Crown's Law (17 page)

“You don’t need to remind me. OK, Pearl,
thanks for this report. I’ll talk to Sparky and see what went on
down there. I might have to call someone at CID and have them clue
in this new guy. I don’t need the cops messing with the Mickey
Malone myth. I don’t need that can of worms to deal with.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. Maybe I shouldn’t have
sent him to
Sparky’s
. I just
thought there might be a real clue there.”

“That’s OK, Pearl. You did the right thing.
You can’t impede an official investigation. But to atone for your
sins, you can come to the beach with me and I’ll show you the
magical ways for catching a husband!”

Pearl stood up and smoothed her skirt over
her curvaceous hips and said, “I’m not that sorry!”

***

Sam stopped by
Sparky’s Club
at 4:45 P.M. to see what damage
the cop had done to the myth, if any, and to see what Sparky knew
about the guy who had the Mickey Malone business card.

The place was smoke-filled and already half
full, it being Friday. Sam found a stool at the end of the bar and
sat down.

“’
Lo, Sam. Usual?” asked Sparky as he
moved to the end of the bar.

“No. Just an iced tea. I’m driving to the
beach in a few minutes,” replied Sam.

“You drive down, or walk?”

“Drove. I’m only gonna be here a minute or
two.”

“Not safe to park your Camaro on this
street,” offered Sparky.

“I’ve got a good alarm system.”

“Nobody pays any attention to those
anymore.”

“You forget that I’m in the high-tech
security business now. My car alarm system dials my pager. Then I
go out and shoot the son-of-a-bitch!” laughed Sam.

Sparky put the glass of tea in front of Sam
along with a container of assorted packets of sugar and artificial
sweeteners. Sam took a pink packet, tore it open, and stirred it
into his tea.

“I hear you had a visitor in here today,
Sparky,” said Sam as he took a sip through a straw. “Care to tell
me about it?”

“You mean that fuckin’ cop? Asshole! Santa
Ana cops never come here unless I call ’em!” growled Sparky as he
speared a slice of lemon on a toothpick and handed it to Sam. Sam
took it and plopped it in his tea.

“He was a homicide cop from the Sheriff’s
department. Just doing his job, Sparky. What do you know about the
Mickey card and the victim?”

“Well, like I told that asshole cop, I
remember the guy being in here because he seemed out of place. You
know—like you. Clean-shaven, dressed well, and he sat right here
where you are, talkin’ on a cell phone most of the time. He drank
double Cutty on the rocks—three of them. And he left a good
tip.”

“Why did he take a Mickey card?” queried
Sam.

“He was gabbin’ on his phone and he started
pattin’ his clothes, like he was lookin’ for a pen or a pencil. I
grabbed a pen from over there by the register and gave it to him.
He nodded, then grabbed a card out of the box of cards there where
you put ’em, and then he wrote somethin’ on the back of it. That’s
all I know.”

“Did the cop show you a picture of the
vic?”

“Oh, yeah. It was the same guy. I guess he
got himself whacked, eh?” growled Sparky.

“That’s what I hear from Pearl,” agreed Sam.
“When was the guy here?”

“I think it was a Sunday night. Yeah, Sunday.
Last Sunday in April. I remember thinkin’ I had to pay some bills
that night.”

“Anything else strike you funny about the
guy? Could he have been a drug dealer?” asked Sam.

“Not like any I’ve ever seen. He’s like this
yuppie-looking guy. Great leather coat. Why he came in here, I
can’t even guess. Looked more like a cop than a player, you know.
But he didn’t scream cop. Maybe a dot com guy. Who knows?” shrugged
Sparky.

“Did that cop ask about Mickey?” ventured
Sam.

“Oh, yeah! That fucker was askin’ everyone
about Mickey. Like, what’s he like. Was he in here with the vic?
Things like that. He was lucky he didn’t get his ass dragged out
into the alley and stomped! Some of those bikers don’t like bein’
questioned by cops, especially if he’s trying to dis Mickey in any
way.”

“You’ve got to control these guys, Sparky.
You could get shut down. Plus, I went out on a limb to get some of
those guys early release and probation.”

“Oh, Boomer and I pulled ’em aside and cooled
’em down. Good thing Boomer was here. I don’t know if I could have
handled it alone,” said Sparky.

