Crown's Law (16 page)

Julie Cameron yelled in English, then in
Spanish, “Lean against the dumpster, please. Keep your hands in
sight!”

Martinez did as he was told. This was a bad
beginning for a day that didn’t have much promise in the first
place.

***

Homicide Investigators Willie Woodward and
John Pabst from the Orange County Sheriff’s Criminal Investigation
Division (CID) in Santa Ana arrived an hour later, the Crime Scene
Investigations truck right behind them. Deputy Diego Torres had
spotted a bullet entry hole in the back of the dead man’s head and
had called it in as a homicide. While the crime scene team did
their work, Woodward talked to Martinez, and Pabst, the senior
investigator on scene, sent some uniforms to see what information
they could gather from the neighborhood. He knew it was a waste of
time, but he needed to document the effort in his report. This
would end up as another unsolved murder after a few days of dull
procedural work unless the shooter got caught during another crime
and still had the gun.

John Pabst walked out of the alley and lit a
cigarette. Deputy Julie Cameron walked over and joined him.

She lit up also and asked, “You guys find any
clues, Sherlock?”

“I haven’t asked yet. I don’t expect any.
These random crimes are the worst,” he grunted as he blew smoke
into the morning air.

She mused, “I don’t know. I got a good look
at the body. He’s definitely not from around here. His leather
jacket’s worth $500, easily. Shoes are expensive, too. Wonder what
he was doing here?”

“Drug deal gone bad? Who knows? Did you guys
find a car nearby that would match the clothes?”

“Nope.”

“Ah, here comes Charlie Drake from the ME’s
office. Let me see what he’s dug up,” said Pabst.

Drake was short, fat, and balding, and was
sweating even though the morning was still cool. He snapped off his
latex gloves and shoved them into his jacket pocket.

“You in charge of this scene, Pabst?” he
asked.

“Yeah. What’d you find?”

“Male Caucasian, 36-years-old if you can
believe his driver’s license. Name’s William Jackson. Bullet to the
back of the head. No exit wound. Probably a .22 caliber that
rattled around in his skull and pureed the brain. Autopsy will
confirm that. No blood on the ground, but then his wrists had been
slit. He bled out somewhere else, then was dumped here,” mumbled
Drake. “Someone didn’t want to bloody his car.”

Julie smiled, “That explains why we didn’t
find his wheels.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Charlie. Send me a copy of the
autopsy report,” shrugged Pabst.

“Sometime tomorrow afternoon, John. Can we
take the body?”

“Soon as CSI says so. Here comes Brady now.
Let’s see if he’s through. He should be. If that guy was dumped,
there won’t be much evidence around here,” replied Pabst as he
ground out his cigarette with his shoe.

Nick Brady of the CSI team sidled up and held
up four plastic evidence bags.

“This is it, Pabst. Wallet, watch, business
card, and about 8 ounces of heroin. You can take the stiff,
Charlie. I figured dusting the dumpster for prints was a waste of
time. No distinguishable footprints. The guy was dumped here.”

“OK, Brady. Check the evidence in and I’ll go
over it tomorrow,” grunted Pabst, apparently not very
interested.

Brady smiled and held up a plastic bag with a
business card in it.

“I thought you would find this
interesting.”

Pabst took the bag and read the card.
It was a card from
Mickey Malone
Investigations
in Santa Ana. He flipped the bag over
and checked the back of the card. In the lower right-hand corner,
written in a delicate, feminine script, was “SC 2/14/01.” A
telephone number was scrawled across the middle of the card in a
different handwriting.

Brady asked, “Isn’t that the place where Sam
Crown works?”

Pabst stroked his chin and said, “I’ll be
damned! What’s this vic doing with a Mickey Malone card? I guess we
should try and find out.”

Julie spoke up. “Did you say Sam Crown? I’ve
heard all kinds of stories about that guy—if he’s the one that used
to be with the Department.”

“Same guy,” said Brady.

Brady and Pabst had been with the Orange
County Sheriff’s Department for years, and had worked many
investigations with Sam Crown in the past. He had been the best cop
they had ever worked with, and they had hated to see him go when he
got fed up with the politics and resigned. Julie had been with OCSD
for only a couple of years, so had never met him.

