Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  There was just one sheet of yellow-lined paper in it. Both sides of the sheet had dates and short notes next to the dates. The notes were, for the most part, only a few lines long. He was ninety percent sure that Asher Bard had written them because they matched the handwriting in his checkbook.

  To make it a hundred percent, Ott got up and walked into Bard’s former office, where Jennifer was now sitting. He held up the front side of the yellow-lined sheet. “Is this Bard’s handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.” He walked out of the larger office and back to Jennifer’s desk.

  Crawford looked up. “Got something?”

  “I hope so.”

  The first note was dated “2/3/19” and read: “Contacted by NY. Said story was going to land me in a jail cell. Told him to f- himself. Hung up.”

  The next entry read: “2/4/19: Called again, said 3 of the girls—named names—were prepared to testify in new trial. Hung up again.”

  “2/6/19 Called again. Said story, along with names and quotes, will run in March 2019 and did I want to comment. Comment on what, I said? ‘Want me to send you the text.’ Don’t bother, I said.”

  “2/12/19 No calls for a week. Thought he’d gone away. Then he called, said, ‘maybe there’s a better way.’ ‘What’s that?’ I said. ‘A million dollars,’ he said. ‘Think about it.’ He hung up.”

  “2/20/19: NY said ‘my birthday’s coming up and just wanted to know if you got me a present?’ Told him not going to happen. Thought about paying but figured that was his way of trapping me. If give him $, it’s proof I’m paying him off.”

  Ott stopped reading and looked out the window. He could see the red tile roof of the O’Keeffe Gallery at the Society of the Four Arts and beyond, the Intracoastal. A yacht like Asher Bard’s was chugging north on the Intracoastal.

  It suddenly dawned on Ott who NY was.

  36

  Upon arriving in Tampa, Dominica had first met with Kevin Malchoff and Kathleen Esposito at Advance Team, where Grace Spooner had worked. She had gotten the key to Spooner’s condominium from Esposito and spent an hour searching it for information that would move the case forward. She found nothing she deemed useful except a photo of a man, which was torn in half, in the bottom of a wastepaper basket in Spooner’s bedroom. She slid it into an evidence bag, which she put into her breast pocket, then called Natalie Weir, the friend of Grace Spooner whose name and number Crawford had given her.

  Weir answered after the first ring. “This is Natalie.”

  “Oh, hi, Ms. Weir, my name is Dominica McCarthy with the Palm Beach Police Department—”

  “Oh, I am so sorry I never called you back. I was out of town and—”

  “That was actually my colleague, Detective Crawford, who called, but don’t worry about it. I’m in Tampa and wondered if I could drop by and talk to you about your friend, Grace Spooner?”

  A pause. Then, “How about now?”

  “That would be great. Where’s your office?”

  Natalie told her and Dominica arrived fifteen minutes later. Natalie’s company, Anderson Insurance, was on the top floor of a three-story brownstone-type building in an older section of Tampa. She had an office and a window, but it wasn’t much larger than Dominica’s cubicle. Natalie had a marble-topped desk with a laptop and cell phone on it. Dominica sat across from her in a chrome and black leather chair.

  Natalie said that Grace and she first met at a Rotary Club meeting. She’d gone there at the suggestion of her boss to try to drum up new business. Grace had been a member there for only a few months.

  “We were both single, around the same age, and ended up doing a lot of things together,” Natalie said.

  Dominica nodded. “Detective Crawford told me Grace was going out with a man, a married man who apparently didn’t live here in Tampa. Do you know anything about him? His name, hopefully?”

  Natalie shook her head. “Sorry. She never told me his name. It was all very hush-hush.”

  Dominica twisted a strand of hair behind her ear. “Why was that, do you think?”

  “I really don’t know. It was the total opposite of her boyfriend before him. Jack. Grace told me everything about him. I mean, it was almost like”—she held up her hands—“TMI. About Jack, I mean.”

