Crown

Chapter 1

Saturday, August 3, 2002

Capistrano Beach, CA

The naked woman washed up onto the gritty sand right in front of Sam Crown’s beach house. The golden ball of the sun was sinking towards the sea on the distant horizon, rainbow-colored clouds hovering just above it, lighting up the darkening sky. Sam and his wife, Bo, were sipping their evening cocktails at a blue-and-white-umbrella-covered table on their redwood deck, absorbing the healing effects of the magnificent sunset. It was a warm evening and they were both still in their swim suits, Sam in his usual red trunks and Bo in a sexy floral two-piece that showed off her runway-model’s body. The soothing sounds of Tony Bennett singing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” floated out of the outdoor speakers and filled the air. Sam had borrowed the CD from his mother’s collection of oldies. The aroma of grilling steaks on Sam’s barbeque assaulted their senses, nudging their salivary glands.

Bo was staring out to sea, day-dreaming, so she spotted the body first. She dropped her long cigarette in the abalone shell ashtray and jumped to her feet.

“My God, Sam! Look! A naked woman just washed up on the beach!”

“Must be my lucky day,” he grinned.

“I’m not kidding, Sam. Look.”

Sam followed her gaze, then leapt to his feet.

“Christ, you’re right! Let’s get down there before the waves take her back out to sea. She may be alive!”

They both ran down the wooden steps that led from the deck down to the sand, Sam leading the way, and rushed over to the woman. Sam grabbed her under her armpits and gently dragged her out of the swirling water and up onto the dry sand. He brushed her long, black hair out of her face and checked for a pulse. There was none detectable.

“No pulse,” he told Bo.

She replied, “Move. I’ll give her CPR.”

She straddled the woman and began doing chest compressions.

“She can’t have been this way for long — she’s still somewhat warm. Go call 911 while I work on her,” said Bo.

Sam started trotting back up the sand towards the house. After four steps, he heard the woman start coughing up water. He stopped, turned and saw Bo smiling. The woman was breathing in large gulps of air. He returned to the two women.

“Good job, Bo! All that training you got in the FBI finally became useful. You saved her life,” he chuckled.

“This is not quite the time for your dripping sarcasm,” said Bo as she turned the woman’s head so she could spit out some water.

Sam took in the woman’s body. He figured her to be about 5’7”, 135 pounds, with a pair of firm C-cup breasts. Her eyelids were flickering over brown eyes, and her body was a golden brown with only a hint of white skin on her pubic area and the lower parts of her breasts. She obviously wore very small bikinis when she wasn’t naked, or sunbathed in the nude. The overall condition of her body and her smooth skin led him to believe she was less than 30 years old. He knelt and picked her up in his powerful arms.

He said, “Let’s put her in the downstairs bedroom off the deck. Go get the bed ready. We have to get some blankets on her now, before she goes into shock.”

Bo ran towards the house and Sam followed with the bronze-skinned woman in his arms. She stared up at him but didn’t say a word. Bo opened the sliding screen, then the glass slider and dashed into the bedroom. Sam turned sideways and sidled in carefully so he wouldn’t crack the woman’s head on the door jamb. Bo pulled the covers back on the queen-sized bed and Sam eased the woman into it, then covered her up to her neck.

He said to the woman, “Can you hear me?”

She blinked, then gave a slight nod of her head.

“What’s your name?” asked Sam.

She stared at him, wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know,” she replied in a raspy, soft voice.

“Come on, lady. We just saved your life. No need to play dumb with us. I’m Sam Crown and this is my wife, Bo. She gave you CPR.”

“I thank you, but I really can’t remember. The last thing I can recall before I hit the water is a hazy dream. Someone was undressing me. I must have passed out, because the water revived me and I saw a boat pulling away. I waved and yelled, but it just kept going. I started swimming towards land. I thought I was going to make it, but about 100 yards from shore, a large wave tumbled me and I was too weak to fight it. I woke up on the beach. Now I’m in your bed.”

