Crown's Law (24 page)

Sam parked the Camaro in the parking lot in
front of a large, three-story building and shut off the engine. He
didn’t like coming here. He looked up at the third floor.

The seat of power for the Green Dragons.

He locked his Smith .40 in the glove
compartment. Danny’s security people would never allow an armed man
into the building—not even Sam Crown.

In the small lobby of the building, Sam was
confronted by two short Vietnamese men, both obviously armed. One
was thin, one obese. The fat one—known as “Free Willy” because of
his love of whale blubber—smiled when he saw Sam.

“So . . . Mr. Crown! Long time no see. You
come to see Danny?” he asked.

Sam grinned and replied, “Yeah, if he’s
available. I know I should have called, but I was in the
neighborhood and . . .”

“Yeah, yeah,” interrupted Free Willy. “I’ll
call upstairs while Chop Chop here checks you out.”

Free Willy went to a long counter, swung the
phone around, and dialed while Chop Chop—so named because of his
ability to use chop sticks for things for which they weren’t
originally intended—ran a wand over Sam, then patted him down.

“OK here, Willy,” said Chop Chop as Free
Willy hung up the phone.

“You’re in luck, Mr. Crown. You know, you’re
the only one who can drop in like this. Danny will see you. I’ll
take you up.”

They rode a grumbling, slow elevator to the
third floor, then went to a heavy door and Willy pushed a button on
the wall next to it. There was a click and the door was pushed open
by Free Willy.

“There you go. See you when you leave.”

Sam walked into the large room, which was
decorated oriental style. Several jade dragon statues adorned the
tables in the room. Danny sat behind a huge, ornate gold-leafed
desk with a window behind him. He stood when Sam entered the room,
then approached and hugged Sam.

“Good to see you, big bro! Where has my
favorite shamus been hiding? I haven’t seen you all over the news
lately,” laughed Danny.

“You know how it is, Danny. I get busy . . .
don’t know where the time goes. And I’ve been flying under the
radar lately,” replied Sam with a shrug.

Danny went back behind the desk and Sam eased
into one of the comfy guest chairs.

Danny laughed, “Yeah, I know. It’s not good
for your image to be seen coming here, is it? With your red Camaro
out front, every cop in the county knows you’re here by now. If
you’re here to lecture me again, save your breath. It’s way too
late. I made my decision years ago.”

“It’s never too late, Danny. They’ll catch
you eventually if you keep it up.”

“You never did.”

“Maybe I wasn’t trying too hard. You know how
I feel about the War on Drugs. Waste of money and time. Legalize
drugs and you guys will disappear in a puff of smoke.”

“Not really. There are other enterprises for
really smart people. I remember rolling joints for you when I was
eleven,” grinned Danny.

“You must still be smoking it, Danny. Quit
and go to college like Cara did. Become legit.”

“Look. I let you send Cara to college—and
I’ve kept her out of my businesses. Mainly to please you. If I want
to be associated with a college, I’ll buy one!”

At that point, Sam decided to get to the
reason he came here.

“What do you know about a company
called
Dynology
in
Irvine?”

Danny spun his chair and looked out the
window behind his desk. “Mostly, they run a smuggling conduit
between here and Hong Kong. Container ships, cargo planes,” mused
Danny.

“What do they smuggle?” queried Sam.

“Not drugs. I had a little pow-wow with them
over that. Most anything else that pays.”

The Green Dragons controlled the drug trade
in the county and parts of L.A. Danny didn’t allow any
competition.

Danny continued, “They’ll transport most
anything for a fee. Diamonds, emeralds, guns, cigarettes, cash,
even people. Some hot electronic stuff. A real penny-ante outfit.
What’s your interest?”

“One of their guys whacked a man who had a
Mickey Malone business card on him. That brought the cops to my
doorstep—looking for Mickey,” replied Sam, shifting in his chair.
“And the FBI.”

Danny laughed. “Looking for Mickey, eh? I
knew that would jump up and bite you in the ass one day! What’s the
FBI’s interest?”

“I’m not sure. I thought you might be able to
enlighten me.”

“Not a clue. The INS would be interested in
the people smuggling, the ATF the weapons and cigarettes. Hmm. How
do you know one of their guys whacked someone?”

