Scandalous Behavior

41

The director of the FBI received a Federal Express package from Arthur Steele, whom he knew slightly, with a list of 834 real estate properties, apparently controlled by Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He immediately sent for Douglas Tate, his deputy director in charge of criminal investigations.

“Doug, this Calhoun creature has raised his ugly head again. I’ve had reports that he and two of his minions have been arraigned on illegal weapons charges in New York and Connecticut, and now I’m hearing from the head of the Steele Insurance Group that Calhoun appears to be foxing his followers out of ownership of their own homes.”

“I wouldn’t put him above anything,” Tate replied. “I’ll open a new investigation.”

“You do that — and get ahold of one of the contracts he has signed with these people. I think that’s where we’re most likely to find illegal activity.”

“Yes, sir.” Tate returned to his office and checked his list of investigators who were not overburdened with work. He summoned two women, June Craven and Donna Madison, and sat them down. “What do you know about Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun?” he asked them.

Craven spoke up. “Mostly the information that appeared in a West Coast magazine a couple of years ago. The writer was later killed in a suspicious car crash on the freeway. There’s a new movie called Hell’s Bells which is supposed to be about Calhoun, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

“That sums up what I know, too,” Madison said. “I haven’t seen the movie yet, either.”

“Okay, put together a team of you and four others, and start by going to the movies. Get them copies of the magazine piece, too, and read our file on Calhoun. We need to put this guy out of business.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

Walking down the hall together, Madison said, “You know, this one might actually be fun.”

“Yeah,” Craven replied, “and I’ll bet the movie will bring some complaints out of the woodwork.” Their offices were across the hall from each other, and they split up and went to work.

Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun was napping on his living room sofa after a heavy lunch, when the phone rang. “Yes?” he asked groggily.

“Dr. Calhoun,” the doorman said. “A bunch of policemen are on the way up to your apartment. They didn’t wait for me to buzz you.”

“Thanks.” Calhoun hung up and struggled to his feet. He had just time to splash some water on his face before the doorbell rang.

He opened it to find four men and two women standing in the hallway. One of the men handed him a document. “Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun, I am Lieutenant Marx of the New York State police, and this is a search warrant for these premises. Stand aside, please.”

“I’d like to call my attorney,” Calhoun said, unmoving.

Marx brushed past him. “You do that,” he said. “All right, you two take the bedrooms, you two do the study, and we’ll start in the living room. Look for a safe.”

Calhoun went to the kitchen and called his attorney. “The police are here with a search warrant,” he said.

“I’m not your attorney anymore, remember? Find yourself a new one, and don’t expect a referral from me.” He hung up.

Calhoun called his accountant. “I need a referral to a first-rate criminal lawyer,” he said.

“Theodore Saxon,” the accountant said, and gave him a phone number.

Calhoun called it and got Saxon on the phone. “The police are in my apartment with a search warrant,” he said. “I want to hire you with immediate effect.”

“Who are you?” Saxon asked.

“I am the leader of a religious group called the Chosen Few.”

“Oh, yes, I saw the movie.”

“It’s full of lies.”

“I’m sure it is. Where are you?”

Calhoun gave him the address.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, do nothing to obstruct the police, or they’ll arrest you.” He hung up.

Calhoun sat down at the kitchen table. He could see the police working in the living room, and they were pretty much tearing the place apart. He was glad that he had removed his two handguns to his storage unit in the building’s basement.

A policeman came into the kitchen. “We’re going to need the combination to your safe,” he said.

“My attorney will be here shortly,” Calhoun replied. “Ask me when he gets here.”

The cop went back into the living room, then a female officer entered the kitchen. “You might want to go out for a cup of coffee,” she said, then started opening drawers.

The doorbell rang, and Calhoun went to answer it. A short, stocky man with black hair and a matching Van Dyke beard stood there. “I am Theodore J. Saxon,” he said, holding out a hand. “Call me Ted.”

“Come in, Ted.”

“Where are the police?”

“Everywhere,” Calhoun replied, waving an arm.

Saxon marched into the living room. “Hold it!” he shouted. The police all stopped what they were doing and looked at him. “I am Dr. Calhoun’s attorney. I want to see the search warrant.”

“Oh, I have that,” Calhoun said, taking it from his pocket and handing it to him.

Saxon scanned the document. “Proceed,” he said to the cops. “It’s in order.” They went back to work.

Shortly, Lieutenant Marx entered the room. “I’m going to need the combination to your safe and the keys to your basement storage unit.”

“Give them to him,” Saxon said.

Calhoun gave him the combination and retrieved the keys to the storage unit from a kitchen drawer.

When the police walked away, Saxon took Calhoun aside. “What are they going to find in the safe?”

“Eight hundred and thirty-four deeds to houses and apartments and eight hundred thousand dollars in cash, more or less.”

“How big is the fucking safe?”

“About six feet tall. It’s a Fort Knox.”

“What’s in the storage unit?”

“Old files and two handguns.”

“Are you licensed to possess handguns in New York State or New York City?”

“Ah, not exactly.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Right.”

The policeman appeared at the door and crooked a finger at Calhoun, who followed him into the study, where they had opened the safe.

“What is all of that stuff?” the cop asked, pointing.

“Deeds to real estate,” Calhoun replied. “The green stuff is cash.”

“How much cash?”

“Eight hundred thousand dollars, give or take.”

“Nothing wrong with either of those,” Saxon said. “Please close the safe and forget the combination.”

To Calhoun’s surprise, the cops did so.

Shortly, Lieutenant Marx appeared with two Glock 9mm pistols and held them up. “Let me see your license for these.”

Saxon held up a finger. “Lieutenant, the Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that citizens have the right to possess firearms in their homes, and the storage locker is an extension of Dr. Calhoun’s home. That trumps New York City and State laws to the contrary. It’s not as though he was carrying them on his belt.”

Marx handed Calhoun the two weapons, went into the living room, and consulted with the other officers. He came back to Calhoun. “Thank you for your cooperation.” He turned toward the living room. “Awright, we’re outta here.” The officers trooped out of the apartment and closed the door behind them.

Calhoun looked around the living room. “What a mess!”

“Listen, pal,” Saxon said, “you’ve still got your deeds and cash and your handguns, too. Anything else concerning you?”

“Not at the moment,” Calhoun said.

Saxon handed him a card. “I’ll send you a bill. You might want to retain me for future legal services. I’m on call twenty-four/seven.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand dollars against fees, and I’ll throw in today.”

“Done,” Calhoun said, and went looking for his checkbook.