by Tom Turner
“What’d you think of the ending?” Elle asked.
All three thought for a few moments.
“I actually thought it was kind of…hopeful,” Marla said. “Like she had a chance to turn things around.”
“You did?” Elle said. “I thought she was doomed.”
Marla exhaled loudly. “Question is, do we believe in the girl enough that we go and put our muscle behind her? Help get her an agent who gets her a publisher who sells a million copies of the damn thing?”
“Part of me says, even though I didn’t love the book, that we go with Beth’s gut,” Rose said.
“Yeah, she’s been spot-on before,” Marla said.
“So is that a yes?” Elle asked.
“Why don’t we do what we’ve done with everyone else, meet her face to face,” Rose said.
“But where’s she live?” Elle asked.
“I think up in Michigan somewhere,” Rose said. “Where Beth’s from.”
“Beth’s from Michigan?” Diana asked.
“Yeah, originally,” Rose said. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I just thought she was originally from around here somewhere,” Diana said.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Marla said. “Never really heard much of a Michigan accent.”
“What in God’s name is a Michigan accent?” Rose asked.
“Well, I had this friend in college from there. She said stuff like, ‘Where at?’ and practically every question ended in a preposition. Another thing, she called that white stuff from cows ‘melk.’”
“Melk?” Elle said.
Marla nodded.
“Minnesota people say that too,” Rose said.
“Oh, really,” Marla said.
“Okay,” Elle said. “I’ll call Beth. She can ask—whatever she calls herself, A. Carol or just plain Carol—to meet with us.”
Marla and Rose nodded. “We can all kick in for the flight,” said Marla.
“Sounds like a plan,” Rose said.
Thirty-Three
After five minutes in the car with Luis, David Balfour had pretty much eliminated him as having any participation in any capacity in his niece’s kidnapping. Luis was driving Balfour’s BMW and telling Balfour about how the night before—Friday—had started out so promising down at the Seminole Hard Rock Casino in Hollywood.
“So I hit the jackpot on a progressive slot machine fifteen minutes after I got there. Good for two hunner and eighty bucks,”—should have hopped right in your car and headed home, thought Balfour—“then I went to the blackjack table and walked away up another hunner or so.”
Balfour had heard a few of Luis’ hard-luck stories before. Something told him this one ended like the others. Badly.
“So then I went to this place and watched these wackos do karaoke for an hour or so,” Luis said as he drove up County Road.
“How was that?” Balfour asked.
“Lame, man,” Luis said. “Really lame. Probably had a few more drinks there than I shoulda,” he went on. “Real strong margaritas. Ever had a Texas margarita, Mr. B?”
“No, what is that?” Balfour asked, thinking he had drunk everything under the sun.
“Cointreau, Triple Sec, lime juice and a sheet-load of Tequila,” Luis said, shaking his head. “After two of those I got lost trying to find the men’s room. Wandered into the kitchen unzipping my fly. Ay caramba, it was ugly, Mr. B.”
“Sounds like it,” Balfour said, chuckling. “Then, I’m guessing, you went back to the tables.”
Luis exhaled long and loud as he pulled up in front of Cucina Dell’Arte.
“Yeah, what a mistake,” Luis said ruefully, shaking his head. “Craps…now I unna-stan why they call it that.”
Balfour grabbed for the door handle, knowing the end of the story. “So you lost it all, huh?”
Luis nodded sheepishly.
Inside Cucina Dell’Arte, Balfour ordered a drink and dialed Crawford’s number.
“Luis is not our man, Charlie,” Balfour said. “Spent last night getting drunk at Seminole Hard Rock, losing all his money. Poor Valentina. Came back at three in the morning with two cents in his pocket.”
“Okay,” Crawford said with a sigh. “So no way he’d be in the middle of a kidnapping carrying on like that?”
“No way in hell,” Balfour said.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Have a quick drink and come back home,” Balfour said.
“Okay, see you in a little while.”
