by Tom Turner
Al-Jabbah nodded.
“Well, as part of his initiation to join the group,” Crawford said, “this man, Lonnie Bates, might have tried to get Amir to steal one of your cars.”
Al-Jabbah remained impassive.
Crawford snuck Ott a look like it was now time for Ott to throw Al-Jabbah his high, hard curve ball.
Ott leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Al-Jabbah,” Ott started slowly. “On a different note, did you ever contribute money to the Taliban? Specifically, to a man named Mullah Omar.”
Suddenly Al-Jabbah demonstrated that he had at least one more expression: outrage.
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Jabbah said, glaring at Ott.
“I was doing some investigating,” Ott said, “and it came to my attention that, many years ago, you gave twenty thousand dollars to Mullah Omar in Afghanistan. Is that the case, Mr. Al-Jabbah? I also believe that Mullah Omar and Osama bin Laden were allies.”
“This is totally outrageous,” Al-Jabbah said. “Outrageous. As part of my philanthropic efforts, I may have once made a contribution to a madrassah in Afghanistan.”
“Run by Mullah Omar?” Ott asked.
“I have no idea. He may have had something to do with setting it up a long, long time ago,” Al-Jabbah said.
“He did,” Ott said. “Your contribution, was it made before or after Mullah Omar called for the extinction of all Americans?”
It had just become apparent that Al-Jabbah had a third expression Crawford had never seen before: pure, unadulterated hatred.
“Did you come here to my club to insult me?” he asked. “I thought you were public servants, men who taxpayers like me pay to solve crimes. Not men who go around hurling insults at people.”
Ott had never had one ounce of back-down in him. “Mr. Al-Jabbah, I assure you we did not come here to insult you but to get information so we can catch your nephew’s killer.”
“Then why don’t you go find this Lonnie character?”
Crawford’s turn. “We have gone to where he works and where he lives several times. He was at neither place. Don’t worry, though, we’ll find him.”
“On another subject, Mr. Al-Jabbah,” Ott was rolling now, and Al-Jabbah’s frown indicated he might not be ready for another subject.
“In 1991,” Ott said, “you moved to Sarasota from Saudi Arabia after living in the United Arab Emirates, correct?”
“Yes, so what?”
“There was a family named Ghazani who lived next door to you”—Al-Jabbah’s frown intensified—“did you know them?”
“Yes, I knew them. I’ll ask you again, what does this have to do with the death of my nephew?”
“Did you also know Mohammad Atta and Ziad Jarrah, Mr. Al-Jabbah?” Ott asked.
Al-Jabbah sprang out of his chair. “That’s enough of your insulting questions,” he said. “You’re supposed to be finding the killer of my nephew, not investigating me. I’ve been in America for twenty-five years paying taxes and minding my own business. Now get the hell out of here”—he raised his arm and pointed to the door— “get out of here right now. And don’t ever call me again.”
Crawford and Ott got up, walked out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door.
Crawford turned to Ott once they were both inside the Crown Vic. “Two things,” he said, “one, most people are going to know the name Mohammad Atta but not Ziad Jarrah.”
Ott nodded. “Yeah, I don’t remember ever hearing that name back when 9/11 went down.”
“But Al-Jabbah sure as hell knew who he was,” Crawford said turning on the engine.
Ott nodded. “And number two?”
Crawford put the car in gear and hit the accelerator. “Number two, we’re definitely gonna hear about this little Q & A. ‘Cause I guarantee you, Al-Jabbah’s gonna raise hell and try to hang us out to dry. Rutledge is usually the guy who gets the job of reaming us out.”
“Yeah,” Ott rolled his eyes and nodded. “One of the few jobs he really likes.”
Twenty-Five
Fadiyah Al-Jabbah looked like a doe you’d come across in the woods. Wide-eyed and hyper, like If you moved a muscle she would race off at break-neck speed and never look back. She lived in a vast condominium, dominated by sixteen-foot ceilings and the best views of the ocean Crawford had ever seen.
Crawford felt the situation called for more warm-up chitchat than usual. So, he had commented on the view and the houses beautiful decorating to the point where he thought he might be overdoing it.
