the tough bikers that hung out at the bar
dared to get him riled. Besides, he kept a baseball bat and a
sawed-off shotgun in easy reach behind the bar and was not afraid
to use either. Sam had run into Sparky a couple of times in Saigon.
Sparky had been a Gunnery Sergeant then, Sam a Corporal. There were
several black-and-white framed photos on the wall behind the bar
depicting Marine buddies of Sparky’s.

Sam had experienced a successful day. He had
finally caught the husband of one of his clients with his mistress
going into her apartment together. His state-of-the-art zoom lens
got several good pictures of them in his car in the parking lot as
they kissed with passion and he groped her breasts. These pictures
should ensure his client’s lawyer of a favorable divorce
settlement. Sam was smiling as he thought of the conversation he
had recorded using his long range directional microphone. Hubby’s
girl friend sure liked to talk dirty!

“. . . and then I said, who cares?” Sparky
was saying. Sam came out of his reverie and laughed. He hadn’t
heard what Sparky had said, but he assumed it was one of his
endless jokes.

“That’s a good one, Sparky,” Sam chuckled as
he took a sip of his drink, the first of the day, but probably not
the last.

“So how did the shamus work go today?” Sparky
asked, knowing he wouldn’t get any juicy details. Sam never
discussed the details of his work with anyone. Client
confidentiality. And mostly boring—to Sam.

“Oh, just a long day of shoe leather and
surveillance stuff,” Sam responded with a shrug. “You know how dull
and boring private eye work is.”

Sparky ran a cloth over the surface of the
bar. Sam used a swizzle stick to stir his drink, then took another
swig.

“That’s not the way I hear it from you and
your associates when you’re talking about the feats of your boss,
the great Mickey Malone,” winked Sparky with a grin on his face.
“I’ve also heard some near unbelievable things about him from guys
here in the bar. Is it true he’s really a special hit man for the
CIA? For their hardest cases?”

Sam smiled inwardly. The myths that were
attached to Mickey Malone had grown and grown. Sam and the other
detectives that worked in the Malone office liked to tell small
stories about Mickey and then wait and see how the bar crowd passed
the story around, embellishing it. Not unlike the game of Rumor Sam
had played as a kid. The CIA thing got started a few months ago
when Sparky had asked Sam why he never saw Mickey around the bar
like he did all the others from the office.

Sam had answered, “He’s out of town a lot.
Does a lot of work in other states and countries. I think he’s in
Virginia this week.”

Later that day, Sparky told one of his
patrons, Bob Henley, “I hear that that Mickey Malone guy is in
Virginia this week. Always somewhere else than here. I wonder what
a P.I. from California is doing in Virginia.”

Bob Henley replied, “Isn’t that where the CIA
headquarters is? Langley? Quantico? Something like that?”

“I think so.”

Later, Bob Henley was having a beer with his
buddy, John Black, and during the conversation said, “You know that
guy Mickey Malone that Sam works for? Sparky said he works for the
CIA sometimes.”

John Black asked, “Wonder what a P.I. does
for them? Probably does some undercover work, eh?”

“Maybe they use him for assassinations the
spooks can’t handle,” laughed Bob Henley, tongue in cheek.

The next day, John Black was in
Sparky’s
drinking after work with
his friend Bill Weder. They saw Sam Crown walk in and go to the
bar.

“Seeing Sam come in reminds me. I heard it as
gospel from Bob Henley that Sam’s boss, Mickey Malone, is a special
hit man for the CIA. Handles all the jobs the regular spooks are
afraid to handle. He must be one mean, cool son-of-a-bitch!”