“I’ll cook you something to eat. You must be starving,” Balfour said. “Make you a salad and my famous spaghetti Bolognese.”
“Good?”
“Good? Like you died and went to heaven.”
It was pretty damn good, Crawford had to admit. As was the bottle of Chardonnay he shared with Balfour.
Crawford was weighing whether to have a second helping when a phone call interrupted his meal. He didn’t recognize the caller, but excused himself from the table and picked up.
It was from the owner of a shop on Dixie. When Crawford had gone around inquiring about the gay couple, one of whom Clyde Loadholt had crippled, he had left his card with a sales clerk and asked her to ask the shop’s owner to call him. That had been two days ago. Better late than never, Crawford figured. The owner was named Chris Penna.
“Thanks for getting back to me, Mr. Penna,” Crawford said. “I was trying to track down two fellas who had a shop near you on Dixie. Johnny Baxter and Ben Silver. Live down in the Keys now. But I actually got in touch with them yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah,” Penna said. “So they called when they were up here?”
“Here? No, they’d been at a hotel down in Miami.”
Penna paused, like he wasn’t sure whether he was telling him too much. “Well, actually they were up here.”
Crawford straightened up in the leather couch. “What day was that?”
“They came up last Thursday.”
The day Loadholt was killed.
Crawford started tapping his foot on the carpet.
“Are they still here, do you know?”
“I think so,” Penna said. “When they come up, they usually stay about a week. Catch up with old friends and all.”
“And do you know where they usually stay?”
“Yes, at the Flagler,” Penna said. “They love the place ‘cause of the shows.”
“Shows?”
“They told me they saw Liza there once,” Penna said. “I think either Tommy Tune or Mary Wilson is there now.”
Then Crawford remembered hearing that the Flagler Hotel had cabaret shows, which attracted name performers. He guessed Liza might be Liza Minnelli and he was pretty sure Mary Wilson was one of the original Supremes. She had to be up there in age. Liza too.
“Did you see Johnny and Ben when they were here on Thursday, Mr. Penna?”
“Yeah, that’s how I know they were in town.”
“What time of day was it?”
“Right before I closed up,” Penna said.
“So that would be?”
“Just before six.”
Crawford started to tap on the table next to him. “And do you have any idea where they were going from there?”
Penna exhaled. “Why do you—”
“Mr. Penna, please, where were they going after your shop?”
“Uh, Johnny said something about a friend on a boat.”
Crawford’s foot tapped faster. “Where was the boat?”
“At a marina, I think, but I don’t know which one,” Penna said. “I’m not real comfortable telling you any more, Detective. I mean, these guys are my friends, I don’t want to—”
“Thank you, Mr. Penna, you’ve been very helpful,” Crawford said, “I appreciate it.”
Crawford hung up then got up and started to pace. Then he dialed Ott.
“Yeah, Charlie?” Ott answered.
He told him about his conversation with Chris Penna.
“But
what would prompt these guys after ten years to want to kill Loadholt?”
“That’s always been our question. After so long. Maybe there’s nothing there but why would they lie? Claim they were down in Miami?”
As they pondered that question, Crawford told Ott about having ruled out Luis Arragon.
“Oh, hey, by the way,” Ott said, “I ran a search on Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt on FCIS and had quite a few hits, back like twenty-some-odd years ago.”
“Tell me.”
“They were from right after the time she ran away from Loadholt’s house,” Ott said. “First one was for shoplifting.”
“Jesus, they still got shit like that in the system that far back?”
“Hey, goes back to Ponce De Leon,” Ott said.
“What’d he do?”
Ott laughed. “So then—like two months after that—she steps up in class: prostitution. Up in Jacksonville. She just got a slap on the wrist for both of those. But two months later she gets caught with some dude named Duane Lanier holding up a liquor store.”
“No shit. Armed?”
