Crown's Dilemma

By Wolf Wootan

Hard-boiled private eye Sam Crown once said, “The line between a firing squad and a Medal of Honor is as thin as a razor’s edge.” He is once again faced with such a dilemma: should he step over that thin line if it offers him a chance to save an innocent girl’s life?
That’s just one problem Sam has to deal with in Crown’s Dilemma. A thirty-year-old photo taken in Saigon pops up and threatens to destroy Sam and his family, a fire-storm he must extinguish at all costs.
His beautiful wife Bo—an ex-FBI agent turned PI and attorney—must try her hand at criminal law to save a friend who has been falsely accused of a crime by a dirty cop.
And Becky, their adopted genius daughter, discovers that there is more to life than mathematics and physics as she finally has her first date. This catches Sam off guard and forces him to face the fact that his daughter is growing up
Sam is once again drawn into a reluctant alliance with Las Vegas crime boss Tony Bracco. John Crown, Sam’s ex-CIA-agent father, does not care for the attention that Bracco pays to his granddaughter, Becky, and issues a stern warning.

“I don’t threaten, I just act. Anybody that hurts that girl in any way will never live long enough to regret it.”
A small smile formed on Bracco’s lips. “We are of one mind on that.”
He lifted his glass and so did John. They clinked them together. Bracco said, “To Professor Crown. May she always be happy—and safe.”
John just nodded.
Bracco stuck the stub of his cheroot into an urn that was filled with sand. John knocked the ashes out of his pipe into it. They drained their glasses of the last of the whiskey and left them on the wooden bench. The two of them went back inside.
Bracco thought, This harmless-looking old man is the deadliest person I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t want to be the one who messed with his family. I suspect a couple of phone calls to his “club” is all it takes. Invisible people who don’t exist. God, and I thought I had power.

The action is non-stop and the body count is high.

One of them stood up, a gun in his hand, to get a better look at the newcomers. Smith calmly stopped next to another Harley, dropped the kick stand and turned off his engine. He stepped off his bike, swung his silenced MP-5 up, and shot the two guards, three shots into each of them. They died instantly. He walked towards the porch.

This is the third book in the Sam Crown Mystery Series. Jump on the Crownsville Express for your most thrilling ride yet. But wait! Just as you think the ride is over, it isn’t. Hold on to your hat for the surprise ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Wootan
• Release date: Jan 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458183361

Wolf Wootan

I am the author of the Sam Crown private-eye mystery/thriller series. In order of writing: Crown's Law (top five finalist in Reader Views literary contest), Crown's Justice, and Crown's Dilemma. Crown's Jewels is due out soon. I am a member of Private Eye Writers of America (PWA). My books are for adult readers. I write character-driven action/thrillers with a dose of romance. I try to appeal to both men and women readers, and so far the critics think that I have succeeded. Try my books and make your own assessment. I am currently writing two series: One follows the Edge of Tomorrow path, a high-tech, international spy/assassin series. The other follows Crown's Law, a hardboiled private eye series. I was lucky enough to get professional reviews for some of my manuscripts. Read them at my website. You might find an interview I did with Reader Views interesting at http://www.readerviews.com/InterviewWootan.html.

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Crown’s Dilemma

A Sam Crown Mystery/Thriller

by

Wolf Wootan

©Copyright 2010, Wolf Wootan

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

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Chapter 1

Capistrano Beach, CA

Sunday, May 4, 2003

8:22 A.M.

Surfers bobbing, Hobie Cats with rainbow sails skimming the glistening water, sandpipers skittering along the sand at the edge of the surf in search of soft-shelled crabs, pelicans diving for fish, Catalina Island lurking on the horizon. This was the view Sam Crown had as he stood in front of his gas grill on the redwood deck of his house on Beach Road. A typical, lazy Sunday morning at the beach. No naked lady washed up on the sand today. Sam wondered how Angelina Torrance was doing and whether she had put that traumatizing event behind her yet. He was glad that case was behind him. He hoped he never had another as stressful as that one.

