Orange Burns

By David Sand

When a most valuable player is accused of murdering his black wife using a baseball bat, a chase across Orange County begins. Residents of a rural community risk everything to solve this murder mystery that turns the cliches of the genre upside down. When "orange burns," the traditional is turned to the tragic, and back again. Still a story with humor, as only a novel set in 2020 could be, the issues of the year unfold as Officer Sandy Cortes and David Black try to stop the vicious killer. This whodunit will have you guessing, in desperation, as its characters are caught up in the horror of multiple senseless deaths.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638819882

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Copyright © 2022 David Sand Corporation

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2022

This is a fiction novel. Of course, it is a work full of imaginary places, companies, and history. No reference to Orange County, its agencies, or its employees is reflective of real governmental entities or their hard workers. All incidents and characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 978-1-63881-986-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63881-987-5 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63881-988-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Part 1

If you can’t stand the issues, then don’t take this walk.

Chapter 1

Are you watching television?

No.

Well, you had better turn it on and see what is going on in the world.

David Black glanced at the clock. It was almost time for his morning walk. His mother’s daily telephone call, usually about 10:00 a.m., was now coming in at eight o’clock. Her later call always came after his mother had finished reading the newspaper, all of the obituaries, and any of the Orange County incidents of crime. She was a fanatic in watching televised crime dramas or in reading multiple magazines on famous personalities and their juicy gossip. She even watched that Las Vegas prosecutor turned talk show host, her favorite show, because of the hate shown toward criminals caught in the act. Ruth Black always made a morning report to her son regarding the latest in violent murders or other wrongdoings. Today the report came early.

Now what is going on?

Well, it is only on all of the stations. Rosie the Rocket is being chased by the California police, up Highway 40. His Mercedes is going about fifty miles per hour, the only car doing the speed limit, with about seven police vehicles in pursuit. He has murdered his wife.

Oh, here we go. Did anyone see him murder his wife? David always felt his mother jumped to conclusions about who had committed the crime, before evaluating all the facts properly. He knew she had a vast understanding of human nature, from all of her reading, but his sense of logic dictated that there be a substantial amount of evidence before declaring guilt. Still he picked up the remote and turned on the morning news stations.

Well, he is running from the police, isn’t he? He did it.

The picture came into view, and there was a shot of Highway 40, with a silver Mercedes and the police riding slowly up the lanes of traffic. Highway 40 was the main artery for California traffic, running the length of the state. Every car that entered California would eventually ride on the Forty. David heard the newsman say, He is approaching the Noodle Bowl. This was the most famous section of the Forty. It was forty-five lanes wide—in one direction—and forty-seven in the opposite direction. Most ancillary roads merged in a tangle of single or double lane on ramps or off ramps, creating a snake nest-like ensnarement of concrete and tar. Most people termed this mess the Noodle Bowl referring to the Asian meal, with long satisfying strands in broth. Centrally located in the county, this section of the Forty was world famous as the largest road on earth. However, the traffic still clogged up and stopped during rush hour. And there was Rosie’s Mercedes creeping into the Noodle Bowl on every station that David tried.

David’s mother continued, They are bound to catch him. It’s rush hour with people going into work. He will get stuck in the Noodle Bowl. The Mercedes slowly began to approach stalled traffic.

So what did he do?

Bashed his wife’s head in with a baseball bat, that’s all. Husbands are always killing their wives.

No, they aren’t. So who saw this?

"No one has come forward yet, but come on, a famous sports figure and most valuable player in baseball, whose wife is found in the home, dead from being hit with one of his bats, and now he is on the run. Get a grip, David, that is guilty." The Mercedes had moved into the lane reserved for troubled vehicles, or police use, that runs along the traffic lanes and then moved to one of the off ramps and scraped the side of the car, as he drove into another backed-up portion, and then around that obstacle.

Look, I have to get ready for my walk. Let me watch this and catch up before I leave, and I’ll talk to you later. David knew that he would be talking to her later. Most of the conversations with his mother included his excuses for trying to get her off the telephone. This chase scene unfolding afforded a new way to avoid further debate on a man’s innocence.

Ruth Black said, Well, I will keep you informed, so expect me to call you after ten, to fill you in on what you missed while out walking.

