Not Much of a Crime

Not Much of a Crime

A Tale of Political Corruption, Intrigue, & Murder

in a small Nevada town

Steven W. Johnson

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2009 Steven W. Johnson

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover: Pierre Paul Proud-hon: 1758 - 1823

Standing Female Nude Seen from the Back

For Patrick Merrill, Master Printmaker, BFA, MFA

Best Friend & Best Man

Curator,

Keith and Janet Kellogg University Art Gallery

California State Polytechnic University, Pomona

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

~~~

Chapter 1

Paula Dorsey, rejoicing about the call from her doctor, walked from her office to South Coast Plaza for a celebratory lunch with her husband, Cameron. While they could easily afford an occasional meal at any of the five star restaurants in the Plaza, Paula was currently craving the Voo Doo Tuna at Z’Tejas Southwestern Grill located on Level 1 near the Carousel Court. She was a bit early because she wanted to buy something for their twin girls so they could feel a part of the celebration as well.

Always careful, especially now that she was pregnant with the son she and Cameron prayed for, it wasn’t unusual for Paula to look both ways twice before stepping off a curb. Yet, her caution did nothing to save her from the car hurtling down on her through the South Coast Plaza parking lot. Paula was thrown 40 feet by the impact of the car into a chain link fence that separated the parking lot from a drainage channel to the south of the Plaza. She died within seconds of impact when her throat was ripped open by the top of the fence.

The car that hit Paula didn’t stop. It didn’t even slow down. It just tore up the ramp, ignored the yellow light at the top, hung a right turn and disappeared heading south across the Bristol Street overpass to the 405 Freeway.

~~~

At first, it didn’t really seem to be much of a crime, half a crushed pomegranate laid on the shattered granite kitchen countertop. However, this simple act of vandalism brought about big changes in the small desert town of Charleston, Nevada.

