No Right Turn

by A. J. Stewart

  “Am I?”

  “You think my problems get fixed by paying your claim? Do the math. The smart play is to pay nothing.”

  “So you’re not going to pay out Dale Beadman’s thirty million?”

  Now he did go pale. I knew why. Ron had explained it to me. Palm Beach was a small community, especially at the top end. Friends helped friends. But they also ate their young. If Fulsome failed to pay Palm Beach royalty like the famous and well-liked Dale Beadman, then not only was his business done, but so was he. He could declare the company bankrupt and then form another company to buy the assets of the old business and then carry on as if nothing happened. But he couldn’t do that without money, and he couldn’t get any money if he became a Palm Beach pariah. He needed friends. Sure, he could move to Seattle and start again there, but his wife was a Palm Beach native and his kids were in school. She wasn’t keen to move. Ron knew that for a fact, too. The Lady Cassandra had told him as much. So old Kent could deny me, but denying Dale Beadman was the last act he would do as a business mover and shaker. Unless they started selling insurance in North Korea. It was time to real the fish in.

  “I can save you thirty million dollars,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Thirty million. It might not save you, but it might tip the scales. Thirty million in cash that you don’t have to pay out this week.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I can, Kent.”

  He went quiet. I heard birds chirping in the trees around the fairway.

  “How?”

  “What’s the standard bounty for recovering insured property?”

  “Five percent.”

  “I have it on good authority it’s ten percent.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Even twenty percent on a high-value item.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “What if I can find Beadman’s cars?”

  “What?”

  “What would that be worth?”

  “You know where they are?”

  “No. I haven’t seen them at all.”

  “Then you’re full of it.”

  “I was retained by Mr. Beadman to find them. He doesn’t want your insurance payout. He wants his cars. And I have good reason to believe that I can make that happen. Excellent reason.”

  “Then tell us. If you don’t, you’re obstructing an investigation and you’ll go to jail.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kent.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I have no recollection of that, Senator.”

  Fulsome stepped toward me. He thought he had a winning hand.

  “All right,” he said. “You bring me the cars, I’ll give you ten percent.”

  He held out his hand for me to shake. I didn’t.

  “I don’t think so, Kent. I only do gentlemen’s agreements with gentlemen.”

  He dropped the hand. “Well, I’m not giving you ten percent on your say-so.”

  “No, you’re not. Ten percent of thirty million is what, three million dollars?”

  He said nothing. I think he was okay with the math.

  I said, “The claim that you owe me is fifty thousand.”

  He waited.

  “So I’ll agree to find your insured cars for the fifty thousand you owe me.”

  He frowned. Now he didn’t get the math. It didn’t compute.

  “You’re saying you’ll find the cars, and instead of the three million bounty, you want a fifty thousand bounty?”

  “No. I’m saying I don’t want any bounty at all. All I want is the fifty thousand that my policy covered me for.”

  He looked perplexed.

  “And I should add that I know why you denied the claim. Apart from the fact that you’re a scumbag lowlife. I know Juan Gotlieb asked you to. He wanted my house for a client. He has been dissuaded of the value of pursuing my property.”

  Kent Fulsome smiled. Like a shark. He had a winning smile normally. I bet he had worked on it in front of the mirror for all of his college years. But this smile wasn’t a facial expression. It came from within.

  “All right, pal. You got a deal. Hell, that guy’s just a neighbor, not a damned fraternity brother. Get me the cars and I’ll give you your fifty.”

  “I’ll expect a cashier’s check at my office today.”

  “You think I’m paying before you produce the cars?” He laughed.

  “I do,” I said. “One of us is good to his word. One of us is a scumbag insurance huckster. We’ll be siding with me.”

  He said nothing. He was weighing it up. He was an insurance guy. He understood risk. It was everywhere. It was a risk to leave your house every day because you might get hit by a car. It was a risk to stay home because the gas line might get a leak and explode. Risk was unavoidable. So it was always a balance between risk and reward. Fulsome was balancing my fifty thousand against his thirty million. It wasn’t much of a risk.

  “You’ll have a check this afternoon,” he said, eventually.

  “Cashier’s check,” I said. “None of your company paper.”

  “Cashier’s check,” he said. “When will I get the cars?”

  I turned toward the green, where Ron was watching me from the upstairs bar.

  “As soon as I get the money,” I said, striding away.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The gate was closed this time. I buzzed, and Angie Beadman answered and she let us in. The Camaro was in the driveway. Danielle, Ron and I got to the top of the steps before the door opened. Angie stood before us in a blue work shirt with the DBR logo on it.

  “What’s happened?” she asked. “You sounded kind of urgent on the phone.”

  I looked at the time on my phone. “Not that urgent,” I said. “Your dad’s in Darlington, right?”

  “Until Sunday night.”

  Angie let us in and I led the way into the great room. Missy Beadman stepped out of the kitchen.

  “Mr. Jones,” she said.

  “Missy,” I said. I introduced Ron to her.

  “Can I offer you all a bite to eat? I was making sandwiches.”

  “Perhaps later,” I said. “Let’s go over to the pub.”

