Palm Beach Bones

by Tom Turner

  Balfour held up his iPhone and Crawford and Ott looked at the screen. It was a picture of a grim-faced Lila holding the day’s Palm Beach Morning News in front of her—the date clearly recognizable.

  Crawford patted Balfour on the shoulder. “We’ll get her,” he said. “So when did they contact you? When did you know she was missing?”

  “I got a call around quarter of six then that text of her with the paper. I left the house around nine this morning, had a meeting with my accountant. That lasted about an hour, then I went to buy some stuff at CVS, after that went to the Poinciana,” a country club he belonged to in Palm Beach. “Hit some balls out on the range, had an early lunch and then had a one o’clock tee-time. I got a call on my cell from Valentina right after I teed off,” Balfour turned to Ott, “that’s my cook. I didn’t take it, figured I’d get back to her after I was finished up. Then she called again, I didn’t take it the second time. Then, as I said, around quarter of six I got this call that said ‘Unknown.’ I decided to take it and this guy said he had Lila and wanted three million dollars by Monday at five or he’d…” a long sigh, “kill her.”

  “What were his exact words?” Crawford asked.

  Balfour winced. “Said they’d ‘have a little fun with her, torture her then kill her.’”

  Ott clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles flexing.

  “I love that girl like a daughter,” Balfour said. “You guys gotta get her back. I’ll pay the damn money.”

  “We’ll get her,” Crawford said again. Then he put an arm on Balfour’s shoulder. “You know, David, I’m going to have to take this to my boss, who’s probably going to bring in the FBI.”

  Balfour winced like he felt a sharp jolt of pain. “No, please, man, you can’t do that. I just want you involved. I know you, I know what you’re capable of.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott. Ott was looking down, but Crawford knew what he was thinking. We’d get our asses handed to us if we didn’t go by the book on this.

  Balfour sighed and put a hand up to his forehead. “Please, Charlie, I need you to do it. I don’t want fifty guys in crew cuts and black suits clusterfucking this thing,” he said, his voice querulous. “Put yourselves in my shoes. If you can’t do it, I gotta go it alone. I can’t lose that girl. I’ll give these bastards everything I have.”

  Ott looked up and narrowed his eyes. “David, you can’t do this yourself. You need men who have been down that road. It’s just too damn risky otherwise.”

  Balfour exhaled loudly. “You’re a father, right, Mort?”

  Ott nodded. “Yes, I have a daughter.”

  “Okay, so you know how it is,” Balfour said.

  “What’s that, David?”

  “How it’s not all about you anymore,” Balfour said. “How precious someone becomes to you…” A long pause, followed by, “Now imagine the possibility of losing that person.”

  Crawford could see Ott at a loss for words. A rare phenomenon.

  Balfour turned to Crawford, “Look, if anything goes wrong or we don’t get her back by the end of Monday, I’ll call PBPD myself. I’ll say I tried to work it out on my own—big mistake—and fucked up. I won’t mention calling you or Mort.”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “Charlie, do I have to beg you?” Balfour pleaded.

  Crawford glanced over at Ott. Ott nodded imperceptibly.

  Crawford exhaled. “Okay, but if we feel that we’re losing control of this, or we’re in over our heads, we’re goin’ down the other road.”

  “Agreed,” Balfour said with a smile. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Okay, first of all,” Crawford said. “I’m assuming you don’t have that kind of money just lying around. It’s either in a bank account or a stock brokerage, right?”

  “Exactly, so I can’t get it until Monday.”

  “Which is good,” Ott said. “It buys us some time.”

  “Yeah, definitely,” Crawford said. “Do you know exactly where it happened? Where she was when they took her?”

  “So after I got the call, I called Valentina—who was in the hospital.”

  “Jesus, what happened to her?” Crawford asked.