Allison King froze as she entered her house from the attached garage. Not fully aware of what stopped her, she listened. The sound of ripping paper and falling books came from the back of the house. Then someone bumped into some furniture and cursed loudly. It was a voice from her past. One she hoped she’d never hear again as long as she lived. Slowly she placed the groceries at her feet. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911. Removing her stun gun, she held it in her right hand as she waited for the police operator.

~~~

Charleston, Nevada is located less than 100 miles from Las Vegas and was nothing more than a wide spot in the road until 10,000 acres were subdivided into one, five and ten acre home sites on poorly maintained gravel roads. In less than 15 years, the town grew from 1,700 people to over 40,000. But the problems of such unprecedented urban growth were never addressed. There was no citywide sewage system, no citywide water service, no entertainment venues, no hospital, and no industry of any kind other than real estate, gambling, government, and legal prostitution. And yet, the town continued to grow and so did its problems.

Charleston is the only large town in Nevada with five legal brothels just outside the town limits. However, a very small minority of community activists wanted to see them closed down for the ‘health and moral well-being of the children of the town’. This generated three exceptionally well-attended town hall meetings to discuss the pros and cons of the brothels continued operations. And one of the most vocal proponents for the brothels’ continued existence was Allison King. She felt strongly that before the town council eliminated a legal business that contributed six and a half million dollars annually to the town revenue.

None of the town council members or audience had any suggestions as to how to replace the brothel revenue. Due to King’s strident opposition to closing the brothels with no replacement industry at hand, she began to make enemies and friends almost immediately.

Allison’s home was on a one-acre parcel, situated down the middle of the block of a cul-de-sac. It was the only house on either side of that particular street. Two years previous, when she moved to Charleston, she had been promised by the developers that they were just weeks away from starting construction of a golf course these five acre estates were to surround. She was still waiting on the golf course to break ground, the promised paving of the road, and neighbors.

At that moment, Allison stood in the middle of her gravel street. Dressed in a yellow Gucci business jacket, matching skirt and red ruffled silk blouse, she paced apprehensively in the first 100° heat of the season. Even though a gentle breeze lifted a small dust devil from the gravel road in front of her house, it wasn’t enough to keep her from sweating through her blouse and coat. By the time the sheriff arrived, forty-five minutes later, King was overheated, thirsty, and angry.

When the sheriff stepped from his tan Ford Crown Victoria, he was wearing a uniform so stiffly starched he had trouble lifting himself out of the car. He saw Allison King, a tall, statuesque woman, just passed her uncelebrated 31st birthday. Her long, flawless oval face was framed in a tapered cascade of shoulder length brunette hair. Her sparkling brown eyes, petite nose, and wide, full-lipped mouth, created a face few people could ignore and many found ravishingly beautiful.

And she had used that beauty to create a video empire in The Industry as Amy Goodlove, the most popular porn star for the last ten years. Early in her career, she had taken control of her own image and her own projects. As a result, Allison King now owned a small studio and production company in southern California.

As her popularity grew, and the success of her videos and DVDs exploded, she found the annual Adult Video News conventions populated with some overly enthusiastic fans. While some were lesbians, most were men fantasizing she was their lover. But only one, Quentin Schaefer, had ever been convicted of stalking her.

Sorry it took so long. There was an accident on the highway and I had to wait for the NHP to get there, Dogstar said walking up to King with his hand out. Nice to finally meet you.

Ignoring his hand she just looked at the tall, overweight, mid-50’s man in khaki. The only colors on his uniform were his chrome star, the sheriff’s department patch on his left sleeve and the Nevada State flag on his right sleeve. The black leather belt held the ubiquitous gun, nightstick, handcuffs, mace and ammunition clips for his pistol were housed in matching black leather attachments.

His baldness was hidden under the Stetson set squarely on his head. Only the sides of his closely cropped black hair was visible. His dark complexion was stretched tight across his high cheekbones and his dark, almost black, deep-set eyes assessed whether or not Allison would be a potential threat to him. While he wasn’t a Greek god, Allison saw the sheriff had been a good-looking man in his prime.

Still, the look of disapproval she gave him made the sheriff squirm as if he was still in the Moapa River Indian Reservation grade school and Mrs. Lee had found him cheating on his arithmetic test again.

Is he still in there? the sheriff asked, breaking the spell of Allison’s disapproval.

No one came out the front, Allison answered. But, I did hear a car drive away shortly after I got out of the house.

Know the make or model?

No. All I heard was the sound gravel being thrown around.

And you didn’t see the car? the sheriff asked again.

No. Rockland runs east/west. It was driving away from me behind the house.

Okay. I’ve got back up on the way. When he gets here we will clear the house for you. I asked you to stay on the line with 911, have you called anyone?

I called my lawyer in California. I had a stalker a few years ago and I wanted to know if he’s back in jail.

Is he?

No, she answered. He got out about three years ago.

You think he might be responsible?

I don’t know. I think so. He used to leave orange peels and half eaten apples at my house, on my car, even on my desk at work, one time. But I didn’t see anyone. I just heard the window breaking in the back of the house.

Another sheriff’s car pulled up at that point.

Is the front door unlocked?

No. I went in through the garage, she answered handing him her keys.

Okay. You stay here while we clear the house, Dogstar said.

He then drew his 9mm Glock 19 and with hand signals, indicated to the deputy that they were to go in the front door.

As they neared the door, the deputy whispered, Do you know who that is, Wayne?

Keep your mind on the job, Wilson.

That’s Amy Goodlove, the porn star...

Wilson, shut the fuck up and get your head into the job. We’ve got an intruder and I don’t want to be telling your wife you were shot because you had your mind on some other piece of ass.

Yes sir.

~~~

Five minutes later, the sheriff came out of the house. "It’s clear. Apparently, when the perp heard you come in, he smashed his way out one of your sliding glass doors with a sledgehammer.

It’s still on the patio. I’d like you to do a quick walk through to see if anything is missing."

