Baker fiddled with the ring. “You think you’re smart, gumshoe?”
“Yep. And there’s more. The robbery happened yesterday evening, during or after a function your wife organized here. The guy who did it had been planning it for four days, so he was adaptable.”
“How on earth could you know that?”
“It happened last night because that gave you enough time to get the cops involved, for you to then get pissed at their lack of progress, and for you to ask around and find me.”
He put his fists on his hips. “Who says I’m pissed at the cops?”
I wandered towards Ron and the empty case. “You don’t figure any of the guests for it. They’re all such upstanding citizens. So you think it had to be the help. But not your help.”
I glanced at Murphy. He was stony faced. “Outside help. Caterers, cleaners, et cetera. You stop in here to take a load off after the event, see the old Heisman’s disappeared. You get the cops in. Hell, the chief was probably here for your function. They canvas the help, get nowhere. You’ve got some sway in this town so someone pulls an all-nighter. Background checks, surveillance video. Full court press. You wake up this morning and the chief tells you they’ve got a donut. Nada. So you get all itchy and have to mount your own search. You spend the morning asking around. Not for just any private dick. One who understands the sensibilities of your situation. Someone tells you I played college football, maybe they mention I played pro baseball. But they also mention I don’t suffer fools lightly. So you hesitate. Waste an hour on it. Then you figure you’re getting nowhere fast, and you can handle anything I can dish up, so mid-afternoon your manservant is dispatched to find me. Most people who know me know where I drink. I bet after my office, Longboard’s was the second place he checked.” I waited and took a breath and looked at Baker. “That about it?”
Baker grinned out the side of his mouth. “I didn’t hesitate because of your attitude. I can handle you. I hesitated because of the baseball. It’s a boy’s game. And who the hell spends their best years playing second rate minor league ball?”
He waited for a reaction but didn’t get one. He’d never understand the answer even if he knew.
“But the rest was on the money.” He looked at Murphy and nodded and Murphy slipped from the room. “How’d you know there was no cash or jewels taken?”
I turned from the trophy case to face him. “You don’t keep that sort of stuff in here. It’s in a safe, in your office. If there was anything missing from the safe you would have shown us when we were in there.”
Baker nodded. “What makes you think the guy had four days to plan? That was just crap, right?”
“Four days ago I read a piece in the Palm Beach Post about the upcoming charity event you were hosting. It was held last night.” I walked across the room to the French doors. “These doors were open. The photographer was there on the lanai, you and your wife were here, just inside the room. A nicely framed shot, with your Pittsburgh and USC jerseys as backdrop.”
“Yes, okay. That’s right. So what?”
“So just to your left in the shot, slightly out of focus but unmistakable to any college football fan, was your Heisman trophy.” Baker turned his head back and forth between me and the empty cabinet. Murphy stepped back into the room and handed Baker a thick envelope.
“You think they saw the picture and decided to steal it?”
“It’s a working theory. You ever done a press photo in here before?”
“No.”
“Staff come in here?”
“Only our maid, Carmela. But she’s been with us for years.”
“Then it’s a working theory.”
Baker held up the envelope. “Then work it hard. I want my trophy back.”
He dropped the envelope into Ron’s palm with a thud. Ron smiled.
“And I want daily updates.”
“Look, BJ, I have to tell you, the police will do everything they can. And they’ll do it for free.”
“I know that. I want you to do what they can’t.” He looked at the envelope in Ron’s hand. “There’s more there if you make progress.”
I shrugged. I’d done my moral duty. He wanted me to sniff around for a week for a wad of fresh bills, so that’s what I’d do.
I looked at Murphy. “Give us a ride back?”
“I have a dinner to get to,” said Baker. “Murphy will order you a cab.”