Finally, he had steered the conversation around to her relationship with her former husband and, right out of the gate, she had come up with a shocker: Amir Al-Jabbah had come to America to stay with his uncle two years after the death of their daughter, Lydia, and a year after Fadiyah divorced Al-Jabbah.
Daughter?
There had never been any mention or any sign of a daughter. But then, Crawford realized, he and Ott had never asked Al-Jabbah about his family, except for Amir. Fadiyah got up and went over and got a framed picture off of a piano and showed it to him. She was tall and gawky, but had a nice, shy smile. Fadiyah said she was a very bright girl, but very sensitive and always kept to herself.
Then Fadiyah put the picture down on a side table and asked Crawford if she could get him anything to drink. He said, no thanks, and she excused herself and walked out of the room. A few minutes later she reappeared with a wineglass filled to within a half inch of the top. He suspected she might have some unburdening to do.
Did she ever.
She explained how one time the burglar alarm went off accidentally in the Al-Jabbah garage and three squad cars from the police department showed up. That was the beginning of a friendship between her husband and members of the police department. They had stuck around that day to admire his cars and were particularly interested in the American “muscle” cars. That was a big surprise to Crawford, based on the cold reception he, Ott and the others had gotten when they arrived right after Amir’s murder.
She explained how it became a regular thing that a few of the cops would come over to see his cars. They’d open the hoods and study the engines for hours. After a while, Al-Jabbah became comfortable enough to let them drive the cars. He explained to Fadiyah the cars were like horses, they needed exercising from time to time. One time he let several of them drive his cars in a Fourth of July parade.
Then one summer day, Fadiyah continued, her daughter Lydia had driven into the garage when two off-duty cops were with Al-Jabbah studying the engine of a black Roadrunner. Al-Jabbah introduced her daughter to them and that was the start of a relationship between Lydia and Danny Burgess, an OCVAN cop, which stood for Organized Crime/Vice and Narcotics Unit.
“He was a very nice man, extremely polite, and took her to art exhibits and things at the Kravis,” Fadiyah said. “We were happy for Lydia because she really hadn’t ever had a beau before. It went on for quite a while and they seemed pretty serious.”
Crawford was trying to place Danny Burgess but was pretty certain there was no one by that name in the Palm Beach Police Department now.
“Only thing Danny forgot to tell Lydia was, he was married. We never found out about this until…after.”
Crawford almost didn’t want to ask her: after what? But he did.
“What happened, Mrs. Al-Jabbah?”
A single tear rolled down Fadiyah Al-Jabbah’s check.
“Lydia never said a word to us,” she got up from her chair. “Will you excuse me for a second?”
“Sure,” Crawford said as she walked quickly toward the kitchen.
She came back in a few moments later with several Kleenex tissues and dabbed at her eyes with one. “Sorry,” she said. “Lydia had a close friend, Janna, who she confided everything to. Janna told me afterwards that Danny promised Lydia he was going to leave his wife and marry Lydia. Not the first man to not deliver on that promise, I suppose. Janna told us that she suspected Danny was after Lydia’s money.”
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Fadiyah finished off the last of her wine. “But then—very abruptly—Danny broke it off. The next night Lydia went to his house with a gun of Jabbah’s and shot him four times. After that”—and the tears were flowing now—“she turned the gun on herself. They both died instantly.”
Crawford wanted to touch her and comfort her but didn’t think it was appropriate. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Al-Jabbah,” he said. “I had no idea.”
She nodded. He could tell she had more unburdening to do. “Something like that happens—the loss of a child—can either make a relationship stronger or…”
Crawford knew it was time to go.
But Fadiyah was not done.
“Several of the policemen came to the house to offer their condolences shortly after it happened”— she wiped her eyes with a Kleenex—“my husband went and got a rifle and threatened to kill them. They calmed him down, but that was the end of that relationship, too.”
Twenty-Six
It was 7:15 that night. Crawford and Ott were slouched down across from each in Crawford’s office. Crawford had just told Ott the story about the death of Lydia Al-Jabbah. Ott said it now made sense why Al-Jabbah wasn’t showing them the love.