Well, remember that I have to get ready for work. Call me later today.

I am sure that before this is over, there will be a witness or some evidence. I’ll bet his fingerprints are all over the baseball bat.

Why not? He is a baseball star. His prints are probably on hundreds of baseball bats.

As he hung up the phone, David picked up the remote and went through the stations, finally choosing one that only had the chase as a small picture, within a picture of the male newsperson reporting on the morning incident. The maid found her dead in the home when she reported to work at 7:00 a.m., he said. The screen changed to an outdoor shot of Rosie Mason’s mansion in Bayard Coast. More on this crime when we come back. David used this break to change into his walking clothes.

Rosie the Rocket had a real name that was Ross Mason. Everyone knew the story of how he became known as Rosie and the resulting fame it brought. Most people liked the handsome pitcher whose fastball had made him the highest-paid player in his second major league year. It was on the first game in the first year that the mistake happened. A printing error on the list of names was given to the ballpark announcer. Ross was listed as Rose. So when the first pitch zoomed over the plate, the announcer cheered that Rose was a winner. Every game after that the sportscasters started to joke about Rose, then Rosie, and his fastball. In fact, Ross Mason’s throws were clocked at over 100 mph. Then came the title of the Rocket. By the second major league year, Rosie and his rocket ball, after landing the largest contract for that season, became even more notorious. Out and About, the LGBTQ magazine, featured a drawing of Rosie in the pose of Rosie the Riveter, the World War II heroine, with his swollen muscular arm raised in a fist clutching a baseball, that was exaggerated and so funny that it was shown on every news station around the world. To make matters worse, Ross then dyed his hair platinum blond to match the artwork, like the curls of hair under the doo rag that was drawn on his head. Because Ross Mason was white, the platinum hair bleached him out, to a faded appearance that was almost ghostly. Rosie was chalk white.

Then Ross married a black woman, Maxine, a sensual model whose face was known because of appearing on a number of fashion magazines. Their love story, and the photos of their courtship, nights out, or attendance at awards shows, was blown up into a fantasy, as only the media could create. And why not? She was always graceful and beautiful in the most fashionable outfits, which pleased half of the audience, while he was a major success at his sport, good-looking, with money to spend, which pleased the other half of the television audience. Writers, photographers, and editors all added their portion into the myth created about the Rosie-Maxine romance. Almost everyone in the nation became educated about the pitcher and his model wife.

Now, given the murder of Maxine, was there something else going on between the couple that no one knew? Just as creative in developing the romance myth, the media could now opine about the negatives in this relationship, taking all of its troubles and blowing them out of proportion. With a simple twist of their story, it became fair to publish all types of slander so that the writers, photographers, and editors could then add their portion of the knife in the back of Rosie’s success.

Chapter 2

Peachee called that she was ready for the morning walk. David replied with the usual I’ll meet you outside.

David Black’s home was located in the town of Dense Woods. Dense was not any reflection on the intelligence of the local officials. The word reflected the location in the county. Like all eastern communities, it was located near the mountains with the wilderness area spreading down from their peaks. Dense Woods was a community unto itself, with few developments. It was also home to deer, mountain lions, raccoons, rats, rabbits, coyotes, snakes, and any number of birds that flew down to roost. It’s deep, dark growth of pines and wild oak gave a freshness to the air around it. The remote area was one of the reasons that David bought his small stucco house there. The community was so small that it did not even have a town hall or central meeting place. It did have a mayor though.

David stepped outside. His home was right on the edge of what was called the wilderness park, which meant acres of untouched natural landscape. Peachee’s home was to the right of his house, where she lived with her husband, Amos, and her only child, twenty-two-year-old Luke. To the left of David’s house lived an old retired couple, a nice pair who hardly ever came out of their home. But across the street, David saw his other neighbor. There was the Gravedigger outside digging holes in his lawn again. Obviously, by the pet name that he secretly called this neighbor, he was not a favorite of David’s. Why this guy was always standing in front with a shovel, a hangdog expression on his face, David had no idea; and no one else in the neighborhood could figure it out either.