  “I gotcha,” Dominica said, reaching into her breast pocket for the photo she had found. She took it out of the evidence bag. “Is this the man, do you know?”

  “See, that’s the problem. I never met him. If I had, presumably I’d know his name. At least his first name anyway,” Natalie said. “You know who might know, though, is a friend who Grace grew up with.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Cheryl. Cheryl Banderas.” Natalie smiled. “I remember because I asked her if she was related to Antonio. She laughed and said, ‘Gee, there’s a question I’ve never heard before.’”

  Dominica typed the name on her iPad. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Yeah, a place down near you. South of West Palm.”

  “Ah, Lake Worth maybe?”

  “No … a little place. Lake Clarke something.”

  Dominica typed “Lake Clarke, Florida” and “Lake Clarke Shores” popped up. It was just south of West Palm.

  “Lake Clarke Shores?” Dominica asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “So, when you say they were friends growing up, you mean—”

  Natalie nodded. “Back when things were really bad for Grace. They were together at that halfway house or whatever you call it. I got the feeling Cheryl is still going through hard times.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Natalie sighed. “Just some things Grace told me. She’s had major depression, doesn’t have a job, doesn’t really have much of a life s’posedly.”

  “Well, thank you, Natalie, I can’t think of anything else I need to ask you. I really appreciate your help.”

  “You’re welcome,” Natalie said with a smile, “and please apologize to the other detective for me not calling him back.”

  “I will. I’ll be speaking to him shortly.”

  Ten minutes later, she was on the phone with Crawford.

  “I already looked up Cheryl Banderas’s address,” Dominica said. “She lives in Lake Clarke Shores. Know where that is?”

  “Know? It was the first place I lived when I first moved down here. Beta Court, to be exact. Where’s she live?”

  “1920 Barbados Drive.”

  There was a long pause. “Holy Christ.”

  “What?”

  “When I went through Asher Bard’s checkbook, there was a stub that said 1920 Barbados, LLC for three hundred thousand dollars. Right after Amazing Grace, LLC for the same amount.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” Crawford said. “So, obviously, Bard was buying her off, too.”

  “And hiding her identity.”

  “A little more subtly than Amazing Grace. Where are you now?”

  “About halfway between Tampa and West Palm.”

  “Well, put the hammer down and meet me at 1920 Barbados Drive as soon as you can.”

  “I’m already doin’ ninety-five.”

  “Well, then Christ, slow down. I can wait.”

  “Aw, I’m touched, Charlie. You’re concerned about my well-being.”

  37

  Crawford was waiting across the street in his unmarked Crown Vic when Dominica cruised down Barbados Drive an hour and fifteen minutes later. He hit his flasher so she’d spot him and rolled down his window.

  “You made good time,” he said as she pulled up parallel to him.

  She tapped the steering wheel. “Got the fastest car in the fleet here. Is she home?”

  Crawford nodded. “Yeah, TV’s on. Let’s go pay her a visit.”

  Dominica nodded and drove past Crawford and parked.

  They both got out of their cars and walked toward 1920 Barbados.

  “How’d it go at Bard’s office
?” Dominica asked as they stepped up to the front porch.

  “Good,” Crawford said, hitting the buzzer. “Tell ya later. You want to play good cop or bad?”

  Dominica’s response was quick. “Bad.”

  A few moments later, the door opened and a woman with tousled brown hair appeared. Behind her was a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked, then took a long drag on her cigarette.

  “Palm Beach Police. Ms. Banderas?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “I’m Detective Crawford and this is my associate, Dominica McCarthy. Can we ask you some questions about Grace Spooner and Asher Bard?”

  “Oh Christ,” she groaned. “And I s’pose you want to come in?”

  Based on the wall of smoke, he didn’t really, but … “We won’t take too much of your time.”

  She turned and went in as Crawford and Dominica followed. The place smelled awful. Like a hundred people sat around in a circle and chain-smoked all day long. But the only one there was Cheryl Banderas, along with her seemingly antisocial, one-eyed cat, and a minimal amount of thrift-shop furniture.

