You Can Run but You Can't Hide (34 page)

but he was too far ahead of me. By the time I got through the exit

and into the lot, he was gone.

I was no longer days or hours behind him. It was a matter of sec-

onds. I was closing in, and he knew it.

When I got back to the office, I told Beth the whole story.

“Now what do we do, Duane?” she asked. I knew she was really

discouraged.

“I’m going to sit right here in this chair and smoke a cigarette,”

I said to her. “Van’s going to call. Trust me.”

Beth let out a long sigh and started shaking her head at me.

“Perfect. We’ll just sit here and do nothing. That’s just great.”

Suddenly, the phone rang. Beth froze in her seat. When she an-

swered, her jaw dropped to the floor. She looked over at me and

pointed at the receiver in her hand. When Beth asked him who was

calling, he asked, “Who has been awake as long as he has?” I jumped

up and took the call.

“I am so damn tired.” And I was, too.

It almost sounded like he was still out of breath. “You mother-

fucker, Dog! How’d you know where to find me?”

“I was just on my way home. I live right across the street.”

“They got all my shit. They got all my bitches. I ain’t got nowhere

to go. Everyone I know don’t want to talk to me because of all the

heat you been putting on them.”

“I told you, Van; there were only two choices.”

“If I come in, Dog, I’m looking at some hard time. Like forty

years, man.”

“You got nowhere else to go, Van. You know it and I know it. I’m

gonna get ya.”

“Yeah . . . ,” he said slowly. His voice trailed off. I knew he was

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mentally and physically exhausted. This was the end of the line

for him.

By the end of our phone call, I had convinced Van to walk into

the Denver police station the next morning and surrender.

When I told Grundinger about my little phone conversation, he

didn’t believe a word I said. He was laughing at me on the other end

of the line.

“Yeah, OK, Dog,” he said. He yelled to the other cops in the

room and said, “Dog says Van’s coming in tomorrow and turning

himself in.” I could hear hooting and hollering erupt in the back-

ground.

“Listen to me,” I said. “He’s gonna be there at ten a.m. sharp.

You’ll believe me when he walks up those steps, won’t you?” We

had taunted each other for weeks chasing this guy.

I almost started laughing out loud when Grundinger called me

later on that night at home. He must have had time to think about

what I told him and started getting nervous. His spoke softly. “Seri-

ously, you believe Van is going to turn himself in just like that? Af-

ter all the games?”

“Like I told you, he’s gonna walk right up to us at the station

tomorrow.”

Grundinger thought something over for a moment, then said,

“Not exactly, Dog. I can’t have you there. We’ll take him into cus-

tody. This isn’t your case anymore.” It didn’t matter, because Vince

Smith told me he’d pay my fee anyway. I made the catch whether

Grundinger wanted to give me the credit or not.

Van did show up at the Denver Police Department’s offices the

next day. Grundinger got nabbed in the parking lot. I wasn’t there

for the bust, but I caught a glimpse of him being taken up the police

headquarters steps. When he saw me, I stopped, saluted him, and

mouthed the words, “Thank you, Van.”

C h a p t e r T h i r t y - s e v e n

TWO STEPS BACK

Now that I
had my professional problems ironed out in Col-

orado, Hawaii was next. One of the conditions of my deal with

Richard Heath in 1997 was that I surrender my bond license during

our two-year noncompete agreement. Since I had no license, my in-

surance company, AmWest, essentially threw me out on the street

overnight. As a result, several complaints were filed with the Hawaii

Department of Insurance. There were lots of people who needed

my services and who already paid me in advance to oversee their

bail and bond. When I was forced to leave Hawaii, many of them

lost a lot of their collateral in bail forfeiture. What this boiled down

to was, the cosigners were losing everything because the people

they were backing skipped out on their bail and I couldn’t retrieve

any of them. They ran with no threat of the Dog coming after

them. By running, they put the screws to their families and loved

ones. Nonetheless, my company still had to pay the insurer for the

full value of the bond. During that two-year period, that meant liq-

uidating my collateral to make good on the money owed. I hated

doing it, but I had no other choice.

Most of the complaints were settled outside of the system. As to

the others, my problems started when the Department of Insurance

began sending me notification letters to the wrong address. The let-

ters went to an address of mine that was five years old. The strange

part is that, prior to my deal with Heath, I always received letters

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from the department at my current address with no problem. It was

my legal address on every document filed with the state. It made no

sense that they couldn’t reach me through my correct address.

I was patiently waiting for the two-year noncompete to run out

so I could get back to Hawaii and start all over again. That would

have been the perfect plan, had it not been for those damned com-

plaints I never received. The problem wasn’t the complaints; my

trouble stemmed from not answering them. Failure to answer was a

violation of my license. If I didn’t adhere to all of the rules and reg-

ulations, I was in danger of losing my rights as a bondsman. It’s a

little like ignoring the IRS. Sooner or later, they’re going to get you.

In October 1997, my sister Jolene called to tell me she’d heard

there was a problem with my license in Hawaii. That was the first I

had heard of any such thing. I called the Hawaii Department of In-

surance to give them my forwarding address in Colorado. I wanted

to be certain I was getting every letter they sent. On December 27, I

received a certified letter from them informing me that my license

was in jeopardy for failure to respond to complaints. The hearing

was set for October 29. There was no way I could be there to tell my

side of the story, because the hearing had been two months earlier.

In my absence, the commissioner revoked my license for five years.

