Crown's Law (19 page)

Carole saw them, too. She gasped. Sam put a
finger to her lips.

“Shh!” he said in her ear. “Go sit over
there, douse the cigarette, be quiet, and don’t move no matter what
happens.”

She obeyed him, but she needed to pee badly
all of a sudden.

Sam stood where he was and watched. In his
black tux, he was essentially invisible on the dark patio. The
three men approached the guard at the front entrance. Sam braced
himself for the confrontation he knew was about to take place.
There was none. The security guard looked at his watch and
nodded.

The fucker’s in on
it!
thought Sam
. Are all of
the guards in on it, too? Probably
.

Sam’s only responsibility was to Carole as
far as he was concerned. He unbuttoned his jacket so he would have
easy access to his weapon. He was carrying his Smith .40 under his
arm and a spare clip in each pocket of his jacket. He wasn’t sure
what to do. He could try and slip Carole through the patio gate and
away from the house. Then he could call 911 and tell the cops what
was going down. He didn’t really give a shit about Mrs. Wellington
and her house full of jewels. Even if he were still a cop, he
wouldn’t be able to be proactive. Too many friggin’ laws protected
the criminals. Sam could easily shoot all of the perps from his
vantage point before they knew what was happening. The law
prevented him from doing that. You can’t kill people to prevent a
crime. They had to commit the crime first, and once they were
inside the house, things would get way too dangerous for him to
start shooting.

He moved very slowly over to Carole and took
her hand. He led her to the small, low gate. He didn’t want to open
it—it might squeak. It was only two feet tall, so he motioned for
her to lift her long dress and step over it. He held her arm to
steady her as she did so. He fished his cell phone out of his
jacket pocket and handed it to her.

He whispered, “Walk a block or so and call
911. Tell the police what’s happening. Also, warn them that the
security guards are in on it. Then hide somewhere. I’ll find you
when this is over.”

“Don’t leave me, Sam!” she whispered back.
“Don’t get in the middle of this! Let the cops handle it! You’ll
get killed!”

“Shh. Go. Call 911.”

Then he disappeared into the shadows. Carole
ran a block down the street, made a quick call, then called
911.

Sam eased back into the patio just in time to
see the masked gunmen hit the security guard on the back of the
head with a leaded sap. They cuffed him and taped his mouth with
duct tape. They dropped the tape and readied their weapons. They
were dressed all in black and looked bulky.

Probably wearing body armor. Vests at least.
If I have to shoot, I’ll have to use head shots! Maybe I can stay
out of this, but slow ’em down so the cops can get here and handle
things. At least, they took care of their guard buddy for me. I’ll
see if I can take care of the driver and disable the van.

The three men went into the house and he
could hear women screaming. If all the guests did as they were
told, give up their jewels, then maybe there would be no
shooting—or killing. Sam got to the rear of the van and pulled his
gun. He had jacked a shell into the firing chamber when Carole had
left him. He cocked it, made sure the safety was on, then walked
swiftly down the driver’s side of the van. The driver was watching
the front entrance, which was on the passenger side. He never knew
what hit him. Sam yanked open the door and hit him in the back of
the head with his gun. He retrieved the duct tape from beside the
still unconscious guard and taped the man’s hands to the steering
wheel, then taped his mouth. He secured his ankles with tape and
took the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. For good
measure, he found a twig and let the air out of both tires on the
driver’s side.

Now what?
he
thought.
Where
the hell are the cops?

***

Inside the house, the three gunmen had easily
disarmed the two security guards—they were in on it and offered no
resistance—and while one man stood on a chair with his MP-5
sweeping and menacing the room, the other two worked diligently at
plucking all the jewelry from the ladies, wallets and Rolex watches
from the men, and putting the loot into large, cloth sacks. Things
couldn’t be going more smoothly. Some of the women had fainted, of
course, but that was to be expected. Fear controlled the room.

