Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  He flipped over to the other side of the bed and eyed the alarm clock with scorn. Eight thirty. An hour of tossing and turning, three hours of fitful sleeping and disturbing dreams, many of them familiar replays.

  Two feet on the floor, followed by a long yawn.

  Forty minutes later, after a quick stop at Dunkin’ Donuts, he was at his desk.

  First thing he did was Google Grace Spooner, figuring someone who could afford a five-hundred-dollar-a-night penthouse might show up in a web search.

  He was right about her surfacing on Google, but not about her fitting the profile of someone who could afford a five-hundred-dollar-a-night suite. According to what he found, she was a twenty-five-year-old employee of a PR firm in Tampa called Advance Team that had twenty employees. That was all he could find. Nothing about where she lived or about her personal life or how she ended up in a penthouse in Palm Beach.

  He walked down to where the crime scene techs were stationed. Neither Sheila Stallings nor Robin Gold was in yet. But Crawford’s good friend Dominica McCarthy was.

  She smiled up at him. “Caught a real nasty one last night, I heard,” Dominica said, leaning back in the chair in her cubicle.

  Crawford nodded. “Well, officially this morning.”

  Dominica grimaced. “Her tongue was …”

  Crawford nodded. “Yeah, you believe it?”

  Dominica raised her arms. “Who would do something like that?”

  “A real sicko, I’d say.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Dominica said. “So, you got anything yet?”

  “Not much.”

  She smiled. “You will. You always come up with something.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Maybe we can catch dinner when I slow down.”

  “Sure. I’d like that.”

  Crawford looked around. No eyewitnesses. He leaned down and kissed her.

  “Very unprofessional, Charlie,” she said with a smile.

  “Yeah, I know. Tell Stallings or Goldie to call me, will ya?”

  She nodded. “You got it.”

  Crawford walked back to his office with a little bounce to his step.

  His landline was ringing as he reached his desk.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Detective Crawford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective, my name is Quinn Casey from The New Yorker magazine. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  The New Yorker? What could they possibly … “About what?”

  “The murder last night. Grace Spooner,” Casey said. “I was supposed to meet her for breakfast this morning, but she never showed. Then I went to the hotel where she was staying and found out what happened.”

  “Why were you meeting with her?”

  “I’d like to come talk with you.”

  Crawford pushed it. “And I’d like to know why you were meeting with her.”

  Casey resisted. “I’ll tell you when we’re face-to-face.”

  “Okay, when do you want to meet?”

  A pause. “How about five minutes from now?”

  “Okay. You know where I am.”

  “Sure. The police station on South County.”

  “See you in a few.” Crawford clicked off.

  The New Yorker? What the hell was that all about? He opened his MacBook Air to Google Quinn Casey as he heard familiar, lead-footed footsteps.

  Ott walked in. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey. You’re an informed guy. Ever heard the name Quinn Casey, a reporter for The New Yorker?”

  “Sure. Wrote that exposé about the Russian mafia. Also, he’s the guy who busted that movie guy who was hitting on all the actresses.”

  “‘That movie guy hitting on all the actresses …’ I need a few more clues.”

  “You know, the famous director.”

  Crawford’s landline rang again. It was the receptionist.

  “Yeah, Dottie?”

  “A Mr. Casey’s here to see you.”

  “That was fast. Okay, send him back.” Crawford clicked off, then turned to Ott, nodding. “I think I know who you mean. The director. Worked together with his sister, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy. He—”

  A man in khakis and a short-sleeved blue shirt walked in and put his hand out to Crawford. “I’m Quinn Casey. I’m guessing you’re Charlie Crawford”—then he glanced at Ott—“and you must be Mort Ott, right?”

  They shook hands, and Crawford and Ott said their nice-to-meet-yous.

  “Have a seat,” Crawford said, pointing to the chair next to Ott.

  Casey did and pulled a micro recorder out of his pocket. “You mind if I—”

  Crawford held up a hand. “Let’s just talk a little first.”

  “Kinda like, get to know each other?”

