Crown's Law (18 page)

While Sam was on the phone, Becky had
sauntered into his office and plopped down on his couch, soda in
hand.

“Hey, Beck! What a surprise! Slumming?”

Becky got up from the couch and went to him,
leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Yeah, why not? I finished up
with Dr. Danforth early, so I thought I’d swing by on the way home
and talk you into coming to the beach tonight, instead of staying
in your ratty apartment.”

“Well, you could have called. Saved you
coming up this way.”

“I’m more persuasive in person. You have a
hard time turning me down when I look you in the eye—and pout!”
laughed Becky.

Her laughter made him feel good all over. Her
mirth was infectious.

“You do have me trained. What’s special about
tonight?” he asked as she went back to the couch and plopped
down.

“Nothing. With Nana and Grandpa gone, I’m
lonely. You know I’m not allowed to have people over when I’m
alone. We could barbeque burgers and corn, or something. Hang out.
Unless you have a date . . .” She let it trail off, eyebrow
raised.

Sam looked at his watch: 2:33 P.M.

“You’re in luck. I haven’t called anyone for
tonight yet. So I guess we’re on. No chess, though. I’m tired of
losing! Maybe backgammon?”

He hadn’t planned on calling anyone anyway
since his morning with Carole!

“Sure. Or just talk. What was that phone call
about? A murder? You don’t do murders anymore. Private eyes only
get involved in murders in fiction,” chuckled Becky. “So you’ve
always told me.”

Sam gave her a brief recap of what had been
going on, as he usually did when she showed an interest in his
cases.

“Dynology
?
That rings a bell. Where have I run across that name? Oh, I know! I
was scanning the bulletin board at school the other day, and a
company by that name was seeking to hire a mathematician for their
Irvine office. They have a testing session for applicants on
Saturday the 26th. You know, take some sort of test to see if
you’re qualified. Maybe an interview,” Becky related.

“God, what a memory!” said Sam. “I’ll never
get used to it. How do you remember shit like that?”

Becky shrugged, then went on, “Wonder
what the victim’s connection to
Dynology
was?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to be a fly on
the wall in that place. Find out what’s going on there. I had Pearl
do a quick check on them. They sell parts for phones, modems,
computers—shit like that.”

Becky thought for a moment, then said, “Why
don’t you put a couple of your super-sensitive bugs in there? See
what they talk about?”

“Pearl said they have security like CIA
headquarters. Too much of a risk for just a fishing expedition,”
replied Sam. “Well, tell you what. Let’s get out of here—beat the
traffic. I’ll see you at the beach.”

Becky smiled.
Am I good, or what?

***

When they got to the beach house, they took a
swim, then played a game of backgammon. Becky won. As the orange
ball of the sun eased down on Catalina Island, they started fixing
dinner. Becky shucked the corn, buttered it, and then wrapped it in
foil while Sam formed beef patties. Sam fired up the gas barbeque
while Becky sliced a tomato and a red onion.

When the barbeque was hot, Sam put the
patties and corn on the grill. While they cooked, Sam fixed himself
a second Cutty and water and sat down next to Becky at one of the
round tables.

Becky glanced at him and said, “You
know, Sam, I could plant those bugs for you at
Dynology
.”

He was astonished. “What? Come on, Beck! It’s
way too dangerous to even think about! There’s no way to even get
in that place.”

“Sure there is. I go apply for the job they
advertised. The only requirement was a BA in math. I have a
Masters—nearly a PhD. It’s only an entry-level job. I shouldn’t
have any trouble with their test. Besides, I’m not really after the
job, just entry to the place.”

“I can probably agree that you’d pass the
test, but I doubt they’d want a 16-year-old. Besides, it’s way too
dangerous!” replied Sam. “I won’t allow you to put yourself in
danger.”

“I’ve helped you before! Remember when I
slipped that GPS locator in that guy’s pocket so you could track
him without being too close? And . . .”

“Enough! Those were much simpler cases,”
exclaimed Sam. “I don’t know that there’s anything to find out
anyway. The answer is no. Case closed!”