They had the white board positioned on the wall behind Crawford that first had the names of the Mulcahy murder suspects and a timeline for them on the night of the murder. At the bottom of the whiteboard it said: ‘Amir Al-Jabbah,’ which was underlined, and below it, just one line, ‘Lonnie Bates?’
They had no idea where Bates was at the time of Amir Al-Jabbah’s murder because they had no idea where Lonnie Bates was. They had gone to where he lived and worked four times and had not found him. Now they had undercovers posted around the clock at his house and the body shop he managed. His house was actually a double-wide trailer and the body shop looked—based to a large extent on the clientele—like it might do a side business in dealing drugs of some kind. On Crawford’s second visit to the double-wide, Bates’ girlfriend had told him that Lonnie had a habit of disappearing for a few days at a time and employees at the body shop made comments like, ‘he’ll probably be back shortly’ or ‘he’ll be here in a little while.’
It had been more than shortly and much more than a little while and no Lonnie.
They were going down their list of Knight Mulcahy suspects one by one again, feeling like they had spent enough time questioning and investigating them all and it was now time for arresting and handcuffing one of them. Problem was, they were still a long way from having a suspect with a literal or figurative smoking gun in hand.
They had pretty much eliminated Jacqui and Paul Mulcahy, there was just nothing there. Same with Skagg Magwood, Lila Moline and Brewster Collett. They had checked them out further and ruled them out.
The first suspect on the revised list, Chuffer Church, they agreed, was kind of a long shot. His timeline was a little fuzzy between when he left his house and got to Claudia’s—the high-class strip joint in West Palm—but it was highly problematic picturing Church showing up at a party he wasn’t invited to, then somehow knowing Knight Mulcahy would be down at his pool house and going there and killing him.
Then there was Ainsley Buttrick. Crawford had looked into him and his fund more thoroughly and found out that he had originally worked for a legendary investor named Jarvis Hopkinton whose Lion Fund had spawned other funds, which were now run by younger associates. Ainsley Buttrick had worked for Hopkinton for ten years before starting the Panther Fund. It had a good run, after the crash from 2009 until 2013, but then hit choppy waters. Knight Mulcahy had put five million into it in 2012. By 2014, Crawford calculated, having read published figures, the fund was down twenty-two percent and Mulcahy, according to his wife Jacqui, was squawking loudly and frequently about how badly it was doing.
So, the question was, based on the fact that Knight Mulcahy had skewered Ainsley Buttrick and his fund at least three times on his show—was that enough reason for Buttrick to want to shut Mulcahy up for good? Crawford and Ott debated it for a while.
Ott: Can you imagine someone going on the radio and saying you were a shitty cop day after day, wouldn’t you want to shut him the fuck up?
Crawford: Yeah, but killing him is a little extreme. Why not just write him a check and say, ‘You’re not happy with my fund’s performance, so take what’s left of your money and let’s go our separate ways.’
Ott: Good point, but it was Mulcahy who finally took his money out.
Eventually, they agreed that Buttrick was probably not their guy, but they weren’t going to cross him off their list either.
Ned Durrell was a similar case.
Ott: Imagine a guy coming on the radio and saying you’re a shitty writer a couple of times. Then he says it again to your face on the night of the party. You’re Durrell and you got a bunch of cocktails under your belt and you’ve heard enough of his shit.
Crawford: Maybe. Seems a little thin, though I’d kind of like him to be our guy.
Ott: Why’s that?
Crawford: ’Cause he’s an arrogant douchebag.
Ott: (chuckling) Which is worse in the Crawford lexicon? A dirtbag or a douchebag?
Crawford: That’s easy, a dirtbag.
Ott: So, give me the whole ‘bag’ scale.
Crawford: Sure. ‘Douchebag’ is fairly mild, ‘dirtbag’ is up a notch or two, and ‘scumbag’ is reserved for a special few who rise high above the dirtbag level.
Ott: Glad I asked. So, where would, say, Rutledge be on the spectrum?
