by Tom Turner
“Okay, that’s good,” Crawford said. “Here’s what it’s gonna do: Go down to the marina in Mount Pleasant, Ben Sawyer Boulevard and look for the biggest boat down there. It’s got a black hull with a red T-bird as its tender.”
“You mean the car on the deck, right?” Birkenheuer asked.
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Copy that,” Birkenheuer said.
“Thing is,” Crawford said, “the boat may have already taken off. If so, the chopper’s just gonna have to find it. It can only be going in one direction: toward the ocean. I’m guessing heading south. When they spot it, follow it, but stay far enough away so the guys on the boat don’t know they’re being followed.”
“Okay,” Birkenheuer said. “Makes sense.”
“Oh, and John,” Crawford had to pick his words carefully, “I know me and my partner are out of state guys, but I really believe the fewer the better. Like just you and us. If we’ve got every cop in the state going after Jastrow, I worry about her hostage. What could happen if Jastrow gets cornered. Know what I mean? She’s a stone-cold killer, after all.”
“I hear you,” Birkenheuer said. “But I can’t just tell ‘em all to stand down.”
“No, but you don’t have to tell ‘em everything we know,” Crawford said. “Like where she’s headed.”
There was a long pause. Finally, “All right, Charlie, for now anyway.”
“And can you call off that APB?” Crawford knew he was pushing it. “I’ve got a grave concern about that hostage.”
Birkenheuer sighed. “O-kay.”
“Thanks, man,” Crawford said. “Will you give the chopper pilot my number and have him call when he spots the boat?” Crawford asked. “He’ll be able to tell us where it’s headed. Then my partner and I can go in that direction.”
Crawford clicked off.
“There’s also a chance we’ll run across her on the road,” Ott said. “If we’re both headed to the same place.”
“That’s true,” Crawford said
It was a good plan but it took John Birkenheuer some time to reach the chief of the Charleston Police Department, who needed to authorize the use of the helicopter. The helicopter went out twenty minutes later, headed to the marina.
The Revenge was gone but, a couple of miles from the pier, the helicopter finally located it. The pilot called Crawford.
“Detective, this is Vern Markey, helicopter pilot for the Charleston Police Department.”
“Hey, Vern, thanks for calling. Any luck?”
“Yeah, I got your boat up ahead, headed south a few miles north of Folly Beach.”
“Okay, me and my partner’ll get on route 17,” Crawford said. “Keep us posted, please.”
“Yeah, will do, but the route I’d take is Riverland to Maybank Highway, then Bohicket,” Markey said. “It’s a little faster.”
Ott nodded.
“Okay, thanks, got it,” Crawford said.
“So your theory is that the Revenge is gonna pull in somewhere to pick up a passenger?” Markey asked.
“Yeah, the boat’s owner,” Crawford said, “she’s a fugitive. Wanted for murder.”
“Two of ‘em,” Ott added.
“We’ll get her,” Markey said.
“We better,” Crawford said.
Ott had just turned onto Maybank Highway, figuring Beth Jastrow had probably a twenty-minute head start on him. Crawford had John Birkenheuer on his cell phone again. “Also, John, can you call CPD or whatever jurisdiction we’ll be going through and tell them to look the other way if they see a white 2016 Caprice, Florida plate XN615, going thirty miles over the speed limit. Last thing we need is to get pulled over.”
“Copy that,” Birkenheuer said.
“What we’re hoping is that we overtake Jastrow in the Buick,” Crawford said. “But I’ve got a feeling she’ll be moving at a pretty good clip too.”
“I’m just glad she’s not in that Tesla,” Ott said. “Nobody’d catch her. Where are you, John?”
“I’m coming down route 17,” Birkenheuer said. “That’s the other way to go. I just heard from the chopper pilot the Revenge is just past Folly Beach.”
Jastrow dialed her cell phone. She was only going ten miles over the speed limit, because the last thing she needed was to get stopped for speeding. The jig would be up because, no doubt, every cop in South Carolina would know about the stolen car being driven by a murder suspect.
