Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  “Eighteen, to be exact.”

  “You know everyone who was there?”

  “Yeah, we got a list.”

  “So, you go talk to all of them?”

  Crawford nodded. “Already knocked off a few.” He took a bite of his squishy sausage.

  “Who?”

  “Sorry, can’t tell you.”

  “Come on,” Casey said, smiling broadly, “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

  “You mean, except for the millions of New Yorker readers?”

  “Only one-point-two million, but who’s counting?”

  Crawford leaned in closer to Casey. “Let me ask you something: You said that first time we met, in my office, you thought Asher Bard was the most obvious suspect in Grace Spooner’s murder. Did she ever say she was scared of him?”

  Casey shook his head. “No, it never came up. I was going to probe that in the interview that never happened.”

  “When did you first get together with her?”

  “A month ago was our initial contact. It was a quick meeting. I didn’t really get into the nitty-gritty with her at that point. Kind of had to build a little trust, if you know what I mean.”

  Crawford nodded. “Got it. So, the morning she was killed—”

  “Was going to be the big interview. Figured I’d spend a couple hours with her, anyway.”

  Crawford thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I just don’t get why she was there. At The Colony, I mean. A woman making … I don’t know, fifty, sixty grand a year in a five-hundred-dollar-a-night suite.”

  Quinn shrugged back at him. “Can’t help you there.”

  “By the way, where are you staying?” Crawford asked.

  “The Brazilian Court.”

  “That’s pretty nice,” Crawford said. “But I guess for their star reporter, The New Yorker can splurge a little.”

  Casey smiled. “I guess,” he said. “By the way, have you talked to Bard himself yet?”

  “No. He’s a long way from here at the moment.”

  “Let me guess,” Quinn said, peeling his banana, “Thailand?”

  “Nope. Costa Rica.”

  “Figures,” Quinn said. “I’ve heard his jet can pretty much go on autopilot to Bangkok or Costa Rica.”

  “Costa Rica’s not as bad as Thailand, is it?”

  “You mean, as far as young girls go?”

  Crawford nodded.

  “You can bet any country where prostitution is legal is gonna be on Bard’s radar screen,” Casey said, taking a bite of his banana.

  “Gotta tell ya,” Crawford began, “whenever I think of prostitution, I think of venereal disease, beds with slimy bugs crawling around, and pimps with switchblades.”

  “Yeah, well, something tells me Asher Bard and his pals take the high road.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Whatever that may be.”

  “Thousand-count Egyptian sheets, disease-free, well-scrubbed young girls, and pimps who majored in economics.”

  Crawford cocked his head. “Sounds like a subject you know something about.”

  “High-class hookers?” Quinn gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Nah, I’m a happily married man. But in my line of work you learn a little bit about everything.”

  12

  Dan Wright, the man Crawford had made an interview appointment with the day before, turned out to be no help. He struck Crawford as a supercilious jerk who was happy to spend their half hour together making derisive comments about Asher Bard and all the “drunks” at his party, as if he were a saintly fellow who’d somehow fallen out of the sky and landed in Gomorrah against his will. He had nothing to contribute, and Crawford was happy to see him go.

  An hour later, Crawford and Ott met in Crawford’s office to discuss their interviews from the day before and map out their plans for the day.

  “Rehab centers?” Crawford said after Ott told him about his interview with Monte Bittar.

  “Yeah, it got me thinking, too,” Ott, slouched down in his chair, said. “I haven’t had a chance to look into them yet.”

  “Might be just a worthwhile humanitarian philanthropy, but then again, it might be something else altogether,” Crawford said. “Speaking of worthwhile, I got a job for you I know you’re gonna like.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think you should go have a little talk with that woman you were winking at.” He was referring to Asher Bard’s secretary, Jennifer Atwood.

  Ott shook his head. “I didn’t wink at her.”

  “Oh, then maybe you just got something stuck in your eye. But one thing’s sure, you shook her hand like you never wanted to let go,” Crawford said. “We need to find out who the dancing girls were at Bard’s party. Find out what they know.”

  “You think she hired them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m pretty damn sure Bard won’t tell us who they are when we talk to him.”

  Ott nodded.

  “Just give her your ol’ charm-school act,” Crawford said. “She’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  “Okay. In the meantime, you’re going up to Tampa, right?”

  Crawford nodded. He had mentioned he thought it was worth the drive to go talk to people at Advance Team, the company where Grace Spooner had worked. “How long’s it take? Never been to Tampa before.”

  “Little over three hours,” Ott said. “I went up there to see my Cleveland Browns destroy the Tampa Bay Bucs.”

  “Did they?”

  “Hell, no. They got crushed.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, at least the Giants aren’t my team.”

  Crawford sighed. “Never miss an opportunity to dis my boys, do you.”

  “Get a new quarterback and you’ll be all right.”

  “Leave our old man alone,” Crawford said, standing. “All right, I’m going to head up there now. I’ll put in a call to Hawes on the road to see whether he was able to lift a print or get any DNA.”

  “Yeah, also ask him if he can blow up that frame of Grace Spooner getting into the car in front of The Colony.”