“Yeah,” Ott said. “They both had Saturday night specials. So apparently Duane’s got a pretty long sheet and the cops there were dying to put him away,” he said. “So basically she turns state’s witness and testifies against him. Says he threatened to kill her unless she went along with it. So she ends up with a suspended sentence, basically just gets time served, and then they cut her loose.”
“What next?”
“Nada. That appears to be the end of the budding criminal career of Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt. Nothing after that. Either went straight, died, or just never got caught again.”
Crawford didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, “Goin’ back to Ben Silver and Johnny Baxter—”
“Yeah?”
Crawford looked at his watch. It was nine thirty. “What are you up to tonight, Mort?”
“Watching Harry Bosch on Amazon Prime.”
“You s’pose I could tear you away from that if I bought you a couple of drinks? I’m feeling a little cooped up here.”
“Where you thinkin’?”
“How would you feel about…a gay bar?”
Thirty-Four
His bar reference got Crawford thinking about his brother Bart. He had gotten a call from him and the good news was that Bart was still at Clairmount, thanks, at least in part, to his generous contribution to the Founders Fund. Crawford didn’t ask, but assumed that the check Bart had stroked probably had at least five zeros in it. What the hell? It would have gone to booze and drugs otherwise.
Bart extolled the virtues of AA and the doctors and staff at Clairmount then assured his brother that this time he really was going to make it.
Crawford was holding his breath.
Crawford felt pretty certain that Balfour wouldn’t be hearing from the kidnappers that night. What would they have to say? Everything had been laid out, except where the drop would be and Crawford figured they’d tell Balfour that at the very last minute.
The Flagler Hotel was on South County Road just down from Worth Avenue and had a bar that did a brisk business with the gay community in and around Palm Beach. Crawford figured the time to go was after the show at the Monarch Room. He checked and found out that it was, in fact, Mary Wilson who was playing there from nine to eleven. He guessed that after the show was over many of its attendees would cruise over to the adjacent Shadow Lounge.
So Ott picked Crawford up at ten thirty at Mellor Park then they drove up to the Flagler, hoping to get a couple of barstools before the place filled up. They were in luck.
“I wouldn’t have minded hearing Mary Wilson,” Crawford said. “A third of the Supremes is way better than just about one of anything else.”
“I’m with ya,” Ott said. “Even though I was more a Martha & the Vandellas guy.”
“Hey, she was great too. Still out there doin’ shows, I hear,” Crawford said, raising his hand to the bartender. ”But the Supremes had way more hits.”
“I’ll give you that,” Ott said, as the bartender approached.
“A Yuengling, please,” Ott said. “And a Bud for my…bud.”
The bartender didn’t look amused or impressed with their plebian selections. The Shadow Room was more of a martini kind of place.
Ott smiled at Crawford. “I thought that was pretty good,” he said. “A Bud for my bud.”
Crawford shook his head. “You’ve used it before.”
“I have?” Ott said. “Well, then next time I’ll just say, ‘a Bud for my asshole friend here.’”
Crawford shook his head and looked around the room. There were definitely a lot of guys there. Well-dressed, stylish, and mostly older, Crawford guessed they were probably some of the most successful men in the community. They looked like guys who could be anything: doctors, lawyers, bankers, architects…he bet there were a few, too, who were in the arts. Movies, TV, the theater. A lot of them were old enough to be retired.
“There’s a guy over there checkin’ you out, Charlie,” Ott said, under his breath. “Guy in the beige jacket.”
Crawford looked around and saw the guy, who smiled at him.
Crawford smiled back.
“So whaddaya want to talk about, Charlie?”
Crawford laughed. “That’s not usually something you have a problem with, Mort. Making conversation.”
“I’m just feeling a little uncomfortable, Charlie,” Ott said, taking a sip of his newly-arrived Yuengling.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, I’ve never been to a gay bar before.”
“Your loss,” Crawford said.
Ott’s eyes got big. “You have?”