  “She told me three guys showed up a little after I left the house. They were dressed up as carpenters. See, I’m adding on to my guesthouse. They told her they were finish carpenters and she didn’t think anything of it. A couple of hours later one of them came into the house, asked her if he could get some ice. So when she went to the refrigerator, he hit her over the head with something. Next thing she knows, she wakes up and they’re gone and so is Lila.”

  “What’d she say they looked like?” Crawford asked. “She give you any kind of a description?”

  “That’s the problem,” Balfour said. “They were wearing those masks that construction guys wear—”

  Crawford nodded. “Dust masks.”

  “Yeah, whatever. So she just said they were three white guys, average height, all wearing baseball caps, couldn’t give much of a description.”

  “Did she call the cops when she came to?” Ott asked, pretty sure she hadn’t or they’d have heard about it.

  “No, the one who hit her left a note next to her in the kitchen that said something like, ‘You call the cops and the girl’s dead.’ After I spoke to Valentina I went straight home, then got the text.”

  “Was anyone else at your house today?” Crawford asked.

  “Just Valentina,” Balfour said, his voice suddenly shaky. “No, wait, the pool guys come in the afternoon.”

  Crawford could hear the emotion suddenly rise in Balfour’s voice as he put a hand up to his forehead.

  “What’s the name of the construction company that’s doing the work on your house, David?” Ott asked.

  “Butler Brothers,” said Balfour. “The only thing I could think of is maybe the kidnappers intercepted the real construction guys going to my house then pretended they were them. You know, like another part of the crew.”

  “Who’s your main contact there?” Ott asked.

  “Jason Butler,” Balfour said. “As straight a guy as you’ll find.”

  Balfour gave them Butler’s phone number.

  Ott wrote the man’s name and number down in his notebook.

  “When do your landscapers come? And the garbage guys?” Crawford asked.

  “Landscapers came yesterday,” Balfour said. “Garbage guys same. I can’t see them having anything to do with this.”

  “I’m just thinking somebody else might have seen these guys. Could maybe give us more of a description of them. Or could have seen them getting in or out of a car or truck. Could describe it maybe.”

  Balfour nodded and gave them the name of the pool, landscape, and garbage companies even though they weren’t scheduled to come that day. “Sorry, I don’t have their numbers,” he said.

  “No problem, I can look ‘em up,” Ott said, writing down the names.

  “You’ve had some time to think, David. Is there anyone at all you can think of who could be involved in this?” Ott asked. “A lot of the time it’s someone you know.”

  “Or someone who knows the victim,” Ott added.

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it,” Balfour said. “But I really don’t have a clue.”

  “What about Lila? Anyone in her life you might be suspicious of? Someone who could be behind this?”

  Balfour thought for a second. “She’s been going out with this guy, kind of off and on, since back when my sister was alive.”

  “Tell us about him,” Crawford asked.

  “Well, he’s a little older, like maybe twenty-three or twenty-four,” Balfour said. “I remember my sister telling me she thought the guy was kind of a ‘ne’er do well.’ Or maybe it was a ‘good-for-nothing.’”

  “What else?” Crawford asked.

  “She told me how he had flunked out of two colleges up north,” Balfour said. “Moved down here and was freeloading off his grandparents who have a
house up on Dunbar, I think. Always seemed like a nice enough guy to me. Kind of an affable slacker.”

  “What’s his name?” Ott asked.

  “Jamie Ransom,” Balfour said.

  “Name’s appropriate,” Ott said.

  “Never thought of that,” Balfour said.

  “Based on what you’ve said, sounds like a plan like this might be more than he’s capable of,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah, hiring guys, planning it all out,” Balfour said, nodding. “It might be.”

  “Well, we’ll check him out anyway,” Crawford said.

  “Anybody else, David?” Ott asked. “Any other ex-boyfriends or anyone sketchy?”

  “She had a few dates with a guy who is the assistant golf pro at the Poinciana,” Balfour said. “I forget what his name is.”

  “What’s your gut on him?” Ott asked.

  “I like him,” Balfour said. “But what do I know? Said like twenty words to the kid in my whole life.”