Chapter Four
RON AND I ditched the cab at the office to deposit the cash in our safe. Ron slipped out a couple of bills traveling money and we jumped in the Mustang. The colored party lights were on in the courtyard when we got back to Longboard Kelly's. The beer-brand umbrellas had been folded up, but left in the middle of each table, like giant flowers that had closed with the falling of the sun. The tables were nearly full. The autumnal heat had abated from its summer furnace down to just plain hot, and a light breeze made for a pleasant evening. Ron and I took our seats at the bar. Muriel had come off shift and Mick had come on. Mick owned the joint. He was built like a pipe bomb and had a fresco of tattoos up each arm. He wore a white tank top that said Longboard Kelly’s on the back with a picture of a Hawaiian Longboard. I didn’t think Mick surfed. I wasn't even sure he could swim. He'd owned Longboard Kelly's as long as anyone could remember. How he came to be in possession of the bar was anyone's guess. He nodded and poured a Yuengling. Ron never drank full strength beer during the day. But once the sun dropped over the yardarm, all bets were off. Mick dropped a highball of tonic and lime in front of me. It was a conspiracy.
“Got any vodka?" I asked.
“Yep,” said Mick, walking away to serve a customer inside.
“Cheers,” said Ron.
"If you think,” I moaned.
I sipped at the tonic. My impression of it hadn't improved. Ron slugged half a pint and wiped foam from his mouth. Ron was the same vintage as BJ Baker but had a few more miles on the clock. His hair was more silver than gray, and he had a glow that was more rum than pushups. He had a few faded scars on his face, neck, and hands, the result of skin cancer removals. Despite all that, he still had a way with the ladies that I never quite got my head around.
"So what do you think?" he said.
"I don't agree with our Mr. Baker that all his guests are such swell people that they wouldn't steal his trophy. Probably some pissing contests among them. Someone might just steal it for kicks, like they would have done to a college mascot, thirty or forty years ago. So give Lizzy the number for his guy Murphy and get a guest list, and one of all staff, internal and those hired for the event. Ask her to do the usual checks. We won't turn up anything the Palm Beach PD won't, but we should earn our cookies anyway. I'll chat with Sally tomorrow, see if he has any thoughts on the matter."
I played with my lime wedge as Ron slipped off his stool and fired up his cellphone. He walked away from the music coming from inside the bar, towards the rear of the courtyard, where a longboard with a bite out of it hung on the bamboo facade that was nailed to the fence. Ron held the phone to his ear and smiled as he sauntered by three women who looked like they'd just walked off the eighteenth at PGA National. I swiveled my barstool around to survey the crowd. They were easy and happy to be out of the air-conditioned prison that is South Florida in the summer. I glanced at the paved path that led to the parking lot and saw her walking in. It is not possible, in my learned opinion, to make a uniform look any sexier than she did. I didn't have a fetish for such things, but I was developing one. Her green trousers were crisp and curved in all the right places. Her shirt was pressed and starched and tucked in tight and her badge gleamed off her left breast. She was tall and lean and athletic. Her belt was snug around her taut waist and her sidearm swayed with her hips as she walked. Her hair was short enough to be low maintenance, but long enough to be as feminine as hell. The combination of the hips, the uniform and the gun had every eye on her. She walked straight to the bar. Not oblivious, but not caring either way.
; She stopped at the bar and smiled at me. Her golden nameplate said Castle. “Your butt print in that stool yet?"
"Not at all, Deputy. I've been out and about today."
"You don't say. And such a fine day to sit and drink and ponder the world."
"Depends on the drink.”
She dropped her eyes to my tonic water and then turned to the bar. "Mickey?"
Mick put his hands up. "I swear, on pain of an IRS audit. Nothing but tonic water."
She raised one eyebrow and gave a quiet "mmm.” Then she smiled at me. "I'll have what he's having."
Mick squirted some tonic into a highball and tossed in a lime wedge. She picked up the drink and sipped it. Condensation rolled down the glass. I watched her drink. She had thin lips and big brown eyes I could waste whole afternoons in.
"Cheers," she smiled.