“Shit, yeah,” Crawford said, lifting his glass, but not taking a sip. “Before I was into girls.”
Ott made a scoffing noise. “No, seriously.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, been to quite a few up in New York.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, with a date—of the female persuasion,” Crawford said. “She had a lot of guy friends who were gay. Told me they’re way funnier than straight guys. Nicer too.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Plus the food was really good at this one place.”
Ott clinked Crawford’s glass. “You know, Charlie, you’re a pretty versatile guy.”
“Well, thanks, Mort,” Crawford said.
Ott stood up. “And on that note, I’m gonna hit the head.”
Crawford nodded.
Ott had been gone for only about a minute, when a guy came up to him. He was probably in his mid-forties, had a nice tan and an expensive gray suit.
“Hi,” he said. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before. Name’s Ty. I rent that barstool over there.”
Crawford laughed. “Hi, Ty, Charlie,” he said. “First time I’ve been here. Nice place.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“You live here?” Ty said. “Or just visiting?”
“Live here,” Crawford said, gesturing with his head. “West Palm actually.”
Ty nodded.
“Question for you,” Crawford said.
“Shoot.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know a couple guys named Johnny Baxter and Ben Silver, would you?”
“Hell, yeah, they’re here a lot,” Ty said. “Live down in Key West now. But I think they miss it up here.”
“Have you seen them tonight, by any chance?” Crawford asked as he saw Ott pick his way through the crowd.
“No, I haven’t,” Ty said. “But I know they’re staying here. At the hotel.”
Ott came up and sat down. He nodded at Ty. “How ya doin’?” he said. “Mort.”
“Ty.”
“I asked Ty if he had seen Johnny and Ben,” Crawford said.
“Oh, yeah,” Ott said to Ty. “We’re hopin’ they’re gonna show up.”
“They always do,” Ty said, then standing. “Well, nice to have met you guys.”
&n
bsp; “Same here,” Crawford said and Ott nodded as Ty walked away.
“Think he thought I queered his action…so to speak,” Ott whispered.
“Don’t be an asshole, Mort. Guy was just being friendly.”
Ott rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Probably wondering what a hottie like you is doing with an old shlub like me.”
Crawford frowned, shook his head and lowered his voice. “Are you an intolerant gay-basher in addition to all your other charming qualities?”
Ott put up his hands like he was afraid of being spanked. “Shit, Charlie, I was just kidding around.”
Crawford’s frown suddenly changed to the look of a bird dog spotting its prey, as he saw a man in a wheelchair come in with and another man.
“There they are,” Crawford said, flicking his head. “Talking to Ty.”
Ty pointed to Crawford and Ott.
Johnny Baxter and Ben Silver looked over at them.
“Absolutely no clue who we are,” Crawford said, as Baxter and Silver started coming toward them.
Silver was the first one to get to them. “Hey, guys,” he said, cocking his head. ”Do we know you?”
Crawford smiled. “We spoke on the phone once,” he said. “I’m Detective Crawford and he’s my partner, Detective Ott.”
Baxter and Silver looked as though they had just gotten a whiff of rotten eggs.
“Oh,” Silver said, like he was thinking of bolting.
“I know,” Ott said. “Kind of a buzz kill.”
“How ‘bout we buy you guys a drink?” Crawford asked.
Silver raised the drink in his hand.
“Well, then, the one after that,” Crawford said.
“What is it you want?” Silver said, then with a chuckle. “You fellas look like fish out of water, by the way.”
Crawford looked around and saw an empty table. “How ‘bout we sit down over there,” he said. “Tell me what you’re drinkin.’”
Silver glanced at Baxter, who shrugged. “I’ll have a Tanqueray martini,” Silver said.
“Same,” Baxter said.
Crawford flagged the bartender down and ordered four more drinks.
“I’ll bring ‘em over,” Ott said.
“Thanks, Mort,” Crawford said, walking toward the table, with Silver right behind him and Baxter lagging back in his wheelchair.