Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Johnnie said.

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “And how you expect me to remember some chick from ten years ago?”

  It was Dominica’s turn. “How ’bout ’cause you just saw her a few nights ago?”

  Frank shook his head. “How ’bout … never happened.”

  “That ain’t my car,” Johnnie said. “Gotta be hundreds of blue Cadillac CTS’s in the state of Florida.”

  “Eighty-three, to be exact,” Crawford said. “But only seven registered in Palm Beach County.”

  Johnnie looked impressed. “How you know that?”

  Crawford ignored the question and looked over at Dominica. “Got anything else?”

  “In case my associate didn’t ask you before,” she said to Crawford, then to the brothers, “where were you Tuesday night?”

  “Right here, girlfriend,” Johnnie said. “Sitting in my easy chair over there, girl in my lap, nursing an adult beverage.” Then, as an afterthought, “Maybe you could join me one night, when you’re not out hassling innocent men.”

  “Thanks a lot, but you’re really not my type,” she said. “Pleasure chatting with you, though.” Then to Crawford, “Let’s get out of this armpit.”

  “Yeah, let’s go,” Crawford said, then he smiled at Johnnie. “You’re not my type either.”

  They were out in the parking lot. “Can I see that shot of Grace Spooner getting into the car again?” Dominica asked.

  “Sure,” Crawford said, reaching into his breast pocket, sliding it out, and handing it to her.

  She took it. “Thought I noticed something before.” She pulled the photo closer. “Yeah, see that.”

  She was pointing at something on the passenger side door.

  “Oh, yeah,” Crawford said. “A scratch.”

  “So, assuming the Caddy’s somewhere in the lot here, let’s see if it’s got a scratch.”

  Crawford nodded and patted Dominica on the shoulder. “It takes a tech to spot something that subtle. Good catch.”

  “Thanks,” Dominica said, then pointed at a blue car. “Over there, is that it?”

  “No, that’s a Lincoln.”

  They spent the next few minutes walking around the parking lot but didn’t spot a blue Cadillac anywhere.

  “Let’s check around back,” Crawford said.

  Dominica nodded.

  They walked around to the other side, and there, parked next to a black Ford F-150 pickup, was a blue Cadillac CTS.

  “Bingo,” Dominica said.

  They went around to the passenger side and looked down at the door.

  There was no scratch.

  “Could have had it painted in the last couple of days,” Dominica said, looking up at Crawford.

  “Could have, but I doubt it. I mean, he’d have to think that, one, the car would be caught on a camera, and two, the camera could pick up the scratch—”

  “Yeah, you’re right, and three, that we’d ever track him down,” Dominica said, getting down in a crouch and examining where the scratch was in the photo. Then, holding the photo, she touched where the scratch would have been, leaned forward, and sniffed it. “No fresh paint.”

  “Bummer,” Crawford said, shaking his head. “Guy was looking like such a good suspect.”

  “Too bad. What do we do now?”

  Crawford shrugged. “Get a drink. But not here. I’m sick of looking at tattooed women with bad boob jobs.”

  20

  They decided on a place called E.R. Bradley’s, a saloon at the end of Clematis and overlooking the Intracoastal in West Palm. Crawford had a vague recollection of reading that E.R. Bradley was a gambler and racetrack owner who donated land he owned in Palm Beach that later became the site of Rosarian Academy.

  Dominica was halfway through her first pinot grigio, and Crawford had just ordered his second Stoudts Smooth Hoperator IPA.

  “What’s with all those stupid names?” Dominica asked, pointing to Crawford’s beer bottle.

  “I can’t tell you. Tastes pretty good, though.”

  “That’s all that counts, right?”

  Crawford nodded. “So, I assume you heard the Rose newsflash?”

  “Oh, you mean about John?”

  “Yeah. John the shrink. You met him?”

  “Just briefly. I stopped by her house and had a quick drink with them.”