***

Sam now wished he had his cell phone so he
could talk to the police directly—give them an update about the
disabled van and its driver. He hoped Carole had obeyed him. If she
came back in that neon vanilla dress, she could fuck up everything.
Sam positioned himself behind a tree that gave him a good view of
the front entrance—two doors wide and 7 feet tall.

A good killing
field
, he mused.

Sam finally spotted a black-and-white, lights
off, ease around the corner to his left. He looked in the other
direction and saw another one. Sam fished out his P.I. license,
holstered his gun, and jogged down to the corner. A uniformed cop
confronted him. Sam showed his ID and whispered, “I’m Sam Crown. I
assume Ms. Winston called you guys?”

“Yeah. She told the 911 operator that you’d
be skulking around here somewhere. What’s the situation?” asked the
cop.

Sam briefed him quickly, and the cop relayed
the information by radio to the other cops in the area.

“They’ll be bursting out of that house any
minute now. With their van disabled, they’ll try to get away on
foot, or shoot it out. You’re out-gunned. They have MP-5s and are
wearing body armor,” said Sam.

“Shit! SWAT will never get here in time!”
exclaimed the cop.

An unmarked detective’s car pulled up behind
the cruiser and two men in plain clothes got out and walked over to
Sam and the cop. The big guy on the left recognized Sam.

“Shit, Crown! I heard on the radio that you
were here. What’s the drill?” said Bill Dragon, a man Sam had known
for years.

Sam briefed him.

“Three of them in body armor, eh? The old Sam
Crown would have already gone in there and shot the
assholes—between the eyes,” chuckled the detective.

“The old Sam Crown lost his badge for doing
things like that,” replied Sam. “Besides, even the old Sam Crown
wouldn’t have handled this situation that way. He’d have done just
what I’ve done. Now it’s your problem. I’m going to find my
date.”

“Wait up a sec, Sam. How would you handle
this if you had to?” asked Dragon.

“Well, if you hurry, you can get two cops
behind the van on the driver’s side, and two on each side of that
big door. Throw down on them when they come out. They won’t be
expecting anything. They haven’t been warned by their lookout. If
you have to shoot, take head shots. I’ll be back after I find my
woman,” said Sam, then he was gone.

Sam found Carole huddled in an alley, still
on the phone with the 911 operator. Her vanilla gown was ruined,
but her array of jewels was still intact. Sam took the phone and
told the operator that Dragon was in charge of the scene and hung
up.

Carole jumped into Sam’s arms and kissed him.
“You’re all right! Thank God! I’ve been scared shitless, not
knowing what was going on!”

“You did fine, Carole, just fine,” said
Sam.

Four rapid gunshots echoed across the night.
Then four more. Sam felt Carole flinch. He hugged her tighter. She
was shivering, even though it wasn’t really cold. He kept his arm
around her as they went back to the scene. Sirens were audible now.
Sam wondered how many died tonight. At least, he hadn’t done the
killing.

The three robbers had decided to shoot it out
with the cops, confident that their body armor gave them the
advantage. All three were killed instantly by shots to the head.
The mansion was now a massive crime scene. The three security
guards and the van driver had been arrested and whisked away. It
would take weeks to sort out the two sacks of loot. Carole took off
her jewelry and gave them to Mrs. Wellington. It was two hours
before Sam was allowed to take Carole home. He decided they both
could use a stiff drink followed by a “Winston fix.”

***

During Carole’s after-sex cigarette break at
the patio door, Sam fixed himself a scotch and water and sat back
down on the bed and watched her.

“You know, Carole, something about that whole
gala thing still bothers me. You said you arranged everything
except the security, right?” Sam asked Carole.

“Yeah. I told you that Mrs. Wellington
insisted on doing that. It kinda pissed me off. I’m glad I don’t
work for her anymore. The only thing I’ll regret about leaving this
place is leaving you. We have a good chemistry,” she smiled as she
gave him a full frontal view. “By the way, I forgot to tell you.
The FBI released Bill’s body. Mother and I should be out of here by
Wednesday.”

