Crown's Law (13 page)

“OK. Thanks, Cheryl. If you think of anything
else, we can discuss it at 5 o’clock.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you again,
Sam. Maybe you can tell me about that horrible place we were in
last night,” she giggled.

“See you at five,” said Sam, hanging up.

***

By noon, Pearl had lifted the prints off the
margarita glass and the envelope and had eliminated Cheryl’s prints
and her own prints from those on the envelope. That left a thumb
print and partial index finger from the envelope. She had scanned
them into the computer and sent them to the company’s ID Unit in
L.A. She had just received a printout back from them to go over
with Sam.

“That was fast work, Pearl. Thanks,” said
Sam.

“You’re welcome. Now let’s see if we got
anything.”

Sam read over her shoulder. The prints from
the glass belonged to a Carole Winston, aged 35, 5' 7", hazel eyes,
and black hair according to the DMV. Same initials, different
name.

“She told me she was divorced years ago. But
why change the first name? Something’s fishy here,” opined Sam. “No
hit on a marriage or divorce?”

“No.”

The other prints from the envelope belonged
to William Carter, based on an arrest for DUI in San Diego, CA in
1996. No other recent hits.

“Did they run him through the FBI database?”
asked Sam. “Carter could be one of his aliases.”

“Probably not. They need authorization for
that and I didn’t give it until I saw what else turned up. Except
for the conflict in Ms. Wright’s names, we’ve got zip here. I’ll
tell them to run both of them through the works. OK?”

“Good idea. I have to meet Ms.
Whateverhernameis at 5 o’clock. See what you can get for me before
then. Also, scan that photo she gave me so we can blow it up.”

“I suppose you’d like a blowup of her in the
bikini,” said Pearl with a sneer.

“I meant for you to cut and paste one of him,
but now that you mention it, prepare one of her, too. I’ll hang it
in my office,” laughed Sam.

“I won’t be a party to your lurid voyeurism,”
replied Pearl.

“No, really, Pearl. Things aren’t what they
seem here. I may need to flash that around later. Find out who this
lady really is.”

***

At 4:30, Sam was about to head for Newport
Beach and meet with Cheryl/Carole/Persimmon Panties when Pearl
entered his office.

“Hot off the press, Sam! Ms. Carole’s print
hit three times. She got a U.S. passport in 1990; it’s still
active. She was an intern at the White House in 1986—passed the
usual security checks. And here’s the kicker: one hit came back
with the FBI’s ‘no access’ code. No marriage or divorce. Mr.
Winston aka Carter was zippo.”

Sam rubbed his chin and contemplated this new
information. Still nothing to go on. The fact that William
Winston—a drifter, according to Cheryl—had no more hits puzzled
Sam. He should have had some sort of arrest record. And Cheryl lied
about being married. And about her name. Both sister and brother
used aliases. What in hell was going on?

“Well, should I confront our illustrious
client about her name?” Sam asked Pearl.

“I don’t know, you’re the detective. I’ll
keep working this, but we’re pretty close to tapped out. And
remember: There are rules against sleeping with clients,” said
Pearl with a snicker.

“You know I was never much for rules, Pearl.
That’s why they kicked me off the job,” laughed Sam with a
wink.

***

On the way to Newport Beach, Sam mulled
over how he should handle Ms. Persimmon Panties—the only name he
knew was true—when he got there. He could snoop around some more
first, or just confront her. Most of all, he wanted to get her into
bed.
Hmm. What’s the best approach? At
this point, I’m not sure she even has a brother! Damn that woman!
What’s she up to?

Sam delivered the contract, she signed it,
then he put it in his inside jacket pocket. He gave her the
still-sealed envelope back. She looked delicious in a tight, white
tank top—red anchor embroidered above her left breast—navy blue
wool slacks, and white deck shoes. She put on a navy blue blazer
when they left her apartment. He wondered if she was wearing
persimmon panties. Her persimmon lipstick of yesterday had been
replaced with a red that matched the anchor on her chest.

Sam told her, “I think it best if I
drive.”

She laughed, deep and throaty. “I guess
you’re right. You have no reason to trust me!”

“I like to play it safe. Where to?” he
chuckled.