Crawford: Day-to-day a ‘douchebag,’ in a small crisis, a ‘dirtbag,’ in a big crisis, ‘incompetent.’
Ott: (nodding) Sounds about right, what about that guy, Sam Pratt?
Crawford: On the bag scale?
Ott: No, as a suspect.
Crawford: He barely registers.
He went on to say that Pratt was probably a long way from being their killer. Capable of punching out Mulcahy, absolutely, but putting a bullet in his ample gut…unlikely. Not enough of a motive.
New to the list: Algernon Poole. An altogether different story. First of all, he was right there—in the parking lot of Knight Mulcahy’s house. It would have been pretty easy for him to watch from outside the house as Mulcahy went down to the pool house. Then follow him down there, put two slugs in him and light up an English Oval. Particularly if he thought he had a crack at getting Jacqui Mulcahy to marry him. If it all worked out like that, he could have his very own butler, bowing and scraping and fetching him a cognac and a cigar.
So, Church, Buttrick, Durrell, Pratt and Poole were all listed one through five on the white board, then after that was a line and below it read, ‘MITDBBB’ —the man in the double-breasted blue blazer. Admittedly, a long shot, but certainly a man they’d like to question.
Just after 8:30, Crawford got a call on his cell phone.
He didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello.”
“Detective Crawford?” said a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s Maura DiGiacomo.”
Who the hell…then he remembered his conversation with Rose Clarke.
“Oh, yes, hello, Ms. Mayor.”
He put his phone on speaker, having a pretty good idea what the call was about.
“A neighbor of mine is a man by the name of Jabbah Al-Jabbah—”
Ott rolled his eyes into his ‘oh, fuck’ expression.
“—who told me about a very rancorous meeting he had with you and your partner, Detective Ock.”
“Ott,” Crawford said.
“Right,” she said. “So I want to know why you and your partner thought that just because Mr. Al-Jabbah is a Muslim you felt justified in accusing him of knowing the men who flew into the World Trade Center and even implied he had something to do—”
“Mayor DiGiacomo,” said Crawford, “that is not how the conversation went. How about we come see you in your office tomorrow and explain the whole thing.”
“Ho
w ‘bout you don’t,” she said and Crawford was pretty sure he detected alcohol in her voice. “How ‘bout you just leave Mr. Al-Jabbah alone. He just recently went through a devastating loss, as you know. Just leave the man alone, and tell Detective Ock to do the same.”
“Ott.”
Click.
“Sounded like she may have had a couple of pops under her belt,” Ott said.
Crawford looked at him and nodded. “Ya think?” he said. “Maybe over at Al- Jabbah’s house.”
“You ever met her before?” Ott asked.
“Never had the pleasure,” Crawford asked.
“I’m not sure she’s got jurisdiction over us,” Ott said.
“Tell her that.”
Crawford’s cell phone rang again. “Oh, Christ, what did she forget?” he said, then he looked at the number. “Oh, it’s Rose Clarke”—he clicked on speaker—“Hey, Rose, what’s goin’ on?”
“Hi, Charlie,” Rose said. “As you know, I always try to help whenever I can.”
“That’s one of your great strengths, Rose,” Crawford said. “You’re way more useful than Ott…or Ock, as some people call him.”
“Why do I have a feeling he’s right there,” Rose said.
“Hi, Rose,” Ott said. “How’s your bad self?”
Rose laughed. “All the better for hearing your voice, Mort.” She said. “So, boys—”
“Yes, we’re all ears,” Crawford said.
“A friend of mine was at Knight Mulcahy’s party,” Rose said. “And she was snappin’ away with her camera. So me—trying to think like a gumshoe from New York, or Cleveland in your case, Mort—figured maybe she took a shot or two that might be useful to you guys.”
Crawford looked over at a nodding Ott. “Yeah, definitely can’t hurt,” he said.
“Thanks Rose,” said Ott. “Might be very helpful. Who’s the photographer?”
“Got a pen?” Rose asked.
“Fire away,” Crawford said, figuring the more photos the better.
“Her name is Fredrika…Fredrika Bloomquist. and she’s not really your type, Charlie. Or else I’d never give you her name.”