Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  Ott didn’t hesitate. “So, Jennifer disappeared it, huh?”

  “Only person who could have.”

  “Okay, after a couple glasses of wine and once I’ve got her under my spell, I’ll slip into a little business Q&A.”

  “That’ll be romantic.”

  Ott laughed. “I don’t hear you telling me not to.”

  “Maybe we’re both guilty of what Dominica and Rose always accuse me of.”

  “The case first, everyone else second?”

  “Something like that.”

  Crawford heard Ott flick on his blinker.

  “Think we got a problem, Charlie?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Gotta go, I’m at her house.”

  “Dazzle her, big man.”

  “That’s your department, but I’ll do my best.”

  Crawford got another call from David Balfour. “How’d it go?”

  “Good and bad,” Balfour said. “I was a very convincing bluffer. Missy bought it that you broke in to Jenkins’s studio.”

  “And the bad?”

  He exhaled. “Jenkins beat the hell out of Missy.”

  “What for?”

  “She said he was pissed off about all the work he did for nothing.”

  “You mean, painting the fakes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s she doing … Missy?”

  “Not so good. She’s at Good Sam”—Good Samaritan Medical Center in West Palm Beach—“with a concussion, a broken arm, and bruises all over her face.”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

  “Will you go after the guy, Charlie?”

  “Jesus, David, I can’t now. I’m going twenty-four seven on my two homicides,” Crawford said. “Tell you what I’ll do, though. I got a guy here I’ll put on it. Name’s Bob Shepley, he’s a real bulldog.”

  Ott had her laughing from the get-go. Telling her stories about his past life in Cleveland had a way of doing that.

  Jennifer was looking at a menu now.

  “If we were in Cleveland, one of the entrees would be The Polish Boy, which you’d find hard to resist,” Ott said.

  “Do tell: What’s The Polish Boy?”

  “Grilled kielbasa, French fries, and coleslaw all crammed into a monster bun and doused with barbecue sauce. See, in Cleveland, fries are a condiment.”

  “Sounds yummy. What other local favorites would I find irresistible?”

  “Glad you asked. If The Polish Boy didn’t whet your appetite, I would heartily recommend a pierogi.”

  Jennifer cocked her head. “I’m not familiar with a pierogi.”

  “A pierogi is an Eastern European dumpling that you fill with potato, cheese, and sauerkraut, then top it off with sautéed onions, heavy on the butter, with a generous dollop of sour cream.”

  “Wow, that sounds delicious. I’m ready to move.”

  Ott laughed. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

  “Maybe a tad,” she said, holding up her thumb and forefinger, half an inch apart. “I’ve always wanted to live in a place that has a burning river.”

  “Yeah, the good ol’ Cuyahoga. We’re best known for that and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.”

  “Well, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame truly is something to be proud of.”

  “Yeah, no kidding, all those guitars from my rock gods,” Ott said. “Not to mention John Lennon’s elementary school report card, James Brown’s jumpsuit with SEX spelled out in rhinestones, and my favorite, Jim Morrison’s Cub Scout uniform.”

  Jennifer laughed. “That’s hard to picture. Jim Morrison in a Cub Scout uniform.”

  “No kidding. But he came from a military background. His father was an admiral in the Navy.”

  “Yeah, I guess I knew that.”

  Ott had been looking for a segue to the Asher Bard case as they ordered dinner and another glass of wine.

  The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame wasn’t much of a segue, but it was time.

  “Jennifer, can I ask you about something?”

  “Sure. Anything.” She laughed. “Well, maybe not anything. This is our first date.”

  He put his hand on her hand. “I’m a cop, right?”

  “Is a detective the same thing as a cop?”

  “Pretty much. I’m actually a homicide cop. Meaning I just do homicides.”

  “Okay,” she said with a smile, “where are you going with this, Mort?”

  “So, I’ll cut to the chase. As you know, my partner and I are the lead detectives on your boss’s murder, and I have a bunch of questions for you.”