I sipped my tonic. "You're trying to kill me."
"On the contrary, I'm trying to keep you alive." She leaned towards me and I caught a hint of jasmine and vanilla. She put her palm on the side of my waist. I could feel the heat of her hand through my shirt. Then she pinched the small muffin top she found there. She gave my skin a good squeeze.
"That's gonna leave a mark," I said.
"All part of the service."
“It’s police brutality, that’s what it is."
"I'm not the police."
“A mere technicality."
"A bet’s a bet," she said, sliding onto a stool. I saw her eyes glance over my shoulder. I turned and saw Ron sitting down with the golf ladies, his calls made, the night young.
"You on tonight?" I asked.
“Yep. Graveyard and a half. Got to get in early."
“What’s the beef?"
She sipped her drink. "Some big hotshot in Palm Beach had a party, and someone pinched a prize trinket." She put her glass down and pointed a slender finger at me. "Hey, you probably know him. He’s some football guy."
“BJ Baker."
"Yeah," she smiled. “How’d you know?"
"Guess where I spent my afternoon?"
"Seriously?"
Ron appeared at my shoulder. "Evening, Danielle. Don't you look dashing."
"Hi, Ron. Yeah, dashing was what I was going for."
Ron signaled Mick. "Three white wines and another for me."
Mick pulled a cleanskin bottle of wine from his fridge below the bar. Wine of unknown varietal and region was as fancy as Mick got.
Ron put his hand on my shoulder. "Left a message for Lizzy. We’ll get into it first thing.” He picked up his drinks. “Evening, Deputy,” he said, turning back to his new friends.
"So why are you involved with Baker?" I said, watching Ron settle at the table with the golf ladies. "I thought the PD would be on it."
"They are, and we're all being awfully careful not to step on each other's toes. But Baker put a good bit of cash into the sheriff’s election campaign, and he's called in a marker."
"So he's got two law enforcement agencies and a P.I. on the case." I shook my head and downed my tonic and lime. It was so sour it made my eyes water.
"Just to get back an old college trophy," she said.
I spluttered tonic back into my glass. "While I agree it’s a little excessive, it is a Heisman."
Danielle narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It's only the most prestigious award in college sports."
"So it's like an MVP award."
"Exactly. It goes to the best player in college football."
“Who chooses the winner?" She sipped her drink.
"There are selected judges in media and press across the country. The nation is divided into regions and then they tally all the votes."
“And they get a cup or something."
"Not a cup." I took out my phone and found an image of the Heisman trophy.
Danielle looked at the picture and frowned. "What is he doing?"
"The trophy is an image of a football player carrying the ball in one arm and laying what's called a stiff arm. He’s fending away a tackle."
"So why would anyone steal it? Could you sell it?"
"That's a question I hope to answer tomorrow, but I would have thought it’d be tough. But there might be black market collectors who just want something they can’t buy."
"So what's he like? Baker?"
“He’s a successful man who's gotten used to being successful. So now he expects it. I think he's more miffed that someone got one up on him than the actual trophy itself."
She pushed her drank away. "Did you play nice?"
"Nice enough to get a retainer."
“I’m so happy for you.” She grinned and slipped off her stool. "I gotta get going."
"Give me a ride?"
“Of course. What do you think your property taxes are for?"
I wandered over to Ron and tossed him the keys to the Mustang. He winked and I turned and followed the khaki trousers out to the parking lot.
Chapter Five
SALLY’S PAWN AND Check Cashing sat on Okeechobee Boulevard, on the wrong side of the Turnpike. It was in your typical low-rent strip mall. A package place, a nail salon, a Chinese restaurant that also did American cuisine. I parked my motorcycle in front of Sally’s. It was already hot, away from the coastal breezes and I was regretting giving Ron my car. The bike was fine, but it meant I had to wear jeans that stuck to my skin, and a helmet that made me sweat and look like a greaser when I took it off. Ron suggested I leave it off. But I've seen too many guys who came off bikes. Few of them come back, and those that do rarely come back all the way. Nothing cool about being dead.
