by Tom Turner
“So, you just walked to The Colony for Asher Bard’s party?”
Sunderland was sitting in a lime-green club chair with a cup of coffee and a saucer balanced in his lap. “Yes, it’s only a five-minute walk. Though, I must say,”—he guffawed noisily—“it took me a little longer to get home.”
Crawford smiled. “All that champagne you were telling me about?”
“Oh, my God, yes. I got a little lost, I must confess.”
They had become fast friends in five minutes. Crawford could tell Sunderland was one of those impish men who liked to tell war stories that invariably revolved around an excess of drink.
“Then I had to take a leak and almost walked into a Spanish bayonet tree.”
“That would have been painful.”
“Oh, my God. Can you imagine?”
“So, Lord Sunderland.” It was time to get down to it. “As you well know, there was a brutal murder that night.”
Sunderland moved the coffee cup and saucer to a side table. “I know. I heard about the poor woman. Simply awful.”
“Yes, it was,” Crawford said. “So, I’m just going to cut to the chase: I know there were strippers there who performed double duty. And I know Asher Bard had booked rooms in the hotel. And I also know you and one of the women spent some time together in one of the rooms.”
Sunderland’s face turned fire-engine red. Crawford paused, waiting to see if he would volunteer anything, but Sunderland just glanced off in the distance.
“So, my question is—no, actually, I have several questions. First one is, did you ever see the victim, Ms. Spooner?”
“No, definitely not.”
“And you never went to the penthouse floor?”
“Ah, no, I had my hands full where I was.”
“Did anyone, in your presence, ever mention the name Grace Spooner?”
Sunderland shook his head.
“Of course, I’m well aware of the incidents ten years ago involving Ms. Spooner.”
The red face was back. “I’m not certain I would have recognized her had I seen her at the hotel.”
“I understand. It’s been a long time.”
“It certainly has.”
Crawford leaned closer to Sunderland. “I was told you were the one who hired the strippers as kind of a birthday present to Asher Bard. So, my question is, what are their names? Their real names. Or even if you just have, say, one name and a phone number?”
Sunderland shook his head. “Why do you need to know that?”
“It’s very material.”
Sunderland sighed. “I spoke to a bartender friend. He had one of them call me.”
“What bartender? Where?”
Sunderland hesitated a few moments.
“Come on, I need to know.”
“Dorian at Pistache.”
Crawford wrote it down. “So, who called you?”
“Her name was Betty.”
Crawford looked up. “Her number would be in your phone.”
Sunderland shook his head. “I deleted the number after we made the … arrangements.”
“Why?”
“Ah, let’s just say, I have a suspicious girlfriend.”
Crawford nodded. “Okay, thank you, I think that will do it.”
He looked at his watch. It was only eleven thirty. A little too early to go plunk himself down on a bar stool at Pistache.
Meanwhile, on the north end of Palm Beach, Ott was about to interview Joe Mitchell. Ott had found an address for Mitchell at 305 Indian Road, driven up there, and was now parked in front of the house. It was a two-story Tuscan villa, and as Ott walked up to the front door, he turned to his left and caught a glimpse of Peanut Island, the six-acre island where a bunker had been built for President Kennedy in case of a nuclear attack. After Kennedy’s assassination, when it was no longer in use, Ott heard it had become a go-to site for beer-party blow-outs and romantic trysts.
Ott was met at the door by an Asian housekeeper who said Mitchell was taking a walk on the beach. Ott decided to try to track him down and asked her if there were any photos of Mitchell he could take a look at since he didn’t know what Mitchell looked like. She went and retrieved one of Mitchell and a youthful Bill Clinton in a silver frame. “He doesn’t have quite so much hair these days,” the housekeeper remarked.
“I’m going to walk over to the beach and try and find him,” Ott said, taking his wallet out of his back pocket. “But if I miss him, could you ask him to call me at this number?” He handed her a card.
“I certainly will, sir.” She dropped her voice. “Is there any problem?”