  Jennifer’s smile slid into a frown, and she pulled her hand out from under his. “Is that why you asked me out to dinner, to spring twenty questions on me?”

  Ott shook his head robustly. “No, I asked you out for dinner because I found you attractive. And, by the way, I don’t have twenty questions.”

  “What, only fifteen?”

  “Fact is, when I asked you out, I didn’t plan to talk about Asher Bard’s murder at all, but since then certain things have … come up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like the fact that something disappeared from Reminders on Asher Bard’s computer.”

  Her eyes darted away from Ott’s. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Guilty.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I thought if you two saw that, it would open up a whole can of worms.”

  “Well, we did see it, and now that can of worms is open. You might as well tell me about whatever it is you were trying to hide.”

  “How long do you have?”

  “All night.”

  Jennifer sighed. “Okay, you asked for it.”

  Ott nodded.

  “Twenty years ago, I was hired by Asher Bard as his personal secretary. I always suspected it was, well, because of my looks. I’d never really had a bona fide job before—” She paused, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to go on. “Anyway, about a year into it, it developed into more than a job.”

  Ott knew when to hold his tongue.

  Jennifer sighed again. “So … we, ah, started sleeping together. I guess I kind of looked at it as a boyfriend-girlfriend thing, but under wraps. He didn’t want anybody to know about it. I didn’t really know why. At one point, he talked about getting married, and, I have to admit, I was game. I thought I loved him, but then I started to notice things about him. The most obvious was that he was a serial cheater. But, also, a few … um, other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, he lied to people, but it was almost like he didn’t know he was doing it,” Jennifer said. “So anyway, one day I discovered I was pregnant.” She took a long sip of her chardonnay. “I told Asher I wanted to have the child. He tried to talk me out of it, but I was adamant …”

  Ott noticed tears forming in her eyes.

  “So, I had the baby. Named her Laura.” Jennifer’s breathing became more labored, and her voice dropped lower. “Laura was born with autism, which turned out to be what’s now called low-functioning autism or level three autism. Meaning as severe as it can possibly get. Poor girl needs around-the-clock care. Yes, she’s still alive—oh, God, aren’t you glad you asked me out, Mort. What a fun date, huh?” Jennifer tried to laugh through the tears that she was mightily trying to hide.

  Ott put his hand on hers again. This time she didn’t pull it away.

  “While I’m spilling all these secrets, I’ve got something that might actually be helpful to you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Okay, so a few days before Asher was killed, I heard him say something like, ‘you expose me and I’ll expose you.’ Then he said, and I remember this loud and clear, ‘you get your girls to rat me out, and I’ll get mine to do the same to you.’ And now you’re going to ask me who was he talking to and, I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea.”

  “No idea at all?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, Asher spent half the day on the phone.”
>
  “I appreciate everything you’ve told me”—he patted her hand—“and I’m glad you’re sharing all this with me.”

  “Yes, but I mean, on a first date? It must be a little overwhelming.”

  “Maybe this is a special first date.”

  Jennifer went on to tell Ott about all the caregivers she had coming and going throughout the day when she worked for Asher Bard and how he rarely visited his child. To his credit, or maybe because of his guilt, from that point on, he compensated Jennifer very generously.

  The waiter brought their entrees, which they ignored. Ott told Jennifer that he had a niece with autism, but clearly it was not as severe as Laura’s.

  He glanced at his watch. It was already ten fifteen.

  “You want to hear the other half now?” Jennifer said.

  “The other half?”

  “Yes. See, I figure if I keep blathering away, you’ll never get around to asking me your next question.”

  “I’ve already forgotten my questions,” Ott said, waving the waiter off as he approached with the wine bottle. “So, what’s the other half?”

  “About Asher. Something I was sworn to secrecy about, but since he’s … no longer with us, guess I don’t have to keep it a secret anymore.”

  “And that would be?”