  Crawford had been quiet for a while, thinking things over. “The person who called—obviously wasn’t Jamie or the golf pro—what did he sound like? Age? Accent? Anything distinctive or unusual?”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you,” Balfour said. “He was using one of those things that disguises your voice.”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, that’s an app you can buy.”

  “Which means it actually could have been Jamie or the golf pro or someone else you know,” Crawford said. “Or someone who didn’t want you to be able to recognize his voice, in case he got caught.”

  Ott was nodding. “So how’d the guy leave it?”

  “I told him I couldn’t get the money until Monday morning and he was pissed. Like he hadn’t thought of that. Banks not being open, I mean.”

  Crawford chewed on that. “Sounds kind of like an amateur,” he said. “Then what did he say?”

  Balfour shrugged. “He just told me to stay at home and wait for his call on my cell. Don’t go anywhere or talk to anyone, he said.”

  Crawford nodded his head slowly, a plan starting to take shape. “How would you feel about having a houseguest for the weekend?”

  “You mean…you?”

  “Yup,” Crawford said. “Got an extra toothbrush?”

  “Whole drawer full.”

  Crawford nodded. “Good possibility someone might be watching to see if anyone comes or goes here, so I’m just gonna camp out down here for the weekend,” Crawford said. “I need you to come down every hour or so, so we can talk about what to do next. Also, if you get a call from the kidnapper, put it on speaker and come down as fast as you can.”

  “Will do,” said Balfour.

  Crawford turned to Ott. “I can take the weekend off from Loadholt. I’ll be checking in with you from time to time. If you get anything good, let me know.”

  “On Loadholt, you mean?” Ott asked.

  Crawford nodded.

  “If you need me to do something, just call,” Ott said. “Go somewhere, interview someone, whatever.”

  Crawford nodded. “Thanks, man,” he said, turning to Balfour. “You got a bathroom down here, David?

  “Yeah,” he pointed to a closed door, “but sorry, no shower.”

  Crawford grinned. “Guess I’m gonna be good and ripe come Monday morning.

  Twenty-One

  Marla Fluor, Elle T. Graham, Diana Quarle, Beth Jastrow and Rose Clarke had just left the The Tabernacle, a music venue in Atlanta, and were now having drinks at the bar of the Four Seasons Hotel where they were staying.

  “I’m not much of a rock n’ roll girl, but that chick really rocked,” said Marla.

  “The place was kind of cool too,” Diana said. “Not too big, not too small, nice acoustics.”

  “Yeah,” Beth said. “I read Adele played there last year. Bob Dylan, once, way back in the day.”

  “So what’s our game plan?” Elle asked, turning to Beth. “You’re kind of the quarterback on this one. What are you thinking?”

  “I had a bunch of ideas,” Beth said, setting her scotch down on the table. “Diana, you mentioned you know Oprah’s agent, so let’s set up an intro between Lulu and her. She’s got dates at my hotels again a month from now and some other place in a few days.” Then, turning to Elle, “What’d you tell me about knowing someone in the record business in LA?”

  “Yes, his name is Eddie Buskey. He’s the head of something called Rhino Records, which, I think, is owned by Warner Brothers. Anyway, he told me once he likes to go to clubs and discover up-and-coming artists.”

  “That would be a fun job,” Rose said after a sip of her rosé, “going around and plucking someone out of obscurity. Making ‘em a star.”

  Beth smiled and nodded. “Oh, here she comes now,” she said, looking at the woman approaching their table. She was Lulu Perkins, the singer who they had come to see. She was in her mid-twenties and had long, straight blond hair, abundant cleavage, and wore aviators.

  “There you are,” Beth said to Lulu, holding out her hand. “You were fan-tastic.”

  “Thanks,” said Lulu, with a big glowing smile.

  “Incredible,” Rose said with a nod.

  Beth proceeded to introduce Lulu to the four others as she sat down at their table.

  “So you liked the show?” Lulu asked.