  “Jesus. She’s having cocktail parties, and I’m not on the guest list.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive, it wasn’t a cocktail party. She just asked me over, and he showed up as I was leaving.”

  “So, what did you think?”

  “Nice guy. Kind of reserved. Struck me as one of those strong, silent types.”

  “So, it seems pretty serious?”

  “Too early to tell.”

  Crawford glanced away and saw a big yacht heading up the Intracoastal. “Would you ever have figured she’d end up with a shrink?”

  “Charlie, first of all, she hasn’t ended up with anybody. They just started going out. And second, what’s wrong with shrinks? Just ’cause you’re so normal you never had to go to one.”

  “I went to one once.”

  “Once? That doesn’t count. Why’d you go?”

  “My ex-wife suggested it.”

  “You mean, the ex-wife you never talk about.”

  “What’s to talk about?”

  “I don’t even know her name.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Yes?”

  “Jill.”

  “That’s a nice name.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “This is a pretty lame conversation.”

  Crawford laughed. “Ask me whatever you want. Let’s just say, it was a good marriage for a while but kind of ran out of gas.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “Well, what do you want to know?”

  Dominica sighed. “I just know you’re going to give me Charlie answers.”

  “What the hell are ‘Charlie answers?’”

  “That’s what Rose calls them. Short. Succinct. Pithy. But not volunteering a damn thing.”

  “Let’s talk about Rose and John the shrink?”

  “We just did. What’s to talk about? I met him for five minutes, and you’ve never laid eyes on the man.”

  “It’s still more interesting than Jill and Charlie.”

  “Because you don’t like talking about yourself.”

  “True,” Crawford said. “You want to get something to eat?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t?” Crawford said with a shrug, “Well, what do you want to do then?”

  Dominica leaned in close and lowered her voice. “How ’bout … go back to your place and mess around.”

  Crawford smiled. “Seriously?”

  “Don’t act so surprised.”

  “Well, it’s just—”

  “The moratorium Rose and I came up with?”

  “Yeah, the thing that’s been in effect for seven months, two days, five hours, twenty-three minutes and”—looking at his watch—“fourteen seconds.”

  Dominica laughed. “Well,” she said, twisting a strand of hair around her ear, “now I’m proclaiming it’s over.”

  Crawford raised his fist. “Hallelujah.”

  “So, finish your drink and let’s go celebrate its official end.”

  They were at Crawford’s condo after Dominica elicited a promise from him that he’d prepare his trademark breakfast the next morning: a cheese omelet, Nueske’s smoked bacon, and toast slathered with marmalade.

  He would have promised her anything.

  “Back when you smoked,” Dominica asked, out of breath from their just-concluded lovemaking, “did you smoke a cigarette after…you know?”

  She was lying on her back, the sheet pulled up just above her breasts, her tanned, lean arms out to her sides. She had a few beads of sweat on her forehead.

  Crawford nodded. He was facing
her, his right hand propping up his head. “I think I did because James Bond did. Anything 007 did was in my playbook.”

  “Which one?” Dominica asked, then she turned and kissed him.

  “Which James Bond?”

  She nodded.

  “Sean Connery, of course. Roger Moore, a distant second. Daniel Craig, not even in the running.”

  “Pierce Brosnan?”

  “Too pretty.”

  “And Sean Connery and Roger Moore weren’t?”

  Crawford slipped his left hand up to her breasts and traced gentle circles around them. “They were, but they were more … rugged.”

  “‘Rugged?’”

  “You know, manly, virile. I never really felt Pierce Brosnan was up to the task of taking on Sean Bean in Goldeneye.”

  “Who’s Sean Bean?”

  “The actor who played Alec Trevelyan. Also known as Agent 006. He faked his death and took over the Janus crime syndicate. One seriously bad dude.”

  “Jesus, Charlie, sounds like you got ’em all memorized.”

  Crawford kept stroking around Dominica’s nipples. “Did you know the first Bond movie was filmed in 1962?” He did the math. “Fifty-seven years ago.”