  “That Tyrell and Darnell are his natural sons.”

  Ott’s head snapped back.

  “Weren’t expecting that, were you? Asher went out with this model up in New York. A pretty well-known black model whose name I’m not going to disclose. One thing I’ll say about Asher is he was fertile. So anyway, he made up a story about adopting them when their mother was killed in a car accident. His cook or something.”

  “I heard she was his cleaning lady.”

  “Whatever. It wasn’t true.”

  “So, what about taking you out of his will?”

  She looked surprised. “You knew it was me?”

  “My partner talked to Berkman Ross. Why was he going to do that?”

  Jennifer smiled and nodded. “Because I went to Asher and said in so many words, ‘give the money to the boys.’ Even with all Laura’s caregiving and medications, I was putting away a ton of money every year. I’d finally gotten to the point where I had enough to last me three lifetimes, and Laura’s set for life, too. Plus, she was in his will anyway. Might as well let the boys have it. Go buy themselves a Lamborghini or something. Asher never really spent that much on them.”

  Ott patted her hand. “Wow, that’s quite a story.”

  “Every word is true. I’m sorry about erasing that thing on Asher’s Reminders. I just didn’t want to explain the whole thing. But, turns out, you’re a pretty good listener.”

  “Here’s the only problem,” Ott said with a smile. “Now that there’s nothing left to talk about, I’m worried about our second date.”

  “I’m sure we can come up with something,” Jennifer said with a smile. “We can always just go to the movies.”

  32

  After a good-night kiss at Jennifer’s house in the Northwood historic district of West Palm Beach, Ott called Crawford and filled him in on his long conversation with her. Then he told Crawford, who had never thought of Jennifer as anything but a long-shot suspect in Asher Bard’s death, that in no way was she involved. There were women who had men killed for money—there were even some women who could kill a man with a forty-pound kettlebell, or at least hire someone to do it—but Jennifer Atwood was not one of them.

  Ott was in bed by eleven forty-five and in Crawford’s office at seven thirty the next morning. Crawford had a Dunkin’ Donuts extra-large coffee, and Ott had his big mitt wrapped around a container of office rotgut.

  They had barely had time to sit down when they heard the unmistakable thudding steps of Chief Norm Rutledge.

  “Oh, shit,” Ott said two seconds before Rutledge poked in his head with the black-shoe-polish hair.

  “I got a call last night,” Rutledge said, glaring at Crawford, “from the state attorney.”

  “Oh, shit,” Ott said again. “What did he want?”

  Rutledge sat down on a windowsill. “Seems your partner was inquiring as to Brody’s whereabouts when Asher Bard was killed.”

  “Yeah, Norm, we talked about this day before yesterday. Do you have no recollection of that conversation?”

  “Yeah, we talked about it but didn’t decide on anything.”

  “We all agreed even state attorneys can have deadly motives.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Anyway, Brody suggested maybe I needed to step in here and get these cases wrapped up. He said, and I quote, ‘When the lead detective’s crawlin’ up my ass, looking at me as the possible killer, then it’s clear he ain’t got jack-shit.’”

  Crawford wondered how it was that all these people had crystal-clear memories of past conversations.

  “Christ, we’re only a week into the first case,” Ott said. “Did you point out to the state attorney that we got a pretty good clearance record?”

  “He knew that. But we’re talking about now. The present tense. Not last year or the year before.”

  “Okay,” Crawford said. “So what’s this all mean? What are we supposed to do that we’re not already doing?”

  Rutledge looked totally blank. Then, after a moment, “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Okay, so let’s talk,” said Crawford.

  “Hey, don’t get that way,” Rutledge said. “A lot of guys would welcome me in.”

  Crawford did a quick search of his brain and couldn’t think who ‘a lot of guys’ might possibly be. “Tell you what, Norm, since you’re dying to get involved, here’s something you’ll want to be in on.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our interview with the three women who provided entertainment at Asher Bard’s birthday party last week.”

