Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  “Yup. Went back to the restaurant.”

  “And did you see him leave the restaurant after that?” Ott asked.

  Betty shook her head.

  Crawford eyed Veronica and Midge, then came back to Veronica. “You were with the man with the turban, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Same question. Did he ever leave the room?”

  “No.”

  “And you went back to the restaurant together … after?”

  She nodded. “Well, what happened was, I left first, and he came a little after me. I figured he didn’t want to be seen with me. You know, in case he knew someone staying at the hotel.”

  “I understand,” Crawford said. “And you didn’t see him leave?”

  Veronica shook her head.

  “So, that leaves you, Midge,” Rutledge said with a fawning smile. “I had an aunt named Midge.”

  “That’s not my real name.”

  “Your nom de plume, huh?”

  “What?”

  “So, who were you with?” Rutledge asked.

  “Lord Sunderland.”

  “So, as my men asked the other girls, did he ever leave the room while you were there?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Rutledge’s eyes went wide. “He did?”

  “Yes, for ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “And about what time would you say this was?” Rutledge asked.

  “Eleven or so.”

  Rutledge smiled at Crawford, then Ott.

  “Did he say where he went?” Rutledge asked.

  “No, he didn’t,” Midge said to Rutledge, “but I have to tell you, Detective, he was very drunk.”

  “I’m the chief. My men are detectives.”

  “Sorry … Chief,” Midge said.

  “That’s okay,” Rutledge said. “So, he just came back and didn’t say anything about where he’d been?”

  “I didn’t ask. Tell you the truth, I kind of nodded off for a little while.”

  “So, it could have actually been more than ten or fifteen minutes?” Crawford cut in.

  “Coulda been, I guess.”

  “Did you notice anything different about him? When he came back,” Ott asked. “Maybe he was breathing faster or something. Or maybe you saw … some blood on him.”

  “It was dark. I didn’t notice anything like that. He was still really drunk.”

  “So, then what happened?” Rutledge asked.

  “We got dressed and went back to the restaurant.”

  “And you didn’t see him leave CPB after that?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Midge,” Rutledge said, smiling triumphantly. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Betty, still holding tightly onto her purse, spoke up. “I did see someone famous, though.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who was that?” Crawford asked.

  “Well, not famous, but I’m kind of a news junkie. A guy I’ve seen on the news a few times.”

  Ott caught Crawford’s attention and mouthed, Joe Mitchell.

  “Is the man’s name Joe Mitchell?”

  “I’m not really sure, but that doesn’t sound familiar.”

  Ott had his iPad out and Googled Mitchell. A block of photos came up. “Is this the man?” Ott asked, handing Betty his iPad.

  She took it from him. “No, the man I saw wasn’t as old as him. He was wearing a blue baseball cap. I’ve seen him on CNN or maybe it was MSNBC.”

  “When you saw him in the hotel,” Crawford asked, “what was he doing? Where was he?”

  “Waiting for an elevator.”

  “Was he alone?” Ott asked.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Not with that woman, Grace Spooner?” Crawford asked.

  “Definitely not.”

  “Was it Joe Scarborough?” Rutledge asked.

  “No, I know who he is. Definitely not him.”

  “Chris Matthews?” Rutledge asked.

  Betty shook her head.

  “Wolf Blitzer?”

  “Okay, Norm,” Crawford said, “we can’t go through the entire CNN and MSNBC rosters.”

  Rutledge looked chastened.

  “He’s not an anchor,” Betty said. “Just on every once in a while.”

  Crawford nodded. “Tell you what,” he said, reaching for his wallet and a card, “if you remember who it is, or if you see him on TV, call me, please.”

  “I sure will,” Betty said.

  Crawford looked at Rutledge. “Got anything more?”

  Rutledge shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You got the ladies’ phone numbers, I presume?”

  Crawford nodded.

  “I want to thank you for your cooperation,” Rutledge said.