She nodded. Thanks.

Allison couldn’t believe the mess.

All of the black leather of her living room furniture was sliced to shreds and her wide screen plasma HDTV was ripped from the wall.

In her office, where the shattered sliding glass door was, her favorite painting was missing from the wall, many of the books from her shelves were ripped in half and tossed on the floor, and a trail of lingerie led outside, across the patio, and through the vacant lot behind her home.

Her bedroom had been torn apart, clothes and hangers strewn on the bed and the floor. All of her dresser drawers lay empty shattered on the floor and all of her lingerie was missing. In her master bath, the toilet bowl had been shattered. The bathroom and her bedroom was an inch deep in freestanding water.

Besides the obvious missing lingerie, I am missing a valuable painting that was on the office wall. It’s three feet by four feet, approximately, in a gilded frame. It’s titled Backlit Mountains by Robert English. It was painted in 1902.

What’s it worth?

Actually, Sheriff, I don’t know. I inherited it from my grandfather. It’s currently insured for $250,000, but I’d like you to keep that under your hat. The last thing I need is to have people think I’m made of money.

Of course. Well, I guess this is a bit more than simple B&E vandalism case.

Allison stood silently looking at him. There wasn’t anything to say.

The sheriff found himself wilting under her disapproving gaze again.

"Do you have a place to stay the night, Ms. King - No! Don’t touch anything. I want to get someone in here to dust for prints and see if the perp left anything of himself behind.

Once that is done I’ll have the fire department come in and suck up the water. I’ll also get them to board up your back door. I assume you will want your insurance agent out here tomorrow.

Yeah. Thanks. I’ll probably try the Silver Strike.

"Talk to Jack Osage. He’s the manager. I’m sure he’ll give you a good rate. You can tell him I sent you.

One more thing, Ms. King - is this yours? the sheriff asked holding a small plastic baggie containing several small pebbles of a white substance.

No. What is it?

It’s crystal meth. Are you sure it isn’t yours?

Yes, she answered indignity. Where’d you find it?

It was on your desktop in the other room. It probably belongs to the perp, then.

Well it sure as hell isn’t mine, Sheriff. I don’t do drugs and I never have.

All right then. I’ll let you go. Thank you for your cooperation.

She was still pissed off it had taken him 45 minutes to drive less than five miles from the sheriff ’s station to her place. And really pissed that he had probably taken the time to stop by his house and change into a fresh uniform. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that he could keep that starched look through six or eight hours of work. But as long as he caught the son of a bitch who broke in, she’d let it pass.

I’ll need to get my purse from the kitchen.

Of course.

And I suppose the ice cream can be tossed in the garbage can. Right?

If it is something you brought in with you. Yes.

