“Why?”
“Just feels wrong.”
Which was the most emotional assessment I had heard the analytical woman provide so far. So I decided to throw some more emotion into the mix.
“I heard that Brasher had a thing for your mom.”
“What?”
“That’s what I heard. Were they dating when she met Dale?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“They’re my parents.”
I let that hang in the breeze for a while. In my experience, children never knew their parents’ backstories. Not completely. It was like the textbooks from school. All history is revisionist history because it’s always written by the victor. We often get the sanitized version of our parents’ lives before we became part of them. I had no reason to suspect the Beadmans were any different.
We walked a little ways along and then, for no particular reason and at no particular marker, we turned around.
“Did you get the police report from Ronzoni?” I asked.
“Yes. He’s very conscientious.”
“He is that. Did you get it to the insurance company?”
“Not yet.”
“Do it.”
“I will.”
“I mean do it ASAP. It’s Great Southeast Permanent, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hear their CEO’s writing checks the company might not be able to cash.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“I’m sure, but what does it mean?”
“They might be overexposed to the South Florida market. Lots of claims all at one time.”
“I see.”
“So get yours moving. You don’t want to be left holding a worthless thirty-million-dollar policy.”
She nodded but said nothing.
“You have filed the claim, right?”
She looked out at the ocean. It winked back.
“You haven’t put in the claim yet?”
“I wanted to see how far you got first.”
“Don’t wait for me. I might not get the cars back. And even if I do, you can always cancel the claim. Hell, if they’ve paid up, you can always give the money back. But you can’t get blood from a dead stone.”
“A dead stone?”
“Or any other kind of stone. Point is, if they don’t go broke, they’ll probably try to weasel out of it anyway, and anytime you waste getting the claim will be time they can use against you.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. I’m not the world’s expert on weaseling out of things. But take it from me, they’ll do it.” I didn’t add they had done it to me. It didn’t feel relevant.
We walked back along the beach and up onto the lawn. The gardeners had gotten the place looking good. I wondered if the folks in the Bahamas were so lucky. The palapa was back in place over the little outside deck area behind the faux-English pub. The guys had done a good job. I wondered if I could convince them to drop by Longboard Kelly’s and do some work. I suspected there was plenty of work on offer. South Florida has more than its share of palapas, and a good number of those had blown away in the hurricane. I didn’t recall seeing the palapa having blown off on the security video, but I’d had a good fill of wine by that point in the long video. Then I recalled what Mick had said about palapas and why he didn’t want to replace his. Which gave me something else to think about. Something I would have to check on the way back to the office.
As we stepped back inside the house, I told Angie to get the insurance paperwork.
“Why?”
“I’m going to see them. I’ll drop it off for you.”
She nodded and went back to her office. She pulled some papers from an in-tray or an out-tray, I couldn’t tell the difference. The police report was paper-clipped to the insurance paperwork. Angie signed and dated it and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” she said.
“All part of the service.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Mornington was one of Palm Beach’s finest hotels. It was glamorous in a very old-fashioned way. It didn’t feature the sprawling grounds of The Breakers, but it did have a certain charm that spoke of Prohibition and rich folks escaping New York winters. And it was well built.
I knew that for a fact because it was where I had spent the hurricane. I hadn’t intended to do so, but that was just how the dice had rolled, and when the dice dropped such that you spent a hurricane in a luxury hotel, it was best not to complain.
The grounds staff at The Mornington had been as busy as those at the Beadman compound. Detective Ronzoni, whose company I had enjoyed for the duration of the storm, had left the hotel the morning after in a Coast Guard tender that had cut straight across where the driveway should have been. I had left a few hours later in my Caddy in tire-high water. But now the water was gone. The lawn looked dark and damp and was putting out all kinds of humidity but was in surprisingly good shape.
I parked in the front lot, where I had stopped prior to the hurricane, and stepped up past the doorman.
“You’re back in business?”
He smiled and tipped his little hat. “The Mornington never closed, sir.”
I guess that was technically true. Paying guests had stayed during the hurricane, and the bar had stayed open.
He pulled the door open for me and I nodded my thanks. There wasn’t a lot of activity in the lobby. It felt strange to be back. Like visiting your high school for the twenty-year reunion. Familiar, but only in a very distant sense. I felt like I had no business being there. I looked over to the door to the bar and heard the sound of clinking china, and then I looked straight ahead across the marble floors and through the large glass windows that showed off the oceanfront location. The storm shutters that had covered most of the windows were long gone, tucked away in some hidden part of the hotel.