“I have it on audio tape. Don’t ask how. Do
you know of a Bobby Door?”

“Ah, Bobby D’Orr!” He spelled it for Sam. “A
low level enforcer and hit man. He thinks he’s tougher than he is.
Is he your killer?”

“Yes. But I have no way of nailing him. All I
have is a tape from an illegal bug. And info from a crime lord,”
Sam chuckled.

“I’ve seen you get inventive with evidence
before,” smiled Danny. “Maybe D’Orr could just disappear. My
treat.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Have
you heard any inkling that
Dynology
might be smuggling military secrets through their
pipeline?”

“No. But that would explain the FBI’s
interest. What do you know about the guy D’Orr killed?”

“Not much. The FBI swooped in and took over
before the cops could get on top of it. What tidbits I have smell
of espionage and the dead guy could have been an undercover Fed.
Shit! I’ve got nothing solid! Nada!”

“Sorry, bro, that I can’t help. I could run
them out of the county, but I don’t think that solves anything for
you. They’ll pop up somewhere else.”

“Well, at least you’ve confirmed what I
suspected. I have to figure out a way to give the Feds something
they can use, so they can shut these guys down legally.”

“Mr. Legal. If you strike out, call me. I’ll
shut ’em down for you—way down,” smirked Danny.

Sam stood.

“Stay out of it, Danny. Thanks for your
time.”

***

Sam pointed his Camaro toward Santa Ana, more
discouraged than ever. At least he knew it wasn’t about drugs.
Danny would never allow that. Unless Danny had lied about the whole
thing.

Shit!

Friday, June 1, 2001

Santa Ana, CA

Later that day, Sam glanced at his watch and
noted that it was 4:38 P.M. He had intended to leave the office
earlier so he could beat the Friday traffic heading south. It was
always a bitch. He was going to stay the weekend at the beach house
and spend some time with Becky—take her boating or something. A
stationary high sitting along the coast had the temperature close
to 80 degrees instead of the usual June gloom weather, and he
thought a beach weekend was what he needed. Besides, he had
promised Becky some time this weekend. He was sweating in spite of
the air conditioning in the office. He made a mental note to check
the thermostat. Pearl kept messing with it because she preferred
the temperature warmer than he did.

He was reviewing the background check that
Pearl had put together for him on Mrs. Rosemary Wellington. There
was a fairly detailed accounting of her life going back two years
to the date she showed up in Orange County. Before that,
nothing.

Shit! I’ll deal with this next week!

Before he could stand to leave, his intercom
buzzed. He picked up the handset.

“Mr. Crown. Visitor,” said Pearl.

This was their code for “possible
trouble.”

“I’m ready to split, Pearl. Can’t this be put
off till next week?” he said.

“I think that’s not wise. The visitor is a
lady from the FBI—looking for Mickey,” Pearl informed him.

“FBI? Mickey? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Why would the FBI be looking for Mickey?
They, of all people, should know he doesn’t exist! Shit! I guess I
have to deal with this! Maybe they’re laying another court order on
me! Shit! Payback for squeezing them about releasing Winston’s
body?

“OK. Show her in,” he finally said.

“Behave yourself,” she added as she hung
up.

He was wearing an Aloha shirt—a pattern
in blues and browns with dancing
wahines
on it—so it would cover the gun on his
left hip. It was way too hot to wear a jacket. He stood as Pearl
ushered in a willowy woman who was at least 3 inches taller than
Pearl. His brain did its usual instant female rating calculations:
5' 9"; short, curly, light brown hair; blue-green eyes; Julia
Roberts lips; breasts somewhere between B- and C-cup—it was hard to
tell with the shirt she was wearing; 130 to 135 pounds; somewhere
over 30. She was dressed in a tan, linen pantsuit. Under her
buttoned jacket she wore a man’s white dress shirt with a brown
string tie. Her tan shoes had short heels. A small scar emanated
out of the corner of her left eye.

My
God! She’s gorgeous! Who gives a shit why she’s
here?

Sam was convinced that her voice exuded sex
when she said, “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Crown.” She flicked her
ID wallet at him with her left hand and he saw the distinctive gold
badge. She extended her right hand to him. “I’m Special Agent
Trout.”