Maybe I should close the office for a week and take Bo and Becky to Colorado to visit Bo’s family. Maybe shoot the rapids on a raft again with Bo. Hmm. Or go to Hawaii. The water’s warmer there.

The hi-fi system behind his wet bar was filling the air with the soft strains of Sinatra singing That’s Life. Bo Crown lit one of her long, filtered cigarettes as she and Becky sat at one of the round tables on the deck of their beach house. Sam was whipping up some breakfast for the three of them. He was still wearing his red swim trunks and had donned one of his many Aloha shirts. This one was sky blue and was adorned with old woodies with surf boards on top. His gals—wife and adopted daughter—wore colorful bikinis and filmy cover-ups. It was a clear day, no clouds in sight, and if the weather report was right, it was going to be a hotter than usual day for the miserable souls who were not lucky enough to be sitting in a gentle, cool ocean breeze. Sam mused that May didn’t get many days like this, but that’s Southern California for you. Sam had done his swim to the San Clemente Pier and back by himself this morning. Both the women had slept in today, though they usually swam out and met him at Poche on his way back. The two of them had stayed up until the wee hours discussing Becky’s announcement that she should move out now that she was eighteen. Or at least pay rent.

Bo blew smoke up at the blue and white umbrella that shaded them from the hot sun, tapped an ash into an abalone shell ashtray, took a sip of her mimosa, and said, Sam, maybe you can speak to your daughter. She won’t listen to me. This moving out just because she’s a legal adult now is a bunch of crap.

Becky had turned eighteen on January twelfth. Sam turned from his grill where he was cracking eggs into a skillet filled with chopped onions, chopped bell peppers, and thinly-sliced baked potatoes and smiled. Sliced English muffins were toasting on the grill. The aromas of frying onions and brewing coffee assaulted the fresh, salty air. The table was already set with three placemats, silverware, salt and pepper, a large bowl of sliced cantaloupe, and an assortment of jams and jellies. They ate nearly all of their meals out here.

She’s just trying to aggravate you. She doesn’t want to move out. She feels that she must make the offer. Right, Beck?

Becky got a silly grin on her face and said, You always know what I’m thinking, Sam. But you guys need your privacy.

He replied as he stirred the eggs, This place is so big that ten other people could be living here and we wouldn’t even know it. Besides, your grandparents are next door and they wouldn’t allow it anyway. You are the kid they never had in me. I was their big disappointment and you are their answered prayer.

I could visit them and you guys wherever I live.

Not the same. What’s this really all about?

Becky took a sip from her glass of orange juice and answered, You guys and Nana and Grandpa made such a big deal on my birthday. Like it was some major milestone. I thought I was supposed to make some big decision, or something. I knew you’d pressure me to stay, but I thought I might talk you into letting me pay rent. Pay my own way for a change. I can certainly afford it.

Bo said, "Is that what this is all about? Christ, Becky, you already pay all the rent and office expenses at Crown Investigations. And you only use one office over there. Why do you feel obligated to pay more?"

I’m trying to do the adult thing. I’ve never been an adult before, you know.

Sam said, We always make a big deal on your birthday. Always have since I brought you here as a scared, homeless thirteen-year-old kid. Look, kiddo, you had the innocence of your childhood taken away from you, but there’s still time to be a kid if you want. And this is the place to do it. You don’t have to be a professor of physics and math at UCI 24/7. And as far as being an adult is concerned, you could have declared emancipation when you were sixteen and left then. Instead, you decided to get adopted and hang around and manipulate Bo and me into being the mother and father you’ve wanted all your life. Well, we need more training. You can’t go. You can’t pay rent. End of discussion.

Becky smiled. "Manipulate? Moi? Am I that obvious?"

Bo laughed. Yes. Becky, we love you and want you around. We’re selfish. We need you.

Becky teared up a bit. Thanks, Mom. I really do want to stay. I have my apartment up by UCI. I can stay up there when you guys need some space. I was afraid you might want me to leave now that I’m eighteen.