“The Bluewater Grill
over on Lido Park Drive. Know it?”

“Quite well. It used to be the
Sea Shanty
, right?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been here as long
as you have,” she laughed.

He helped her into the Camaro and wound
his way over to 31st Street, then to Lido Park Drive and the
Bluewater Grill
. After they were
seated in a booth and served a glass of White Zin wine each, Sam
decided to confront her with what he knew. He had considered
calling her “Carole” to see if she responded, but it was close
enough phonetically to “Cheryl” that any reaction would not be
definitive. Before he could make his move, she spoke.

“How long do you think this might take? I
don’t have a lot of money to spend on this search. And, as you
know, not much time.”

“There’s no way to predict that. I may never
find him. I’m not sure that he even exists. I’ll tell you what I’ve
found out so far. A print on that envelope belongs to a William
Carter. Is that name familiar to you?”

“No.”

“The other prints belong to a Carole
Winston.”

He let it hang there, watching her. She
dropped her eyes. After a couple of beats, she looked up.

“I’m sorry, Sam! I just felt uneasy giving my
name to a private investigator. I thought it might get back to my
employer some how and cause me trouble. I’m social secretary to
Mrs. Rosemary Wellington, and I didn’t want her to find out,” she
said. “I am Carole Winston.”

“Well, glad to get that straight, but you’re
still holding something back. That letter you picked up was
addressed to Cheryl Wright and you had ID or Pearl wouldn’t have
given it to you. You didn’t make that name up just for me,” replied
Sam.

“It’s a name Billy always used to send me
stuff. It was just convenient to use it with you.”

Sam stared at her, knowing she was still
lying, but let it drop for now. “I’ve heard of this Mrs. Wellington
somewhere. Fill me in.”

Mrs. Rosemary Wellington was a high
mucky-muck in Orange County society circles. She had appeared on
the scene two years ago. Mr. Wellington was apparently deceased.
Carole went to work for her six months ago. Sam made a mental note
to ask his mother about Wellington. There was no bigger society
mogul in Southern California than his mother. Sam felt he had to
check out everything Carole said. He didn’t trust her so far, even
though her explanation could be true.

“What I have so far, Carole—I guess I should
call you Carole, right?”

“Yes. Sam . . .”

He held his hand up and said, “No more
apologies. Anyway, that print that came back as William Carter
tells us nothing. It could be anyone’s. We’re just assuming it’s
his. However, what bothers me is this: there was only one hit.
That’s not normal. Most people have some history. Mr. Carter has
one DUI arrest. No military service, no driver’s license, and so
on. That raises a flag to me.”

She leaned back in the booth and took a deep
breath. Sam was momentarily distracted by the stretching of her
tank top. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

She leaned forward and exhaled. Her nipples
were now fighting to break free. Sam was mesmerized. He was losing
his train of thought.

He finally said, “Well, one thing it could
mean is this: the actual person who left that print on your letter
is being protected by the system. They screwed up and missed the
DUI.”

“System? What system?” she asked as she
leaned forward. He looked down her blouse and admired her
cleavage.

Damn!
Sam
thought.
She’s driving me crazy! On
purpose, I think. What’s her game?

“When we check fingerprints through the FBI
database, if someone is in Witness Protection, or is undercover
from one of the zillion Federal agencies, they can block any match.
In my business, ‘no match’ is like a red flag. Take your brother.
Suppose that print on the envelope is his. Considering that he
moves around a lot, changes jobs at will, and changes names, it is
not very likely that he wouldn’t leave a trail of some sort.
Arrests, licenses, passports. Things that require fingerprinting.
Understand?”

“I see. You’re saying my brother could be in
Witness Protection or be a Federal agent?” she said, frowning.

“Something like that—if that print is his. I
need to do more digging, and you need to give me more to go on. And
don’t ever lie to me again.”

“I’m sorry, Sam! I’ve never done anything
like this before!” Her hazel eyes were flashing. “I suppose you ran
a background check on me, too!”

“No, just the prints on the letter you gave
me. If I had run a background report on you, I’d know things like
when you had your first period and when you lost your virginity.
Real details.”