  “Kinda like.”

  Casey lay the recorder down on Crawford’s desk. “Okay,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s off. Kind of a force of habit. So, I’m a man of few secrets; you first want to know why I—a reporter from New York—was meeting Grace Spooner for breakfast.”

  “Yup. That would be the first question,” Crawford said.

  “Do you know the name Asher Bard?” Casey asked.

  It was vaguely familiar to Crawford, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  But Ott was nodding. “The guy with the young girls,” he said. “Did some time, right?”

  Casey turned to Ott. “Exactly. Like five minutes. Took place ten years ago. Word was he had underage girls coming and going at his house on Ocean Lane.”

  “And on his yacht, as I remember,” Ott said.

  “Correct,” Casey said.

  Now Crawford remembered. “Didn’t he also fly ’em down to some place in the Virgin Islands, too? Nassau or somewhere?”

  “Close. The Caribbean. Same guy, though.”

  “The way I remember it was the parents of one of the girls, who was like fourteen or fifteen, went to the cops,” Ott said. “Then like five more girls came out of the woodwork, implicating not just Bard, but a bunch of other men. Some of them famous. Wasn’t there gonna be a big trial”—Ott paused—“but then it kind of went away?”

  “Good memory,” Casey said. “That all took place before I was at The New Yorker, but I read about it. It was obvious there was a big pay-off. Bard’s lawyer pled it down to like … jaywalking. So, he got a month in jail. A country-club jail, to be exact. I’ve been interviewing a lot of people over the last six months. Seems like the parents of the girls who were going to testify ended up with new Mercedes or went from trailer parks to million-dollar homes.”

  “So, we’re talking big money,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah, really big money,” Casey said. “Bard owns the second-largest media conglomerate in the country.”

  “Okay,” Crawford said. “So how exactly does Grace Spooner fit into all of this? I’m guessing she was one of the underage girls?”

  Casey nodded. “Ten years ago, Grace Spooner was a fifteen-year-old homeless girl living on the streets of Riviera Beach some days, other days in this facility for kids who ran away from home or had no home. How it worked was there were these guys—pimps, effectively—who would go out and round up young strays. Cute young strays, that is. And that’s exactly what Grace Spooner was. Anyway, she heard I was doing the story and contacted me—” Casey exhaled. “She was going to tell me everything she knew about the whole thing this morning. And then … well, you know the rest.”

  “She was stabbed twenty times and got her tongue cut out,” Ott said, turning to Crawford. “You were right about the tongue. Bet it definitely was a message.”

  Casey was shaking his head. “You’re kidding. Her tongue was—”

  “Uh-huh,” Crawford said.

  “Any guy who’d do that is one seriously sick fuck,” Casey said.

  Crawford nodded.

  Ott cocked his head and stared at Casey. “So, sounds like your guess is Asher Bard is our guy?”

  Casey leaned back in
his chair so it was resting on the two rear legs. “He’s the most obvious suspect, but there are a few others who wouldn’t want to see my story in print.”

  “Give us a list,” Crawford said.

  “I’m not going to give you specific names, because I’ve been sued for libel more than once—”

  “Come on,” Ott said. “We’re discreet.”

  Casey shook his head. “I can’t, but what I will tell you is that one is a certain ex-senator. Another is a high-profile lawyer and author who likes to describe himself as a ‘noted civil libertarian.’ Another one is a Saudi Arabian prince. Another is an English lord—”

  “Wait a minute, you’re going too fast,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah,” said Ott, “we’re a couple of small-town detectives. Our brains don’t move as fast as yours.”

  Casey laughed. “Don’t give me that. I’ve heard all about you. Like the Mounties, you always get your man … or in some cases, woman.”

  He was right. Palm Beach was not a place where men had an exclusive on murder.

  “Okay, I think I figured out who the first two are,” Crawford said.

  “What you’re saying,” Ott jumped in, “is all these guys might have had sex with underage girls, right?”

  Casey tapped the arm of his chair and nodded. “According to the rumor mill and some pretty reliable sources.”