Blaine “Boomer” Beaker was the head of a
motorcycle club called “The Falcons.” It was truly a “club” rather
than a “gang,” since illegal activities by its members were
strictly prohibited by Boomer. Any violations meant instant
expulsion from the group. Many of the members were
ex-felons—including Boomer—and some were still on probation or
parole, but all were dedicated to staying clean and not going back
to prison.

Sam and Boomer had a history together.
They had met eleven years ago when Sam was working undercover in
narcotics. Boomer had been in
Hell’s
Angels
then and Sam stumbled across a dope deal gone
bad, and before his backup arrived, the gang jumped Sam and was
going to kill him when Boomer intervened. When the gang heard the
sirens of the backup arriving, they split. Boomer was caught
because he stayed to administer to Sam’s head wound, which was
caused by a hit with a chain. Sam appeared in court with Boomer and
was instrumental in getting him probation. Then Sam sent him to
school to learn computer repair and Boomer started a successful
business—not lavish, but it paid the rent and kept him honest. More
bikers were added to the list over time and “The Falcons” were
born.

“OK, Sparky, I think I’ll get in the freeway
queue and go see Becky and the folks. See you next week,” said
Sam.

His cell phone rang. It was Pearl.

“Sam, Pearl here. I ran those image files.
You can call Carole Winston. Her brother’s been found. He’s in the
morgue under the name of William Jackson. The picture she gave me
is a perfect match for the dead guy. And I do remember now. He’s
the one who left the letter for Carole.”

“Crapola! That doesn’t surprise me! Why
couldn’t you have waited until Monday to tell me this!” exclaimed
Sam. “I don’t want to deal with this now!”

“Sorry, Sam. I just thought it was quite a
coincidence. Pretend I didn’t tell you. The corpse isn’t going
anywhere. And this won’t be good news to Carole whenever you tell
her. It would ruin her weekend, too. Do it on Monday.”

“Thanks, Pearl. Just keep it under your hat.
We’ll deal with it on Monday. Carole will have to ID the body. I’m
not looking forward to that.”

***

On Monday, Sam called Carole Winston at 7:30
A.M. from the beach house. He wanted to catch her before she left
for work.

“Sam! What a surprise! Can’t do without me,
eh?” she bubbled.

“Carole. There’s no easy way to say this, so
I’ll just say it. I think I’ve found your brother, and . . .”

“How wonderful! Where did you find him?” she
interrupted.

“If I’m right, he’s in the morgue. You’ll
have to identify the body to be sure,” he interjected, before she
could interrupt him again.

“Oh, no! It can’t be true!” she wailed.

“There’s someone in the morgue who looks just
like that picture you gave me. I can make the arrangements for
today, if you’d like.”

“Oh, Sam! Thank you! I wouldn’t know what to
do!”

“OK. Do you have anyone to be with?”

“Yes. The gal next door in Unit 2 is a good
friend. I’ll be there,” she replied, and then she gave him her cell
phone number.

Sam called the Sheriff’s department and found
out that Investigator John Pabst was in charge of the Jackson
murder and made an appointment to meet him with Carole at the
morgue in Santa Ana. Carole made the positive identification of her
brother. She had been driven over by her neighbor, and after the
ordeal, the two women left. Pabst and Sam were left standing on the
curb. Sam waved as Carole’s car pulled away.

Pabst lit a cigarette and said, “Now can you
fill me in on what the hell you’re doing in the middle of
this?”

“Well, that’s simple, John. Ms. Winston hired
me to find her brother. I found him. I think. This case stinks to
high heaven,” replied Sam. “In the process of working this missing
man case, the Feds came down all over me—without explanation, of
course. You know anything about this guy I should know?”

Pabst blew some smoke skyward and laughed.
“Well, well. I guess I can tell you now. This isn’t my case
anymore. The Feds took it over on Friday. They took everything—what
little we had. As soon as I ran the victim’s prints, they were all
over me.”

“Even your fingerprint card?”

“Everything.”

“Shit! I’ve got a print that I wanted to
compare to this guy,” said Sam.

“Hmm. Hell! We’ve still got the body! Let’s
go and see the M.E. We’ll reprint him!”

An hour later, Sam followed Pabst to his
office cubicle. The thumbprint from Carole’s letter matched the
corpse of William Jackson aka Winston.