  “Dr. No, right?” she said. Then with a soft smile and a sigh, “Oh, yes, that feels sooo good.”

  Crawford didn’t hear her. “Yeah … man, did I ever lust after Ursula Andress.”

  “She was Pussy Galore, right?”

  Crawford laughed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Honor Blackman was Pussy Galore. Ursula Andress was Honey Ryder. Had posters on my bedroom walls of both of ’em.”

  “They didn’t exactly go on to become major starlets.”

  “True. Pretty much one-hit wonders, but wow, were they hot.”

  “Don’t stop,” Dominica said, as Crawford seemed to be losing focus.

  “And, oh my God, Daniela Bianchi and Claudine Auger—”

  “Who in God’s name are they?” Dominica asked, grabbing his inert hand and guiding it back to her breasts.

  “Daniela Bianchi played Tatiana Romanova in From Russia with Love and Claudine Auger was … Oh, God, what’s her name in Thunderball—”

  “No clue.”

  Crawford snapped his fingers. “Domino, that’s it, Domino Derval.”

  Dominica turned to her side and put her arms around Crawford. “Charlie, do you realize you have a real live woman right next to you, who some might describe as—”

  “—the hottest woman in south Florida and quite possibly the world? Yeah, I picked up on that. Just having a little flashback there.”

  He put his arms around her and kissed her with all he had. Then he moved his hands down to her perfect, rounded ass and pulled her into him. Three minutes later they were making love like James Bond only dreamed of.

  21

  It was seven fifteen and Crawford was serving Dominica breakfast in bed.

  Dominica wore a pair of his blue boxers and nothing else, sitting at the end of the bed watching CNN. They were loose on her.

  She had just finished off a piece of crisp Nueske’s smoked bacon. “So, I have a question for you.”

  Crawford walked out with his tray of food. “Shoot.”

  “Were you thinking about any of those Bond girls when we made love?”

  “Umm, maybe a little, the fourth time.”

  Dominica cocked her head. “Did we do it four times?”

  “Five, actually,” Crawford said.

  “We had a lot of time to make up for.”

  “Seven months, two days, six hours, twenty-three minutes and—”

  “—but who’s counting?” Dominica shook her head and laughed. “What are you doing today on Spooner?”

  “Asher Bard flew back last night. I’m about to go camp out on his doorstep.”

  “What about the guys that went with him? Are any of them on your shortlist?”

  “Absolutely. Lord Sunderland and Joe Mitchell.”

  “Who’s Joe Mitchell?”

  “You’ve probably seen him on TV. A big-time lawyer from Boston. He’s, like, the resident legal expert on Fox News and has a very impressive vocabulary. Whenever there’s a legal question, ol’ Joe always gets up there and gives some long-winded answer. I think he used to be a criminal attorney.”

  Dominica put her fork down after having finished her cheese omelet. “That was so good, Charlie. You could be a chef.”

  He shook his head. “That’s the only thing I know how to do.”

  “Okay, you could whip up breakfast for the gang at Green’s then,” she said. “So, have you ruled out those sleazeball brothers from last night?”

  “No, just ’cause the car didn’t match doesn’t mean they couldn’t have done it. They still have motive.”

  “Which is?”

  “Grace Spooner was going to talk to that reporter, Quinn Casey. The brothers sure as hell didn’t want more press about what happened ten years ago.”

  “I hear you.”

  Crawford glanced away from the TV and down at Dominica. “You look good in boxers … but then, you look good in anything. Even better in nothing, though.”

  She laughed. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “You’re welcome, Dominica,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s a little early to show up on Bard’s doorstep, so what do you say we—”

  “Go for number six?”

  Crawford nodded and smiled. “Can’t hurt.”

  22

  Crawford hit the buzzer at the big contemporary oceanfront house at 6 Ocean Lane at a little after nine o’clock. When nobody came to the door, he hit it again.

  Finally, it opened. It was the big redwood tree of a man, Tyrell, who went from a neutral expression to a frown. “You again. Whaddaya want, Detective?”