Sam shook her hand—holding it longer than
necessary, exhilarated by its softness—then took her ID wallet
before she could put it back in the brown, leather handbag slung
over her left shoulder. He studied it carefully. It was either
real, or a very good fake. Her name read “R. Amelia Trout.” No
first name spelled out. That intrigued him, and gave him an opening
to rattle her.

He peered into her eyes and said, “R. Trout?
What do I call you? R?”

“You can call me Special Agent Trout,” she
replied.

No sense of humor,
eh?
he mused.

“
Well, Ms. . . . Special Agent Trout,
have a seat. What can I do for you?” smiled Sam, deciding to melt
her by ratcheting up the charm a notch or two. He handed her the
wallet.

She sat across from him and said, “Mr. Crown,
I really came here to speak with Mr. Malone. Your secretary said
that he was not here at the moment.”

“Call me Sam . . . please. And I’ll call you
. . . Rose? Ruby? Roxanne? I like to be on a first name basis with
the women I sleep with!” he grinned.

She straightened up in her chair, shock on
her face. Then she slumped back and crossed her legs.

She laughed, “You are a brash son-of-a-bitch,
aren’t you?”

“Not always! I just hate to waste a lot of
time putting off the inevitable. So, what’s the ‘R’ stand for?” he
smiled, his eyes still on hers. It took some effort to keep his
eyes from flicking to her breasts, so he concentrated on the color
of her eyes.

She hesitated, looked down at her feet for a
beat, then replied, “Rainbow.”

He thought she blushed, but he couldn’t be
sure.

“Rainbow Trout? Your parents sure had a sense
of humor, even if you don’t!” he chuckled. “I like it though.
Different. I’ll call you ‘Bo.’”

“That’s what my parents call me. Most people
call me Rainy or some variation of Amelia. Like Meely . . . which I
detest. Now, what do we do next? Show each other our guns?” She was
grinning. Maybe his charm was starting to overwhelm her.

“I can suggest something far better than
that!” he leered, letting his eyes finally drop to her small, but
adequate, breasts.

“Knock it off, Crown! I’m trying to do an
investigation here!” she said as she pulled her jacket over her
breasts.

“O . . . kay! Now, Bo, why do you need to
talk to Mickey?” he asked, letting the deception play out a bit
longer, wanting some information out of her before he told her
about Mickey.

“Can’t tell you. Ongoing investigation,” she
countered.

He smiled and said, “I thought the FBI
was better at investigating than this. You didn’t do your homework
very well! The closest thing to a Mickey Malone around here is that
girl you called my secretary—Pearl Cooper. She is the Office
Manager of
Mickey
Malone
Investigations
.
That’s a d.b.a., Bo! Doing Business As! There is no Mickey Malone!
Never has been!”

“You’re shittin’ me, right? Why would
Washington send me out here on a wild goose chase?” she
snapped.

“I don’t know. Are they always right? I don’t
think so! Perhaps I could be of more help if I knew more about what
you’re after,” he shrugged. “Didn’t your guys check with the local
cops? Most of the old-timers know the truth about Mickey. So does
Carl Fenster, your local resident agent.”

Trout did not know what to believe. Sam’s
flippant attitude had her confused. He definitely was not
intimidated by her FBI status. If he was correct, she would look
foolish when she reported this wild goose chase. That bothered her.
She never messed up her investigations—well, almost never. Being a
woman in a men’s club wasn’t easy!

“I guess I need some proof, Sam,” she said as
she pulled a notebook out of her purse and flipped it open. “I have
interview notes here from one of the Orange County sheriff’s
investigators who was here a few weeks ago. Several people
described a Mickey Malone—all of them pretty much agreeing on what
he looked like and what he does. It seems that he is a legend
around here!”

Sam smiled again, but groaned inside. “That’s
the problem. He is only a legend! Was that investigator named
Woodward?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

He gave her a short rundown on the pro bono
office, and the legend of Mickey Malone, and the joke played on
Woodward.

Then he said, “Look, let’s go down
to
Sparky’s Club
and get a
drink. I was trying to beat the traffic, but it’s too late now.
Besides, we can work on our relationship!”