Crown's Law (25 page)

“You’re crazy, Crown! We have no
relationship! I’m on duty—trying to conduct an investigation!” she
groaned, putting a hand to her forehead.

“That’s why we’re going to
Sparky’s
. So you can investigate,
and I can seduce you,” he laughed as he stood up. “Weren’t some of
those interviews done at
Sparky’s
?”

She glanced at her notebook, then nodded.
“You’re right.”

“Of course I am. Do you have a rental
car?”

“Yes. It’s a red Taurus. It’s in your
lot. What’s at this
Sparky’s
?”

“The legend. You’ll see. Come on, it’s only
two blocks. You drive. I’ll navigate,” he said as he opened the
door.

As they walked past Pearl’s desk, Sam told
her, “I’m gone for the weekend. Why don’t you close up and go
home?”

Pearl raised an eyebrow and remarked, “Are
you under arrest?”

“She’s handcuffed my heart!” he grinned as he
put his hand over his heart. “The key is lost! I’ll never break
free!”

“Don’t mind him, Special Agent Trout. He’s
crazy!” laughed Pearl.

Trout smiled, “I’ve already detected that
much!”

Trout parked her rented Taurus a block
from
Sparky’s
. That was as
close as she could get. Several Harleys were backed against the
curb in front of the club. She glanced around furtively as they
approached the front door.

Sam saw her face and said, “This isn’t the
worst part of town. But . . . it doesn’t hurt to be packin’. Are
you?”

She nodded, unbuttoned her jacket, and showed
him the Smith & Wesson 9mm semiautomatic under her left arm. He
took the chance to admire her breasts.

“Nice,” he grinned. “But you’ll be safe as
long as you’re with me. Cops don’t normally go in here.”

She grabbed his left arm and felt the hard
muscle—and the gun on his left hip when she let her hand slide down
his arm.

“So . . . the big strong man is gonna protect
the poor, weak female?” she cooed.

“Not exactly. I meant this is my regular
watering hole. They know me here,” replied Sam as he put his right
hand over hers.

She glanced at him and removed her hand from
his arm. He shrugged and opened the door for her. As Trout stepped
into the dim interior, her senses were bombarded by loud, hot metal
rock music spewing out of a Juke Box, and the heavy smell of stale
cigarette smoke and spilt beer. She stood still for a moment while
her eyes became accustomed to the contrast in light from the sunny
outside to the dimmer inside. She felt vulnerable. She put her hand
on the butt of her gun.

She whispered, “I thought smoking was illegal
in bars and restaurants out here.”

“It is. But there’s no cop I know who wants
to come in here and enforce that law,” Sam laughed.

Trout could see shapes finally. There were
four bikers along with their “old ladies” playing pool in the back,
where there were three pool tables. Eight men and three women sat
at the long bar, nursing their beers and watching a television
mounted behind the bar. Several booths were filled. Sam led Trout
to the bar and they each took a stool.

Trout snorted, “You actually spend time here?
On purpose?”

“Only when I’m working in this area. There’s
slim pickings around here. Besides, Sparky is an old ’Nam buddy of
mine. Hey! Sparky! You’ve got customers!”

Trout peered at him for a beat, then said,
“You were in ’Nam? You don’t look old enough.”

He glanced at her and grinned. “I’ll take
that as a compliment. I can feel your resistance weakening
already!”

She couldn’t help but smile.

Sparky appeared before them and growled,
“Well! Crown! I thought you’d be halfway to the beach by now!”

“That was my plan, but before I got out of
the office God sent me an angel and I fell in love!” emoted
Sam.

“Don’t fall for his blarney, miss,” laughed
Sparky.

“Is he always like this?” she laughed.

“Only with the bonnie lasses.”

“Knock off the phony dialect, Sparky. You’ve
never even seen Ireland. Meet my true love, FBI Special Agent Bo
Trout,” interjected Sam. “Bo, this is the owner of this dump,
Sparky O’Hara. Rumor has it that he calls his rundown house Tara,
and has a cat named Scarlett.”

Sparky looked at Bo carefully, wondering why
Sam was with an FBI agent—a very pretty one at that. Sam often hung
out with cops, but never a fibbie before. At least, not in
here.

