by Tom Turner
He was not warming up to this man.
“Tell you a little bit more. I’m not just a caddy caddy.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Heard the name Blake Caldwell?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, he’s a guy on the Korn Ferry Tour. You know, the guys just below the PGA tour.”
Crawford nodded. He did know what the Korn Ferry Tour was. Prior to that, it was the Web Dot Com Tour. He followed golf.
“Anyway, dude’s won a couple of times on Korn Ferry and I’m his caddy. Just a matter of time ‘til he breaks into the big leagues.”
“I get it. And you’d make, what, ten percent of his winnings, right?”
“Yup, So this gig here—”
“Is just temporary, I guess is what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Barrow shrugged again. “So, I don’t know what more to tell you.”
Crawford slouched down in the golf cart seat. “So that scenario you thought I might have concocted: You took out Christian Lalley because of your fear he would squelch your relationship with Samantha—”
“It just don’t compute, man. ’Cause, like I said, there’re millions of women in the Sunshine State.” Barrow gave him a cocky snort. “I’d just move on to the next.”
Crawford’s first reaction was to give Barrow a restrained backhand, or maybe not so restrained. He was not a fan of men who were cocksure of themselves for no apparent reason. “Okay,” he said instead, getting out of the golf cart. “Thanks for the ride. Good luck on the pro tour.”
Crawford went straight back to the station. First thing he did was Google Billy Graham. Second thing he did was ask Ott to come join him. He brought Ott up to speed on his conversations with Andy Barrow, and before him, Phoebe Lilly, and what she’d said about Fannie Melhado’s preoccupation with Billy Graham.
“This whole thing’s starting to really drive me crazy,” Crawford said, shaking his head.
“What do you mean? How?”
“It’s just… everything’s so bizarre. I mean, just go down the line-up of suspects.” He pointed at their whiteboard. “We got a billionaire woman obsessed with a dead preacher who’s got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame—”
“And who Nixon wanted as Ambassador to Israel.”
“And a Chinese ex-pat who’s supposed to bring in fifty million followers to a start-up religion. A weirdo who knows more about our lives than we do.”
“That would be Leo Peavy?”
Crawford nodded.
“And a short, squirrely dude from New Zealand who’s giving people nicknames out of fuckin’ Star Trek,” Ott said.
“Not to mention trying to buy Bethesda church and a mega-yacht.” Crawford exhaled long and loudly. “This whole damn thing has gotten way, way, way the hell out there.”
“I hear you.”
“I mean, Christ, can’t we just have a few normal suspects? You know like a jealous husband or a crooked lawyer or a corrupt politician or a homicidal maniac. Instead of a kleptomaniac ex-movie star, two guys living in a modest garage apartment and driving around in a shit box while they manage a billion dollars, a caddy who thinks he’s master of the universe—”
“And let’s not forget our Skull and Bones gal, Vega; God knows what she’s up to. And that funny-looking, smiley dude who’s an authority on all our girlfriends, past and present—”
“I said him already.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Ott nodded.
Crawford looked up at the list of suspects on the whiteboard and shook his head. “And the list goes on….”
“Yeah. Where are they when we need ’em? Those jealous husbands, crooked lawyers, corrupt politicians and… what was the other one?”
“Homicidal maniacs.”
“Yeah, I really miss those guys.”
Thirty
It was re-interview time. Crawford needed another round of questions with both Fannie Melhado and Vega. They answered his calls and he set up back-to-back interviews that afternoon: three p.m. for Fannie, four for Vega.
He pulled into the driveway of Elysium just before 3:00, right behind another car. It was a boxy, nondescript Mini, from which Fannie Melhado emerged. He was not surprised by her choice in cars, even though she could afford a fleet of Bentleys.
He reached into his glove compartment, quickly slipped something out, put it in his pocket, and opened the door of the Crown Vic.
“Hello, Detective,” she said with a smile as he slid out of his Crown Vic.