“No, I just have a few routine questions about a case I’m working on.”
He thanked her and walked over to the beach. He took off his tie and jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but his shoes were problematic: he was wearing his Ecco Helsinki Bike Toe lace-ups. They were the most comfortable shoes he had ever worn but not for a stroll on the beach. He considered driving back to the station, where his gym bag was in his trunk along with his Nikes, but that was a half-hour round trip.
What’s a little sand in your shoes? he thought.
Five minutes later he was slogging his way south on the wide, sandy beach.
He walked past two female sunbathers and nodded a hello. There were three surfers in the ocean; he watched one catch a wave and get a good, long ride. Then he glanced to his right and saw a familiar house: it was once owned by the famous talk-show host, Knight Mulcahy, who had been brutally murdered after having an illicit tryst in his pool house. There had been a multitude of suspects, as it seemed Mulcahy had antagonized half of Palm Beach, but Ott and Crawford had eventually tracked down the killer. Mulcahy’s widow had put the house on the market soon after, but Ott heard that it took over a year to sell. The explanation, he remembered hearing from Rose Clarke, was that buyers tended to shy away from houses where murders or suicides took place.
Then as he looked back down the beach, he saw a single man coming toward him wearing shorts and a polo shirt. He was pretty sure it was Joe Mitchell. As the man got closer, he saw what the housekeeper meant: Mitchell had a Friar Tuck fringe around his otherwise bald head and a well-developed double chin.
Ott felt sand shift in his Eccos as he approached Joe Mitchell. “Mr. Mitchell?”
Mitchell stopped. “Yes?”
“My name is Detective Ott. Your housekeeper said you were out here, and I have some questions related to the death of Grace Spooner at The Colony Hotel earlier this week.”
Surprisingly, Mitchell didn’t seem taken aback. “Okay, where do you want to do this?”
“Why don’t we just keep walking. Back toward your house. By the time we get there, I’ll probably be out of questions.”
“Fine with me,” Mitchell said. “Aren’t you a little hot?” He was studying Ott’s khakis and button-down dress shirt.
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t want to walk a long distance dressed like this,” Ott said. “So, my first question is, did you see or hear anything at Asher Bard’s party or in The Colony Hotel that struck you as out of the ordinary?”
“Not even remotely,” Mitchell said without hesitation. “It was just another party that just happened to be close to where a murder occurred. Asher could have had it at the Breakers, in which case you wouldn’t be talking to any of us.”
Which was not altogether true, Ott thought, because of the past relationship between Bard, Sunderland, Mitchell, and the victim, Grace Spooner.
“Besides, we were just in the restaurant, not the hotel,” Mitchell added.
Was he going to play dumb about the rooms Asher Bard had rented in the hotel?
“Mr. Mitchell, are you not aware of the fact that Mr. Bard had rented four rooms in the hotel for the night?”
Mitchell changed his tone quickly. “Oh, yes, I certainly was aware of that. Some of the guys at the party lived off-island; the last thing they’d need would be to get a DUI on the ride home.”
Should have ex
pected a lawyer spin, Ott thought. “That was very considerate of Mr. Bard.”
Mitchell shrugged. “Hey, who wants to have to go bail a friend out of jail?”
Ott had to hand it to him, it was a good cover story. “Mr. Mitchell, there were four young women at the party. You’re aware of that, right?”
“Yes, of course I am. Some of the guys wanted to dance, and since no wives were invited …”
Ott got the impression this was something Joe Mitchell had done all his life for clients: create alternative realities in order to get them off.
“Oh, I see,” Ott said, looking deep into Mitchell’s lying eyes, “so that’s what the girls were invited for, to dance with some of the men.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you also aware that these women took their clothes off in the restaurant—some refer to it as stripping—then later went to those rooms Bard had rented and had sex with several of Bard’s guests?”
Mitchell stopped walking and turned to Ott. “That’s bullshit. How do you know that?” he demanded. “Do you even have a shred of evidence that anybody had sex with anybody?”