Julie rambled on, “Some of the deputies have
told me he made Dirty Harry look like a Girl Scout.”

“Sam wasn’t a rules sorta guy. But he got the
tough jobs done.”

Cameron wandered away to find her
partner.

“What about the Mickey Malone thing?” asked
Brady.

“You can give it to me. Let me sign the
chain-of-custody card. No! Better yet, let’s give it to Willie.
He’s new on the job here. Came in from San Francisco P.D., so he
won’t know about the Mickey thing. I’ll let him go to Mickey
Malone’s and let Sam give him the run around. That should be fun.
If it turns out to be important, I’ll follow up myself. Who knows?
Maybe Willie will really find the mythical Mickey Malone!”

Laughter.

But Pabst was now changing his thinking on
this murder being a random thing. Since the body had been drained
and then dumped here, things would get complicated. And that dope
was mystifying. Why didn’t the killer take that? It was worth a lot
of money on the street. It wasn’t like the killer was rushed and
had to leave it behind. An obvious misdirection, but a dumb
one.

Shit! This is going to be a
tough one!
he thought as he lit another
cigarette.

***

Willie Woodward showed up at the
Mickey Malone Investigations
office
at 2:30 that afternoon.

Pearl smiled at him and said, “May I help
you?”

He had “cop” written all over him. Pearl used
her right knee to push the switch under her desk, which started the
recorder hidden in the desk clock. This was standard procedure for
her—she didn’t have to take a lot of notes or remember a bunch of
details if it became important later.

Willie Woodward said, “I’d like to talk with
Mickey Malone, please.”

Pearl was wary.

“On what subject, sir?” she asked.

Woodward flashed his badge and replied,
“Police business. I’m Investigator Woodward, Orange County
Sheriff’s Department. I need to ask him a few questions.”

Pearl didn’t want to lie to a cop, but Sam
had taught her to never offer unsolicited information, and to try
and get as much as she could before deciding how to answer a
question.

So she decided to be ambiguous. “There are no
detectives in at the moment. Maybe I can help you. I’m the office
manager, Pearl Cooper. I keep up on all the various cases our
detectives are working on.”

“
You’re sure Mickey Malone isn’t
here?”

“I’m positive of that. Would you like to
search the place? I won’t even require you to show a warrant,”
snickered Pearl.

Woodward decided, rather than go away
empty-handed, he would see if Pearl knew anything about the
business card. He took the plastic envelope out of his pocket and
showed it to her.

“Do you recognize this card?” he asked.

She squinted at it. She reached out to take
the envelope and said, “May I?”

He let her take it. She recognized the card
as one of theirs, but she mainly wanted to see if it had any coded
script on the back. She flipped it over and saw her handwriting on
the back: SC 2/14/01. She routinely marked cards that were left
with bars, attorneys, and bail bondsmen so she could identify where
they came from and how long they’d been there. She often paid a fee
to places that got them new clients.

“This is one of ours,” she said. She
read the phone number out loud so it would be recorded for possible
later use, and then continued, “I don’t recognize this phone
number, but this code on the right, lower corner is my code
for
Sparky’s Club
. We leave
stacks of cards around town. This code let’s me know where the
potential client got the card.”

“So that’s your handwriting?”

“Yes. I see this has been dusted for prints.
It’s possible you’ll find mine on the card. My prints are on file.
I’m a Notary Public. Can you tell me what this is all about?” said
Pearl.

“It was found in the pocket of a murder
victim this morning. That’s why I wanted to talk to this Mickey
Malone guy.”

“Well, your vic got this card at
Sparky’s
, not here,” shrugged
Pearl.

Woodward showed her a blown-up picture from
Jackson’s Driver’s license.

“You seen this guy before?” he asked.

Pearl stared at it a few seconds, then
answered, “Nope. I suggest you show that around at
Sparky’s.
But, if you want, I’ll
copy it and show it to our detectives. They might know
him.”

“OK,” said Woodward, handing her a business
card. “Have Mr. Malone call me when he shows up.”