“Ms. Melhado,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you.” She gestured, instructing, “Follow me.”
They walked through Elysium, out to the back terrace, and sat down next to the pool. Crawford imagined looking down at her and him from a 27th floor, two-bedroom condo at Placido Mar directly across the Intracoastal. He imagined tossing a rock from up there and landing it in the pool. It would make a big splash.
“So, how’s your friend Vega?” Fannie asked with an impish grin.
“She’s fine. I’m meeting with her after here. Why do you ask?”
The impish grin got wider. “No reason. She just told me she was ‘seeing’ the cute detective. And I figured that she didn’t mean your partner.”
Crawford smiled. “Oh, I don’t know, I think he’s pretty cute,” he said, loyally. “And, just for the record, I’m seeing Vega just like I’m seeing you.”
“Don’t get defensive, Detective,” Fannie said, then she snapped her fingers. “Oh hey, I noticed Vega’s wearing a fancy new suit today. Chanel, I believe.”
“So?”
“Just a wild guess, but maybe she’s… dressing up for you.”
Crawford just sighed and gave her a quick eyeroll.
“Oh, and another thing, she got herself a flashy new car.”
“Really? I thought she was a bicycle gal?”
“Not anymore. Big old BMW, I think it is.”
Crawford filed that under, ‘hmm.’
“And while I’m dishing—which I don’t often do—do you know who Christian’s secret squeeze was?”
“You mean, after Lorinda?”
“During and after.”
“No, but I know you’re going to tell me.”
“Once again, Vega.”
“No kidding. I knew they were friends.”
The news was not a big stretch, but this was the first he’d heard of it.
“Bosom buddies,” she said with a naughty smile. “Well, actually, there’s another phrase for it that’s more accurate but I’m too prim and proper to say it… blank buddies.”
“Ah… I think I can fill in that blank,” Crawford said. “So, to do a complete one-eighty, I understand you’re a big fan of the evangelist Billy Graham.”
She laughed. “Wow, talk about non sequiturs. I’m going to guess you spoke to Phoebe Lilly, huh?”
Crawford nodded.
“Billy Graham was one of the greatest Americans to ever live,” Fannie blurted unabashedly. “He had more influence on this country and made more positive contributions than anyone I can think of.”
Plus, there was that star on the Walk of Fame thing.
“Why do you ask?”
“I guess I just wondered whether he was an inspiration to you, and you’ve clearly answered that.”
“An inspiration. A mentor. Someone who I’d like to model my life after. Did you know that man preached to live audiences of 210 million people in over 185 countries in his lifetime, including a television audience of over 2.5 billion people worldwide?”
“Pretty impressive,” Crawford said.
“Impressive. He was without a doubt the most admirable Christian leader of the 20th century. Not only that, more than 3.2 million people have responded to the invitation of Billy Graham’s Crusade to accept Jesus Christ as their personal savior.”
Crawford nodded, not quite sure how to respond. “He lived a nice long life, I read.”<
br />
Fannie nodded. “Ten months shy of 100. I went to his funeral up in Charlotte, North Carolina.”
She was clearly much more than just a big fan. “Oh, did you?”
She nodded again. “A very solemn event. Trump was there. I sat next to Rudy Giuliani.”
Again, Crawford wasn’t sure how to respond. “On another subject, when we spoke last time, you told me about how members of SOAR all had skills they contributed. Based, in many cases, on professions they had before they became members. So, I was just wondering, what is yours?”
No hesitation. “I don’t need a skill. I’ve got lots of money.” For a moment, she looked like she wanted to reel that back in. “Sorry, that sounded really arrogant. Actually, I do have a job, which I take very seriously. It’s simply spreading the word about SOAR. Speaking of Billy Graham, I’d like to emulate his success in spreading the word. So, my job is telling as many people as I can about SOAR and how it can enhance and broaden their lives.”
“Sounds like a very admirable goal.”