  “Liked it?” Diana said. “Only thing I didn’t like was it was too short.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” said Marla. “I could have listened for another hour.”

  “Well, thanks,” Lulu said, looking around the table. “So you ladies are gonna make me a star?”

  “No, you’re gonna make you a star,” Beth said. “We’re just gonna try to speed up the process a little.”

  Beth proceeded to tell Lulu about their contacts with Oprah’s agent and the man at Rhino Records.

  They had two rounds of drinks, then, at around midnight, paid the check, said goodnight to Lulu Perkins, and headed to the elevator. They agreed to meet again and talk in the morning.

  “I really like her,” said Rose, as she pushed the button for an elevator. “I wish I could pull off that look.”

  “You mean indoor shades?” Diana asked.

  “Yeah,” Rose said. “Too Hollywood for me.”

  The elevator opened and the five got in.

  “Hold it, please,” came a man’s voice as the door was closing.

  Rose put her hand up on the door and it opened back up.

  “Thanks,” the man in his fifties said, looking over the women. “Wow! Look what I stepped into…a Charlie’s Angels reunion.”

  Diana rolled her eyes as Rose eyed him disdainfully.

  “That was a compliment,” the man said, mimicking an air kiss to Rose.

  “You really made our night, sir,” Rose said.

  The man smiled and ogled. He had clearly come from the bar himself. “Man, you’re a buncha hotties.”

  No one responded.

  The elevator door opened on the twenty-sixth floor. The women walked out, Beth bringing up the rear.

  The man suddenly reached out and grabbed her ass.

  In a blink, she whirled and kicked him in the groin then, as he pitched forward, she brought her knee up fast and slammed him under the chin.

  The other four women turned and watched in jaw-drop amazement as the man fell to the floor just outside of the elevator.

  But Beth Jastrow was not done. She kicked him in the ribs as Rose and Diana grabbed her arms and pulled her back.

  The man, groaning, looked up at Beth, terror in his eyes.

  “Don’t you ever, ever—” Beth broke out of the grasp of Rose and Diana and kicked him again, “touch a woman like that again.”

  Twenty-Two

  Crawford suggested that Balfour go up to Lila’s bedroom and see if her computer and cell phone were there as he and Ott talked things over in the basement. A few minutes later, Balfour came back down with both. Crawford shot him a thumbs-up.

  “So, Mort, I’m gonna see what I find in thos
e,” he said pointing to the computer and cell phone in Balfour’s hands, “then give you a call, probably first thing in the morning. I might need you to do some legwork for me. Go talk to somebody maybe. If I decide it’s better for me to be on the street, I’ll just come through the tunnel and you can pick me up down in Mellor Park.”

  Ott nodded. “In the meantime, until I hear from you, I’ll just be working Loadholt.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Crawford said, looking at his watch. It was just past nine. He turned to Balfour. “This’ll take a while. I’ll call you if we need to talk.”

  Balfour nodded. “I’ll get you some sheets, a pillow, and stuff,” pointing at the leather couch. “Looks like that’s your bed for the next few nights.”

  “Hey, I’ve slept in worse, trust me,” Crawford said. “Do me a favor while you’re up there, get me a cup of coffee, would you please?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Balfour said. “I’ll bring the whole Keurig thing down here. Got any special flavors you like?”

  “Got any Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  “Think you might be in luck.”

  Ott left a few minutes later and Crawford opened up Lila’s MacBook Air. She had left it on, which was fortunate, because he didn’t need her username and password. He went straight to her emails and immediately felt like a snooping parent. It was quickly apparent that the two people she emailed the most were a woman named Jenny Montgomery and slacker on-again-off-again boyfriend Jamie Ransom. He was surprised she communicated so much by email because his sense was that kids her age did nothing but text. The emails with Montgomery were about everything under the sun. The ones from Ransom were essentially him trying to win her over and the ones from her to him were friendly, chatty, and non-committal. The ratio was approximately two to one, his emails to hers.