Bo said, Hogwash, Beck. Wherever did you read that? We need you so we have a good excuse to cook baby-back pork ribs when your grandparents come over to dinner. They can’t deny you anything.

Becky giggled, remembering how Sam’s very prim and proper mother thought eating barbecued ribs too messy and uncouth for civilized people. Becky had shamed her into trying them when they visited Bo’s parents in Colorado last year (don’t insult your hosts) and she admitted she liked them. Just still too messy. Especially for her fancy, five-star dinner parties. She was one of the leaders of the Orange County social scene.

Sam added, Remember, Beck, what I told you about laws? If men can make laws, they can change them. There was a time not too long ago when you had to be twenty-one to be a so-called adult. Then they changed it to eighteen. Maybe tomorrow they’ll change it again. It’s a moving target. And you still can’t buy booze till you’re twenty-one. What kind of sense does that make? Are there gradations of adulthood? The poor eighteen-year-old grunts in the military can’t even drink a beer legally, but they can fight, lose their limbs, and die for the hypocrites who pass the stupid laws. I sure drank a lot of beer when I was in ’Nam and I never saw one friggin’ senator there telling me I couldn’t. I never reached the age of twenty-one over there. I was lucky to make it to twenty. And besides, you were more adult at sixteen than most people ever are. Stop fretting the small stuff.

Sam’s cell phone started ringing, interrupting his dialogue. It was on the wet bar next to his grill. He wiped his hands on a towel and walked over to the bar, picked up the phone and glanced at the Caller ID. He answered it.

Hello, Sparky. What brings you to call on a Sunday morning? Too hot up there in Santa Ana already? Those Santa Ana winds can wreck havoc up there.

Yeah, it’s boiling here, Sam. Especially for this time of year. But not here in the bar. I’ve got the A/C up full blast. Lot of customers are here hanging out to beat the heat. Hate to interrupt you on a Sunday, but I’ve got a problem. Maybe you can tell me what to do.

Sam picked up his Bloody Mary, took a sip, the tangy horseradish biting his tongue, and said, What’s the problem?

You know Boomer’s friend Bob Jennings don’t you? The one they call ‘Tiger’.

Yeah, I know him. I helped get him probation a couple of years ago.

Well, he’s just been arrested for assault, robbery and attempted murder. He’s in the Orange County jail waiting for a PD to show up. The guys here at the bar swear he’s innocent because he was here when the assault went down.

The cops won’t put much credence in their testimony. You know that.

I know. Neither will a Public Defender. Tiger’ll just be shuffled back into the system for something he didn’t do. He’s been clean for a long time and doesn’t deserve this. They fucked him up pretty good in ’Nam and now they want to throw him on the trash heap again. This could finish him.

Sam glanced at Bo. She had her license to practice law in California now, thanks to Paul Franco, who had trained her so she could pass the California State Bar Exam. She had a law degree when she joined the FBI, but didn’t use it to practice law during her eleven years with them. She also had her Private Investigator’s License, and although she is a crack shot, especially with a variety of handguns, and an avid investigator, she let Sam take care of most of the PI work at Crown Investigations. She did a lot of legal work at Franco’s law office, which pleased Pearl, their Office Manager, because it added money to the company’s coffers. Paul Franco was one of the best criminal defense attorneys in Orange County, perhaps even the state. Sam figured he should have Bo call him and get his advice.

Hang on a minute, Sparky.

He put Sparky on hold and said to Bo, This is Sparky. One of Boomer’s friends is in trouble. Do you remember Tiger Jennings?

Of course. Wasn’t he one of the bikers that helped rescue me and Becky from those awful kidnappers?

Yeah. He just got arrested for assault and robbery and is in the Orange County jail. The bikers swear he is innocent. Do you think Paul Franco could get him out on bail while we look into this? He’s currently waiting for a PD to show up. Who knows when that’ll be?