I turned to the reception desk to my right. There was no one checking in and no one checking out. The Mornington was open, but trade was not brisk. Lots of tourists had canceled vacations in the aftermath of the storm. They’d be back, sooner than later. I stepped up to the young woman behind the desk. She wore a tailored jacket and long blond hair that fell stylishly but was just conservative enough for The Mornington. She was tapping on a computer keyboard and heard my footsteps and looked up with an impish grin. She had one of those Florida faces that shone as bright as the sun.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” she said.
“Miss Taylor,” I said.
“Mr. Jones, I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I didn’t expect to be here.”
“Well, decorum is out the window.” She stepped out from behind the reception desk and around to me and wrapped her arms around me in a big hug. I returned the hug, just a little softer. She was built like a little bird. She pulled away but left her hands on my biceps.
“We survived a hurricane together, Miami. We’re beyond handshakes, don’t you think?”
“Why not? Although there are harder places to survive a hurricane than The Mornington.”
“It wasn’t the hurricane I was worried about. I can’t tell you how glad I was you were here. And now you’re here again.”
“I am.”
“I’d love to believe you just wanted to see me.”
“It’s a benefit, Emery, but there is another reason.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Are you busy?”
She waved her hands around the lobby. “It’s picking up, but slowly. I have time.”
“I’d like to check the security video.”
“I thought you solved that crime?”
“Actually, it’s for another case.”
“You have another case already?”
“The weather didn’t blow away the bad guys.”
She put her palm on my chest. “Or the good guys. Come on.”
Emery led me back past the reception desk and into the s
mall office behind it. It was the office of the general manager but also housed the security video system. I had become familiar with it, but I let Emery drive. She was better at it than me anyway.
“Take a seat,” she said. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Sure.”
She picked up the phone and asked whoever answered if they wouldn’t mind bringing two coffees over to the GM’s office. Then she fired up the video system.
“How did your place get through?” she asked.
“Underwater, unfortunately.”
She looked genuinely shocked. “You’re homeless?”
“No. I’m using a friend’s rental condo.”
“Okay. There’s always room at the inn, if you need it.”
“Not sure I can accommodate the nightly rate.”
She smiled. It was a winning smile. “Bah. We have ways of taking care of that.”
A woman arrived with a silver tray that held a carafe of coffee, two cups and assorted cookies. I thanked her and poured the coffee while Emery found the right file.
She sipped her coffee and said, “So what did you want to see?”
“The power going out.”
“Really?”
“I remember your video having a time stamp.”
“Yes, it does. Which camera?”
“Any. Let’s go with the lobby.”
She brought up the vision. It was a shot from high at the north end of the lobby, looking back toward the check-in desk, where I had just found Emery, and then further up the lobby toward a darkened corridor that I recalled led to a gym and out to the pool. Emery fast-forwarded the video and we saw various people come in and out of shot, moving like Olympic speed walkers. I wasn’t interested in who they were or where they went. I knew all that.
“I think it was about eleven, wasn’t it?”
“Somewhere around there.”
She sipped her coffee and let the video flash ahead. I sipped my coffee. It was rich and dark and better than Cracker Barrel’s, but Cracker Barrel’s cost pennies on the dollar in comparison.
“The police didn’t take this video as evidence?” I asked as we watched it speed by.
“They did. They took the whole drive. I suspected they might, so I made a backup before they came.”
“Clever.”
She beamed like I had when I was a kid and I threw a strike, and my coach had slapped my back and said well done.
Emery put her coffee down and held her finger over the computer mouse, and then the video disappeared and the screen turned to snow.
“That’s it,” she said, and she clicked and slowly wound the picture back until the lobby reappeared. Then she started the video at regular pace, and we watched for few seconds before it turned to snow again. Emery repeated the process, took the video back just a touch until the second the lobby reappeared and then she paused it.
“There you go,” she said.
I looked at the timestamp on the video. 11:02 p.m.
“I thought it was about eleven,” she said.
“You were on the money,” I said.
“Is that what you wanted?” she asked.
“Exactly what I wanted.”
She turned to me. I got the scent of coffee and roses.
“Does it help?”
I smiled. “It does.” I wanted her to believe that it did. Sometimes people needed encouragement, even the confident ones. Maybe the confident ones needed it more. And sometimes I found I was the one they looked to for such encouragement. There’s often no rationale about where we seek approval. Some people seek it from everyone they meet, like it’s oxygen. Some people seek it from fathers who should be sitting in the bleachers but aren’t. And some seek it from scruffy private investigators. There’s just no telling. But when I find myself the source, I try to remember all that. Because you never know which seed might be the one that grows into the oak.
But the fact was, I didn’t know if it was of help. I had no idea what it meant. I had no idea why I even needed to know. I just had a memory that kept nagging at me. A memory of crouching on the roof of this very hotel in the middle of a hurricane, trying to get the generator to go, and looking across the island at a blanket of darkness. Absolute, primal darkness.
We finished our coffees and I thanked Emery for her time, and she told me not to be a stranger and to come for dinner sometime soon.