  Crawford and Dominica sat on a rickety, burnt-orange sofa that was missing an arm. Cheryl took a seat opposite them in a pea-green beanbag chair that looked like it had lost a fair amount of its stuffing over the years.

  “Our understanding is that you grew up with Grace Spooner and remained good friends?” Crawford started out.

  “Yes, that’s true. Not that we saw each other much, but we stayed in touch.”

  “Ms. Banderas,” Dominica said, summoning up her hard-ass tone. “We are well aware of the payoff you received from Asher Bard. I assume you know he was killed?”

  Cheryl nodded. “Yeah, can’t say I was heartbroken.”

  “That three hundred thousand dollars was to prevent you from talking about what happened ten years ago. Hush money, basically.”

  Cheryl hesitated, then, “Yeah, I guess that pretty much sums it up.”

  “And, we’re assuming, you cashed that check?” Dominica asked.

  “Yeah, I did. Didn’t you see the new Ferrari out front?” Cheryl said with a goofy smile. “I was kidding. I’m actually thinking about going to look at new houses.”

  “Now that Bard’s dead, you know, you’re under no obligation to honor that agreement anymore,” Crawford said.

  “I still don’t want to talk about it,” Cheryl said.

  “Why not?” Dominica said. “A good friend of yours was brutally murdered.”

  “’Cause I just want to forget about it. What happened back then ruined my life. I kinda doubt I’d be sitting here in this dump doing nothing all day if what happened then never happened.”

  “Yeah, but at least you’re alive,” Dominica said.

  “Cheryl, we really need your help,” Crawford said. “We don’t want the murderer of your friend to get away with it, and I’m sure you don’t either.”

  Cheryl shrugged. “What’s it matter now?”

  “What if it was the other way around and you were killed?” Dominica said. “Wouldn’t you want Grace to cooperate and do everything she could to find your murderer?”

  “Yeah, but what happened to her was because of her boyfriend and didn’t have that much to do with Asher Bard.”

  Dominica glanced at Crawford then back at Cheryl. “Spell that out, will you?”

  Cheryl leaned forward. “How much you gonna pay me?”

  “We’re cops, Cheryl,” Dominica said. “We don’t pay people, we arrest them.”

  “I heard of cops paying informants money,” Cheryl said.

  Crawford thought about hitting her with the old “it’s your civic duty” speech but stifled it. “We really need your help,” he said instead.

  Cheryl lit a cigarette off of one that was down to its filter. “I’ll think about it,” she said with a long sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “Thank you,” Crawford said.

  “I just said I’ll think about it.”

  “Can you tell us what you know about Grace’s last boyfriend?”

  “She told me he’s famous, but I never heard of him.”

  Crawford tapped his fingers on the side of the chair. “You’re talking about Quinn Casey, right?”

  “This man, right?” Dominica held up the two pieces of the photo she had found.

  Cheryl nodded. “That’s him. She told me she met him when he was doing a story about Bard. Seemed really blown away he was interested in her, even though she was a beautiful woman. She told me he went to Princeton and that one in England, what’s the name? Starts with an O, I think.”

  “Oxford.” Crawford had read that Casey had gone there when he first Googled him.

  “That’s it,” Cheryl said. “But after a while, Grace told me, he got really possessive and jealous. When he was up in New York he wanted to know what she was up to every night he wasn’t around. Accused her of going back to her old boyfriend.”

  “Jack Marin, you mean?”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Cheryl said. “She finally just couldn’t deal with it anymore. He wanted to know where she was every goddamn minute”—she shook her head— “and he was a married man.”

  “So, what happened?” Crawford asked.

  Cheryl shook her head and took a drag down to her toes. “A couple things. One, he beat her up a couple months ago. He was drunk, she said. Like that makes any difference. Then he did it again. She emailed me some photos of her face and neck. Not pretty.”

  “Could we see the photos?” Crawford asked.