  “Will do.” Crawford gave his partner a theatrical wink. “Meanwhile, time to give your new girlfriend a call.”

  “Ms. Atwood?” Ott said.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, it’s Detective Ott,” he said in his most cultured intonation. “We met at—”

  “Of course, Mort, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I wonder if I could stop by and see you. I have a question or two regarding Mr. Bard’s birthday party at The Colony Hotel.”

  “Sure. When do you want to come over?”

  “How’s right now? I’m not far away.”

  “I know. I drive by the police station every day. Come on over.”

  “Thanks. See you in a few minutes.”

  Ott was in Jennifer Atwood’s office ten minutes later. Eager? Maybe. Jennifer greeted him with a kiss on Ott’s fleshy left cheek, a gesture he was not entirely comfortable with. When was such a greeting appropriate? After the first meeting? The second? The third? Never?

  But in this case … he rather liked it and hoped she’d do it again when they were done talking and it was time for him to go.

  For the moment, though, the question was how to start the conversation on the potentially touchy subject of the strippers.

  “So,” he said with a sigh, “this is a little bit tricky.”

  She smiled innocently. “What is?”

  “The subject I want to ask you about.”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  “I know, it’s just … All right, here goes: There were three women at Mr. Bard’s birthday party who were there for, ah, entertainment purposes—”

  “Oh, you mean the strippers?”

  Ott decided that description would suffice, even though their duties went well beyond just stripping. “Yes, exactly. Was that one of your, ah, tasks … to, to hire them?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “O
h, no, Lord Sunderland was in charge of that. I think he’d had them entertain at one of his parties in the past.”

  “I’m just curious, do these kinds of parties take place on a regular basis?”

  “What kinds, Mort?”

  Well, you know, where nubile young women strip and hook while drinking top-shelf bubbly, he wanted to say, but cleaned it up. “The kind where a bunch of men eat and drink and … watch women disrobe,” he said instead.

  Jennifer laughed. “I hear that Lord Sunderland is a randy old codger. And my boss, well, you’ve heard the stories, I’m sure.”

  Glad she went there. “Yes, I certainly have. And as far as what you’ve observed about your boss, what is true and what is—well, let’s just say—exaggerated?”

  Jennifer Atwood sighed and thought for a few moments. “Well, Asher definitely likes women. Young women, not-so-young women, short women, tall women, blondes, brunettes, redheads, you name it. But I think a lot of what you hear is exaggerated. And that whole trial thing ten years back, I think that was all about a man who had an agenda to advance his political career and make an example out of a high-profile target like Asher.”

  “Harlan Brody you’re talking about?”

  “That’s him. And the way I’ve heard it, he’d throw his own mother in jail to get a headline.”

  Ott nodded. “He’s obviously an ambitious man.”

  “There’s a big difference between ambitious and ruthless,” Jennifer said, cocking her head. “Are you single, Mort?”

  Ott smiled and held out his hand. “Yup. No ring. No commitment.”

  “A lot of men don’t wear rings. Or take them off at convenient moments,” she said. “Maybe we could have a drink one night?”

  “I would like that very much,” Ott said, amping up his 1000-watt smile. “But if I could go back to the three women who were at Bard’s party … You have no idea what their real names are?”

  “No, neither Asher nor I had anything to do with them being there. They were, I guess you could say, Ainslie Sunderland’s birthday present to Asher.”

  Ott nodded. “Different strokes for different folks, I guess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I usually just give a friend a tie or something.”

  13

  Crawford saw the sign for Kissimmee and wondered where the name had come from. Native American, he guessed. A little farther along, he saw a similar sign on which some enterprising graffiti artist had painted Xs over the letters I-M-E in Kissimmee. As if everyone seeing the name hadn’t thought of that the first time they saw the word.

  His cell phone rang, and he looked down and saw caller ID: Bob Hawes. The ME. Calling him back.

  “Hey, Bob, whatcha got?” Crawford asked expectantly.

  “Nothing you’re going to be very excited about,” Hawes said. “You’re welcome to come take a look. The person driving the car the dead woman got into the night of was definitely a man. But it’s impossible to make out any features, just that he was wearing a dark baseball-style cap.”

  “What about any prints off of—”

  “Nada. Must have been wearing gloves. Not even a partial. Sorry, can’t help you there.”

  “All right,” Crawford said with a sigh. “And nothing on the woman’s body. No DNA or blood from the perp?”

  “Still looking into that. I’ll let you know if we get something. All we’ve established is that she was likely dead before she got tossed. And, I hope for her sake, before the guy cut her tongue out.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Crawford said. “Thanks.”

  Hawes chuckled. “For nothing, you mean.”

  “Keep me posted.” Crawford clicked off and checked his GPS. He was about ten miles from Tampa.

  Before Hawes called, he had been thinking about what Ott told him about Asher Bard’s rehab centers. He was eager to look into them and see if anything hinky came to light.

  Up ahead, the skyline of Tampa came into view. It was pretty impressive. And new. Clearly a lot of it had been built in the last ten or twenty years. He had no idea it was such a big city.