“I remember you telling me you were a lapsed Unitarian,” Fannie said. “Any chance we can bring you into the fold?”
Absolutely none, he thought. “Maybe when my life slows down a little,” he said instead.
“Well, you know where to find us.”
Vega insisted they meet at Green’s Pharmacy. Because she was craving a cup of their coffee, she said, though Crawford doubted that was the real reason.
Still, Vega took a big sip and pretended to savor it.
“The coffee here is marginally better than the stuff at my station,” Crawford said.
“Yeah, I know. There are just a lot of big ears at Elysium,” she said, confirming his suspicion.
“Like who?”
“Well, like Fannie. Your last interview.”
Crawford took a swig of water. “So, do you have any scoops for me today?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Speaking of Fannie, tell me about her predecessor.”
“Marie-Claire?”
Crawford nodded. “Did she play an active role in SOAR, like Fannie is?”
Vega thought for a second. “Um, I’d say Marie-Claire spoke softly but carried a big stick.”
Crawford cocked his head.
Vega nodded. “I know, that’s a little vague. What I mean is, she stayed out of the day-to-day, but weighed in on certain big things.”
“Like?”
“New people. Specifically, new people with power. Give you an example… there was this guy who came along, used to be a preacher at one of those stadium churches.”
Crawford motioned for her to go on.
“Well, his pitch was that we should build a hundred-thousand seat church out west of here somewhere and he’d preach the gospel of SOAR. Get people to come from miles around, fatten up the membership. So, Crux asked Marie-Claire to meet this guy and listen to him. Her first question to this preacher was, ‘Okay, what exactly is the gospel of SOAR?’ The guy mumbled some answer, but clearly had no clue. Marie-Claire stood up, said, Thank you very much, and walked out of the room.”
“And that was the end of the preacher man?”
“Exactly. I guess I’d say Marie-Claire acted like Crux’s second opinion on big stuff. Any time she thought he was getting a little loosey-goosey about people he let in, she stepped in and nipped it in the bud.”
“I get it,” Crawford said with a nod. “Somebody mentioned that she had two daughters, and that one lives around here?”
Vega nodded. “Yup, down in the estate section. I forget which street. Her name is Patrice Lord.”
Crawford typed it into his iPhone.
“Thank you. That’s helpful.” He looked up at Vega. “I have another question about Fannie Melhado.”
“Okay?”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
Vega was silent for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t know anything about that. I mean, Crux… but, no, not really.”
“And Leo Peavy? You said to check him out. Why’d you say that?”
“’Cause I just get the sense he’s hiding something. He talks about working at that advertising agency, Interworld, and boasts about how he was a big honcho there. But Christian kind of let it slip that Peavy was involved in something before he worked there that he didn’t want anybody to know about. Like a chapter he wanted to expunge from the record. I wasn’t sure if Christian didn’t want to tell me about it, or just didn’t know what it was. I have a theory, though, and when I brought it up with Christian, he didn’t deny it. Just changed the subject.”
"So, let me guess, Christian told you this during happy hour at Ta-boo?”
“Yup,” said Vega. “But just about everything he told me turned out to be true. ’Cause one of the jobs of being treasurer was Christian had to dig around and dredge up people’s personal histories. Crux wanted him to interview ’em before they got the nod to join SOAR, just to make sure they didn’t have any skeletons in their closets. So Christian also had some guy he hired to nose around and find out stuff.”
“You mean, like a private investigator or something?”
“Yeah. I could find out his name if it would be helpful.”
“It sure would. So, Leo Peavy… exactly what did Christian find out about him?”
“He was a creative director at that place I mentioned, Interworld. A big ad agency like Young & Rubicam or Ogilvy and whatever, one of the international ones. He was the branding guru. So if you wanted to go from unknown Company X to a household name, he was the guy. The brains behind that sports apparel company, Under Armour, and Tesla, I think it was. Put ’em on the map.”