  “Sure,” Cheryl said, standing up. “I’ll get them.”

  She went over and got her laptop from a small desk, brought it over, and opened it up. There were nine photos in a grid pattern. Grace Spooner looked as though she’d done a couple of rounds with Muhammad Ali.

  “Son of a bitch,” Crawford said.

  Dominica shook her head. “How could someone—”

  “She finally said screw this I’m outta here and told him she was done. He flew down the next day and apparently really lost it. Said how could a woman who grew up in a trailer park and went to some bush-league junior college break up with a great man like himself.”

  Crawford shook his head. “He said that?”

  Cheryl nodded.

  “So, what happened?” he asked.

  “She was intimidated because he got so out of control, but then he apologized, and they kind of got back together. I think he went back down to Palm Beach to work on that story of his. Then a few days later, she told him she wanted to have dinner with him. This time she was really going to end it for good but wanted to do it face-to-face. So, she drove down to Palm Beach, and that was the last I ever heard.”

  “But you have a theory about what happened, right?” Dominica asked.

  “A theory? Hell, no, I know exactly what happened,” Cheryl said. “The bastard killed her.”

  Crawford eyed Dominica and nodded. “I’m assuming part of that money Bard paid you was to get dirt on Quinn Casey, right?”

  “Yeah, Bard knew I knew stuff about Casey.”

  “So, you told him stuff, like about Casey beating up Grace.”

  “Yup,” Cheryl said, “among other things.”

  Crawford nodded. “And what did Bard say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. Just had this big shit-eating grin—” Cheryl put her hand over her mouth. “Oops, sorry.”

  Crawford laughed. “That’s okay. I’ve heard the expression.”

  It was time for sweet-talking Charlie to step up.

  Cheryl was on at least her eighth Marlboro since they’d arrived. Their clothes were, no doubt, saturated with the stench of cigarette smoke and would have to be torched, and all they had was Cheryl’s absolute conviction that Quinn Casey had killed Grace Spooner. That wouldn’t get them very far in a court of law.

  “Cheryl,” he said gently, “how would you feel about helping to bring this guy dow
n? The guy who beat up your friend and, we suspect, eventually killed her?”

  “I thought that’s what I’d just been doing,” Cheryl said with a shrug. “Giving you all that info.”

  “Yes, and we’re very appreciative,” he said, then amping up what Rose called “the charmin’ Charlie smile,” “but I’m thinking of you in a more prominent role.”

  “Role? What do you mean?”

  “You ever do any acting?” Crawford asked. He didn’t glance at Dominica for fear she’d be giving him her Where the hell you going with this? look. He’d seen it on several occasions in the past.

  “Yeah, like, back in junior high.”

  “Perfect. You don’t need to have an Oscar on your mantel for this role. In fact, all you have to do is talk on the phone. Think you can handle that?”

  Cheryl smiled. “You seem like a very persuasive man. Not that I really know what you’re asking.”

  “What I’m asking is for you to play a role. Want to hear about it?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged again. “Why not?”

  “Okay,” he said, glancing over at Dominica, “I’m thinking this will work best as a two-woman play.”

  Dominica cocked her head to one side. “Oh, do you now? Do tell.”

  38

  After rehearsing with Cheryl Banderas for the next half hour, Crawford felt she was ready to get into character. He gave her Quinn Casey’s cell phone number. She dialed it and put it on speaker. After a few rings, Quinn Casey picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Casey, you don’t know me, but I was a friend of your friend, Grace Spooner.”

  “Who are you?” Casey asked gruffly.

  “Someone who’s got a few deep, dark secrets about you.”

  “I’m gonna hang up unless you get to the point.”

  “Okay, point is I have a bunch of photos of Grace after you beat her up. I bet there are people in the media who would love to see them.”

  “No clue what you’re talking about.”

  “They come with emails about where and when they happened. Tampa, Florida, to be exact. A surveillance camera recorded the action in one.” That was a Crawford invention.