  A smile appeared on Rutledge’s face. “And just what kind of entertainment did they provide?”

  “The kind where a lot of skin is displayed,” Ott chimed in.

  Rutledge smiled his lecherous smile. “I actually think I’d be very helpful. I’m particularly good at eliciting confessions.”

  “Oh, are you, now?” Crawford said. “Because these women are not suspects.”

  “Well, I’m good with women in general.”

  Crawford shot Ott a quick eye roll.

  “I saw that,” Rutledge said.

  “Dude would have enjoyed Puss in Boots,” Ott said to Crawford.

  “What’s that?” Rutledge asked.

  “You playin’ dumb, Norm?” Ott asked.

  “Never heard of it,” Rutledge said.

  “It’s a strip club in West Palm,” Crawford said.

  Rutledge’s smile widened. “You guys seem to have a lot of interesting interviews.”

  “These three women,” Crawford said, “their names are Veronica, Betty, and Midge. That ring a bell at all?”

  Rutledge brightened. “Sure. The girls in Archie.”

  Just as Crawford figured, Rutledge read a lot of comics. Probably still did.

  33

  Crawford, Ott, and Rutledge had just gathered in Crawford’s office when his desk phone rang.

  It was Janine at the reception desk. “I got a Veronica, Betty, and Midge here.”

  “Thanks, Nance. Show the ladies back, please.”

  “You got it.”

  Two minutes later, they walked in. “Welcome back,” Crawford said. “Norm”—he extended a hand toward Rutledge—“this is Veronica, Betty, and Midge.”

  Rutledge bowed slightly. “Enchanté, ladies.”

  No. He didn’t actually say that?

  Betty glanced at Crawford and almost cracked up.

  The women all sat down in the extra chairs Ott had brought in. Once again, except for Midge, they were dressed for Sunday services: Veronica in a dark dress that fell below her knees, Betty in the same pantsuit she wore last time, and Midge in a dark dress that sported relatively
modest cleavage.

  “So, ladies, as I told my chief here”—Crawford glanced at Rutledge—“we were just beginning to talk last time when my partner, Detective Ott, and I got pulled away on other business.”

  “The murder of Asher Bard,” Ott added.

  Veronica, Betty, and Midge nodded.

  “So, here’s what we need to know. When you were at CPB, the restaurant, and The Colony Hotel, did any of you see anything that was in any way suspicious, or out of the ordinary, or that just didn’t seem right to you?”

  “What the detective is trying to say is,” Rutledge put in, “was there anything that made you think a crime either was about to be committed or had been committed?” He leaned forward as if he wanted to sneak a closer look at Midge’s chest.

  Betty was the first to respond. “I’m sorry but I didn’t see a thing. I mean, everything just seemed pretty normal. Guys drinking a lot, a lot of laughs, everyone just, well, just having fun.”

  Veronica and Midge nodded.

  “Yeah, I mean, me, too. I agree with that,” Veronica said.

  “What about in the hotel?” Crawford asked, taking out a photo of Grace Spooner. “Did you ever see this woman at all?”

  The three passed the photo between them, and all shook their heads.

  “Which one of you was with Asher Bard?” Ott asked.

  None of them moved to answer.

  “Look, you’re not going to get in trouble,” Crawford said. “We just need to know.”

  Midge’s eyes flicked to Betty.

  “Promise me I won’t get in trouble?” Betty said.

  “You have my word as Chief of the Palm Beach Police Department,” Rutledge said pompously.

  “You sure?” Betty said.

  Rutledge gave her a smarmy smile and nodded.

  “Can I smoke here?” Betty asked nervously.

  “Sorry,” Crawford said.

  “Okay, I was with him,” Betty said, clutching her purse with white knuckles.

  “And did he ever leave the room?” Crawford asked.

  Betty shook her head. “Nope.”

  “And after … when you left, did you leave together?”