Crown's Law (12 page)

And so the legend spread. It was so out of
control now that Sam couldn’t end it if he tried. They wouldn’t
believe him. They would think he was covering up some international
conspiracy. So he let it feed on itself. No harm done, right?

Sam was half listening to Sparky and half
remembering his last night with Sue when his cell phone rang. He
looked at the Caller ID: Pearl. He looked at his watch: 5:10.

Shit! She should have
locked up and left by now!
he thought, fuming, but
curious.

He took the call.

“Yes, Pearl.”

“You already on the road, or on a stool
at
Sparky’s
?” asked
Pearl.

“It depends. What’s up? It’s after closing
time,” he replied.

“I was just walking out the door and this
woman shows up looking for Mickey. Someone left an envelope for her
here yesterday—paid us $100 to hold it. Now she wants to hire
Mickey to find her missing brother. I’m in your office right now. I
have her stashed out front. What do you want me to do?”

“Tell her to come back tomorrow during office
hours. Not too early. Maybe the brother will show up by then.”

“Sam! She’s very distraught! I hate to turn
her away!”

“Distraught?”

“Crying, and such.”

“Oh. What’s her name?” asked Sam.

“Let me see. I had her fill out the standard
form, just in case. Her name’s Cheryl Wright,” replied Pearl.

“Does she have a picture of the missing
brother?”

“Yes. One about two years old.”

“What does she look like?” chortled Sam.

“Sam! What difference should that make?”

“Humor me.”

Pearl had a great ability for sizing up
people. “She’s 5' 7", about 130 pounds, black hair to the
shoulders, hazel eyes. Pretty face, nose a little too sharp,”
replied Pearl.

“And . . . ?” asked Sam.

“Thirty-six, D-cup,” replied Pearl, knowing
what his interest was. “Jerk!” she added.

“OK, tell her to drive down to
Sparky’s
. I’m not coming back in. If
that doesn’t suit her, she can make an appointment,” grumbled
Sam.

“Sparky’s
! You
must be kidding! You can’t talk to a nice lady client in that
place! Especially a new client!” snapped Pearl.

“I gave you the options.”

“You’re more than a jerk! Let me talk to
her—see what she wants to do. Be right back.”

She put Sam on hold.

Two minutes later, Pearl came back on the
line.

“She doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow.
She’ll meet you there.”

“OK. What’s she dressed like—so I’ll
recognize her,” said Sam.

“Chic persimmon suit, matching shoes and
lipstick. Ivory blouse,” replied Pearl. “Skirt a little too short,
but just your style.”

“Cut the sarcasm, Mother Teresa. Send her on
down.”

***

Ten minutes later, the persimmon
apparition appeared in the front entrance to
Sparky’s
. She stood there while her eyes became
accustomed to the dim interior. Sam could see her quite well. So
could everyone else in the club. The room grew silent, all eyes on
the woman. She was mostly legs. Her skirt was short!

Sam jumped off his bar stool and approached
her. He was wearing his usual Aloha shirt and he could see her
focus on it, trying to get her vision back.

“Ms. Wright?” he asked.

“Yes. Mr. Crown?”

“In the flesh. Here, let me take your hand
till your eyes adjust.”

He led her toward a booth where they could
have some privacy. Two heavyset bikers were sitting there nursing
long-neck beers. Sam gave a flick of his hand and they nodded, got
up, took their beers and moved to the bar. Sparky was there in a
flash, wiping the table and bench seats.

“There you are, folks,” grinned Sparky, ready
to watch Sam make his moves. He waved Maile the waitress away as
she approached the booth.

Sam guided Ms. Wright into the booth and sat
down opposite her. He could see her eyes were red and her mascara
was smeared from crying.

“Could I buy you a drink, Ms. Wright?” asked
Sam as he checked out her cleavage.

“Yes, that would be great! Thank you.
Something very cold,” she replied. Sam loved her voice.

“How about a frothy margarita? They’re great
here,” offered Sam.

“That’s fine,” she smiled with a shrug.

Sparky nodded and headed back to the bar.

“So, you’re having a problem, Ms. Wright?”
asked Sam.

