Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  “BJ,” I said. There was nothing but the sound of the ocean coming down the line. That was the thing about rich people. They never answered their own phones. They had people. My people called their people and the last people on the line was the winner. The phone made a thunking noise.

  “Jones,” came the boorish voice from the handset.

  “BJ, how’s tricks?”

  “Where the hell you been?”

  “Out looking for your little trophy.”

  “It’s not a little… I’ve been calling you.”

  “I know. This is me returning your call.”

  “You need a new secretary.”

  “I don’t think Jesus would agree,” I told him.

  “What? Look, don’t you own a cellphone?”

  “I do.”

  “Why the hell don’t I have that number?”

  “Because I don’t want you to call me on it.”

  There was a grunt of dissatisfaction. “You need to remember who is paying your bills.”

  “How could I forget? What do you want?”

  “What?”

  “What. Do. You. Want. You’ve been calling me, remember.”

  “Yes, I have. I want you to stop harassing my clients and friends.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ve been calling guests at my party and accusing them of being suspects. I made it clear when I hired you. None of my guests are suspects.”

  “Actually, I decide who is or isn’t a suspect.”

  “You do no such thing! I am paying you so I’ll tell you how to handle things.”

  “No, you won’t. You hired me to investigate the theft of your trophy, and if possible to find it. You did not buy the rights to belittle or bully my staff, to direct this investigation or, as stated, decide who is or is not a suspect.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I will excuse you. But this is the final time. If you don’t like the way I work, then you are free to terminate my services and put your stolen Heisman in the hands of the Palm Beach Police Department, the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, the United States Marshals, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Florida National Guard, the United States Armed Forces, the Navy Seals, the Army Rangers, the Joint Chiefs and any other body you have managed to co-opt into this search.”

  There was silence on the phone.

  “BJ?” Nothing. “Oh, BJ? Shall I consider myself terminated?”

  “No.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No. You are not terminated. You don’t get off that easy. I hire someone, they do the job right or they never work in this town again. I don’t care who finds my Heisman. You, the cops, the sheriff. I don’t care.” His voice went deep and cold. “But you. I don’t want you to bring me back just my trophy. I want you to bring me the guy who took it. The cops won’t do that. You will. I want him first. Before the cops. I just want to spend half an hour with him.”

  “What are you going to do? Get him to polish the trophy? I think he might have done that already.”

  “Just find him, smart guy. Find him and bring him to me. Don’t, and I hope you’ve got a branch office in Guam. Because you’ll never work around here again.” He hung up and left me listening to the ocean again.

  I put the phone in its cradle and flipped my bare feet up onto the desk. BJ Baker couldn’t ruin my business. Not completely. He didn’t have that kind of sway. I figured I’d still get the odd missing cat case from the snowbirds in Palm Beach Gardens. Or I could find BJ’s Heisman. And Ron was right. To find one, I’d have to find them all. And to do that, I’d have to call my one source who would know. Beccy. Then my cellphone rang.

  “Hey boss,” said Ron. He sounded like he was walking.

  “How goes it?”

  “Guess who just deposited a big fat check in our bank?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “You’re a prince among men.”

  “Celebration libations at Longboard’s.”

  “I’m there.”

  I dropped the phone in my pocket and slipped back into my shoes. I walked to the outer office and told Lizzy I had a meeting with Ron.

  “Don’t drink too much,” she said.

  I stepped out the door thinking about Beccy Williams and wondering how warm the winters were in Guam.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I MUST HAVE forgotten to tell Ron about BJ Baker’s mandate, because the next day he kept calling everyone on the lists from the charity event. Both guests and staff. As fate would have it, he got his first hit on the staff list. We drove out to what my father would have called a halfway house. Hell, I would have called it that too, but in my father’s day he would have gotten away with it. It was, in real estate vernacular, a multi-family residence. We parked on the street in front of the large two-story house. There were two front doors that gave the impression that the house had been converted into a duplex at some time in its history.

  Unlike the other houses on the street, this one had no decrepit, cyclone wire fence and the lawn was neatly mowed. I took a good look around. It wasn’t the sort of area you left a shiny new Mustang sitting around for long if you expected the wheels to still be attached when you got back. We walked up the concrete path towards the gray painted porch. We each chose a door. Both opened into the same small foyer, barely big enough to swing a domestic animal. There were closed doors off a corridor and stairs heading up to the second floor. The only difference was on my side. One of the doors was open. I heard someone call out.

  “Help you?”

  I stepped in and Ron followed. The floors creaked underfoot. There was no sneaking around in this place. Perhaps that was intentional. I poked my head in the open door. The room was the size of a small bedroom. But it held two messy desks and a large man with bags under his eyes and a Marine-style buzz cut. He wore a white tank top and both shoulders were covered in ink. He had a boxer’s nose. He smiled. He had a boxer’s teeth, too.

  “Help you?” he said, again.

  “You the super?” I asked.

  “Facility Manager. That’s the official title, I believe.”

  “Miami Jones,” I said, extending my hand.