Bo ground out her cigarette in the large abalone ashtray and said, I could go up and do that, but Paul would be better at it. I don’t have any hands-on experience. I’ll call him and ruin his day. Tell Sparky to hang in there. We’ll figure something out.

Sam told Sparky he’d call him back as soon as they had a plan. He hung up and handed the phone to Bo.

Call Paul.

Bo said, This being Sunday, we probably won’t be able to get a bail hearing before tomorrow. This is not like a drunk-in-public or disturbing the peace. These are serious charges. I’ll see what Paul thinks.

She found Franco’s home number in the phone’s address book and called him. He answered on the third ring.

Yes, Bo? What’s up?

I hope I didn’t spoil your day with your family. You don’t take that many days off.

No, I’m not in the middle of anything yet. I’m going to grill some burgers and dogs for the family a bit later. They’re all in the pool right now. This weather’s a bitch, isn’t it?

Not here on the beach.

So rub it in.

She told him about the Tiger Jennings situation and pointed out that he was one of the bikers that helped rescue her and Becky from those kidnappers several months ago.

Bo wrapped up with, And he doesn’t have enough money to hire a good attorney. I would do it pro bono but I have exactly zero experience in criminal trials. Even a bad Public Defender would help him more than I could.

Paul replied, Maybe it’s time you got some trial experience. How about this: I’ll take the case pro bono and you can sit second chair. If he’s a good friend of yours, that’s the least I can do.

Bo replied, God, thank you, Paul. Do you think we can get him out on bail?

Probably not till tomorrow, but let’s go up to Santa Ana and find out what’s what. I’ll meet you at the jail in about an hour and a half and get it established that I’m his attorney-of-record. I’ll get the cops and their rubber hoses off his back, at least.

Thanks, Paul. See you there.

She disconnected the phone and told Sam and Becky what Paul had said.

Sam said, You know how I feel about you getting involved in criminal law. But in this case, I think I’ll withdraw my objections. Paul Franco is the best defense attorney he could ever have, but I think he’s only doing this for you. Well, this skillet of goodies is ready. Let’s eat breakfast before we go. I don’t want this to go to waste. I’ll just throw some cheddar cheese on it and we can eat.

Bo said, Let me call Sparky and tell him what’s going on.

Make it short. This stuff is gourmet. My mouth is watering.

Becky said, You have to help him, Sam. He helped save Mom and me from sure death. And he shoots a mean game of nine-ball.

Sam thought, No chance of a vacation now.

* * * * *

Sam pulled his red Camaro convertible to a stop in a loading zone in front of the jail building. He had the top up and the air conditioner going full blast. It was hot in Santa Ana.

He said to Bo, "You jump out and go see if Paul is here yet. They probably won’t let me in to see him this soon after the arrest. Only lawyers. I’ll cruise on over to Sparky’s and see what I can find out. Have Paul drop you off there when you’re through."

Okay. This shouldn’t take too long. See you later.

She opened the passenger door and got out. A blast of hot air rushed into the car before she could get the door closed. Sam cursed the heat under his breath and headed over to Fourth Street.

He thought, Why couldn’t Tiger get arrested on a cool day?

* * * * *

When Sam arrived at Sparky’s Club, he saw at least a dozen motorcycles backed into the curb out front. Mostly Harleys and Indians. He saw an empty parking place across the street. He did a quick u-turn and eased his Camaro into the curb. He got out, adjusted his sun glasses, and headed across the street. He opened the front door of the notorious bar and went in.

Sparky’s Club is owned and operated by Sparky O’Hara. Sparky is a big Irishman with white, thinning hair, a big nose that has been broken more than once, and clear blue eyes. He stands about six feet two inches and weighs in at 250 pounds. Sam had run into Sparky a couple of times in Saigon during the war when he was on R & R. Sparky had been a Gunnery Sergeant then, Sam a Corporal. Sam took off his shades so he could see in the dimly-lit bar. A long bar ran along the left side and he spotted Sparky standing behind it. Several bikers were playing pool on the three pool tables in the back. A juke box blared a country-western song by Willie Nelson. As Sam walked towards the bar, the pool players all fell silent, stopped playing, and watched him. Sam stopped in front of Sparky.