Sam mulled this over, then turned to Bo and said, “Why don’t you zap a cup of chicken broth for her. It will help ward off a chill.”

“OK, but we should call for the paramedics and get her to a hospital.”

“Not yet. Just get her something warm to drink while I talk to her some more. I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Sam . . .”

He gave her a wave of dismissal and she left the room.

Sam said, “Do you think you fell off the boat? Or did someone throw you overboard?”

She thought for a beat. “I don’t know. But the boat went away. I saw someone looking right at me. But it kept on going away from me.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t sound good. Do you remember anything about your past? Like what kind of work you do? Or are you married? Where you live?”

“I don’t remember anything but that swim right now.”

“Temporary amnesia. Maybe after you warm up, your memory will come back.”

“God, I hope so! This is scary.” She pulled the covers close around her neck, shivered.

Bo came in with a steaming cup of chicken broth and set it on the end table, then put another pillow under the woman’s head so she could sip the warm liquid. Bo sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup to her lips.

“Umm, that’s good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Except for your memory loss, you look to be in pretty good shape. How far do you think you swam?” said Bo.

“I would guess a couple of miles. Don’t ask me how I know that. It’s a number that just seems right in the back of my mind.”

“Like maybe you are a trained swimmer?” asked Bo as she gave her another sip of broth.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m awfully tired. Do you think I could sleep for a few minutes? I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open.”

“Of course. Rest for a bit and we’ll keep an eye on you,” said Bo.

With that the woman was instantly asleep. Bo put the cup of broth on an end table and led Sam out of the bedroom and onto the deck. She sat down at the table where their drinks were and Sam got his shirt off the back of the bar stool where he hung it earlier. It was covered with classic station wagons with wood sides and surf boards on top. He slipped it on but didn’t button it.

Sam said, “Our drinks have died. Let me fix us some new ones. The steaks are ruined, too. I’ll cook us some new ones later.”

He turned off the gas barbeque and went behind the wet bar and fixed himself a Cutty and water and poured Bo a new glass of chilled Chardonnay. He joined Bo at the table with the new drinks.

Bo said, “What are you up to, Sam? We should call for an ambulance and get her to the hospital. She’s no longer our problem. You can’t keep all the pretty women that wash up on the beach.”

She smiled. Sam smiled.

“Why not?” he grinned.

“I’m the only woman you get to keep now.”

“Well, pshaw.”

Bo relit her cigarette, sipped her wine, then said, “She looks awfully familiar for some reason. I can’t place why.”

“You mean you actually looked at her face? That woman has a rack . . .”

“Sam! Behave yourself. I know why she’s familiar. A picture in today’s paper. I left it in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”

Bo put her cigarette back in the ashtray, jumped up and went into the kitchen entrance, returned with the Orange County Register. She laid it on the table in front of Sam.

The headline read SECOND JUROR DISAPPEARS. There was a black and white photo halfway down on the right side. It was a perfect likeness of Sam’s mermaid. He scanned the article. Her name was Angelina Torrance. She was on the jury of the big murder trial going on in Santa Ana. She was the second juror in the trial to vanish without a trace. Further down there was a brief bio on her. She was a successful author of children’s books, lived in Mission Viejo, and had won several triathlons. She was 29 years old and unmarried.

Sam looked up. “She’s a triathlete. That explains her swimming prowess. This is that the trial that you’ve been sitting in on, isn’t it?”

“Yes. She looks a little different all soggy and . . . naked, but that’s her. She’s Juror Number Seven. What do we do now, Sam?”

“I suppose — you being an officer of the court and all — we should call the police. I think she is definitely the victim of an attempted homicide. On the other hand, if we can talk her into hiring Crown Investigations, you could be her attorney and I could be her bodyguard, and we could wait and see if she gets her memory back. We might be able to find out who is doing this, and why,” mused Sam as he sipped his scotch.

“You pointed out that I am an officer of the court. I can’t be party to covering up a crime,” shrugged Bo.