“Please call me Cheryl. Yes, I am. Thank you
for seeing me so late. I was looking for Mr. Malone, but your
secretary told me he was out of town,” she said.

“How did you choose Mickey?” Sam asked.

“I didn’t. My brother did. He left an
envelope for me there and told me he’d call me by this morning. If
he didn’t, I was to pick up the envelope and hold it for him. But
now I’m scared. He should have called! I want Mr. Malone to find
him for me!”

“Mickey is out of town for awhile as Ms.
Cooper probably told you. Mickey has several associates, all
trained by him personally. I’m his most trusted one,” bull-shitted
Sam.

Sparky arrived with the triple margarita and
a fresh Cutty and water for Sam.

She said, “My! What a large glass!”

Sparky said, “Happy Hour special,” as he
winked at Sam.

She took the heavy glass in both hands and
lifted it to her lips. Her tongue flicked out and moved some salt
from the rim, then she took a large gulp.

“Ah, I needed that!” she murmured. “I’ve been
so upset!”

Her tongue flick made Sam tingle. He sipped
his drink. The woman looked around—her eyes adjusted now—and saw
several people smoking.

“May one smoke in here?” she asked.

“One may. Light up and relax, then you can
tell me about your problem,” leered Sam.

***

According to Cheryl Wright, her brother,
William Winston, aged 38, was missing. He had called her two days
ago—Sunday—and told her about the envelope he was leaving for her
at Mickey Malone’s office. He was going to a business meeting and
wanted the information in the envelope safe until after the
meeting. If everything went smoothly, he would retrieve the
envelope and call her today. He never called and now Cheryl was
worried. Besides that, their mother, though only 61 years old, was
dying of cancer and she, the mother, wanted to see her son before
she died. William Winston was never around much, but he always left
a number with Cheryl where he could be contacted. When Cheryl
called the number she found that it had been disconnected and he
wasn’t answering his cell phone either. He never stayed at one job
very long. He moved from job to job, often changing his name.
Cheryl had no idea why her brother was so restless, but she had to
find him quickly. He had promised to meet her and go see their
mother. Her mother was fading fast. Cheryl was on her second large
margarita when she finished her story. Sam could tell that she was
feeling the alcohol.

Sparky had carefully preserved the first
glass for Sam. Sam would lift fingerprints later and verify his
client’s identity. It was standard procedure for him, and he had a
signal between him and Sparky for occasions such as this. Sam
trusted no one, especially people seeking the services of a P.I.
Many gave false names, hindering his investigation.

“So,” Sam summarized, “you don’t know where
your brother is, what his last job was, or what name he’s using?
All you have is this two-year-old picture of the two of you at the
beach?”

In the picture, she was in a red bikini and
Sam was salivating.

“That’s correct. Do you think you can help
me?” she wailed, tears forming again. She sniffled and gulped some
more of her drink.

“Is there any newspaper he reads all the
time? Maybe we could place an ad. ‘William, call home,’” smiled
Sam.

“Not that I know of. I’ve got the envelope he
left me, but I don’t dare open it,” she replied.

“That’s good. Can I see it?” asked Sam,
perking up.

“Yes. It’s here in my purse. Do you think
that it will help?”

“Maybe. I’ll check it for prints. If his are
on it, I can find out if he’s in the slammer somewhere,” said
Sam.

She handed it to him. He took it by the edge
and motioned to Sparky. Sparky appeared, and after a quick
discussion, Sparky left and returned with a plastic baggie for the
envelope. This would also have Cheryl’s prints on it—maybe even
Pearl’s. He could check them against the ones he would get from the
glass, eliminate Pearl’s and Cheryl’s, and then try and find a
strange print.

“That would be great if this helps,” she
said, beginning to slur her words. “I’d like to hire you. I can’t
wait for Mr. Malone. I’ll sign the papers tomorrow.”

“No rush on that. The problem now is to get
you home. You’re in no condition to drive. Where do you live?” said
Sam.

“Newport Beach,” she said, the “Beach” coming
out as “Beesh.”

“Good. That’s not far. I’ll drive you
home.”

“What about my car? I can’t leave it
here!”

“You’re right about that. I’ll get someone to
follow us, bring your car. Sit tight a sec.”