  “Who are they?” Crawford asked.

  “Can’t tell you. Journalists don’t reveal sources.”

  Crawford groaned. “We can subpoena you, you know.”

  “Charlie, Charlie, must you threaten me?” Casey said. “I’ve been subpoenaed before, and, funny, whenever it happened, I just got really forgetful.”

  Ott chuckled and glanced at Crawford. “I’m beginning to like this guy.”

  “Okay, who else?” Crawford said.

  “Well, let’s see, there’s a certain man of foreign descent who owns a certain airline, a certain director who’s won two Academy Awards—”

  “That Weinstein dude?” Ott asked.

  “No, that Weinstein dude’s only won one. Shakespeare in Love.”

  “I saw it,” Ott said. “It sucked.”

  Casey laughed. “Tell the Academy.”

  “Come on, who else?” Crawford asked.

  “A certain ex-golf champion,” Casey said. “The clue is he’s left-handed.”

  Crawford shrugged. “No clue who that is.”

  “There are others, but that’s a start.”

  “You just reeled off half of Palm Beach,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah,” Casey said with a nod. “Those are the famous ones. There’re a bunch of no-names, too.”

  “‘No-names?’” Ott asked.

  “You know, friends of Bard’s who are not public figures. Men you’ve never heard of who want their names kept out of the paper. Guys who aren’t real keen on going to trial for having sex with minors. That’s not good for a marriage, know what I mean?”

  “I get it,” Crawford said.

  No one said anything for a few moments.

  “So, now I’ve opened up to you,” Casey said, “and never once turned on my recorder. How about keeping me in the loop on your investigation?”

  Ott shot a look at Crawford.

  Casey smiled and cocked his head. “I can make you famous,” he said. “‘The two intrepid, tenacious detectives who tracked down the killer of Grace Spooner.’”

  “We don’t want to be famous,” Crawford said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Ott said.

  “And we’re a long way from tracking down the killer of Grace Spooner,” Crawford said. “What was she like, anyway?”

  “I just met her once,” Casey said with a shrug. “But I had a lot of conversations with her. She was a straight-talking, no-bullshit kind of a woman. She told me the whole thing with Bard screwed up her relationships with men. I think she finally had something going with a guy, but she told me she still had a lot of baggage.”

  “I can believe it,” Crawford said. “Do you know the name of the boyfriend?”

  “I asked her, but she wouldn’t tell me.” Casey smiled and raised his arms. “Hey, how come I’m the one laying out all the info? How about a little quid pro quo here, boys?”

  “We already told you she got her tongue cut out,” Crawford said. “That’s about all we got at the moment.”

  “You think I could tag along with you when you interview suspects or something?”

  “No,” Crawford said.

  Casey chuckled. “Well, that’s definitive.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott. “We can talk to you from time to time, but we’re not gonna let you just ‘tag along.’”

  “Let me ask you this, Quinn,” Ott said. “Have you ever interviewed Asher Bard?”

  Casey shook his head and smiled. “No, but I did get the opportunity to interview one of his … employees, I guess he was. He was a very large African-American gentleman by the name of Tyrell. It was a very short interview. I rang the bell at Bard’s house, Tyrell came to the door sporting a giant frown and massive biceps and asked me what I wanted. I told him I wanted to interview Asher Bard, and he told me to get the fuck outta there and never come back.” Casey laughed. “I did as I was told.”

  4

  Crawford and Ott made the short drive back to The Colony after Quinn Casey left.

  “I liked that guy,” Ott said about Casey. “Seemed like a straight-shooter.”

  “Gotta watch out for reporters,” Crawford said. “They’ll act like they’re your best friend then stab you in the back with their typewriter.”

  Ott laughed. “Interesting image, Charlie. I think they’re using computers these days.”

  “You know what I mean. Anything for a damn headline or blockbuster story.”