  He took it. He had big mitts. “Lex.”

  “We’re looking for some information on Dennis Rivers.”

  “He in trouble?”

  “No,” I said. “Employment verification.” I handed him my card. He took it and looked it over.

  “You guys don’t got a phone?”

  “I prefer to do things face to face.”

  Lex nodded like he didn’t care either way.

  “What do you do here, Lex?”

  “We run a re-entry program.”

  “A halfway house?” asked Ron.

  Lex smiled again. “Transition from Prison to Community Initiative. That’s the official title, I believe.”

  “How does that work?” I asked.

  “We assist offender re-entry into the community. We get them training, help them find work, give them a place to bunk for a while.”

  “Does Rivers live here?”

  “Nah.”

  “Did he?”

  “Nah.”

  “So how do you know him?” I asked.

  “Dennis trained in culinary skills while inside. Worked in the kitchen. When he got out he did a work placement with us in our kitchen.”

  “Does he still work here?”

  “No. He got a job.”

  “And he lived elsewhere?”

  “Family, I think.”

  I nodded. “What was he in for?”

  “Committing a crime.”

  Now it was my turn to smile. “Do you know what crime?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re not going to share.”

  He grinned and shook his head.

  “Was he a good worker? Good in the kitchen?”

  “It ain’t the Ritz, you know. But yeah, he was good. Did what he was told.”

  “And how did he get the job a
t…?” I looked at Ron.

  “Black Tie Catering,” he said. I nodded and looked at Lex.

  “He applied for it.” He shrugged. “He worked here, kept his nose clean. Did the job program, learned how to put an application together and he applied.”

  “Anything else you can tell us?” I asked.

  Lex shook his head. “What kind of job is he going for now?” he said.

  “He’s trying to keep one.”

  I thanked Lex for his time.

  “Look, no one who comes through here is a saint,” said Lex. “But Rivers isn’t a bad kid.”

  I walked back to the car, looking around the street. I wondered how bad jail must be that this place was the more attractive option.

  “It’s a step on the road to somewhere else,” said Ron, reading my mind.

  I nodded.

  “What do you think? Could he just be a good kid?” asked Ron as he slipped into the car.

  “He was good enough to end up jail. So I suspect my baseline for such things is a little different from Lex’s.” I turned the key and revved the Mustang. “We need to find out for ourselves. We need to chat with Dennis. I don’t suppose the caterers will give us his home address?”

  “Not necessary. I happen to know that Black Tie is doing the food at a function at the yacht club tomorrow.”

  I smiled. “Tally Ho.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  SITTING AT THE bar in the courtyard at Longboard Kelly’s reminded me of a Billy Joel song. Only it wasn’t five o’clock and it wasn’t Saturday. Saturdays were for tourists and office clerks. It was mid-week when the true regulars shuffled in. Ron and I sat on our stools, the old fan attached to the palapa shade shifting the warm breeze onto us. Ron had a Corona, I had a Dos Equis. It wasn’t Cinco de Mayo, but what the hell.

  We were small talking with Muriel. She looked like she’d spent the day on a tanning bed. Danielle walked in from the parking lot. She was in a sleeveless red button up shirt and denim cut offs. Her hair was wet from her post-shift shower. She came and stood between Ron and me and ordered a vodka tonic. Muriel handed her the drink but didn’t ask for any money. I thought she might give freebies to law enforcement, but then realized it would land on my tab. There wasn’t a spare seat at the bar so I stood up. Danielle nodded towards a table at the rear of the courtyard, near the water feature. It was a big gold colored urn, with water bubbling across the top and spilling down the sides. Danielle took the seat closest to the bubbling water.

  “Another day alive,” she said, holding up her glass.

  Ron and I clinked our drinks.

  “Amen to that,” said Ron.

  Danielle sipped her drink and leaned back. “You get anywhere in the Heisman hunt?”

  Ron glanced at me, then busied himself taking a long, slow drink from his glass.

  “Baker’s on the warpath but wants to keep us on the case,” I said.

  “He wants the guy, doesn’t he?”

  “He does.”

  “You’re not going to give him the guy, are you?”

  “No, ma'am. If I can find his prize trophy, I’ll consider my duty discharged.”

  “Glad to hear it. No other news?”

  “Not much. Found an ex-con on the payroll of the caterers.”

  “And?”

  “Spoke to a guy from the re-entry program. More or less vouched for the kid.”

  “Who’s the kid?”

  “Name of Rivers. Dennis.”

  “Speak to him?”

  “Tomorrow. You know if the PD has had a chat yet?”

  “I don’t, but I can find out. I expect if you know, they’ll know.”

  “That’s a vote of confidence.”

  She smiled. “You know what I mean. Getting at that kind of info is easier for us.”

  “I know.”

  Danielle rolled her shoulders and grimaced. “It’s driving around in the cruiser. Murder on the shoulders.”

  “I can get you in with my masseuse.”

  “I might just take you up on that.”

  We sipped our drinks.