  “Asher Bard.”

  “Well, you can’t have him.”

  “You want me to get a warrant, Tyrell? Because that’s easy enough. I’ll just be back in a half hour.” Which was bullshit, because sometimes it could take quite a while.

  “Yeah, why don’t you do that,” Tyrell said as a face in white pajamas with blue piping appeared next to him. It was Asher Bard. He was a blocky man, no more than five-nine or five-ten with big cauliflower ears and a small nose. He had gray hair that stuck up in front and flattened out on the sides and back.

  “Who’s this?” Bard asked.

  “A Palm Beach detective, I forget his name.”

  “You don’t need to translate,” said Crawford. “I can speak directly to Mr. Bard. My name’s Detective Crawford. I’ve been waiting three days to talk to you.”

  “Oh, yeah, what about?”

  “I bet you have a pretty good idea. Grace Spooner. The woman who died at The Colony when you were having your birthday party there.”

  “I read about that.”

  “What? It made the Costa Rica News and World Report?”

  Bard scowled. “Funny man. I read about it online. The Glossy.”

  “I’d like to come in. Ask you some questions.”

  “No. Right here is fine,” he said, then glanced at Tyrell. “You can go, Ty. I got this.” Then back to Crawford, “So, ask away.”

  Crawford first wanted to see if he could catch Bard in a lie. “Did you go into the hotel at all the night of your party?”

  Bard thought for a second. “You’ve had three days to check all the cameras, so you know the answer. Yes, I did. As you know, I booked a couple of rooms there.”

  “Did you ever go up to one of the penthouses?”

  “No.”

  “What floor was your room on?”

  “The third.”

  “And who did you go there with?”

  “Her name was Midge.” He was eyeing Crawford’s shoes. “Are those Skechers?”

  Crawford looked down at them. “Yeah, why?”

  Bard shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ve just never met anyone who wore Skechers before.”

  It was clearly a put-down.

&nbs
p; “They’re very comfortable. You should get a pair.”

  “Maybe I will. Cost about fifteen, twenty bucks, right?”

  Another put-down.

  “A little more.”

  “And that tie. Is it rayon?”

  Crawford looked down at it. “You know, I’m not really sure. Why the interest in my wardrobe?”

  “It’s just, I never talked to a detective before. So I’m kind of curious to know how a detective dresses.”

  “Well, now you know. Did you know Grace Spooner was staying at The Colony?”

  “No idea.”

  “But you knew Grace Spooner?”

  “Look, you’ve done your homework, you know what happened ten years back. And that nothing ever came of it.”

  “And you never saw her last Tuesday night?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t.”

  “Did any of your guests see her? Like maybe Khalid Al-Ansani or Lord Sulcher.”

  Bard shook his head. “It’s Lord Sunderland, and how the hell would I know? I wasn’t keeping tabs on all my guests.”

  “Something else,” Crawford said. “You own Cedar Knolls in Riviera Beach, right?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A place for at-risk teenage boys and girls.”

  “Hey, look, I own a big company that’s in the business of providing homes and care for kids like that. Maybe that place is one of them.”

  “Yeah, matter of fact, it is. And guess who did a stint there ten years back?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Yeah, you do … Grace Spooner.”

  “Okay, so what?”

  “You know damn well. She and some friends of hers spent time with you right here in this house. On your yacht. On your island. God knows where else.”

  Bard shook his head and jeered. “Are you here to arrest me for something, Detective? Because if not, my breakfast is getting cold, and you’re really starting to get on my nerves.”

  “Sorry to hear that, and no, I’m not here to arrest you.”

  Bard stepped back and pushed the door to close it.

  Crawford pushed it back at him. “Not this time, anyway.”

  23

  Lord Ainslie Sunderland was a little more cordial than Asher Bard and not once tried to ridicule Crawford’s wardrobe. They were in the living room of his house on Middle Road, in the heart of the estate section.