  “Mort, anything else?” Crawford glanced at Ott.

  Ott shook his head. “Nope. I think that does it.”

  “Okay, well, thanks,” Crawford said, and they all got to their feet.

  The women nodded and walked toward the door.

  When they were out of earshot, Rutledge said, “Now that’s what I call a productive interview.”

  “You mean with Betty?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. I think we got our guy, don’t you?”

  “I got my doubts,” Crawford said. “I’ve met Sunderland, and I sure as hell didn’t peg him as a killer.”

  “Plus, he was clearly shitfaced,” Ott added.

  “You don’t think drunks have ever killed people before?” Rutledge said.

  “The guy who did this was methodical and professional,” Crawford said. “Not only that, he had a murder weapon with him. A knife and probably duct tape. Somehow I don’t see Sunderland having those things stashed in his bathrobe pockets.”

  “Not only that,” Ott said. “I’m not really seeing much of a motive.”

  “What do you mean?” Rutledge said. “How ’bout being worried about getting convicted at his upcoming trial?”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Rutledge shrugged. “Okay, so when he left the room, where the hell would the guy have gone, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Crawford said. “It’s a reasonable question.”

  “We need to talk to him,” Rutledge said. “If he doesn’t have a good answer, we bring him in.”

  Crawford wasn’t sold, but he was certainly curious. He nodded and glanced over at Ott, who nodded back.

  “Where’s he live?” Rutledge asked.

  “On Middle Road,” Crawford said.

  “Well, isn’t that convenient.”

  “Said he walked to the party and back.”

  “I’m liking this guy more and more,” Rutledge said. “What about you, Ott?”

  Ott shrugged. “Like I said, maybe, but I got my doubts.”

  “You always have your doubts.”

  “I just don’t think we should go charging in with the cuffs out,” Ott said.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll give the guy his say,” Rutledge said.

  Ott smiled. “By the way, Norm, I didn’t know you could speak French. Pretty impressive.”

  Rutledge beamed with pride.

  “Thank you, Ott … Or should I say merci buckets?”

  He would say that.

  34

  Crawford, Ott, and Rutledge walked in on a farewell between Lord Sunderland and his daughter. Crawford guessed she was about twenty-five and in no way looked like his preconceived image of a duchess, which was how Sunderland introduced her. “The Duchess of Norwich,” to be exact. She was wearing stylishly ripped blue jeans and a tight-fitting red silk top. Apparently, she’d flown down from New York, where she had gone to visit friends, hoping to catch Dad and a few “toffs” in Palm Beach before flying back to London. Crawford had absolutely no clue what a “toff” was. Maybe Rutledge did, being a linguist and all.

  Sunderland saw his daughter off, then came back into the house and sat down with the three of them.

  “Beautiful room,” Rutledge sa
id. Crawford had noticed before Sunderland seemed to have a thing for chintz, particularly pink and green hues.

  “Thank you,” Sunderland said. Then to Crawford, “This is getting to be a regular thing, Detective.”

  Crawford nodded. “The reason we’re here—”

  “—is because we have reason to suspect you may have firsthand knowledge about the death of Grace Spooner,” Rutledge took over. “The woman killed at The Colony last Tuesday.”

  Sunderland’s face suddenly twisted into a half frown, half snarl. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to go through the facts one by one,” Rutledge said.

  Sunderland raised his hands. “Okay.”

  “Fact number one, you went to a room on the second floor of The Colony with a woman you met earlier in the evening at Asher Bard’s birthday party. Correct?”

  Sunderland nodded. “Yes”—he glanced at Crawford—“that’s exactly what I told the detective.”

  “Then at some point, and we believe it was around eleven o’clock that evening, you left the room for between ten and fifteen minutes, though it may have been longer.”

  “Okay, Chief … is that what I’m meant to call you?”

  “Yes, that is my title. Like Lord is yours.”