“First period at 12, virginity gone at 15,”
she replied dryly. “What do you need to know? I thought you were
supposed to find my brother, not investigate me!”

“Sometimes, one leads to the other.”

Sam pulled his Camaro into a parking space in
front of her apartment at 7:25 P.M. He looked over at her profile.
Her chest was slowly rising and falling.

“Well, dinner was wonderful, Carole, and we
cleared the air. I’ll keep you informed about anything I find out,
but don’t get your hopes up,” he said, wondering how long it would
take to bed her.

She turned her head and looked at him. “Would
you like to get lucky tonight?”

“What? Did I hear you right?” he gasped.

“Yes. I’ve never been laid by a private eye
before. I’m horny as hell right now! Why don’t you come in for
awhile? You can get up close and personal with these,” she replied
as she took his hand and put it on her breasts. “For starters.”

“Er . . .”

“Yes, they’re real. No silicone!”

“Well, Carole, I . . . ,” he stammered,
caught off guard by her forwardness.

“Come on, Sam! You’ve been ogling me all
evening. I know you want me! And since I want you, too, I’m making
the first move. Is that what’s bothering you? Male ego? You have to
make the first move? That would waste a few days before we had
sex.”

“Lead the way! I do want you!”

“Men can be so damn dense at times!”

***

Sam was exhausted when they finally finished.
She was an energetic lover. A sexual dynamo! As he lay naked on her
bed, she got up, opened the sliding glass door that led to her
small patio, and lit a cigarette. Her large breasts sagged a bit
and her nipples were still stiff as she blew smoke outside.

“You’re very good, Sam,” she said, turning
toward him, giving him the full frontal view of her firm body. It
was the first time he had seen it at a distance.

Definitely
Penthouse
material!
he
mused as he memorized her body features.

She glanced at him, smiled, and said, “That
was one glorious romp! I hope you’re not planning on leaving right
away. I’m going to let you rest for a bit, then I’m going to suck
some life back into you. Have a second go at it!”

God! I’ve got a nympho for a client! I
should’ve listened to Pearl!

Thursday, May 3, 2001

Santa Ana, CA

On Thursday morning, Sam dragged into the
Santa Ana office at 10:30 A.M. Pearl glared at him.

“What happened? Get hit by a bus? You look
terrible!” she snapped.

“Good morning to you, too. I need coffee!” he
replied as he went to the pantry area and poured a mug of
coffee.

Pearl went on, “I’ll let you have your coffee
before I give you the bad news. Take some aspirin.”

“Already did. Come on in and lay it on me. I
couldn’t feel any worse,” he grumbled as he went to his office and
plopped down in his swivel chair.

Pearl was wearing a tight, blue T-shirt with
a V-neck and a short blue denim skirt, all designed to punish him,
Sam was sure. But after last night, he wasn’t even fazed by her
cleavage and thighs. Maybe later, but not now.

She sat down across from him and crossed her
legs. “The news isn’t ‘bad’ as much as it is ‘interesting.’ Our ID
Unit in L.A. got a call this morning from the FBI in D.C. wanting
to know about the prints we ran. L.A. referred them to you and me
down here. I got a call from Carl Fenster, the FBI honcho over on
Civic Center Drive, about half an hour ago asking for you. You’re
supposed to call him back ASAP.”

Sam took a gulp of coffee, leaned back and
put his feet on his desk. “That is interesting. It partially
confirms my conjecture that this Winston guy has a protected
identity. I got our client to admit that she lied to us about her
name. She is Carole Winston. Here’s the signed contract by the
way.”

“Is she the reason you’re so trashed today?”
asked Pearl.

“Be careful what you wish for, Pearl,” was
his enigmatic reply. “I guess I should call Carl. You got his
number?”

“I’ll get him for you. Play secretary,” she
said as she rose and went back out to her desk.

Carl Fenster was the Resident Agent in Charge
of the Santa Ana FBI office. His boss was the SAC (Special Agent in
Charge) of the L.A. district. Sam had worked several cases with
Carl when he was with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. They
got along all right, considering the natural competition between
local cops and the Feds. Sam had always been more interested in
catching the bad guys than who got the credit.