  Being in the pub would suit my purpose. There was also a chance of a beer. I led Missy into the kitchen. The room looked ready for a magazine shoot. When I prepare food, my kitchen looks a teenager’s bedroom. I saw no evidence of sandwiches being made. Perhaps she had just gotten the hankering as we arrived.

  I walked out the kitchen door and across the lawn with Missy, Angie and Danielle in tow. I didn’t wait for Ron. I strode across the deck with the outdoor kitchen and under the palapa and into the pub. The sun was dropping to the west, so the easterly aspect of the French doors gave a gloom to the interior of the pub. Angie Beadman offered us a stool at the bar. Danielle and Angie sat. I chose to stand. Missy was in behind the bar. I felt a beer offer coming on.

  “Would anyone like some sweet tea?”

  It was sweet tea all around.

  “So why have you dragged us out here, Miami?” asked Angie. “Have you learned something?”

  “I’ve learned plenty,” I said. “More about cars than I ever felt I needed.”

  “I meant about our burglary?”

  “I know what you meant, Angie. And you know what I learned about that? It’s hard to find a good suspect when everyone seems to love the victim.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When I see a crime that clearly involves a degree of planning, I always look for the people who had something to gain from it. Best and first are people who have an issue with the victim. So I look at the victim’s enemies. But there was a problem.”

  “A problem with Dad’s enemies? What enemies?”

  “That’s kind of the problem. A guy like him, a go-getter, successful. You get a few enemies along the way. You don’t have to be a bad person to get enemies because you are not responsible for your enemies. They’re responsible for becomi
ng such. Some folks can feel wronged for the dumbest reasons. And Dale had given people reasons. But Dale’s enemies were poor excuses for enemies.”

  “Poor enemies?” asked Angie. The look on her face suggested she was starting to consider whether I was a lunatic. Missy Beadman laid four napkins on the bar.

  “What happened to Ron?” Missy asked, realizing that Ron had not joined us in the bar.

  “He had to take a call,” I said. “And, yes, there were two enemies that stuck out. And they were poor enemies because they just weren’t very good at it. One was a guy called Travis Zanchuk. He had been a top engineer for your dad’s vehicle engineering business.”

  “I remember Travis,” Angie said.

  “I’m surprised. He’s not that memorable, even as an enemy. He sued the business because he felt wronged about the development of a new technology. He had aspirations of being a NASCAR crew chief, but now he builds cars for local race meets. Good candidate, except that even he knew that his dream wasn’t going to come true. There’s a lot more to being a crew chief than just being a good engineer. The lawsuit was a cry for recognition. But legally he knew there was no basis for it.”

  “Doesn’t mean he couldn’t hold a grudge,” Danielle said.

  “You’re right about that. And he does. He blames Dale. But he doesn’t believe. Not down in his guts. He doesn’t have the drive to pull off a crime like this. So I looked at some guys who did have the drive. And the capability. Rory Lobe and Winton Gifford.”

  “Those old guys?” Angie asked.

  “Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Like Travis, they had been involved in legal action against your dad’s company. But they just saw it as a business move. They’re not buddies anymore, that’s for sure, but they moved on a long time ago. Besides, your dad actually settled with them, and I’m willing to bet they did well enough out of it to be placated.”

  “They did just fine,” Angie said.

  “Do you like lemon with your tea?” Missy asked Danielle.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Missy nodded like that was the correct answer. She began slicing a lemon that had appeared from the bar refrigerator.

  “So not WinLobe?” said Angie.

  “Nope,” I said. “But while I was in Charlotte I had a couple of opinions repeated to me by people. One of those regarded not an enemy, but a rival. Ansel Brasher.”

  I watched both Angie and Missy for reaction. Angie gave none. Missy spoke.

  “You think old Ansel Brasher did this?” She said like it wasn’t possible.

  “He’s a good rival. They’ll make a movie about Dale and Brasher’s rivalry someday. It’s got everything. Fast cars, bright lights, rival racing organizations, glamorous locations. And a woman’s affection, mixed in there for good measure.”

  “A woman’s affection?” asked Angie. “What are you talking about?”

  I took a breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. I spoke to Angie. “When I first visited, your mother mentioned that she had been taken to the race track the night she first met your father.”

  “So?”

  “Taken by a boy.”

  “Again, so?”

  “I learned in Charlotte that Ansel Brasher had a thing for your mother.”

  Angie frowned. “A thing?” She looked at her mother. Missy’s face said nothing.

  “You think Ansel Brasher took Dad’s cars because he had a thing for Mom?” asked Angie.

  “Men have done worse for less,” I said. “And then, of course, I learned about the taunt in Monaco about who was the better driver, and the subsequent race at Indy. And the accident that killed Brasher’s chances of the Triple Crown.”

  “You learned about it?” Angie looked at Danielle and then back at me. “You didn’t know about that before?”

  “I’d heard the story but I didn’t recall the drivers. Or the particulars. And then I learned the reason why Dale wasn’t here the day the F-88 was delivered.”

  “He got delayed in Charlotte,” said Missy, placing tall glasses of tea onto the napkins.