  Fifteen minutes later, he had parked and was walking into the reception area of Advance Team on the thirtieth floor of the Bank of America Plaza building. He had an appointment with the owner, a man named Kevin Malchoff.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Crawford,” he said to the receptionist. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Malchoff.” It was just past two.

  She gave him a smile and a nod. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  A few minutes later a tall man who looked to be in his fifties walked into the reception area and up to Crawford.

  “Hello, Detective. How was your drive up from Palm Beach?”

  Crawford shook his outstretched hand. “Pretty easy, thanks. Never been to Tampa before.”

  “Well, welcome,” Malchoff said, motioning with his hand. “Come on back.”

  Crawford followed him back to his office, which looked out over a big stadium in the foreground and what he guessed was the Gulf of Mexico off in the distance. “Pretty amazing view you have here.”

  “Yeah, that’s the Ray Jay,” Malchoff said, pointing. “The Raymond James Stadium, where the Buccaneers play. Then Clearwater beyond and the Gulf off on the horizon. Have a seat.”

  “I look out over a couple of dumpsters,” Crawford said, sitting down.

  Malchoff laughed, but his expression changed as he sat behind his desk. “So, you got anything yet on Grace?”

  “Wish I could tell you I did, but it’s still early,” Crawford said. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “She was the hardest worker I had here. She worked on the Aquarium, the Bucs, the Convention Center, and one of our local banks. She was a dream to work with, and I miss her a lot.”

  Crawford glanced out the big picture window, then back at Malchoff. “Do you know anything at all about her history, by any chance? Specifically, her past relationship with a man named Asher Bard?”

  There was a knock on Malchoff’s closed door. “Perfect timing,” he said, getting up, walking over, and opening the door.

  “Come on in,” Malchoff said to a young woman with blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Detective, this is Kathleen Esposito. I asked her to join us because she and Grace were very good friends.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kathleen,” Crawford said, shaking her hand. “Thanks for joining us.”

  “You’re welcome. Anything I can do to help find that murderer—” The words seemed to strike an emotional chord and her voice quavered. “I’m sorry, I still can’t even believe it.”

  “I understand,” Crawford said. “Please have a seat.”

  She sat down.

  “Get you a water or something, Kath?” Malchoff asked.

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” She was clearly trying hard to hold it together.

  “So, maybe if you could just start anywhere you want and tell me about Grace. Her past, her parents, relationships with men, anything you feel might be helpful to my investigation.”

  “Sure, I’ll do my best,” she said.

  Crawford pulled his Sony digital recorder out of his jacket pocket. “You mind if I record this?”

  “No, not at all,” Kathleen said. “So, as far as her childhood went, it was pretty awful. Her mother took off when she was, like, two. Grace didn’t even remember her. I think her father abused her mother pretty bad. Then he got killed.”

  “Her father?”

  Kathleen nodded. “He was a member of a biker gang. The Outlaws, was what Grace told me. He got killed in a barroom brawl in Daytona, I think it was.”

  “How old was she when that happened?”

  “As I remember, about nine or so. Then she went to a bunch of foster homes and had problems at all of them. She got into drugs, told me she got arrested for shoplifting when she was twelve. Ended up at a place for, quote, emotionally troubled teens, when she was thirteen. Place was called Cedar Knolls, in Jupiter, I thi
nk.” She glanced at Kevin Malchoff. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on that water offer.”

  “Oh, sure,” Malchoff said and stepped out of the office.

  “She told me she liked Cedar Knolls at first, but then something happened, and I’m not sure exactly what it was. I think it had to do with some guy she met.”

  “From Cedar Knolls?”

  Esposito shook her head. “No, definitely not. He was on the outside, and she told me he later got arrested for sex trafficking.”

  Malchoff returned and handed Kathleen a bottle of water.

  “Thanks. See, what was happening,” Kathleen continued, “is a lot of the girls were disappearing from Cedar Knolls. And nobody seemed to know, or care much, where they were going. Turned out this guy and his brother were targeting girls with, ah, behavioral and emotional problems. You know, the really vulnerable ones.”

  Crawford nodded. “I think I read about something similar to that up in New York.”

  “I hope they got those guys,” Kevin Malchoff said.

  “Yeah, I think eventually they did,” Kathleen said.

  “What’s amazing to me,” Malchoff said, “is how she turned out so normal. Or at least on the surface, anyway.”

  Kathleen smiled. “Under the surface, too. It’s a testament to her character that somehow—God knows how—she turned her life around.”

  “That’s amazing,” Crawford said, then to Malchoff. “When did she start work here?”

  “Three years ago. She was an intern while she was at University of Tampa. When she graduated, I hired her.”

  Crawford turned back to Kathleen. “Tell me about relationships with men that she may have had.”

  “Well, that was difficult for Grace. You know, the trust aspect.”

  “I can imagine,” Crawford said.

  “I mean, ’cause she was attractive, she had a lot of guys interested, but in college and up to about a year ago—maybe a year and a half—she didn’t really go out with anybody for long. Then she met a guy it clicked with. He was just back from Afghanistan, kind of a loner, had a tough childhood, too.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jack. Jack Marin. She was head over heels about him … but then, like, a few months ago she met this other guy and suddenly broke it off with Jack.”