Sam continued, “She’s looking for
Mickey.”

Sparky growled, “Another one? I already told
the cops all I know. I have nothing new to add.”

He swiped the bar with a towel, then added,
“You two want something to drink, or are you just gonna take up
space?”

Sam answered, “First, turn down that fuc . .
. damned Juke Box or I’ll shoot it again!”

Sparky trod over to a control panel behind
the bar and turned a knob. The loud music was reduced by several
decibels.

Bo said, “That’s better! You didn’t really
shoot a Juke Box, did you?”

Sparky grumbled, “Damn right he did! Cost me
a bundle to replace it! I put it on his tab, but he never pays that
either. Now, how about ordering something?”

Bo said, “Well, I’m officially still on duty,
and armed, so I can’t drink booze right now. How about a club soda
with some lime?”

“I’ll have a glass of tap beer,” replied Sam.
“Whatever you’re pushing today. I’ll save my serious drinking for
when I get to the beach.”

He turned to Bo and added, “It must be
quittin’ time wherever you came from. Loosen up and have a
drink.”

She looked at her watch and shrugged. “I
guess you’re right. Make it a Chardonnay.”

Sparky moved away to fill their orders.

Bo said, “Can I really smoke in here? It
wouldn’t be very smart of me to run afoul of the local
gendarmes!”

“Sure. Light up. SWAT is too busy to swarm
this place,” laughed Sam.

She rustled around in her shoulder bag and
came out with a long, filtered cigarette. Sam grabbed a book of
matches off the bar and lit it for her. She blew smoke into the
cloud collecting on the ceiling and remarked, “Ah, that’s better!
No smoking on cross-country flights is a bitch!”

Bo then turned her head toward Sam and asked,
“Why, exactly, are we here?”

“I want to try and convince you to give up
this search for Mickey Malone. You’re wasting your valuable time,
and can do a lot of harm. Just talk to Carl Fenster. You guys have
had him stashed here for ten years. He knows the area well.”

Sparky appeared and put their drinks in front
of them.

Sam asked him, “When was the last time you
saw Mickey?”

“Don’t remember. I certainly haven’t seen him
since that fuckin’ cop was here.”

“But before that?”

“Oh, maybe a month or two. Hey! Johnson! When
was Mickey here last?”

A big man five stools away looked up, then
said, “I’m not sure. I think he’s still out of town. At least,
that’s what Ralph told me. Why?”

“Never mind,” replied Sparky as he moved down
the bar to service a customer.

Sam said, “Thanks, Sparky. Give Johnson a
drink on me. Put it on my tab.”

Bo shrugged, then remarked, “What did that
little charade prove?”

“It shows the power of the Legend of Mickey
Malone.”

Bo took a sip of her wine and remarked, “Wow!
Good wine for such a dump!”

“Sparky serves good booze.”

Sam proceeded to explain how the legend was
created, and how people relied on it being true. While he was
talking, in an attempt to become chummier with her, Sam put his
left hand on her right knee. She casually grabbed his wrist and
removed his hand. He plowed ahead with his story as if nothing had
happened.

He concluded, “. . . so now you see why
you’re chasing smoke. The people here—and all around town—find
comfort in knowing Mickey is around looking after things. I can
prove to you that he doesn’t exist physically, but I don’t want the
legend to die.”

“Damn! Assuming you’re telling me the truth,
what do I tell my bosses in Washington?” she exclaimed, turning on
her stool to face him.

Sam realized that she was really upset.

“Well, Big Brother does screw up now and
then,” laughed Sam. “But I have a possible solution. You won’t tell
me anything about your case, so I’ll do some guessing. Since you
are looking for Mickey, your case must involve that guy Jackson,
who was shot—the guy who had Mickey’s business card. Since you seem
to have been poorly briefed, maybe you don’t know that Jackson has
been identified as William Winston. The cops here didn’t get far on
finding his killer because you Feds swooped down and took all the
evidence and the case. Now, finally, you show up. It must be your
case now, right?”

“No comment. You said you had a solution in
mind?”

“Christ, you’re a hard ass! No give and take?
Yeah, I have something in mind. You hang around and actually do
some detective work—some real sleuthing. Find out who really killed
Winston, and why. It wasn’t over drugs. Look, why don’t you come
down to my beach house with me, relax, get some California
rays—enjoy the ocean. We’ll kick this thing around and you can go
home with some real info instead of a handful of smog.”