Crawford nodded. “So, if you wanted your product to break out of the pack, Leo was the man you went to?”
“Exactly,” Vega said. “As far as Leo’s mysterious past, every time I’d bring it up with Christian, he’d change the subject. I have a theory about that, too.”
“And what is that? Your theory?”
“That there was something pretty murky way back there.”
Crawford cocked his head. “That doesn’t help much.”
“How about dark and murky?”
“Still doesn’t help much.”
“How ’bout dangerous and deadly?”
“Much better.”
Thirty-One
All Vega could recall about the private investigator who did occasional jobs for Christian Lalley was that his name was Maxwell. She thought it was his last name but wasn’t absolutely sure. They finished up lunch and stood up to leave.
“So, I understand you have a fancy new car?”
Vega looked bushwhacked, but quickly recovered. “Oh yes, my little splurge.”
“What is it?”
“A BMW.”
“Which one?”
“M760.”
“Wow, that’s a beauty.”
Ott had pointed out a few driving around Palm Beach.
“I’ll take you for a spin some time.”
“I’d love that.”
Then they split up and Crawford went back to the station and did some more research. The PI wasn’t hard to find. His company was called Maxwell Investigations. “Max got the facts,” one testimonial on his website read. “Satisfaction to the Max,” read another one. Something told Crawford that Max himself might have been the author of both quotes. It sure wasn’t some creative wunderkind at Interworld or Young & Rubicam.
He dialed the number for Maxwell Investigations.
“Maxwell,” a voice answered.
“Detective Crawford, Palm Beach PD. That your first or last name?”
“Everyone calls me Max,” the man said. “I heard of you. Homicide guy, right?”
“Yup, working the Christian Lalley murder.”
“And you found out I knew the guy, huh?”
“What are you doing in fifteen minutes, Max?”
“Ah, waiting for you in my executive suite?”
“I appreciate your cooperation. I’
ve got your address,” Crawford said, clicking off, and looking down at his watch. It was 5:15.
Before he left, he looked up the number of Patrice Lord, the daughter of Marie-Claire Fournier. He found E. and P. Lord on 151 Via Bellaria, which was in the so-called “estate section” of Palm Beach. He dialed the number, but it went to voicemail. He asked Ms. Lord to call him back.
Fifteen minutes later, he was walking up the steps of a dingy three-story building in a West Palm Beach industrial park. Max had buzzed him up to the second floor and was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Crawford was looking up at Max, just as he had looked up Crux in his throne, but Max was much less regal looking. He was a large man wearing flip flops with a heavy gold chain around his neck that couldn’t be good for his posture.
He pointed toward an open door. “Come on in, Charlie. Don’t mind if I call you Charlie, do ya?”
“Nope.”
They walked into Max’s office, which rivaled Crawford’s apartment for worst view in West Palm. Max’s was of a loading dock for UPS trucks; Crawford’s, of course, was of a Publix supermarket parking lot. The view was probably a toss-up, but Crawford’s office itself was way better. Mainly because behind Max’s badly-scarred wooden desk was a set of barbells—Crawford guessed about a hundred pounds—resting on a rickety steel frame that probably would have collapsed if he added another ten pounds. Off to the side was a small brown refrigerator on a white wicker table which, Crawford took a wild guess, contained a six-pack of beer, half a day-old pizza, and maybe a jar of dill pickles.
“Get ya a water or something?” Max asked, motioning toward the refrigerator.
“No, thanks,” Crawford said, as Max took a step toward it and opened its door.
Crawford tried to peek around him to see if he had been right. He saw a white pizza box and a bag of brownish carrots that looked like they were way past their expiration date. No beer or pickle jar in sight. One for three. But when Max, water in hand, stepped to his right, Crawford saw three bottles of Budweiser. Two for three.
“Have a seat,” Max said, pointing to what looked like a bad knock-off of a Herman Miller Aeron chair.