“If you were her attorney and I were her P.I., we would have client privilege working for us. Plus, we’re not sure a crime has been committed. It’s just a hunch on my part. That’s what we need to determine. She could have been partying on that boat, got drunk, got naked, and fell off. I don’t trust anything she says at this point. Her memory is suspect, as Becky would say.”

Bo lit a new cigarette and blew smoke towards the sky.

“I suppose you’re right, technically. Tell me why we want to do this?”

“To save her life, maybe? If someone wants her dead, what will the cops do? Nothing. They can’t. Nothing to go on. She needs protection and the cops can’t give her any. There is no real proof yet that a threat exists. You know better than most how that works. If we can stash her somewhere until she gets her memory back, we can take action then, based on what she can remember. In the meantime, I can snoop around and see what’s going on with that trial of yours. Who would want to make jurors vanish? And why?”

“It’s not my trial. Paul just wanted me to sit in and see what a big, media-intensive trial looks like. Part of the training he’s giving me.”

“I hope he doesn’t intend to get you into criminal law. You know how I feel about that.”

“I don’t think he does, but some defendants are innocent, you know. They need good lawyers to represent them.”

“Not many. I was a cop too long to know that most of those scumbags are guilty as hell. An innocent man is a rare thing. How many crooks did you arrest that turned out to be innocent?”

“None. But you know that’s not how the justice system works. And someone has to make sure the evidence presented by the cops is not tainted.”

“You’re thinking more like a lawyer now than a cop. Tainted is one thing, but defense lawyers look for technical crap to get good evidence thrown out. That pisses me off. The entire American justice system is broken. It’s only luck when they get something right. But that is not the subject here. I think we should show Ms. Torrance this paper and see if it jogs her memory. Then I’ll decide what we should do.”

Bo took a drag off her cigarette and said, “We’re not medical professionals. Maybe that would damage her in some way. Put her down deeper.”

“What way? She might like to know who she is. She might be able to give us a clue as to why she ended up in the water.”

“Or not. Let me call for an ambulance and let’s put this behind us. And the cops should be notified that one of the disappearing jurors has surfaced.”

“You’re probably right. I’ve just always had this primordial urge to protect crime victims — something the so-called justice system doesn’t do. They’re too busy making sure they don’t violate the criminals’ rights.”

“I know how you feel about this subject, but you can’t change that,” said Bo.

Sam shrugged, took a pull on his scotch, and stared out to sea, knowing she was right. He saw a 29-foot power boat come chugging along parallel to the shore barely outside the breaker line. It was still light enough to see the person at the stern looking toward the shore using a pair of binoculars. He couldn’t see who was at the helm. The watcher seemed to be female, but Sam couldn’t be sure.

“Damn, that boat is in close. Wonder what they’re looking for?” he said.

Bo went to the wet bar and retrieved the binoculars. “A missing woman, perhaps?”

She focused the powerful glasses on the boat and continued, “The one on the aft deck is a woman with dark hair. She’s looking right at me. I’m going to read you the CF number. Get to the pad on the bar. Quick.”

Sam strode to the bar and wrote down the identification numbers of the boat as Bo recited them. She repeated them as the boat increased speed and headed back out to sea.

Bo said, “Well, that’s either the strangest of coincidences, or maybe you could be right that something bad is happening here. They were definitely searching the shoreline for something. It’s dangerous in this light to come that close to shore in a boat that size. Something must be very important to them. And they certainly gave up the search as soon as they saw me looking at them.”

“Yeah, like they realized their supposed-to-be-dead body swam to shore,” said Sam. “Since they saw you checking them out, we should get Ms. Torrance out of here as soon as possible. They may decide to pay us a visit, whoever they are.”

“I wish they would. We could give them the ‘hands against the wall, feet back and spread ’em’ routine. They wouldn’t expect us to be armed. Maybe we’d get some answers,” said Bo as she sat back down and sipped her wine.

“I’d rather get her to a safe place first. I know your position on this, but I’ll split the difference with you. I’ll get her medical care, but not involve the cops yet. That is, if that’s what she wants. Let’s go give her some options and leave the decision to her.”