  The night before, after inspecting Grace Spooner’s hotel room, they had checked camera footage from the lobby and at the reception desk but found nothing suspicious. Today they planned to spend a lot more time looking at footage from the hotel’s many other cameras in hopes one caught Grace Spooner or the person who was her killer. Scanning hours of footage for someone who lurked, looked out of place, or in any way seemed suspicious was typically a long, slow, tedious process, but one that had paid off in the past. Crawford and Ott planned to have their hands full for the better part of the afternoon.

  This time, they focused on footage from the hallway of the penthouse floor where Grace Spooner had been staying, the elevator bank on the ground floor, and the front entry of the hotel, through which most guests came and went.

  One of the latter caught Grace Spooner opening the passenger side door of a car and getting in. They ID’d the vehicle as a blue Cadillac CTS, but the footage did not show the license plate and the driver was only a blur. They couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. The timestamp was 7:06, which coincided with the time the desk clerk saw Spooner leave the hotel, presumably for dinner. Ott suggested he take it to the crime lab on Gun Club Road in West Palm and try to blow up the image of the driver. Crawford agreed it was worth a shot, though he wasn’t particularly hopeful.

  The camera covering the bank of hotel elevators caught a lot of people coming and going, but since they didn’t know who they were looking for it wasn’t particularly productive. They hardly expected to spot a person with a sinister, foreboding presence and go, Aha! There he is. That’s our guy.

  Their biggest hope was the camera that scanned the penthouse hallway and the door to Grace Spooner’s room. But it, too, was a bust. It showed Grace Spooner put her plastic card in the slot and enter her room but caught no other person in the area. They went even further back, thinking the killer might have gained access to Spooner’s room ahead of time and lay in wait for her, but they found no one.

  They had been doing this at The Colony for more than three hours when Crawford’s cell phone rang. It was Rose Clarke, the top real estate agent in Palm Beach and Crawford’s former friend with benefits. He had called her earlier and
left a message. Rose was always one of his first calls when he caught a murder because she knew everybody in town and tended to hear about things five minutes after they happened.

  “Hi, Rose.”

  “Hi, Charlie. I’m not sure I can help you on this one.”

  “As usual, you’re way ahead of me. So, obviously, you heard what happened?”

  “Yes, but I’ve never heard of the poor woman. The victim.”

  “She actually lived up in Tampa. What about a man named Asher Bard?”

  She groaned. “The scum of the earth. I avoid him like the plague.” Then, like she had an afterthought, “You know who used to be friends with him? Your buddy, David.”

  “Balfour?”

  “Yes. I say ‘used to’ because I remember David telling me they had a falling-out.”

  “That’s very helpful, Rose. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. Someone really threw her out a window?”

  “Off a terrace, actually.”

  “Oh, God. The poor woman,” she said again.

  “I know,” Crawford said. “Well, I’m going to give David a call now.”

  “All right, Charlie. Go do what you do…Make the streets safe again.”

  Crawford turned to Ott as they walked out of The Colony toward their Crown Vic. “David Balfour apparently knows Asher Bard pretty well, Rose said.”

  Crawford punched in Balfour’s number on speed dial.

  Ott nodded as David Balfour answered.

  “Hello.” It was not Balfour’s usual exuberant ‘hello.’ Crawford thought he sounded either hungover or possibly despondent about something.

  “What’s wrong, David?”

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “It’s about Missy.”

  “What about her?”

  “It’s over.”

  Crawford didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come right over.”

  “Yeah, please, I really need a shoulder to lean on.”

  Crawford dropped off Ott at the station and headed toward Balfour’s house. The good thing was he could kill two birds with one stone: commiserate with Balfour and pick his brain about Asher Bard.

  Ten months before, Crawford had been an usher at Balfour’s wedding to Missy Barnes. Balfour, despite being one of the most eligible bachelors in Palm Beach, had never been married and on the day of his wedding was one of the happiest bridegrooms Crawford had ever seen. He toasted his bride effusively, saying how it was the best day of his life, and then he danced with her until the wee small hours, paying the band extra not to stop at their scheduled time. He and Missy were the last to leave at one thirty in the morning. And now, only ten months later …