“Bring your fiancée,” she said. “When there are no hurricanes, the patio’s pretty romantic.”
I thanked her again and she hugged me once more and I gave a little more in return. She was one of those people. A bright light in a dark tunnel.
The doorman was chatting with a guest, so I opened the lobby door for myself. I’m okay with that. Fact is, I prefer it. I’ve never grown comfortable with having the door opened for me. Unless I’m carrying something heavy. It seems like something that belongs to the Queen of England, not to Miami Jones.
I got in the car and called Ron.
“Can you text me the address of Great Southeast Permanent? I need to have a chat with the CEO. What’s his name?”
“Kent Fulsome. And he won’t be at the office.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I just got a call from Natalie at the country club. Fulsome had a tee time this afternoon.”
“That so? At South Lakes?”
“Yes. If you’re leaving now, he’ll probably be on the eighth hole by the time you get there.”
“Awesome. Thanks, Ron.”
“Miami. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Me? Stupid?”
“Anything too stupid.”
“Roger that.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
South Lakes Country Club sat west of Lake Worth in an area that had once been the middle of the middle of nowhere in Palm Beach County but was now the middle of suburbia. I pulled in through the gate and found a spot in the lot far away from the clubhouse. I like to park far away from places. It’s one of a million little things that keep the muffin top at bay. Plus it reduces my stress. No one is ever fighting for the furthest space from the front door.
I wandered across the lot past a wider selection of cars than one might expect to find at a country club. There were obvious Bimmers and Mercs, but there were pickups and Civics and a VW Beetle with more miles on the clock than me. The hostess at the front desk offered me a Florida smile. It wasn’t quite Emery Taylor, but it was full of the good tidings that people who live in a place that they really want to be tend to have. Even after a hurricane. Maybe especially after a hurricane.
“Just heading to the pro shop,” I said, and she upped the amps on her smile and told me to enjoy my round.
I strode out through the restaurant and onto the patio overlooking the eighteenth green. The course looked in reasonable shape. The biggest giveaway that a storm had swept through was the lack of leaves on many of the trees. South Florida golf courses are like the canary in the coal mine. They’re a fair barometer of the mood of the country. When the economy is down, so are the number of rounds of golf. Some folks can’t afford the green fees, and those who can feel like they need to be in the office doing the hard yards, not zipping around the fairways on an electric cart. But when times are good, the courses in South Florida are booking weeks or months in advance. I looked across the course. There were a good number of players out despite the softness underfoot, and I suspected it wouldn’t be long before normal service was resumed after the lull from the hurricane.
The pro shop sat to the side of the clubhouse. A battalion of golf carts stood in rows outside like tanks ready for battle. A sign said I could get off-brand balls for a dollar. I didn’t know if that was value or not. I went inside and asked the guy behind the counter where Kent Fulsome would be on the course. He looked me over to check if I was some kind of urban terrorist.
“You’re Ron’s friend?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded like that made all the difference and the
n he looked down at his tee time book.
“His group should be on the ninth by now. I expect you’ll see them stop in at the clubhouse for a drink before they turn for the back nine.”
I thanked him and walked out to the ninth green. It was on the other side of the clubhouse. There’s a small store there that supplied drinks and sandwiches and candy bars to the players moving straight through to the tenth tee, and tables with umbrellas for those that wanted to stop for a quick pitstop.
A group was walking off the green, and another group was further down the fairway waiting to play. I approached one of the guys coming off the green. He was an older guy with Popeye arms and a yellow visor on his head.
“Kent Fulsome?” I asked.
He looked at me like I was a debt collector.
“Jackass,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“Fulsome. Played right into us. Twice.”
I took that to mean Fulsome had hit his ball into where the guy’s group had been standing, which as I understood it was bad form. Doing it twice was clearly not an improvement on the situation.
“Which one is he?”
The guy turned to the fairway and spat.
“In the pink.”
He stormed away to get a Gatorade or a Valium or something. I walked down onto the fairway. Fulsome’s group was hitting onto the green, and I got the impression they weren’t that happy about me walking into their space. But I was watching and I wasn’t about to get hit by a ball. I just strode toward them, four guys and two electric carts.
“What the hell are you doing, you moron?” said a guy in a Jack Nicklaus polo who didn’t look like he had been born the last time the Golden Bear had won the Masters.
“Shut it, Junior,” I said. “The grownups need to talk.”
I strode right by him looking like I was paying him no attention. But I was paying attention. The first idiot in a group to mouth off was usually the hothead, and the hothead was always the first one that needed to be shut down. But they were also the most likely to do something dumb like swing a golf club at my head.
He didn’t. He was still processing someone having the temerity to talk to him like his father probably should have but clearly hadn’t.
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