All right then, Sheriff, thank you.

~~~

When Allison checked into the Silver Strike, the manager insisted on upgrading her to a suite at no additional charge, rather than a simple room she was expecting. As she closed the door to the suite, she realized she would have to buy some new clothes. Everything in the house was off limits at the moment and what she was wearing was too stained and dirty to wear any longer without being sent to the cleaners. It was time to bite the bullet and start dressing like the locals. If only she didn’t have to travel to Vegas to find a decent clothier.

But first, she needed to talk to her lawyer, again.

Tanner, Cunningham, & Dorsey, how may I direct your call.

Mr. Tanner, please.

One moment, please.

Mr. Tanner’s office, how may I help you? Allison heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice say.

This is Allison King. I need to speak with Mr. Tanner.

I’m sorry. Mr. Tanner is currently in a meeting. May I take a message?

How about Paula?

There was a pause before the woman answered, I’m sorry, Ms. Dorsey is no longer with the firm.

Paula Dorsey had been with the firm from day one. She started out as the receptionist. Paula had taken night and weekend courses and passed the bar three years previous. While not a trial lawyer, she was one hell of a researcher and knew just about everything about Allison’s legal troubles. There would have had to be a major blow-up to force her from the firm.

Look, I need to talk with Todd right now. I don’t care if you have to drag him out of his meeting. I only need a minute or two. Tell him it’s Allison King.

I’m sorry, Ms. King. I’ll have to take a message.

Damn it! Tell him I need to talk with him… What is your name?

Allison’s question was answered with a click as the other woman hung up the phone. She stared at the phone in disbelief. They’d hung up on her! She couldn’t believe it. That was no way to run an office. Especially not a legal practice!

Todd’s gonna fire somebody when he finds out, she thought.

Two hours later, as she was returning from her shopping trip, her cell phone rang.

Hello?

Allison, this is Todd Tanner. Sorry I couldn’t take your call. Paula’s just been killed. Hit and run.

What!?! Oh my God! Todd, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you or her family?

No. The police found the car about a mile away. It was stolen. They’re still processing it, but who knows how long that’ll take.

Yeah, she answered. After a pregnant pause, she continued, Look, Todd. I need a good criminal defense lawyer here in Nevada.

Why? What’d you get yourself into now?

Nothing, yet. But I have a feeling I’m being set up for something.

What makes you say that? Not the break-in?

Yes and no. The sheriff took 45 minutes to drive five miles. He said something about an accident on the highway and needing to wait for the NHP to show up. I called the Highway Patrol. There was no accident. Then at the house, he showed me a baggy of crystal meth or rock cocaine or something and asked if it was mine. He said he found it on my desk. You know I don’t do drugs.

Well, Allison, I don’t know anyone in, Charleston…

Oh, God, no! I don’t want any of the locals. I’ll go to Reno, if I have to, but, I’d prefer Vegas.

Okay, I’ll get Paula… Allison heard his voice catch. Let me do some quick research and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

Thanks, Todd. And I’m really sorry to hear about Paula. Let me know where and when the funeral is, I want to come home for that.

Yeah. Will do. Talk with you soon. Bye

Bye.

~~~

It took the police three days, swarming over her home looking for more non-existent clues, before they released the scene of the crime back to King. Two days later, after she and her insurance agent had walked through the house a second time taking inventory and estimating the damage, the repairs were beginning to show. The toilet bowl and wide screen plasma TV had been replaced. The waterlogged bathroom and bedroom walls were being taped and textured. The sliding door in her office had been repaired. Her living room furniture had been sent out to be reupholstered. A new Stickley bedroom set ordered. Her damaged books had been inventoried and reordered. A new granite counter had been ordered and delivery was expected within 3 weeks.

Thankfully, the idiot burglar, when he began ripping her books apart, started with the bottom shelf and not the top one which contained several first editions from the 18th and 19th centuries.

The lingerie and the painting were the only things missing.

And, while she couldn’t prove it yet, she knew who was responsible. The only problem was Allison didn’t know where he was.

Todd Tanner started a private investigation without having to be asked. The first thing they found was that Quentin Schaefer, age 26, had disappeared. He had been convicted of stalking Allison and sentenced to 4 years in a California State prison. He had not attended any of educational classes offered through the prison, nor had he participated in any of the behavioral modification classes offered to first-time offenders.

So, with the prison overcrowding and time off for good behavior, Schaefer had been released in 18 months.

After reporting once to his parole officer, he vanished. And his whereabouts was still unknown two and one-half years later. A bench warrant had been issued, but no one was actively pursuing the matter.

Allison knew where he was. Or at least where he had been on the day of the break-in.

But, how the hell did he find her? That was what worried her the most. If he knew where she lived, then she would need to find a way to protect herself from him in the future.