“Hi, Jerry,” Jastrow said. “We’re going to need to gas up at Edisto marina. Will a full tank get us to Jacksonville?”
“Yes, definitely,” Jerry said.
“Good, I should be getting there in about fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Good timing,” Jerry said. “We’re a half hour from there.”
“See you then,” Jastrow said, clicking off.
Before calling Jerry Remar, she’d been on the phone making a reservation for the next day, from Jacksonville to Macau. There was a 6:00 a.m. from Jacksonville to Newark, then the bear of all flights—fifteen hours from Newark to Shanghai—then another two hours from Shanghai to Macau.
She had looked into the reciprocity between the United States and Macau long ago and felt that she’d be safe if she could just get there. Even if the U.S. came after her there, her boss had paid off enough politicians and cops so she’d get a heads-up if anything was in the works to arrest and deport her.
Her cell phone rang. She looked at the display. It was Ned Carlino.
“Sorry, Ned,” she said. “Had to run.”
“Literally,” he said. “And I was so looking forward to spending the night with you.”
“Another time,” she said, thinking If you want to come to Macau, that is.
“By the way,” he said, still a little bit of a slur in his voice. “Where’s my car?”
“Ah, bad news, Ned,” she said. “It’s over on King Street. I’m afraid I had a little accident.”
“What happened?”
“Hit a house.”
There was a long pause. Then like he had suddenly sobered up. “So how am I supposed to get home?”
That’s your problem, Jastrow thought, I’ve got bigger ones.
“Uber,” she said, and clicked off.
She checked the GPS on the Buick and it looked like the marina was no more than fifteen minutes away.
She realized now that she’d only miss one thing about the United States: The Mentors. She loved the group, and they were doing some really good things. She felt that being part of the group helped make up for all of the bad things she had done in her life. Well, at least made a small dent anyway. She wondered what the other group members would think when the word got out about the real Beth Jastrow.
Fifty-Five
“Boat’s taking a right after Edisto Creek,” Vern Markey said to Crawford. “There is a marina a mile ahead on Big Bay Creek.”
“Know what it’s called?” Crawford asked.
“I think the Edisto Marina,” Markey said.
“That’s probably where they’re going,” Crawford said. “Thanks, Vern.”
Crawford clicked off and Googled the marina. “6702 Dockside,” he said to Ott.
“Ten minutes from here,” Ott said.
Crawford dialed John Birkenheuer. “Just got off with Markey. Looks like the Revenge is heading to Edisto Marina on Dockside. How far away from there are you?”
Birkenheuer didn’t respond right away. “Umm, maybe twenty-five minutes,” he said finally.
“Do I have your authorization, on behalf of SLED, to arrest Beth Jastrow if we get there before you and she’s there?” Crawford asked, wanting to make sure everything was by the book. “Don’t want her getting away if you’re not on scene.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Birkenheuer said. “Object is to take her down, not stand on ceremony.”
“Thanks, I agree,” Crawford said. “See you there.”
“Later.”
It was 9:35 when Crawford and Ott got to the marina.
They drove around with their headlights off but didn’t see a burgundy Buick Regal. Then they drove along the dock and didn’t see the Revenge either. Crawford had a sinking feeling that maybe Beth Jastrow was meeting the boat somewhere else.
Ott parked the Caprice in a far corner of the parking lot.
“Why don’t you stay here,” Crawford said, pointing, “I’ll go to the other end.”
“Okay,” Ott said. “What do you think the odds are she’s gonna be packing?”
“Slim,” Crawford said. “Can’t see her bringing a piece on a dinner date.”
Crawford walked down to the end of the driveway and hid behind a building that had restroom signs on it. Within two minutes he heard a car. He peeked out behind a corner of the building. A black Ford 150 pickup. The driver got out and walked down to the dock.
Crawford’s cell phone rang. It was Vern Markey.
“Yeah, Vern?”