***

The next day at UCI during her lunch
hour, Becky called
Dynology
and asked them to send her and application and information
package to her UCI P.O. Box, the one she used for corresponding
with other academic types.

How dangerous could it be?
I’ll just look things over during the test, see if it’s possible to
plant a bug. I’ll need a fake driver’s license upping my age.
Wonder if Pearl will make me one? Hmm. One thing at a time. I’ll
see if they accept my application first
.

Later in the week—Friday the 18th—Becky sent
in her filled-out application along with a certified copy of her BA
in Mathematics. She stated her age as 22. She had no idea what
trouble awaited her.

Sunday, May 20, 2001

Capistrano Beach, CA

On Sunday the 20th, Sam called Carole at
around noon to make sure everything was going as planned. The Gala
started at 6:00 P.M., but Carole needed to be there by five to
oversee the final setups made by the florists, the caterers, and
sundry other hired helpers. Sam was scheduled to pick her up at her
apartment at 4:30—dressed in his tuxedo.

The Diamond Gala was purportedly a big
charity event with silent auctions for a variety of art pieces,
cruises, jewelry, and other donated stuff. It was a social event
where all the invited high society ladies got to wear their best
gowns and jewelry. Armed guards were provided because the jewelry
worn was supposed to be the real deal, not paste. Sam had neglected
to ask Carole about the party that had been robbed last year. But
he wasn’t much interested. He figured it would be the last time he
would see Carole, so escorting her was a kindness he could afford
to bestow. Besides, he very seldom had a chance to go to a formal
wingding. He tried to avoid his mother’s formal social affairs.

Carole was excited and nervous. “Oh, Sam! I’m
all aflutter! Mrs. Gotrocks yelled at me when I gave my notice!
That didn’t help my nerves any. And I want things to go so well
tonight! Make a good impression on my last major task!”

“Just calm down, Carole! Take a big breath,”
he said.

Sam had learned something about Carole that
even she might not consciously recognize as a deviant behavior.
When she was agitated, if she drank booze to calm down, she got
sloshed and passed out on a very small amount of alcohol. She
didn’t take any drugs, he was sure. The only thing that got Carole
under control was offered by nature itself: orgasms—lots of
them!

“Sam, you have to come earlier than we
planned! I need a . . . fix,” she blurted out. “Badly!”

He knew what that was, and it wasn’t
cocaine.

Sam gathered his tux—he called it his 007 tux
because it was specially tailored so he could wear his gun under
his left arm without being conspicuous—shirt, studs, cuff links,
bow tie, cummerbund, shoes, socks, and clean underwear. He would
dress at Carole’s after her “fix.” He got to her place at 3 o’clock
and went to her kitchen and got her kitchen timer and took it to
her bedroom, where she had already stripped down to her loganberry
underwear. He set the timer to 45 minutes and put it on the
nightstand next to her bed.

“That’s all the time we have! Understand?” he
told her.

She pouted. “I guess that will have to do!
I’m so damned tense!”

***

Only because Sam enforced the time on the
kitchen timer did they make it to the Lido Isle mansion by 5
o’clock. Valet parking was being enforced and Sam hated to see the
pimply-faced kid drive off in his Camaro. He had shown the kid his
gun and hinted at what would happen if the Camaro came back
scratched or dented. Carole was gorgeous in a white—she called it
vanilla—silk gown with a low-cut bodice and a slit up the left leg
to her mid-thigh. The top half of her breasts was exposed for all
to admire. Just before six, she would don Mrs. Wellington’s
$750,000 diamond necklace, and matching bracelet and earrings. She
nearly asked Sam to give her another “fix” in the maid’s room.

Sam was introduced to Mrs. Wellington. She
was a pudgy 5' 4" matron of about 65, bleached blonde hair, and
pendulous breasts. She was loaded down with diamonds. She took
Carole away to get bedecked with jewels. Sam took this opportunity
to get a feel for the layout and check out security. There had been
a uniformed, armed security guard checking IDs and invitations
against a master list at the front door. Sam spotted two other
uniformed guards wandering around inside.