“That’s good news—I mean about . . . Bill.
I’ll miss you, too, Carole,” replied Sam. Sam’s threat to the FBI
must have worked. “Did Mrs. Gotrocks hire the security last year
for her party? You know, the one that was robbed, also?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t work for her then.
How strange. Do you think she’s actually in on it?” exclaimed
Carole.

“Hmm. You never know. Nothing for you to
worry about. You’re out of here in a few days. Since this is the
last time we’ll be together, I’ll let you have another round, if
you’re up for it. For the good times.”

She crushed out her cigarette, took his drink
and sat it on the table, then pushed him back on the bed and knelt
between his legs.

“Can I talk dirty?”

“Whatever turns you on, Carole. Whatever
turns you on.”

Tuesday, May 22, 2001

UCI, Irvine, CA

On Tuesday the 22nd, Becky received a
call from
Dynology
on her
cell phone informing her that she was cleared to come in and take
the test for the entry-level mathematician job. She now had a
dilemma. She could go take the test without telling Sam and just
see what she could find out about the company—without planting any
bugs, of course. But even to do that, she needed a picture ID with
the false birth date. If she asked Pearl to do it, Pearl would
undoubtedly rat her out to Sam. More importantly, Sam had told her
“no” and she had never disobeyed him before. She finally decided to
tell Sam what she had done and try to convince him one more time.
It couldn’t be very risky to plant a bug in the conference room, or
whatever room they used for the testing. Could it?

***

That same morning, since Sam knew that Carole
was leaving the next day, he decided to call her and say goodbye.
Maybe even swing over to her condo for a farewell quickie. He
called her condo and found that the phone had been disconnected,
not really a surprise. He tried her cell phone, but got voice mail.
So he drove over to Newport Beach but found her condo vacant. Why
had she left already? Her neighbor in Unit 2 told him she had
packed up and left last night.

Confused, Sam drove back to the Mickey office
and pondered the situation, feet on his desk. Why hadn’t she at
least called to say goodbye? Maybe she really hadn’t left yet?
There had been a fishy aura about her from the beginning, but the
great sex had caused him to push it out of his mind. She had never
told him what was in the envelope her brother had left at the
office for her. He decided to try and catch her at the hospital
checking out her mother.

He sat up, dropped his feet to the floor, and
yelled, “Pearl!”

Pearl wandered in and said, “Yes, boss. You
beckoned?”

“Yeah. Call all the local hospitals and see
if they have a Mrs. Winston as a cancer patient. Carole has already
moved out of her condo and I want to see if I can catch her before
she leaves town,” explained Sam.

“What’s up?” asked Pearl with a wry
smile.

Sam ignored her rare attempt at double
entendre and said, “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But things don’t
feel right. Make the calls while I think this through.”

“OK. It’ll take awhile,” she replied as she
turned and went to her desk.

Thirty minutes later, Pearl returned and
freshened their coffees, sat, crossed her legs.

“Well?” queried Sam.

“Curious. No Mrs. Winston in any of the
hospitals in the county. I even asked for anyone with cancer in the
50 to 70 age range. There were three. One was black, one Hispanic,
and one white male. You don’t suppose she would be in an L.A.
hospital, do you? Or a hospice?”

“Damn! Possible, I guess,” shrugged Sam. He
sipped his coffee. “Call the morgue and see if Carole picked up her
brother’s body. Please.”

“OK. Be right back.”

Pearl came back to Sam’s office ten minutes
later.

“His body was picked up from the morgue
this morning at 9 A.M. by a hearse from
Crowder Brothers Mortuary
in Newport Beach. I
called them and they said they put the body in an aluminum shipping
coffin—as instructed—and delivered it to a private plane at John
Wayne Airport,” explained Pearl.

“Private plane?”

“Yeah. A Lear.”

“Something is really rotten here. I think
I’ve been had,” grumbled Sam.

“I told you not to get personally involved
with clients,” said Pearl.

“Put a lid on it, Pearl! Why did that Winston
guy have to write on a Mickey card and drop that envelope off here?
That’s what got us involved. Crap!” said Sam.

“And that cop got everyone stirred up
down at
Sparky’s
,” added
Pearl.