“The Revenge just turned into Big Bay Creek,” Markey said. “Where you at?”
“Just got to the marina.”
“Okay, I’ll hang around to see what happens,” Markey said. “Be careful, man.”
“Thanks.”
He heard another car drive onto the dirt parking lot.
He peeked around the corner of the building. It was a burgundy Buick Regal. He ducked back behind the building.
The Buick pulled into a spot twenty feet away. The car door opened and he heard footsteps on the driveway. A woman walked past him toward the dock.
He came up behind her and she didn’t hear him. He put his Sig Sauer up against her back.
“Detective Crawford,” he said. “You’re under arrest for murder. Along with grand theft auto, assault, and attempting to elude police officers.”
“Please, please, please,” the old lady said. “I am not that woman.”
Crawford took a step to her side. “Sorry, ma’am. Where—”
He swung around and saw the Buick accelerating in reverse, kicking up a shower of gravel.
Just as quickly, Mort Ott suddenly pulled behind the Buick and cut it off. Crawford ran to the front of the car, Sig Sauer in both hands.
“Get out,” Crawford shouted to the driver. He saw Ott get out of the Caprice with his Glock raised.
The Buick’s door opened as Crawford and Ott walked around to the driver’s side.
Jastrow didn’t even hesitate. “I have seven hundred thousand dollars on my boat if you let me go.”
“Attempting to bribe law enforcement officers just got added to your charges,” Crawford said, getting face to face with her.
Ott walked up to Jastrow, pulling out his handcuffs. “That was very tempting. Now put your hands behind your back.”
Crawford reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed.
“Hey, John, how far from Edisto Marina are you now?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Good,” Crawford said. “‘Cause we got our fugitive.”
“Nice goin’, man,” Birkenheuer said.
“See you in a few,” Crawford said, clicking off and dialing again. “Hey, Vern, we got her. Thanks for all your help. You can head back up to Charleston now.”
“Pleasure doin’ business with you fellas,” Markey said.
Crawford clicked off.
John Birkenheuer showed up fifteen minutes later and charged Beth Jastrow on behalf of SLED. Birkenheuer said he had spoken to his superior who said to take her into custody and transport her up to Columbia. That wasn’t what Crawford had in mind.
“What’s your boss’s name, John?” Crawford said. “I want to have a conversation with him.”
Birkenheuer, a stocky man with a shaved head, gave him the name and number. Crawford dialed it. The man’s name was Jim Emery.
“Hi, Jim, this is Charlie Crawford, Palm Beach PD. I’m here with John Birkenheuer and his partner. We just took in my fugitive from Florida, Beth Jastrow.”
“Hey, Charlie, yeah, John told me,” Emery said. “Nice work.”
“So here’s my thinking,” Crawford said, “we’re gonna extradite her anyway, so why don’t I just take her back to Florida now. Save you all the trouble.”
“I don’t know,” Emery said. “It is our jurisdiction.”
Crawford guessed that Emery was looking to get a feather in his cap for SLED’s role in the take down of a multiple murderer. The publicity wouldn’t hurt.
“How ‘bout if it goes down as your bust?” Crawford said, scrambling. “I’m tight with a reporter who’d write something like, ‘SLED detectives, John Birkenheuer and—” he turned to Birkenheuer’s partner, “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Ted Copeland.”
“‘Yeah, ‘SLED detectives John Birkenheuer and Ted Copeland arrested Beth Jastrow tonight, a Florida fugitive suspected of double-homicide, in a joint effort with two Palm Beach, Florida detectives—’” Crawford paused, then continued. “And, ah, ‘the suspect was remanded to the Florida detectives to be transported back to Florida.’ How’s that sound, Jim? You guys get the credit.”
Jim Emery didn’t answer right away. Finally, “Just one little addition.”
“What’s that?”
“‘SLED detectives, John Birkenheuer and Ted Copeland, under the supervision of constable James D. Emery, arrested Beth Jasper tonight—’”
“Jastrow.”