“Oh, you’re cute! Your solution is for me to
spend the weekend with you?” laughed Bo. “You never give up, do
you?”

“No, but I’m serious! I’ve been looking into
this crime on my own. I can’t let Mickey be a suspect, can I? I
don’t want any more people looking for Mickey. I have to solve it!
With your resources, it should be easier. And, of course, I’ll
continue to charm you—but I’ll keep my hands off you till you
change your mind. Where is the Bureau going to stash you? A Motel 6
in this town—and heat? My place is right on the water. You’ll have
your own room—and a chaperon,” Sam said, pleading his case.

“Chaperon?” she asked with an arched eyebrow,
wondering what his scam was.

“My 16-year-old niece, Becky. My parents are
out of town again—it’s actually their house—and Becky is going to
the senior prom tomorrow night. She could probably use a woman
around for moral support. Neither of us has ever experienced
anything like this before,” explained Sam.

“Only 16, and she’s a senior?” inquired Bo,
sensing that his scam was unraveling. “She must be very smart!”

“You might say that. Smarter than you could
ever imagine. But she’s not really a senior.”

He went on to explain a little bit of Becky’s
academic situation, in brief.

“Wow! What a kid! You must be very proud of
her!” exclaimed Bo.

“I am. But I have zero parenting skills. I
just kind of look after her and protect her. Officially, I’m her
legal guardian.”

“It sounds to me as if you have great
parenting skills! I’ll tell you what. I will go with you for the
weekend, as long as we get some ground rules straight,” said Bo,
wondering if she was doing the right thing. She was fascinated by
Becky, however, and wanted to meet her.

Gotcha!
thought an elated Sam as he licked his lips.

Friday, June 1, 2001

Santa Ana, CA

They drove back to Sam’s office and he
directed Bo to the building a block away where he kept his Camaro.
She parked in front of the building. Sam got out and unlocked a
padlock on a two-car garage, then raised the door. He motioned for
her to pull in next to his red Camaro convertible. He kept his
surveillance van in the adjacent garage.

“We’ll take my car. However, I don’t want to
leave your rental car in the lot at the office. It would be
stripped or stolen before we got to the freeway.”

He took her suitcase—actually her carry-on
bag: she traveled light—and put it in the trunk of the Camaro. She
took a cell phone out of her purse.

“I’d better call the SAC in L.A.and tell him
I’ve made my own arrangements,” announced Bo.

She walked a few yards away and began talking
earnestly while Sam backed his car out of the garage. He locked the
garage. A low-slung Chevy with sub-woofers pounding cruised by. It
was filled with young Latinos, and they eyed his Camaro. Sam
recognized the guy in the front passenger seat, a local gang
member. The guy gave him a thumbs-up, pointed at the car. Sam
returned the gesture and the guy gave him a toothy grin.

Don’t even think of it,
Juanito!
mused Sam
. You touch
my car, you join your brother in Boot Hill!

“OK,” stated Bo as she strode back to where
Sam was standing, watching the boom box turn the corner. “He wasn’t
very happy, but I’m clear for the weekend.”

“What miserable thing did he want you to do?”
queried Sam as he opened the passenger door for her.

“Spend the weekend in bed with him! It seems
that men have only one thing on their minds,” she laughed.

Ouch! At least she laughed!

“But you chose me! I’m so flattered!” leered
Sam.

“Keep your pants zipped, Crown! Remember our
agreement!”

She settled back in the soft seat and inhaled
the smell of leather as she fastened her seat belt.

“Hmm. Yummy car!” she smiled. He smiled.

By the time they got to the I-5
freeway, and were heading south toward Dana Point, it was 6:00 P.M.
Sam wanted to open the Camaro up and let Bo feel the breeze in her
hair, but the Friday traffic was inching along at 25 to 35 miles
per hour. They chatted about Becky and the beach, and about Sam’s
P.I. business. Bo was closed mouth about her mission, but Sam knew
it had to be about
Dynology
.
After they passed the Crown Valley Parkway exit, the traffic opened
up and he sped up to 85 mph for a short stretch.