And, with no neighbors within a quarter mile and the lack of response from the Sheriff’s Department, Allison knew it was up to her to protect herself.

~~~

Chapter 2

It was one of those lazy early mornings Allison had come to enjoy since moving to Charleston. However, since the break-in, she no longer paraded around the house nude. While she was still apprehensive about staying in the house, she wasn’t going to let Schaefer or anyone else drastically alter her normal morning routine.

So, she continued to wake up between 6:00 and 6:15, shower, and was sitting at the kitchen table half an hour later reading the daily Las Vegas newspaper or her mail from the day before. On Tuesdays and Fridays, she always took a few minutes to read the Charleston Herald, the twice-weekly local newspaper.

Staffed by only four reporters and fewer researchers, it is not unusual for some details of certain stories to be misreported or distorted due to the personal likes or dislikes of the reporter, a senior editor, or the publisher, Henry Springfield. So, although printing retractions and corrections occurred, it wasn’t a high priority for the staff.

Generally, there were only two or three stories of any real substance. The rest of the paper was filled with letters to the editor; Op-Ed pieces from syndicated columnists (usually several days to a week old); or propaganda from the various civic, charity, or religious organizations explaining their reasons for the latest blood drive, fundraiser, fish fry, or rummage sale.

In fact, Allison found reading the Herald was similar to watching the local daily news on TV. You could learn everything the media wanted you to know within 7 to 10 minutes. It wasn’t everything of importance that happened in Charleston, just what the hidden power brokers in town allowed the reporters to broadcast. After all, what good are smoke-filled back rooms and secret dealings if the spotlight of publicity shined on the deals and the people involved?

Councilman Herndon Resigns

Citing health reasons councilman Larry Herndon has submitted his resignation from the Charleston Town Council, effective immediately. Mr. Herndon was appointed to his seat by the governor just 22 months ago following the removal of John Simpson after his conviction on jury tampering and perjury charges.

Herndon has been in poor health for the last eighteen months and has been unable to attend any of the town council meetings for thirteen months. He has been hospitalized in California for the last year as he undergoes chemotherapy for an unspecified cancer described only as aggressive.

The recall attempt last August to remove the absent councilman was unsuccessful. As a result, Mr. Herndon continued on the town payroll and continued to be covered by the county health plan even though he has failed to attend scheduled meetings or conduct any town business.

Now that Herndon will not be running for reelection, it appears that both the Republican and Democratic parties will be looking for someone to grab this swing-vote seat on the Town Council.

In other campaign news, Thomas Hawks has already declared his intention to file for re-election. Hawks is the first of two current county commissioners to throw his hat into the ring for (continued on page 4)

Business as usual, Allison thought to herself as she swallowed a mouthful of her morning coffee. These people would go apeshit if I ran for town council. I know I couldn’t do any worse than the rest of these idiots.

As she was turning to page 4 to continue the Herndon story, her cell phone chirped. Quickly looking at the clock, she answered it. Hello?

Allison, this is Todd Turner. I’ve got a name for you. Actually several, all located in Las Vegas. Have you got a pen?

It’s only 7:30. What the hell are you doing up at this hour? I thought all lawyers slept until 10 o’clock.

The courts are clogged enough, as it is. We’d never get anything done, if we kept banker’s hours, Turner answered without the usual humor in his voice.

Allison laughed. Touché. Okay, let’s have them.

As she copied down the names, addresses and telephone numbers of the attorneys into her day calendar, she thought to herself that it might be a good idea to make an appointment to interview each of them before trouble came knocking at her door.

So, Todd, she said. Who do you think is the best?

"Actually, that depends on the nature of the crime. If you were going up against a murder rap, I’d recommend J.D. Dixon. Martindale-Hubble ranks him as one of the premier criminal defense lawyers in Nevada.

If it is a drugs charge, I’d say, probably Tony Bruce, although Emily DeLong is pretty good too. I guess it all depends on who you are most comfortable with.

Do you know any of them? she asked.