“Yeah,” said Emery, “and then all the rest just like you said.”
Beth Jastrow said nothing during the ride back down to Palm Beach. They got there at almost four in the morning and put Jastrow in the cell in the basement of the station at 345 County Road. Right next to Camilo Vega, his two accomplices, and Jenny Montgomery.
Then Crawford and Ott went out the back of the building toward their cars.
“Nice driving, by the way, Mort,” Crawford said as they faced each other in the parking lot.
Ott lowered his voice. “Nice navigating, Charlie,”
“Thanks.”
Ott chuckled. “Particularly around all those South Carolina cops.”
Fifty-Six
Crawford’s rudely jangling cell phone woke him up at eight thirty.
“Hello.”
“Nice going,” said Norm Rutledge. “When were you going to tell me about Beth Jastrow?”
“Hey, Norm,” Crawford said. “I remember calling you once at eleven at night and you bit my head off.”
“Yeah, but this time you got a cop killer,” Rutledge said. “If we can prove it, that is.”
Crawford was staring up at his popcorn ceiling. “We can prove it.”
“How do you know?”
“‘Cause Ott and me and a South Carolina cop went on her yacht and got a guy to confess that they dumped Loadholt’s body out in the ocean.”
“No shit,” Rutledge said. “That’s good news. How’d you do it?”
Crawford propped his head up on his two pillows. “Isolated the captain and crew and talked to ‘em one at a time. Told ‘em they’d get accessory to murder if they didn’t talk. Captain said he didn’t know what we were talking about. Same with the second guy. So we put heavy pressure on the third one. Said we’d let him off if he told us what happened. Eventually he talked.”
“You got it on tape?”
“Yeah, along with Jastrow offering me seven hundred thou to let her go.”
Rutledge whistled. “Shit, I would have taken it.”
He probably would have.
“Hey, Norm, you mind if I go back to sleep now? I had a really long night.”
“Yeah, guess you earned it. See you when you roll in.”
Crawford clicked off and put his cell on his bedside table.
Five minutes later as he was drifting off it rang again.
Fuck!
“Hello,” Crawford said irritably.
“Hey, Chas,” his brother Bart said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, you’re not in a bar are you?”
“No, my drinking days are
over. Where are you?”
“In bed.”
“In bed? It’s nine o’clock.”
“8:47, to be exact,” Crawford said.
“You’re not sick, are you?”
“Sick of everyone calling me,” Crawford said. “No, I just had a long night.”
“With Dominica, I hope?”
“No, Jesus, what’s with all the questions? Why’d you call?”
“So they’re letting me out in five days. They think I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah, I have,” Bart said. “Plus I met this woman here. Think I want to marry her.”
“For chrissake, Bart, last time I checked you were still married.”
“Yeah, but the divorce papers have been drawn up.” Bart said. “And don’t worry, I won’t be rushing into anything. I’m just telling you, I really like her.”
“Well, good, I’m happy for you and look forward to meeting her,” Crawford said.
“We’ll come down maybe and visit you.”
“I’d like that. You keep doin’ that stuff they teach you there. That DBT or whatever. Walking the straight and narrow.”
“I plan to,” Bart said. “Talk later.”
“Later.”
Crawford decided he might as well get up or turn his phone off. As he got to his feet, it rang again. He looked to see who it was.
“Good morning, Dominica.”
“It is a good morning, right?” she said. “You got your killer?”
“Yeah, we got her. Had to go up to South Carolina to get her.”
“So I heard,” Dominica said. “Well, nice going.”
“Thanks.”
“So when are we going waterskiing again?”
“Oh, God, I forgot. It’s Saturday.”
“Don’t say that,” Dominica said. “I’ve been really looking forward to it.”
“So have I,” Crawford said. “I just kind of lost track of time. I’ll pick you up at three thirty.” He had a sudden afterthought. “Sure I can’t talk you into wearing that green bikini?”
Fifty-Seven