They were ten yards away from the two sunbathing women. Ott lowered his voice. “Admittedly, I am making a certain assumption: That is, when an older man who’s had a lot to drink takes a young, attractive woman to a room in a hotel that it’s not to watch The Big Bang Theory with her.”
Mitchell shook his head and sighed. “You’re being totally hypothetical. Were you at the birthday party watching what each of us consumed? How do you know who had a lot to drink? How much is a lot? How do you know what happened in those rooms?”
Christ, Ott had forgotten how much he hated lawyers.
Ott patted Mitchell on the shoulder, half-derisively, half okay-I-give-up gesture. “You are absolutely right, Mr. Mitchell. I was not there counting the men’s drinks, nor was I a fly on the wall in one of those hotel rooms, but you know and I know that some of the men at the party should be looked at as serious suspects for what happened at The Colony.”
They had walked off of the beach and onto a path that led to North Ocean Boulevard. Mitchell stopped walking and eyed Ott. “The same can be said for anyone—male or female—within a fifty-mile radius of Palm Beach.”
This was never going to go anywhere.
“One final question,” Ott said. “These women—from the Fred Astaire Dance Studio or whatever—do you happen to know their names? And I mean their real names.”
Mitchell scrunched up his eyes as if he was thinking hard. It looked like it might have been part of his courtroom schtick. “Actually, I do remember two names. Ronnie and Midge.”
Midge, thought Ott, now there was a name you didn’t hear much anymore.
“All right, then,” Ott said, walking over to his car. “Pleasure meeting you, sir.”
“Thank you,” Mitchell said. “Glad I had the opportunity to straighten you out on some of the facts.”
Ott glanced at him to see if Mitchell was putting him on, but the lawyer’s face couldn’t have looked more serious.
It was rehash-time back at Crawford’s office.
“You know, Charlie, I always thought of you as a candidate for the Best-Dressed List. A little too preppy for my liking, but the chicks seem to dig it. That khaki and blue blazer look of yours, I’m talking about.”
Crawford shook his head. “Yeah, but ol’ Asher came down pretty hard on me. Gave me shit about my favorite rayon tie.”
“And those stylish Skechers,” Ott said. “Like he should talk. Standing there in his PJs.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Ott scratched the side of his head. “So, basically, we got nothin’ out of the three interviews.”
“Basically,” Crawford said. “One of the things we still need to find out is the identity of the three strippers. That barkeep should know.”
“Did you get the names, even if they were aliases? Mitchell told me two were Ronnie and Midge.”
“And Sunderland told me the other one was Betty.”
Ott cocked his head. “No shit. Betty, Midge, and Ronnie. Wonder if Ronnie is short for Veronica …”
Crawford smiled and bumped Ott’s fist. “Nice goin’, man. Betty, Veronica, and Midge. The girls in the Archie comics.”
Ott nodded. “My uncle had stacks of ’em. And who could ever forget Jughead, Reggie, Moose, and, of course, that carrot-top dweeb, Archie.”
Crawford started scrolling on his iPad. “Wasn’t there a TV show, too?”
“Millions,” Ott said. “Every couple years a new one comes out.”
Crawford first tried Craigslist, then when it came up, tried girls, then hook-ups. Nothing there.
“What are you looking for?” Ott asked.
“You gave me an idea,” Crawford said, clicking Escort Services. And, voilà, there it was, the third one down, Archie’s Girls. “Here we go. Under Escort Services. Archie’s Girls. Gotta be it.”
Ott leaned across Crawford’s desk and raised his fist. They bumped again. “Guess you don’t need Dorian the barkeep anymore.”
Crawford picked up his desk phone and dialed the phone number for Archie’s Girls.
“Archie’s Girls,” the voice said, trying hard to sound sexy, but mostly just sounding weary.
“Veronica?” Crawford asked to make sure he had the right place.
“Nope. She’s not here. Would you like to make a date with her?”
“No, thank you. Is this Betty?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“My name is Detective Crawford, and don’t hang up or you’ll be in a world of hurt.”