Bo shrugged and followed Sam back into the bedroom. He turned on the lamp on the bedside table, bathing the room in soft light. The woman opened her eyes and stared at them.

Sam said, “We need to talk. You have a decision to make. I think you are the victim of an attempted homicide, but I can’t prove it. And you need medical care for your amnesia. So, option one is to get you to a hospital and notify the police. Option two is to stay under the radar until we can sort this out. My wife and I run Crown Investigations. We’re both P.I.s and my wife is also an attorney. You could hire us to look after your interests until some resolution of your medical status can be made. I’ll arrange for you to be evaluated by a competent doctor while keeping you safe from whoever did this to you.”

Torrance scooted up in the bed and leaned against the headboard, holding on tight to the sheet to keep her breasts covered.

“I don’t think I’m mentally capable of making a rational decision right now. Which would you recommend based on what you know?” she said.

“I don’t know that much. However, I suggest you lie low while I do some investigating,” Sam replied.

“I have no money to hire you. I don’t even have any clothes.”

“The money can be dealt with later. I think we can scrounge up something for you to wear for now. I really want you out of here right away, though.”

“You know more than you’re telling me, don’t you. OK, you’re hired. Now, do you have a bathroom I can use? I feel gritty and sticky after that long swim in salt water. I’d like to take a shower. And I’m afraid I got sand in your bed.”

Sam said, “Don’t worry about the sand. There’s a bathroom right through that door. Bo, see what you can rustle up for her to wear while I make some arrangements,” said Sam. “She’s probably more Becky’s size than yours, but you decide.”

Bo said, “OK. What arrangements?”

“I’ll discuss it with you while our guest is in the shower.”

Sam left the room and went back out onto the deck and retrieved his cell phone from the wet bar. He added some ice to his drink, sat on a stool at the bar, then scrolled through his address book and hit “Call.”

“Dr. Susan Reinhart.”

“Sue, this is Sam.”

“My God, is Becky having a problem?”

“No, no. Becky is fine. She’s at a conference sponsored by the National Academy of Science in D.C. My parents are with her. Ever since she got that nomination for the Nobel Prize in physics she’s been more in demand than ever as a speaker. Becky told me a few months ago that you started a new clinic in San Clemente that deals with mental disorders. Does that include amnesia?”

“Yes. My partner, Dr. Fred Cullen, is not only a psychiatrist, he also has an advanced degree in neurology. Amnesia is of special interest to him. What are you up to, Sam?”

“I need you to take on a new patient for a few days. Keep her in your clinic.”

He told her about the woman washing up on his beach and that she apparently has amnesia. He didn’t tell her that he knew who she was.

Sue asked, “Why don’t you just call for an ambulance and get her to the hospital? The doctors there will get the police involved if required. They’ll fingerprint her and maybe find out who she is. Why are you getting involved in this, Sam?”

“Well, Sue, I think she may be in danger and she hired me to keep her safe until she gets her memory back. Remember, if I had done the normal, legal thing when I found Becky alone in the streets, you wouldn’t have had the pleasure of being her shrink for the last four years. Helping this woman is the right thing to do.”

Silence.

“OK, Sam. When you saved Becky, you gained a lot of markers with me. I’ll let you spend one now, against my better judgment. But don’t ever play the Becky card with me again. Meet me at the clinic in 30 minutes.”

She gave him the address and the line went dead. Sam sipped on his drink and stared up at the crescent moon, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

Bo stuck her head out of the bedroom slider and said, “She’s dressed, sort of. I threw on some clothes, too. What next, Sherlock?”

“As soon as I get dressed, we’re taking her to Dr. Sue’s clinic in San Clemente. She and her partner will give us a medical evaluation of her. She can stay there tonight.”

“How did you talk Sue into this?”

“She’s intrigued.”

“I’ll bet. Let’s take my Beemer instead of your Camaro. There’s more room.”