The large, formal dining room was normally
separated from the huge living room by a folding wall. This wall
was now folded open, producing one, gigantic party room. Four sets
of French doors opened onto a large deck, which surrounded a pool.
Good people circulation for a party. Even so, Sam calculated that
more than 50 couples would be crowded for this kind of gathering.
The items up for bid were displayed tastefully on tables along one
long wall. Two long tables took up much of the room—one for hors
d’oeuvres, the other for later when a hot buffet supper would be
served. A string quartet was tuning up in a corner near the
entrance. The main body of the guests would begin arriving
soon.

***

Earlier in the week, Sam had asked his mother
if she had heard of Mrs. Rosemary Wellington.

“You know I don’t like to tell tales,
Samuel,” she had said.

“Cut the crap, mother. You love to gossip,”
Sam had replied.

“Well, dear, in the world of high
society—which you have eschewed all of your life, regrettably—there
are the true bloodline ones, and then there are the wannabes.”

“Are you talking about race horses . . . or
people?”

“Don’t be rude, dear! You know very well what
I’m talking about. Mrs. Wellington is a faux socialite. No one had
ever heard of her until two years ago when she appeared in Lido
Isle and began thrusting herself into Newport Beach society,” his
mother had said. “She, of course, has not been admitted into any of
the more legitimate clubs and cliques. I can’t believe you’re going
to that tacky gala of hers! You never attend any of my charity
events!”

“I’m just escorting a lady, mother. Actually,
it’s a job. I’m her bodyguard. I heard a similar gala last year got
robbed. Know anything about that?”

“It was the scandal of the year! The
insurance companies got hit very hard! Even though I wasn’t
involved, mine tried to raise my rates, but I held them to their
contract! I’m sure all of Wellington’s jewelry was over-insured.
People like her make it hard on all of us!”

Old money never likes new
money
, Sam had thought.

***

Carole came back loaded down with diamonds
and emeralds. Sam thought that she had looked better before. Too
much jewelry, real or not, cheapened one as far as Sam was
concerned. Now everyone had an excuse to stare blatantly at the
breast mounds erupting from her dress: she had a huge diamond
nestling in her cleavage.

“Wow!” he exclaimed, more to impress Mrs.
Wellington than Carole. He was sure that Carole had simpler tastes,
but she had been hired to be a display dummy for the night, and he
was her hired stud. He was determined to have a good time: eat,
drink, and be merry. He snagged two glasses of champagne off the
tray of a passing waiter and handed one to Carole.

“Go easy on this,” he laughed. “I don’t want
to carry you over my shoulder again.”

“I will. Thanks for this, Sam. I like it when
you look after me. Don’t feel snubbed if I leave you from time to
time. As Social Secretary, I have certain duties to perform. There
will be dancing later. I’ll save some for you,” she smiled.

Then she put her glass down and moved into
the crowd, shaking hands, laughing, letting the men look down her
dress, and doing other Social Secretary things.

By 8:30, the party was in full roar. Everyone
except the most devoted alcoholics had eaten, and dancing was
available now that the quartet had been replaced by a trio of
keyboard, bass, and guitar. Most of the guests were tipsy and loud.
Sam had paced himself, as had Carole, so they were both sober.

Carole grabbed his hand and led him down a
hallway towards the bedrooms.

“No, Carole! You can’t have a fix now!” he
exclaimed.

She giggled. “No, silly! We’ll do that after.
I need a cigarette badly. There’s a small garden patio off the
master bedroom. I can grab a smoke out there.”

She clutched her small, beaded purse in her
other hand.

Once she had lit up, she said, “Thing’s are
going well, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had to shoot
anybody to protect your honor, in spite of the fact that your tits
are hanging out. I’ve enjoyed myself though. Except for that dance
I had to suffer with that old bat with the blue hair,” he chuckled.
“At least, the place hasn’t been robbed yet. Half hour to go and
we’re home free.”

As if his statement were prophetic, from
their secluded vantage point on the dark patio, Sam saw a dark,
windowless van pull up to the front entrance and stop. Three men
wearing ski masks emerged from the van carrying automatic weapons:
Sam recognized them as H & K MP5s, silencers attached.