Pause, but she was still on the line. Then, “What do you want?”
“A conversation with Veronica, Betty, and Midge,” Crawford said. “I have no interest in hassling you, busting your business, or anything like that. I just have a few simple questions.”
“O-kay.” Tentative.
“So, tell all three of ’em I want to see them at the Palm Beach Police Station on County Road this afternoon at two. Okay?”
“I’ll tell ’em.”
“Tell them to ask for Detective Crawford or Ott.”
“Promise you’re not lookin’ to shut us down?”
Charlie gave Ott a nod. “Scout’s honor.”
24
The three women came in looking as though they were attending high service at the Bethesda-by-the-Sea Episcopal church. Two wore skirts below the knees and the third a pants suit that might have come out of Hillary Clinton’s walk-in closet.
Crawford led them back to his office as Ott dragged in two extra chairs from a nearby office. The trio sat directly opposite Crawford, with Ott off to one side.
“So, ladies, thank you for coming in on short notice. My partner and I appreciate it and hope you can help us with the case we’re working on.”
“You ladies are lookin’ fly, by the way,” Ott added.
Crawford shot him a look a parent gives a naughty child, but Ott just smiled.
Veronica, who told them her real name was Lila Broughton, leaned forward. “The murder of that woman, right? At The Colony.”
“Yes,” Crawford said. “That’s why I asked you to come here. Since you were at The Colony then.”
“See, I told you,” Veronica said to the woman next to her: Midge, aka Connie Sheets.
“So, the question is—”
A detective named Bob Shepley rushed into Crawford’s office. “Got a homicide down at the Town Docks,” he blurted.
“Which one?” Crawford asked.
“Australian,” Shepley said. “All the way at the end.”
The Town Docks was the only public marina in Palm Beach. It provided berthing for boats up to 260 feet in length. There were three fixed dock structures: Brazilian, Peruvian, and Australian, named for the adjacent streets. Australian accommodated the largest yachts.
“You know the name of the vic?” Ott asked, getting to his feet.
“Sure do,” Shepley said
. “Asher Bard.”
Crawford’s head jerked back reflexively. “Ah … sorry, ladies. We’re gonna have to reschedule.”
Veronica nodded. “Understand. Poor Mr. Bard. Seemed like a nice guy.”
“We’ll be getting back to you soon,” Crawford said to the women, quickly ushering them out of his office.
He and Ott hustled out the back of the building, piled into a white Crown Vic, and were at the Town Docks in five minutes. There were four black and whites in the parking lot, lights flashing but no sirens. Crawford saw a cluster of uniforms at the end of the dock. He and Ott ran down to the end and walked up a gangplank. Crawford nodded at two uniforms who pointed to the stern of the large yacht. “Back there, the gym,” one of them said.
Bard’s 250-foot ship, the Mandalay, was built by the renowned German yard of Abeking & Rasmussen and boasted a number of special features, including a twenty-four-seat movie theater, a full owner’s deck, and multiple outdoor lounge areas with spa pools. A bright red helicopter perched on a deck near the Mandalay’s stern.
They ran down the starboard side and turned into a room that had expansive windows on three walls and a ten-person mahogany dining table in the middle. They were ushered through that room into another one, which was a compact gym. At the center of it, next to a stack of weights and high-tech machines, was the body of Asher Bard. He was not dressed for the gym but was wearing blue jeans, a blue and white sport shirt, and fancy shoes with double buckles on the sides.
Crouched beside the body were two crime scene techs. One was Sheila Stallings, the other Dominica McCarthy. Dominica looked up at Crawford, shot him a quick smile, and looked back down at Bard’s body. Crawford refrained from saying Long time no see.
“Hey,” Ott said to Dominica and Stallings, “glad we got the A-team.”
Crawford studied Asher Bard’s bloody head. It looked like his skull had been caved in. He saw a forty-pound kettlebell with a smear of blood on the floor near the victim. Sheila was snapping pictures of it.