* * *

Dr. Sue was waiting for them at the front door of the small, one-story clinic. It was located in old San Clemente and it had at one time been a large, Spanish hacienda. She had donned a white doctor’s coat for the occasion. Sam leapt out of the passenger seat and helped Torrance out of the back seat. She was dressed in a pair of Becky’s jeans and a loose, tan T-shirt, flip-flops on her feet.

Sue said, “You’re lucky we even had space for her. We have one free bed. This place only holds 15 patients. Hi, Bo. Tell me sometime how you put up with this guy and his antics. All of you follow me.”

She led them into a large foyer that was furnished with comfortable, Spanish and Mexican antique pieces. Several real oil paintings with Spanish motifs covered the antique white walls. To one side, an ornate, hand-carved desk was manned by a gray-haired woman in a nurse’s uniform.

Sue said, “There’s some paper work involved. We’ll do it after we get the patient into her room. We’ll check her in as Helen Smith. Jane Doe is already here.”

The nurse behind the desk arose and unlocked a heavy wooden door, then opened it. They went down a hall to an open door. All the other doors they passed were closed. They entered the homey bedroom. It didn’t look like most of the psych wards Sam had seen. Sue turned and shook hands with her new patient.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Susan Reinhart. My patients call me Dr. Sue. Why don’t we get you into a gown and get you settled. Then we’ll have a chat and see what’s going on with you.”

Torrance replied, “OK. Thanks, Dr. Sue. I’m scared and confused. Do you think you can help me?”

“We’ll see.”

A young nurse entered the room to help the patient get undressed and into a gown. Sue, Bo, and Sam left the room and went back to the desk in the foyer.

Sue said, “If I check her in, we have to keep her for 72 hours for a mental evaluation. At the end of that period, maybe we’ll have a better idea of what’s wrong. As her attorney, Bo, you can sign the forms.”

Bo looked at Sam and said, “What are you getting me into, Sam?”

“Probably nothing. It’s only for 72 hours. She’ll probably get her memory back by then and we’ll know what’s going on,” he shrugged.

Bo signed the paper committing her client for observation.

Sue said, “I’ll call you guys tomorrow afternoon and let you know how things are going. Dr. Cullen will see her before then and give me his evaluation.”

Sam said, “Thanks, Sue. I owe you.”

“You do.”

* * *

Back at the beach house, Sam fixed him and Bo fresh drinks and fired up his barbeque again, throwing the ruined steaks in the trash.

He said, “Let’s just zap some baked potatoes. That, and the salad you made, will be just right.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m famished now,” said Bo.

“I’m going to see if I can track down that CF number now. I’ll throw the steaks on as soon as the grills are hot.”

“I’ll go start the potatoes. I’ll turn on the deck lights and set us up out here. OK?”

“Perfect. Too nice a night to eat inside.”

When Bo left, Sam called the Orange County Sheriff Department’s substation at Dana Point Harbor. Their Harbor Patrol Division operated the patrol boats stationed there. The Watch Commander was Charlie Holly, an old friend of Sam’s from the days when he was in the sheriff’s department.

“Hey, Charlie. Sam Crown here. How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain, Sam. How’s married life treatin’ you? You’re the last guy I thought would ever take the plunge.”

“Couldn’t be better. I finally found the right woman. At my age, I needed to settle down. I need a quick favor, Charlie. A big power boat — close to 30 feet — passed in front of my house this afternoon, right at the breaker line. I got its CF numbers. I wonder if you could run them for me real quick.”

“You making some kind of complaint?”

“No. Just curious about what asshole nearly beached his boat in my front yard.”

“Well, Sam, I shouldn’t do it without some reason better than that, but for you I will. We go way back. Give me the CF numbers and a phone number and I’ll call you back in five.”

Sam did so. “Thanks, Charlie.”

Four minutes later, Charlie called back.

“That boat’s registered to Entertainment Enterprises, a company in Las Vegas.”

“Never heard of them. Have you?”

“Oh, yeah. They’re big in Vegas hotels and gambling, among other things. To use the vernacular — even though they deny it — we still refer to them as ‘The Mob’.”