I couldn’t believe I was fighting for my job again. I felt Hawaii

was where I belonged. It was home. If I couldn’t write bonds in

Hawaii, all I could do was bounty hunt, but I wanted to do both. I

tried to appeal the decision, but the Hawaii Supreme Court refused

to hear my case. The penalty for not answering a complaint is

generally a thirty-day suspension and a five-hundred-dollar fine.

The revocation of my license for five years was extreme and unfair.

Once again, I couldn’t help but feel the Lord was testing me.

From August 1997 to August 2000, it sure felt like I was on the

wrong side of a machine gun.
Ratta tat tat tat tat
. Challenges just

kept coming without a chance to dodge a single bullet. In addition

to all of my troubles with work, I lost my dad to a heart attack in

August 2000. Although he and I rarely saw eye-to-eye, we had

grown much closer. I’ll never know what it feels like to have a father

love me like I love my kids, but Flash taught me a lot of skills that

helped me get through life.

Not long before he passed, Dad and I went to visit his father.

During that visit, I came to see Flash in a different light. As we

Tw o S t e p s B a c k

209

stood in the backyard of Grandpa’s house, I noticed Dad became a

little uneasy. I could see tears well up in his eyes as we got closer to

the woodshed. Flash walked ahead of me so I couldn’t see him cry.

In all my life, I thought I’d never live to see the day my dad would

break down in tears. I looked at Grandpa and asked if he knew why

Dad was crying. Grandpa told me he used to beat the life out of

Flash in that shed. He tied his hands above his head and whooped

him with a leather strap. He said that’s how he kept all his sons in

line. Grandpa was oblivious to the pain and destruction his abuse

had had on two generations. It wasn’t his fault; he didn’t know any

better. From that moment on, I understood why Flash beat me. He

had his own demons to wrestle with. My heart ached for his pain

and suffering. I forgave him that day. I let go of all of the anger and

resentment toward my father that I had been carrying for so many

years. Now we could both be set free. I knew his secret. He didn’t

have to hold that burden anymore.

Had it not been for Beth and her undying love and devotion, I’m

not sure I would have made it through those hellacious years. But

we did. Against all odds and attempts to kick us when we were

down, Beth and I managed to survive—and eventually thrive.

C h a p t e r T h i r t y - e i g h t

THE BIG ONE

Flying used to
be something most people looked forward to.

It was elegant and sophisticated. Nowadays, thanks to Osama bin

Laden, airport security has made us all insecure about flying. It has

never been my favorite thing in any case. Being confined to a seat

for what feels like endless hours with nothing to do is not how I pre-

fer to spend my time. I’m a fidgety guy. I need to move around. Even

first-class seats aren’t comfortable. Hell, I can’t even smoke. De-

spite Beth’s nagging to quit, I can hardly go thirty minutes without

a cigarette. To combat my boredom and need for nicotine, I simply

go to sleep. From wheels-up to touchdown, I’m out cold.

On January 5, 2003, Beth and I were flying from Honolulu to

Los Angeles to meet some people who were interested in talking

about producing a dramatic television show about bounty hunting.

I did stints on
The Secret World of Bounty Hunting, Take This Job,

and
The Anatomy of a Crime.
The response to our episodes was so

strong, other producers contacted us about doing our own show.

Twenty minutes into the flight, Beth woke me up by hitting me

over the head with her newspaper. Waking me on a flight is some-

thing she knows not to do unless it’s urgent.

“Duane. Duane. Wake up. You gotta see this.”

She pointed to the front-page headline in the
Los Angeles Times

that read something like:

Th e B i g O n e

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“Heir to Max Factor Fortune May Have

Jumped Million-Dollar Bail.”

“Wouldn’t it be something if he ran, Duane?” Beth’s eyes

widened at the thought. I knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Duane. This is it. This is the big case the Lord has spoken to us

about. This is your chance to show the world that you are the great-

est bounty hunter who ever lived.”

Oh, yeah, her wheels were turning. Beth and I had talked about

the “big catch” for years. For a while, we both thought it might be

Osama bin Laden. Lord knows, I wanted it to be.

“If this guy jumps, Duane, you’ve gotta get in the hunt. You have

to go get him.”

In my gut, I knew Beth was right. Andrew Luster was a rich

white boy. He was just the kind of high-profile chase I was looking

for. No one could find him like I would. I had spent so many years

standing on the media sidelines in other cases I had helped solve.

The FBI and other authorities always took credit for my hard work.

After years of battling for recognition, I knew it would have to be

somebody big before I got widespread attention. I was ripe and

ready for it. I wanted it more than anything in the world.

The only thing I knew about the Luster story was what I seen on

the news. He was on trial for allegedly drugging and raping several

women.

I hate rapists, with a vengeance. I have never understood that

type of crime. Six years ago, my daughter, Baby Lyssa, was a vic-

tim of statutory rape by a thirty-year-old man. She was just thir-

teen years old. She was living with her mother in Alaska. I

thought she would be better off living with her mom as she grew

into her teenage years. Every little girl needs her mom, especially at

that age. But Big Lyssa set few rules and boundaries. Our kids were

allowed to do whatever they wanted. I hoped Baby Lyssa would see

she was too young to raise a child on her own. She fought me every

step of the way.

“Dad, it’s my baby. I want to keep it.”

I thought that was bullcrap. She was only a teenager. I com-

pletely disagreed with her decision, but I was thousands of miles

away. There was nothing I could do.

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I didn’t see Baby Lyssa for two and a half years after she gave

birth to her daughter, Abbie. Throughout that time, I felt I lost two