I hung the black helmet on the bars and slipped on my Patriots cap. Sally's store had bars on the windows as a permanent fixture. A check-cashing booth sat at the front and a young black girl I didn't know sat behind the Plexiglas. I nodded as I walked by. She didn't smile. I didn't blame her. It didn't look like a particularly rosy place to waste away your day. A low glass cabinet ran along one side of the store, holding everything from diamonds to Smith and Wesson’s. The rest of the store had cheap shelving with other items for sale. Old CDs, DVD's, small electronics, musical instruments. There must have been more starving musicians in West Palm than I gave the place credit for.
It looked like a small change operation, which is exactly how Sally wanted it to look. He stepped through the rear door and shuffled along behind the glass cabinets.
"You wear that friggin’ hat in my store? What, you trying to kill me?"
"How's your Jets going?"
“Aach,” he said, throwing his hands into the air. "Don't get me started. You think if they're gonna lose every week, they could take some guys out at least. I mean they’re representing Jersey, for Chrissakes.”
"You should try a Dolphins’ game some time."
“Aach. Dolphins. I can’t follow a team dressed in orange and teal.” He looked at my cap again. "But there's no excuse for that."
“Hey, I grew up in New England."
“Aach. You grew up in Connecticut."
"Last time I checked, that was New England."
"You're killing me. Fairfield County’s just part of New York."
"I grew up in New Haven."
"Southern Massachusetts, that's what I say. I mean, what the hell is Connecticut for, anyway? Only good thing about it is that it puts the Red Sox an extra two hours away from Yankee stadium."
"Connecticut's the insurance capital of the world."
He threw his hands up again. "Zurich's the insurance capital of the world. Connecticut's a waste of a star on a flag."
I shrugged.
"Let me ask you this," he said. "You ever go back?"
"Why the hell would I go back?"
"Insurance?" Sally smiled his nicotine grin.
"I got an insurance broker in my building right here."
"Exactly my point. Exactly my point." He shook his head and laughed. "So what do you need, kid?"
"Got a question for you. A H
eisman trophy."
“Aha.”
"What's it worth, on the market?"
Sally scrunched his face like he was passing a stone. "Depends on when, depends on whose. But no less than a hundred grand, and easily more than two hundred for a popular player. Why? You got one?"
“No. A client had one stolen.”
“Who?”
“BJ Baker.”
“Aach. Steelers. He’s a blowhard. Where’d he go to school?”
“University of Southern Cal.”
Sally nodded. “Yeah, be worth something to somebody. But hard to move.”
“That was my next question.”
“Tough. High profile piece. Well known. Hard to move through usual channels.”
“You know someone who could do it?”
“I know everyone who could do it. But I ain’t heard nothing.”
We stood in silence for a moment. I could see the cogs working in Sally’s head.
“If it were me, I wouldn’t move it. I’d hire the guy direct. Get him to steal it for me. Pay him direct. No need to put it on the market.”
“Makes sense.”
“Sort of. But here’s the thing. You can never show it. To anyone. The kind of guy wants a Heisman, he wants things money can’t buy. He’s a sports fan for sure. But he wants the things others can’t have. A guy like this, he wants you to know he’s got stuff you can’t have. He wants to show it off. But a Heisman? They’re unique. There’s not many of them and they almost never come up for sale. But they’re so well known, by sports fans at least, that you’d never be able to keep it secret. Word would get out.”
“So why do it?”
“If it were me, one of two reasons. One, to hurt BJ Baker. I mean, who goes through life being called BJ? It’s like the guy wants to be called a homo.”
I lifted my eyebrows at that, but let it go. “What’s the second reason?”
“The Heisman means something else to me. I want it, but I won’t show it off because I don’t care about that. I care about it for other reasons. It represents something else to me.”
Stiff Arm Steal Page 2