Sparky. Bo and a lawyer friend of hers are down at the jail. They’ll see whether they can get Tiger out on bail. It won’t be today, though. Tell me what’s going on.

The pool players began gathering around Sam so they could hear what was being said. Some of the bikers who were sitting in the maroon-colored booths along the right side of the room drinking beer and eating Sparky’s famous French dip sandwiches came over to the bar to listen in. Most of them were friends of Sam. All of them were ex-felons, mostly for drug charges. Sam was not a big supporter of the War on Drugs. He felt that giving drug users stiffer penalties than wife-beaters and child molesters was an atrocity, so he had helped many of these guys go straight when they got out of prison by helping them get jobs. No one was allowed back into Sparky’s if they fell back into a life of crime. Sparky enforced that rule with an iron fist—and a baseball bat. Sometimes strangers wandered in to get a drink, and if they got drunk and belligerent, they were summarily tossed out into the alley where the dumpsters were.

Sparky reached under the bar and turned down the volume on the juke box.

Then he launched a tirade. "I’ll tell what’s going on. It’s that damned cop in the Sheriff’s Department. Investigator Craig Cotton. He’s been harassing the bikers for months. Especially the Falcons. He arrests the guys for no reason. None of his arrests have stuck so far. It’s plain and simple trouble making. This one with Tiger though is more serious. They claim to have a witness. The victim himself. He says Tiger beat him up and took his wallet and watch."

Boomer, the leader of the Falcons’ Motorcycle Club, chimed in. This is all bullshit, Sam. They said the assault took place yesterday at four o’clock. Tiger was here all day yesterday. He couldn’t have done it.

Sam said, You say all of these arrests are by Craig Cotton?

Sparky replied, Yeah. Well, at least, he’s always there. With some other deputies from the Sheriff’s.

Sam said, That’s odd. Santa Ana PD has jurisdiction in this area. Not the Sheriff’s.

Boomer said, Yeah, and you know the Santa Ana cops leave us alone. They let us police ourselves. But that bastard Cotton is pretty smart that way. He always waits until the guys are out of Santa Ana. In Sheriff’s territory.

Where did they arrest Tiger?

At his apartment down in San Juan Capistrano.

Several cities in Orange County contracted their policing from the Sheriff’s Department. San Juan Capistrano was one of them.

Sam ran his hand through his hair and said, And where did the alleged attack take place?

Boomer replied, "San Juan. There are a few gangs down there. Tiger used to run with one of them awhile back. The Gatos. He was one of the few gringos in the gang. Most of them are Mexican. He quit them a long time ago."

Sam said, Well, we’ll just have to let the lawyers sort this out. One of the best attorneys in the county, Paul Franco, has agreed to take Tiger’s case pro bono. Bo works in his office from time to time. If he can’t get him off, no one can. Bo will be assisting him. They’ll probably ask you guys a lot of questions before this mess is over with.

Sam didn’t tell them that he knew Craig Cotton quite well. From his days with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department (OCSD). Sam had been there seventeen years. When he left, he was a Sergeant and a homicide investigator. The brass kept trying to make him a Lieutenant and take him off the street, so he resigned and became a private investigator. He refused to fight crime from a desk. Cotton was a dirty cop that hadn’t quite got caught yet. Internal Affairs had investigated him more than once but never pinned anything on him that would stick. Sam would give him a close look before this was over. The front door opened and Bo followed the shaft of light in. She took off her dark glasses and walked over to the bar. She slid onto a bar stool next to Sam and crossed her long legs. All eyes were on her, not only because she had information they all wanted, but because of her striking beauty. Her full name was Rainbow Amelia Trout-Crown, but the only one in the room that knew that was Sam. She preferred Bo to Rainbow—less explaining to do. She was thirty-eight years old, a slim five-feet-nine-inches tall