by Tom Turner
Crawford sat down in it. It tilted back and was surprisingly comfortable. “Nice chair.”
Max nodded. “Eighty-nine bucks at Wayfair.”
“I might have to get me one.”
“’Fraid the sale might be over now.”
Crawford gave him an oh, well shrug. “So, I’d appreciate knowing about your relationship with Christian Lalley.”
Max leaned back in his squeaky chair. “Chris was a good guy. I think he may have gotten in a little over his head.”
“What do you mean?”
Max spread his hands on his desktop. “Well, he was in with all those Wensa people—”
“You mean, Mensa.”
“Yeah, whatever. IQs off the charts. Chris was smart, don’t get me wrong, but didn’t seem to be in that league.”
Crawford nodded. “But my understanding was that he was one. A Mensa, I mean.”
“Maybe, but if so, on the low end, I’d say.”
“Okay. Tell me about the first time he contacted you?”
“Yeah, sure. He called me up and said that he was treasurer of this company and wanted me to do background checks on people coming on board.”
“He called it a company?”
“Yeah, as I remember it. And the fact is, I do a lot of that kind of work. You can put any damn thing you want on a resumé, but it can all be a hundred percent bullshit. Me, I’m a bullshit detector.”
“And a damn good one, I bet.”
“Well, thank you Charlie, most people making hires don’t want to spend a whole lot of time checking out every little detail.”
“So, who did you check out first?”
Maxwell looked away, then his eyes snuck back to Crawford’s. “You know this is all supposed to be highly confidential.”
Crawford knew ‘supposed to be’ was his opening. Maxwell needed some gentle arm-twisting. “I understand, but your client is dead.”
“Yeah, but I still do the occasional job for Guy Bemmert.”
“The CFO?”
“Yeah.”
“Seems like that’s the same job as Lalley’s, but with a new, fancy title.”
“That guy Peavy came up with the title thing. Told the head guy they should all have hokey corporate titles.”
“Speaking of Leo Peavy, I’m assuming you did a background check on him.”
“Sure did.”
“And?”
“Come on, Charlie, you know I can’t—”
“I just need to know a little about his past. I know he worked for a big ad agency before he joined SOAR. World champion branding expert, supposedly. Went to some fancy college, summa cum… whatever.”
Maxwell seemed like a man who wanted to keep his cards close to his vest but might be persuaded to give you a little peek. “And you want to know what he did after college, right?” Maxwell asked.
“Yeah, exactly.”
Maxwell put his hands together and rested his chin on them. “Tell you what, Charlie, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll fill in the gap for you if you tell me about one of your cases. I follow ’em in the Post.” He laughed. “Cop groupie, guess you could say.”
Crawford thought for a second. “I think I can do that. As long as it’s not active.”
“It’s not,” Maxwell said, cocking his head. “From a few years back. That former police chief who bought it.”
“Oh, yeah, you mean Clyde Loadholt.”
“Yeah, that’s it. So, like I said, I was following that case in the Post and on TV news. Guy had a rep as a pretty nasty cop. Violent fucker. So, I figured the guy who did it had to be either that gay dude he crippled or maybe the son of that burglar he shot. But it turned out to be his granddaughter who ran that casino in New Orleans. So, my question is, how the hell did you ever get to her?”
Crawford leaned way back in the Herman Miller Aeron chair knock-off. “Well, as you know, half the time a homicide is in the family. But it took us a long time and a few breaks to get wind of the granddaughter. Turned out she had a history of getting abused by good ’ol Gramps and some of his poker buddies. She was a strange one and we had to go all over the map—New Orleans, Charleston, South Carolina, then down the South Carolina coast to finally track her down.”
“We, meaning you and your partner Ock or something?”
“Yeah, Mort Ott. Best birddog in the business.”
Maxwell nodded. “And how’d she kill the guy? I forget.”
“Put one in his chest from ten feet away, then dumped him over the side of her yacht. Guy was fish-bait.”
“Girl did pretty well for herself, as I remember,” Maxwell said.
Crawford nodded. “Sure did, managed a big casino… ’til she became a murderer, that is. Okay, your turn, Max.”
Maxwell unclasped his hands and raised his head. “You never heard a word from me, okay?”
“Never met you before in my life.”
Maxwell smiled and shot Crawford a thumbs-up. “Okay, so here’s the story: Leo Peavy went right from college into military intelligence. Army, I guess it was. Got recruited ’cause he had a totally off-the-charts IQ and wanted to do his thing for God and country. Something like that anyway.” Crawford nodded. “Then, after about two or three years, he ended up in something called Blackwater. Ever hear of it?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Badass mercenaries. Did a bunch of under-the-radar work in Iraq and Afghanistan. Kind of a private military company.” Suddenly Crawford remembered something. “There was an incident that blew up on them in Baghdad, I think it was. They killed a bunch of people without any provocation.”