Peachee was already outside walking down the slight slope in the road, and David joined her. The Gravedigger just stared, as if it would hurt him to say, Good morning. The two walkers ignored him as well, already aware of his unfriendly attitude. Because of the morning news, there was a lot to talk about, so they both felt they had better get to it.

Did you see the chase on television? David asked, always eager to beat Peachee to the latest breaking story. This was especially important as she had all the best tech equipment, like the newest cell phones, laptops, large-screen TVs, and all the appliances with interconnected web apps that allowed her to check her roast in the oven as they walked, if she wanted to. David hated all tech stuff, although he did sometimes use an old flip phone, which he turned on at least twice a month. Still he was more informed than most people in the county about what was going on.

Yes, I saw it, Peachee said. I always liked Ross Mason. Now he is just another white guy trying to avoid paying for his crime.

They started out of the housing project they lived in, walking out the small street that formed an entrance to the homes, out to the main road lined in pines, and down the hill, as the start of their walk. Most of the daily walk was downhill, then at the end came the steep climb back up, on a series of interconnected roads that formed a two-mile circle. This the pair did every day. Sometimes they added on extra side trips, like the extra section just before the climb back up that goes out on a single lane of pavement, through the trees, to the last remaining Orange Grove left in the county. There, in what could be considered the forest, was a group of about thirty trees, whose fragrance this spring would be worth the additional steps.

David asked Peachee, Should we go there? and they paused before the climb. Peachee’s little step counter wristwatch asked her, Are you stopping? and this prompted the pair forward, up the hills.

No, I need to get home. Amos is being a pain again, Peachee said of her husband.

David replied, Yeah, and I still have to shower and get to the bank on time. The conversation turned back to the murder of Maxine.

Nobody cares that a black woman was murdered. Peachee started it over.

Oh, here we go, David replied.

If you can’t stand the issues, then don’t take this walk.

Was Peachee too tart? Some people who would overhear them might think that Peachee and David were in an argument. But this was normal conversation for them. They had been friends so long and had discussed so many issues over time that when one flared up, and voices were raised, it was something that both were used to. Most of the issues they agreed upon, which was why they remained friends. But even these best friends had that one incident when the discussion devolved into yelling, with vile things being spewed by both parties, a fire that no one could put out. Two days later, they were back taking their daily walk together.

Peachee was a well-to-do black woman living in Orange County. Like most upper-class women, she was comfortable in her beliefs and defended them. David liked this and also liked playing what is sometimes called devil’s advocate, which meant throwing out alternative beliefs, to cause a questioning of the fundamentals that most rigid thinkers hold. They were friends even though David was of a different race. Here Black was white.

You know exactly how black people are treated and in their deaths how ignored, Peachee preached.

Yes, and that is why I am glad that you have all that tech. Nothing is better than a cell phone to document, as evidence, all the crap that goes on.

Then David said, There’s the Bra Lady. Striding down the hill was one of the other walkers that the pair would see once in a while. Sometimes the people they passed would stop and talk, since most saw the pair out every day and knew of them. If the passersby didn’t get to know David and Peachee, then the pair indulged in the use of pet names. This woman, who always went out walking wearing a pair of short pants, and her bra, was someone they had never talked to. With her midsize frame, she was not the best looking of sports bodies strolling along. Her choice of clothes had made the pair question her sanity upon the past walks by her.

There were others they passed, like a man they called Mr. Money, older, in his fifties, with his head in the air, who always acted like he was afraid to talk to a black person. Or the old North Korean woman in her eighties who walked so slowly up the hill. The two walkers liked her, and frequently stopped to talk to her, but could never communicate well since she knew no English and they knew no Korean. Most talks were done by hand gestures, and they knew that she had escaped from her country a long time ago. They didn’t even know her name, so again they used a pet name, Old North Korea. Also, Peachee was the only other person who knew that David called his neighbor the Gravedigger, instead of talking of him using his real name.

On the issue of black victims, David knew that Peachee was right. Still he did not want the talk to go in the direction of race as an issue. It had not been an issue when Ross married Maxine, and it could not be an issue in her murder. Even though the differences between the two walkers made race one of the most difficult issues to cover, David frequently joked with Peachee that while he was traveling across Orange County, he had actually seen two black people. Then he would finish it by informing her that he had seen her and her husband. Of course, there were other blacks living somewhere; Maxine, for example, had been living in Bayard Coast. However, a person only had to stand inside the largest mall in Orange County, and study the race of the people passing by, to see the low percentage of blacks being represented there.