  “Okay, Chief, let me tell you exactly what happened.” He glanced at Crawford once more. “Again, as I freely admitted to Detective Crawford, I had a lot to drink at the party. As we say in my country, I was trolleyed, pissed, or as you would say, shitfaced, hammered, wasted.”

  “So I heard,” Rutledge said.

  “I got out of bed, put on a bathrobe, and went to the loo. But it turned out it wasn’t the loo at all; it was actually the door out of the room.”

  Takes some serious champagne imbibing to confuse those two doors, thought Crawford. But for someone really drunk, he could see it.

  “So, now I’m out in the hallway, and it took me a few moments to realize it was not the loo. I turned and pressed the buzzer of the room I’d come from, then knocked on the door. I got no answer. I think my friend, Betty, may have winked off.”

  Crawford glanced over at Rutledge, whose jaw had dropped into freefall. Ott seemed to be fighting a smirk.

  “So, I remembered thinking, even in my sozzled state, that I didn’t have many options. Either go down to the main desk and get a key or—” He noticed Rutledge’s incredulous expression and asked, “Do you want me to go on … Chief?”

  “So, what happened next?” Rutledge asked.

  “I knocked on the door next to my room, and a woman opened the door. I was going to ask her if I could use her phone to call the desk and get a key, but she slammed the door in my face. You sure you want me to go on?”

  Rutledge hesitated, then nodded.

  “Then I went and knocked on another door. This time there was no answer. So I tried another one, and a man came to the door. He didn’t look too friendly, but when I told him I had locked myself out and needed to call the front desk and get someone to bring me a key, he let me in. I was about to piss my pants, so I dashed into his loo and let loose. Good thing, or I would’ve pissed my knickers in the hallway somewhere.”

  “Okay, Lord Sunderland,” Rutledge said. “I think we got the idea. One of us will call the front desk and confirm that someone brought up a key to you that night.”

  “Yes, nice young chap, he was,” Sunderland said.

  Crawford got to his feet. “So, Norm, that about does it, right?”

  Frowning, Rutledge stood up, nodded, and sighed. “That about does it.”

  35

  Crawford went back to his office afterward, then headed home around seven that night. On the way, he called Dominica to see if she could do a spur-of-the-moment dinner. She said, unfortunately, she had her aunt and uncle in town, and they had dinner plans.

  Then, automatically almost, he thought about giving Rose a buzz. But then he remembered: Oh yeah, John the shrink. So, instead he stopped by Publix and got one of his old favorites—the fried chicken eight-piece special: two breasts, two wings, two thighs, and two drumsticks along with a side of shredded coleslaw. Wash it all down with a couple Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA beers. It didn’t get much better than that.

  Something was bothering him, though, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The woman, Betty, telling them about recognizing a man she had seen on the news walking toward the elevator. Wearing a blue baseball cap. Then, ME Bob Hawes saying the driver of the Cadillac that picked Grace Spooner up the night she died was also wearing a dark baseball cap.

  He put down one of the chicken drumsticks, took a sip of his beer, and gazed out his window for a few minutes.

  Then he got up, grabbed his keys, and quickly walked down to his car. Fifteen minutes later he was at The Colony Hotel. It was eight twenty when he walked up to the desk. The man who had been there the night of Grace Spooner’s murder was on duty again. He looked up at Crawford and smiled. “Welcome back, Detective.”

  He remembered his name was Rick Hodding. “Thanks, Rick. I have a favor to ask. That surveillance camera aimed at the bank of elevators … Can I take a look at the server, please?”

  “Sure, it’s in the room behind me,” Rick said, pointing. “You need any help?”

  “No, thanks, I should be able to manage.”

  First, he walked back over to the CCTV camera slanted down at the elevators. He remembered from last time that The Colony had something called a Super High Definition 4MP Infrared Dome 4 system. He had Googled it and found it was top-of-the-line. He went back into the room behind Rick Hodding and went through two hours’ worth of digital tape from the night Grace Spooner was killed.