"I’ve met Tony and Emily at different seminars over the years. From what I understand, Emily is a tiger in the courtroom. And Tony was in one of Paula’s study groups a few years ago when she was taking pre-law. Haven’t a clue how he ended up in Vegas.

"I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Dixon. Our practices are different and our circles of friends and acquaintances rarely intersect.

All three of them, though, have an AV rating.

What’s that?

It means that other lawyers in their fields consider them some of the best lawyers around.

Oh. Okay. Thanks, Todd. I really appreciate it. And I am serious about attending Paula’s memorial. I really liked her. She was so special, I can’t… Allison’s voice caught as she remembered the time she and Paula spent a weekend at Big Bear. It was Allison’s way of saying thanks for doing the research on a contract dispute she’d had with one of her stars during one of her earliest productions.

I know. I’m really going to miss her. We all are. She was unique.

Yeah. And thanks again, Todd. Take care.

Will do. Bye.

Allison picked up the paper again and returned to the front page. It figures, she said out loud, as she read the next article.

Strip Club’s Liquor License Under Fire

The Town Council will review the liquor license renewal request of The Castle at its next meeting, arrests have been made.

Now that the club has been rebuilt, Mothers Against Prostitution and Pornography (MAPP) have launched a campaign to prevent The Castle from serving liquor. Felicity Garfield, founder of MAPP, stated …without a liquor license, men won’t frequent this blight on our town.

Dean Ibarra, owner of The Castle, opened the all-nude strip club in 1986 and has never experienced a problem with his liquor license renewal before.

I’m certain this will be resolved at the meeting, Ibarra said. "We’ve never had an arrest or even fight at The Castle. We are a legal business (continued on page 6)

God! Garfield’s so stupid! Does she really think that by revoking his liquor license she’s going to put Dean out of business?

Reaching for her day calendar, Allison turned to May 5th and wrote 9:00 A.M., Town Hall, Liquor License.

Turning the page, she continued browsing the Letters to the Editor and found nothing of any significance. The editorials were the standard run of the mill fluff filler needed to justify the editor’s by-line. Nobody really cared about the domestic duck vs. wild duck populations in Nevada. It was just used to occupy space otherwise left void by the lack of advertisers and newsworthy content.

What did fascinate her, though, was a bit of information hidden deep in the article about Herndon’s resignation.

…Since the 1997, only one of 10 elected town council members has remained in office their entire elected term and that individual declined to run.

What could possibly cause so many people to resign from office after spending all the time, energy, and money needed to get elected? And, if how many councilmen had been appointed to fill in for the vacancies of those that resigned?

Again, she reached for her day calendar and wrote down those questions.

Allison was just about to toss the paper aside when a section she rarely read caught her eye.

Sheriff’s Report

At Charleston:

Thomas Willard was booked April 14th for assault with a deadly weapon (vehicle), DUI-alcohol/ fourth, resisting a public officer, obstructing a public officer, reckless driving, open container, no seat belt, and suspended license. His bail was set at $21,500.

Tyrone Sharp was booked April 12th on a Charleston District Court warrant for failure to appear and possession of a controlled substance. Bail was set at $1,500.

Allison King was booked April 11th for breaking and entering, burglary, and malicious destruction of property. Bail to be set.

Misdemeanor arrests made during the week included 12 that were for warrants, four for DUI (two with accident), three for domestic violence/battery, three for parole or probation violation, and two for eluding or evading a deputy.

Allison King was furious when she read that she had been arrested, booked and was awaiting a bail hearing. Grabbing the phone book, she started searching for the Herald’s number.

I’d like to speak to the editor-in-chief, please.

Who’s calling?

This is Allison King. Your Sheriff’s Report is wrong. I’d like you to print a correction.

One moment, please.

Although it was only 30 seconds or so, it seemed a lot longer before someone answered. This is Bill Sullivan. How can I help you?

Yes, Mr. Sullivan. This is Allison King. Your Sheriff’s Report is wrong. I wasn’t arrested for anything. And I will expect you to print a correction in your next edition.

"We get that report direct from the sheriff’s office. If there was a mistake, it’s their