Chapter 3

By the end of the day, Ross Mason was in police custody. This was on the evening news when Hamid Amir turned on his television. He had just completed his day as a taxi driver in Las Vegas.

Now he knew that trouble had finally caught up with him. With a bolt of shock that shot through him, making him sweat, all of his past was just relived, in the fraction of a second.

He saw himself as a young man, deeply in love with Nahid, who would later become his wife. But he was Iranian. It meant that when he was a young man in his country, he lived through the year 1979. Political trouble had been tearing his country apart. His father supported the Shah. Hamid was too young to care about what was happening in Tehran. He lived in a smaller city to the north, Tabriz. He cared only about Nahid. His mother had already passed away from a heart condition, leaving him without brothers or sisters.

Then the political situation to the south worsened considerably, with political fragmentation, armed militia, and religious zealotry. Hamid wanted to get out and take his young girlfriend with him. There seemed to be no time to marry, no time to wait to leave, or so the young couple felt, or they would never escape. They had little money to pay their way out. But Nahid’s mother and family took pity on the young lovers. They pooled the family money. They agreed to take in Hamid’s father, so Hamid sold off what belongings he could. Then the young couple brought forged papers, visas, and passports so that they could escape. From Tabriz, they could get into Turkey and pretend to be Turkish, maybe get to Europe. But their escape was all based upon forged documents. If anyone should look closely, his façade of a life could collapse.

Still with the payment of a few bribes, they gained entry to Turkey. The couple married in Istanbul in one of the beautiful mosques built by the sea. They lived there for about five years, and no one questioned that they weren’t in fact Turkish. But political upheaval never leaves you. The young couple lived in constant fear, because those around them knew that Iranians were very different from Turks. Maybe Europe would be safer. They were now in their twenties, and it might be easier to claim to be Turks if they were in Germany or France. Then they began to discuss trying to go to the United States. But would their false paperwork hold up? Hamid worked two more years, before trying for European entry, or to obtain a visa to Italy. They could take a boat to Bari and, as an immigrant, feel a bit safer. But if they were discovered, they would be imprisoned in Iran.

On the boat trip to Italy, Nahid did not have her regular period. They thought maybe it was stress. But Nahid Amir was pregnant. They entered Italy, and Hamid began looking for work, any kind of work. He was lucky in finding something quickly, hard labor, the kind that afforded them a better place to live. So they prepared for their first child to be born, saving a meager amount of lira toward that coming expense. But the rough life of an escapee told hard on his fragile wife. Their firstborn miscarried in the seventh month, and they were left childless.

This made Hamid even more determined to go to the United States where he believed a new kind of security could be found. He worked while Nahid was recovering, adding more to their savings. Then he applied for their visas as Turkish citizens, ones that allowed them immigration from Italy to New York. They waited for their approvals. Then they waited longer. Hamid continued to work and save. Then Nahid became pregnant again, and the couple had the sorrow of losing their second child as well. Nahid was not able to cope with these losses, sitting for hours in sadness, until a change of circumstances happened. Their visas were approved for going to New York. This couple, now almost in their thirties, wanted to leave Italy and all of its loss behind them. They cared little for any of their belongings. What importance could clothes or things have when the chance to be free and finally escape was opened before them?

They bought two airline tickets with the money they saved. Several hours on a flight and they would be in a new country, in America. What they took fit into two suitcases. Hamid looked at his wife as they waited to board that flight, the sadness already making wrinkles in the face he so loved. His wife tightly held on to the little bag that held their paperwork and their tickets to freedom, as if she held one of the children that she had lost. Then they boarded the plane, and as it lifted off the ground, Hamid sighed in relief. Soon he would be working in New York. In what Hamid always said was the most amazing part of his life, when he arrived in New York, his papers were hardly even looked at; and he was allowed into a new standard of life, with the careless wave of the official’s hand.

Hamid worked hard to support his wife. He took up driving a taxi and obtained his license and all necessary paperwork to begin that job.