  “He did,” I said. “Because of filming. It turned out he was filming a piece for a movie that was being produced, or executive produced, or something, by Ansel Brasher.”

  “You think Brasher kept Dad in Charlotte so he could take the cars?” asked Angie, but again she didn’t look like she was buying it.

  “I do. I did. I really liked Brasher for it. I met him. He’s an easy guy to hate. But there was a big question I couldn’t answer. How did he know the F-88 was even here?”

  “He couldn’t,” said Angie. “Could he?”

  “I did some digging and found out that he was interested in the F-88 as well.”

  “He was?”

  “He was. I found the intermediary that no one wanted to tell me about.” I looked at Danielle, and she was frowning because this was news to her. “He wasn’t very keen to talk. He was very big into client confidentiality. Like he was a lawyer. Which he definitely was not. But I could see how his business kind of relied on it. He said he never told the loser who won a bid for a car. He never told Brasher. I believed him. So I couldn’t answer how Brasher even knew the car was here.”

  “So how did he?” Danielle asked.

  “He didn’t. Because it was then that I learned that everything I knew about Ansel Brasher was wrong.”

  “Everything?”

  “Almost everything. He’s a major pain in the backside and a total narcissist. That much is true. But if it wasn’t him—the rival—and it wasn’t an enemy, then the next logical suspect was a friend.”

  “How is a friend logical?” asked Angie.

  “It takes some twisted logic. But it didn’t matter. I spoke to a lot of people at the workshop. Dale has a lot of friends there. They love him. But none of them were good for the burglary. So I moved to the next logical choice.”

  “Who’s left?” asked Angie.

  “Family.”

  “Family?” she repeated.

  “That’s right. It occurred to me right back at the beginning that this whole thing might be a case of insurance fraud.”

  “Insurance fraud?” Angie spat.

  “Yeah. It happens. More often in Palm Beach than people might think. A company falls on hard times, someone loses a job. Appearances must be kept up. Lifestyles maintained. So suddenly valuable possessions get stolen or a warehouse gets burned to the ground. Insurance is claimed. And then the cops find out that the fire was arson, or the businessman is found in a pawn shop hocking the allegedly stolen items. It happens.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Angie looked at her mother and then at Danielle. “This is what you’ve come up with? Dad committed insurance fraud?”

  “Like I say, it happens. The option had to be canvassed. But Ron found out that the company was healthy. Nothing irregular there. The technologies that Beadman Automotive Engineering created are still patented and are still being used by a large percentage of manufacturers. There’s a good income stream there.”

  “Damned right there is,” said Angie. “So you’re saying it wasn’t fraud after all.”

  “I decided it probably wasn’t your father committing fraud. But he didn’t handle the paperwork.”

  Angie leaned back in her stool. They had little backs on them to prevent her falling back onto the floor.

  “You think I committed insurance fraud?”

  “It was a possibility, you’ve got to admit. But then I found out that you hadn’t even put in a claim. Hard to commit insurance fraud when you don’t put in a claim.”

  “You didn’t claim?” asked Missy. She was looking at Angie.

  “No. Eventually, I did.”

  “You did,” I said. “After I pushed you into doing it. If anyone was committing insurance fraud it was me, unwittingly.”

  “Are you saying you took my dad’s cars?”

  “I was in a hotel in Palm Beach when that happ
ened,” I said. I stayed standing and made no attempt to pick up my sweet tea. Danielle and Angie took a sip. Missy watched from behind the bar like it was her night job.

  I kept going while they were drinking. “I said I heard a couple of things repeatedly when I was in Charlotte. You know what the other was? It was that Angie should be the CEO at DBR. It was pretty much a consensus. Dale was loved up there, no doubt about it. But pretty much everyone thought it was your time, Angie. Time for Dale to step down. Everyone except for Dale.”

  “Miami, are you saying that I stole my dad’s cars to somehow get his job? I hope not, because I don’t want to believe that you’re that messed up.”

  “Angie, I’m afraid that was more or less where the logic trail ended. Everyone thought you should be at the reins. I believe the cars were stolen in an attempt to divert his attention, to shake him loose. Kidnap his cars and get his focus off the racing team.”

  I waited. I had nothing more to say. Not for a moment, anyway. When you beat the bushes, you have to give the birds a chance to flee. Angie looked me in the eye. She held her drink halfway to her mouth, and her mouth hung open ready to receive it but she had frozen in motion. She was like a statue. She wanted to say something, and her lips tried to form the words but none came. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place. But I wasn’t hearing what I wanted to hear, so I drove home my point.

  “Did I mention that Danielle is an agent for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement?” I left out the bit about being a trainee at the academy. Never let the facts get in the way.

  Angie didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

  Missy Beadman spoke for her. “Mr. Jones, you can’t seriously think Angela Jean took her father’s cars.”

  “I believe what the evidence tells me, Missy.”

  “She can’t have done this.”

  “Can’t have?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Mom,” said Angie. “Let me deal with this.”

  “No, Angela Jean, this is not right. I can’t let you get into trouble for something you didn’t do.”

  Angie turned on her stool to her mother. They each tried to speak, but again the words didn’t come.