Pearl took the card without responding. She
copied the picture and gave it back to the detective. Woodward let
himself out. Pearl smiled.

“A cop who thinks Mickey is real?” she mused.
“Where’s he been? Mars? I better type up a report for Sam. He’ll
want to find out what a murder victim was doing with one of our
cards. I didn’t recognize him as a client. Hmm. He is familiar
though. I’d better search my image files.”

They didn’t need a cop running around
town looking for Mickey Malone. Things could get ugly down
at
Sparky’s
. Cops weren’t
welcome there. She’d let Sam handle that problem.

Friday, May 11, 2001

Santa Ana, CA

After sitting in on Becky’s class, Sam drove
to the Mickey Malone office and arrived at 4:00 P.M. He wanted to
check in with Pearl before heading back to the beach house for the
weekend. He had only one active case here—with a defense
attorney—and the trial had been delayed, so Sam was just stopping
by to see if Pearl had anything new. The case with Carole was
essentially on hold.

He breezed into the office and Pearl jumped
up from her desk and gave him a hug.

“Good to see you, Sam!” she bubbled. “It’s
been lonely today! Only one visitor all day!”

He patted her on the butt and said, “You
still sittin’ on that million bucks, Pearl? You’ll tell me if you
ever get your cherry popped, won’t you? We’ll celebrate!”

She released her hug and laughed, “I still
have the same rules, Sambo. A ring on my finger and an ‘I do’
unlocks the goodie chest!”

Sam headed toward his office and she tagged
along. He said, “You don’t listen, Pearl. I’ve told you that
approach hasn’t worked since the 50s. In this millennium, a man
wants to sample the goods before he buys. You’re gonna die an old
maid without ever knowing the ecstasy that awaits you.”

“Then so be it. There must be a moral man out
there somewhere for me,” she shrugged. “Want some coffee? I made a
fresh pot about 30 minutes ago.”

“Sure, that would be great. But you’ve still
got it backwards. Sex is the bait—the clincher. Not the unknown,
mysterious reward.”

“What’s wrong with you men? Single men are
always trying to get women in bed, married men cheat.”

“Remember, Pearl, for every seducer, there is
a seducee, and for every cheater, there’s a cheatee. There’s a
willing woman every time.”

“It shouldn’t be that way!”

Pearl went to the pantry and poured two mugs
of coffee and joined Sam in his office. She sat down in the
client’s chair and crossed her legs, causing Sam to feel a twinge
in his groin. God, he wished she were seducible!

She took a sip of coffee and said, “The
report on top is kinda interesting. An Orange County homicide cop
came in this afternoon looking for Mickey.”

“You’re shittin’ me! County sheriff’s
cop?”

“Yep.”

“Must be new.”

Sam skimmed through Pearl’s typed
report and said, “You sent him to
Sparky’s
?”

“I didn’t know what else to do. That
business card was from
Sparky’s
. Maybe someone there knew the victim. I
didn’t tell him anything about Mickey, though—one way or the other.
I sorta sidestepped the whole issue. I thought I’d let you handle
it,” smiled Pearl. “The whole Mickey thing is your
fault.”

“God, that’s all we need! A dumb cop
nosing around
Sparky’s
looking for Mickey!” laughed Sam. “I’d have liked to have
seen that! Has Sparky called?”

“No. Not yet. I don’t know why you get such a
kick out of perpetuating this Mickey myth. Wonder why that guy
picked up a Mickey card? The cop showed me a picture of the vic.
Never seen him before,” replied Pearl as she unconsciously played
with the top button of her blouse, driving Sam crazy. “But it was
vaguely familiar. I meant to run it against my image file, but I
forgot. I’ll do it before I go home.”

Sam looked back at the report, needing to do
something with his eyes.

“Maybe he needed something to write this
phone number on. You do a reverse check on it?”

“Of course. Next page. A place
called
Dynology
,
Inc
. in Irvine. Private line—not the
main number. I didn’t do any background on them, because I didn’t
know if you’d have any interest in spending time on this. You’re
not a homicide cop anymore, you know.”