  At 10:24 that night, he found exactly what he was looking for.

  Crawford was waiting for Dominica McCarthy when she walked into her cubicle of the Crime Scene Evidence Unit at eight the next morning. He was sitting in a chair opposite her desk, a Dunkin’ Donuts extra-large coffee in one hand, a half-eaten blueberry donut, his version of “health food,” in the other. And a tea for Dominica, just the way she liked it.

  “Top of the morning to you, Charlie,” she said.

  “Back at ya,” Crawford said, handing her the tea.

  “Oh, thank you. Now I don’t have to drink the office bilge water.”

  Crawford smiled. “So, I need your help. You okay driving up to Tampa and looking into something up there?”

  “That’s a little vague, but, sure, I guess. This afternoon okay?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. I need you to go to Grace Spooner’s apartment and turn it upside down. She’s got a mysterious boyfriend whose identity I need to confirm.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s what I need you to find out.”

  “But you think you know?”

  “I think so. But I want to see if you agree,” Crawford said. “I went through her computer pretty thoroughly, but I might have missed something. We never found her cell phone at the scene because I think the guy who killed her took it with him. But maybe there’s something else in her apartment. Oh, also”—he pulled out his wallet and took out a scrap of paper—“will you try to reach this woman? Her name’s Natalie Weir, a friend of Grace Spooner’s. I tried her a bunch of times, but she never got back to me.”

  “Sure. Will do. Tampa’s, what, about three hours?”

  Crawford stood up and patted her on the shoulder. “The way you drive, two-fifteen, two-thirty, max.”

  Crawford filled her in a little more, gave her Spooner’s address and the name and number of her boss. Then he drove to 350 Royal Palm Way, Asher Bard’s office. Ott, who was with him, told Crawford that Jennifer Atwood had said she planned to keep working there until the end of the month. She said there were a lot of loose ends and unfinished business she felt were her obligation to wrap up and finalize.

  On the ride over, Ott told Crawford he had another date scheduled with Jennifer for later that week. She was going to serve what she r
eferred to as her “signature dish”: lasagna with sausage, it turned out. He’d assured her he’d be wanting seconds.

  Ott and Crawford had just walked into the office and had said their hellos to her.

  “Jennifer,” Crawford said. “That big file cabinet in Bard’s office seemed to be a hundred percent business files and records; where are his files that relate to personal matters?”

  “Over there.” She pointed at her desk. “The files on either side are all personal.”

  “You mind if we appropriate your desk for a while?” Crawford asked.

  “No, whatever you need to do,” Jennifer said. “Just bear in mind that a lot of Asher’s stuff is up in New York.”

  “Yes, I understand.” Crawford knew that and had actually contemplated taking a quick trip up to New York, getting a search warrant, and going through Bard’s office there. He couldn’t really spare the time but thought he might find something there that might help crack the case. But now, he might just have enough here to accomplish that.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and sit in Jennifer’s chair,” Crawford said to Ott. “Go through the files on the right, and I’ll take the ones on the left.”

  Ott nodded as Crawford went and got another chair on wheels. He rolled it over to the left side of the desk.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Ott asked, sitting in Jennifer’s chair. “It’s like you know, but you’re not telling me.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Crawford said, lowering his voice. “I have a suspicion, a strong suspicion, who our perp is, but I don’t want to lead the witness, meaning you. In other words, I want to see if you come to the same conclusion as me. Same with Dominica.”

  “Okay,” Ott said with a shrug. “You’re not even going to give me a little hint?”

  “No, it’ll be better if you come to the same conclusion on your own that I came to.”

  Ott shrugged and pulled out the first file.

  An hour later, they were still looking. For what, Ott had no clue. Crawford, on the other hand, was in search of confirmation, though he had no idea what form it might take.

  Ott had just removed a file simply labeled “NY.” He opened it.