“So,” said Pabst, “what does that prove? She
said it was her brother.”

“I ran this print through the system and got
one hit. A DUI for a guy named William Carter. Then the Feds
appeared out of the blue. No hit for a William Winston or Jackson.
Draw your own conclusions.”

“Another funny thing: The thumb print on
Jackson’s CDL didn’t match the corpse. It didn’t match anyone.”

Pabst went on to tell Sam about the 8 ounces
of coke, the drained body, and what little else he knew. The
autopsy had revealed that the man had been beaten unmercifully—many
broken bones and internal injuries. Obviously tortured.

Sam said, “By the way, John, who was
the asshole you sent to the office looking for Mickey? He went
to
Sparky’s
and stirred up a
hornet’s nest. Now the word is out on the street that the cops are
looking for Mickey in connection with a murder. I can’t let that
rumor go unchallenged. I have to find out who the killer is ASAP.
Clear Mickey’s name.”

“I thought I was having some fun with Willie
Woodward—a new guy from SFPD. I fucked up I guess. I’ll straighten
him out.”

“That doesn’t solve my problem—the damage is
already done. Did you run the phone number on the back of the
Mickey card,” asked Sam.

“Didn’t get a chance. Feds took over too
fast.”

Sam thought,
I
know more than he does
.

“Well, I wish you still had the case, John.
It’ll never get solved now. Not with the Feds putting a lid on
everything. I’ll still nose around a bit, though. I’ve got to quash
the rumors about Mickey somehow.”

“Officially, I can’t help you, but if I can
do something for you that won’t get me canned, give me a call,”
replied Pabst.

“Thanks, John, I will.”

***

Sam drove to Newport Beach to check on
Carole. She was in Unit 2 with her friend. When Sam arrived, she
took him by the hand and led him to her apartment, where she flew
into his arms. She sobbed for a bit, then stepped back and stripped
down quickly to her blueberry bra and panties.

“Please console me, Sam! I need you so badly
right now!”

After the intense bout of consoling, Carole
had her usual cigarette by the patio door.

“I’ve made a decision, Sam. I’m going to give
my notice to Mrs. Wellington. After the party on the 20th, I’m
quitting and going back home to Wisconsin. My mother wants to go
there to die. I want to ship Bill’s body there for burial. They
said at the coroner’s office that they couldn’t release his . . .
body to me. What does that mean?” she stated.

“The FBI took over, as I told you. I have no
idea why they can’t release the body for burial. I’ll look into
it,” he replied, wondering if he had the strength to stand up and
make it to the shower. He had to get to the office.

“Thank you, Sam. You’re so kind to me,” she
said, smiling.

I have to get out of here before she needs
more consoling!

Monday, May 14, 2001

Santa Ana, CA

Sam called Pearl on his cell phone at 1:00
P.M. on the way back to Santa Ana from Carole’s consoling session
and told her he’d bring in a pizza if she wanted. She said that
would be great. She hadn’t eaten yet.

They had pizza and beer at his desk as he
brought her up-to-date. She said she would update the Winston file,
but not close it yet. Sam wanted to find the killer if he could,
and he still had doubts about who Carole really was. There were too
many unexplained coincidences.

At 2 o’clock, Pearl cleaned up the lunch mess
and went to her computer and started typing. Sam called Carl
Fenster.

“Carl, Sam Crown here. My client, Carole
Winston, is leaving the state shortly after the 20th of the month.
She wants to ship her brother’s body to Wisconsin for burial in the
family plot. Any idea when the body will be released?” said
Sam.

“JTFE has it on indefinite hold. So, I don’t
know, Sam,” replied Carl.

“Well, I have a message for them. If they
don’t release the body to my client by the 20th, I’ll have a little
chat with Chandra Claudet about how Big Brother is treating its
citizens. You know how she loves to take on the establishment.
Especially fucked-up law and order. You can watch it all unfold on
the 5 o’clock news,” chuckled Sam.

“You do have an in with that bitch, don’t
you?” laughed Carl. “I wonder why? I’ll pass your message along,
but they won’t like extortion.”

“Screw ’em! They have no reason to hold the
body longer than the 20th. You know it. I know it. I’ll be waiting
for an answer. See ya, Carl,” Sam said as he hung up.