He got up and went to one of the pool tables
and chatted with some bikers. One nodded. Sam came back to the
booth.

“OK, all arranged. Give me your car keys and
address. We’ll get you safely home,” said Sam.

“Thank you, Mr. Crown.”

“Call me Sam, Cheryl. Everyone does except my
mother. She calls me Samuel.”

Sam got her to his Camaro, and one of the
bikers got into her white Toyota Corolla. Another biker fired up
his Harley and the parade headed for Newport Beach. She lived in a
four-plex not far from Lido Isle. Cheryl was passed out in the
passenger seat of his Camaro. He rifled her purse, found her house
keys and a garage door opener that opened one of the four single
garages. The biker stashed her car in it, closed the door.

“Thanks, Boomer. I owe you guys,” said
Sam.

“No prob, Sam. We still owe you. Need help
with the chick?”

“No, I’ll take it from here.”

“I’ll bet you will,” Boomer laughed. He
climbed on the Harley behind the other biker and they roared away
into the night.

Sam managed to carry her to her bedroom and
deposit her on her bed. Her short skirt rode up, exposing persimmon
panties.

“Where do you buy persimmon panties? Maybe
that’s Victoria’s secret,” he mused.

He took off her shoes and suit jacket, laid
them on a chair. She still looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t
think he should take off any more of her clothes—as tempting as it
was. He put a pillow under her head, pulled her skirt down, turned
off her bedroom lights, and left. He would have a slice of that
persimmon pie under more honorable circumstances.

Wednesday, May 2, 2001

Mickey Malone Office, Santa Ana, CA

Sam was in the Mickey Malone office by 8:00
A.M. on Wednesday, shocking Pearl. He was never in that early.

“What about the new client?” she asked him.
“Or is she a client? Did you completely disgust her?”

“She’s a client. I didn’t disgust her. I just
got her drunk, took her home, and put her to bed,” teased Sam.

“You are a pig, Sam Crown!” muttered
Pearl.

“Calm down for Chrissakes! I’ve got some work
for you. Her prints should be on this glass. See if you can lift
them.”

After he had left Ms. Persimmon
Panties’ apartment the night before, he had swung by
Sparky’s
and picked up the glass. He
had spent the night in his Tustin pad so he could be in
early.

“She gave me that envelope you gave her. See
what you can find on it. You know the drill.”

He went on to tell her what little he knew
about the shifty Mr. Winston. Pearl went to the tech room and got
to work. The phone rang.

“Get that, will you, Sam?” yelled Pearl.

Sam went into his office and grabbed
the phone. “
Mickey Malone
Investigations
. Crown speaking.”

“Oh!” said her throaty voice on the phone. He
recognized it. “Er . . . I’m too embarrassed to say your name . . .
Sam.”

Sam laughed. “I recommend a Bloody Mary and a
couple of aspirins. Good morning, Cheryl.”

“I’ve taken the aspirins. I hadn’t thought of
the Bloody Mary. I want to thank you for getting me home, and . . .
not taking advantage of the situation,” she murmured. “I don’t know
why the alcohol hit me so hard. My anxiety, I suppose.”

More likely because you
chug-a-lugged a pint of Tequila!
thought
Sam.

“That’s probably it,” he chortled. “I’ll drop
that contract in the mail today.”

“Oh. OK,” she said hesitantly. “Or . . . if
it isn’t too much out of your way, you could drop by with it. I
could buy you a dinner. That’s the least I could do after last
night and the trouble I caused you.”

Hmm
, thought
Sam.
She’s making this too
easy!

“Are you sure you feel up to it?” asked Sam,
giving her an easy out if she wanted it.

“Oh, I’ll be fine by then. How about 5
o’clock?” she cooed.

“I can do that. I have a question, though,
Cheryl. Is William Winston your brother’s real name?”

“Yes.”

“But your last name is Wright. Are you
married?”

“Er . . . no,” she stammered. “Divorced years
ago. I should have gone back to my maiden name, but never got
around to it. Too much trouble.”

“I see,” replied Sam. “Do you know any of the
aliases your brother has used in the past?”

“Not really. He never used them around me. He
was—is—just ‘Billy’ to me,” she answered.