  “So how was your day, dear?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “Took a call for a missing person. Frantic woman out near Wellington. Her husband’s disappeared and we’ve barely got the time to take the call, let alone find him.”

  “Busy, huh?”

  “The Heisman hunt. And for what? This poor woman can’t sleep at night, but because it doesn’t look like foul play we can’t put the proper resources into it.”

  “The guy up and leave?”

  “Who knows?” she said. “Possible. His car’s gone, an overnight bag. So maybe. But most of his clothes and stuff are still there. She thinks he’s harmed himself.”

  “People leave. We don’t always know our loved ones as well as we think we do.”

  “I get it. But I’d still like to be able to tell her if he’s alive. Even if he did take off. She just looked so sad. Not like she’d been crying. More like she’d been sad for years.”

  I sipped the last of my beer. “You can’t help everyone.”

  “I know. But like you said the other night, when the little guys get left behind, that’s what you’re here for.”

  I smiled my Tom Cruise toothy grin. “You got it.”

  “I’m glad you agree,” she said, finishing off her drink. “Because I gave her your number. Said you’d be able to help her out.”

  I looked at Ron, who removed his mouth from his glass to say, “Just finished the Molito case. We’re good for a new one.”

  “Not sure she’s going to be able to pay much,” said Danielle.

  “How much is not much?” I said, standing and collecting our empty glasses.

  “Possibly nothing.”

  I looked at Ron.

  “Bit of pro bono might be good for the soul,” he said. He handed me his glass. I frowned at Danielle.

  “You keep getting me work like that, I might have to make you a partner.”

  “Promises, promises,” she said as I headed for the bar.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I RAN ACROSS the hard sand, my feet leaving a second set of prints. The morning sun burned across the right side of my face. I sacrificed a little speed for position, which was a couple of strides behind Danielle. She wore a sports bra and Lycra running shorts. Her legs looked like they’d been stolen off a gazelle. I knew her abs looked like steel, but the view from behind was equally impressive. And motivating. If she had taken off in a rocket I would have developed the gift of flight. She turned from hard, wet sand back up towards the park. I lifted my knees as I pushed across the softer beach. We both stopped running when we hit pavement and walked back along the streets. We didn’t speak. When she turned and caught me looking at her backside, she just smiled. We got back to my house and had one hell of a shower.

  I was wearing a towel and tossing some fruit in the blender when her phone rang. We frowned at each other. It was her day off. She answered the call on the patio, wrapped in a sarong, the origins of which escaped me. She strode back in to grab a pen and paper and write something down. She hung up and looked at the note, then began punching in a new set of numbers.

  She looked at me as she let the phone ring. “Jenny Bellingham called the office asking for me. Dispatch said they could send a car out, but she said she needed to talk to me.”

  She turned and walked back out to the patio. I hit the blender and poured two smoothies. They came out green despite the absence of any green ingredients. But they tasted just fine.

  Danielle came back in and grabbed hers. “She doesn’t sound good. Wants to tell me more about the burglary.”

  “Hubby at work?”

  She nodded. “You mind?”

  I smiled. “What else would you do on your day off?”

  We drove to the mobile home park listening to the radio. The weather report said we should expect some rain. I couldn’t see it. I parked the Mustang in front of the Bellingham home, behind an old H
onda Civic I hadn’t noticed last time. I followed Danielle up the side of the home for no other reason than I wanted her to be the one who knocked on the door. Jenny Bellingham answered. From the darkness of the mobile home I could see a massive shiner. She looked like she’d walked into a Mike Tyson right hook. Her left eye was puffy and red. It was going darker as we stood there. It was recent.

  She looked at Danielle, puzzled. It often happens. We train ourselves to see things without paying attention. What Jenny Bellingham saw the first time we visited was Danielle’s uniform. Now she saw none.

  “Mrs. Bellingham? Deputy Castle. You called me?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, a flash of recognition running across her face. She turned her shoulder and opened the door. Danielle stepped through. I stopped at the threshold. Mrs. Bellingham looked at me, tense.

  “Ma’am, would you like me to wait outside?”

  She looked at me, then Danielle. “No, come in.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  The mobile home still looked neat, but it was dark. The blinds were dropped and this time it was the inside that reminded me of a shipping container. It was warm and dark. Maybe that was how nightshift people liked it. Darkening the whole house to sleep in one room seemed like overkill to me. Maybe she had other reasons. The two women sat on the sofa. I stayed in my position against the door.

  “What happened?” said Danielle, looking at the bruise on her face.

  Mrs. Bellingham touched it reflexively, then recoiled. “Oh that. I fell.”

  “Ma’am, that doesn’t look like a fall.”

  She looked at Danielle, angry and confused. At whom, that was the question. “It’s nothing, really. I fell.”

  “Why did you call me, Jenny?”

  “I don’t know. You left your card. I didn’t know who to call.” She looked at Danielle’s attire and shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s your day off.”

  “That’s okay. Just tell me what you wanted to speak to me about.”