Maxwell nodded. “You got a good memory, Charlie. It was a place called Nisour Square. Seventeen people were killed by Blackwater"—he did the finger quote thing—"security contractors, was what they called themselves. They were up in the air in two choppers.”
“And, as I recall, a bunch of them were tried for manslaughter or murder.”
“Yeah, one of ’em got life.”
“So, what does any of this have to do with Leo Peavy?”
Maxwell cleared his throat. “Leo Peavy was one of ’em.”
“The shooters?”
Maxwell nodded.
There was no way in hell, Crawford thought, that this could be the same Leo Peavy he had met with twice. The sweater-clad Mr. Rogers of won’t you be my neighbor? fame looked more dangerous than Leo Peavy.
“You’re kidding. You sure we’re talking about the same guy?”
Maxwell nodded.
“Was he ever tried for it?” Crawford asked.
“Nope.”
Crawford leaned back in his chair again and shook his head.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Maxwell said. “How the hell is it possible that weaselly little dude was a Blackwater thug?”
“Yeah, exactly what I was thinking.”
“Seems like after the whole thing went down, someone pulled a few strings for Leo. Hustled him out of Baghdad on the next plane.”
“How do you know all this?”
“He told me.”
“You’re kidding,” Crawford said with a puzzled look. “Why would he do that?”
Maxwell shrugged and thought for a moment. “I don’t know exactly. It almost seemed like he was proud of it.”
Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “Of killing seventeen innocent people.”
“I think I know why. Or at least have a good guess.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You’ve met the guy. Looks like some runty, little college professor with dopey-lookin’ sideburns, right?”
“Yup.”
“I think being a guy with a big gun made him feel all macho. Know what I mean?”
Crawford thought for a moment. He knew exactly what Maxwell meant.
“So, he got rushed out of Baghdad,” Maxwell said, “and next thing you know he’s at that ad agency in New York.”
“Somebody else pulled strings for him?”
Maxwell nodded. “I guess.”
&n
bsp; “That incredible,” Crawford said. “What about a woman named Marie-Claire Fournier?”
“Is she someone in SOAR?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know that name.”
Crawford realized there was no reason why he would. She had been in SOAR since the beginning. Unlikely Maxwell would have been tasked with checking her out.
“Or what about a woman named Fannie Melhado?”
“The billionaire?”
Crawford nodded.
“Clean as a whistle. Couldn’t find anything gnarly about her.”
“Nothing at all?”
Maxwell shook his head
Crawford nodded.
“And that guy you mentioned, Guy Bemmert? He have any dirty laundry?”
“No. He was clean, too. Used to be a guy high up in some big mortgage company. He’s married to a younger guy.”
“I know. Larry Swain. What about him?”
“Choirboy from what I could tell.”
“So Peavy’s the only one who’s got a past.”
Maxwell nodded.
“Okay, so let me ask you this,” Crawford said. “You’ve looked into a lot of these SOAR people. If one of them killed Lalley, who would you put your money on?”
Maxwell put his hands together and rested his chin on them again, then lowered his voice. “Jesus, I don’t know.”
“But you’ve thought about it, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, I have. Thought about it a lot after Chris bought it,” Max said, scratching the side of his face.
“And?”
“I really have no idea.”
It was 6:20 when Crawford left Maxwell’s office. He got a water for the road from the brown refrigerator. Maxwell offered him a piece of vintage pizza, which he declined.
In his Crown Vic, he dialed Rose’s number.
Maxwell’s grungy office had reminded him of his grungy apartment and added urgency to his desire to, like The Jeffersons, move on up.
“Hello, Charlie.”
“Hey, Rose. I’m getting kind of itchy to move. Any way we can look at some places now?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, “Um, I’m going through the list in my mind…. Three of them are vacant, so let’s go look at those. How ’bout we meet in the lobby at 5200 North Flagler at six forty-five?”
“Perfect. See you then.”
Rose was waiting for Crawford inside the building’s lobby. He walked up to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Only problem with this building is they don’t have anybody at the front desk.” She laughed. “Actually, they don’t even have a front desk.”
Crawford shrugged. “Why’s that important?”
“Security. To accept packages. Someone to say ‘good morning’ to you.”
Crawford smiled. “You, know, it’s not that critical that I have someone say good morning to me.” He followed Rose over to the bank of elevators.
She hit a button and the elevator door opened. “They’ve got two banks of elevators, at least.”
“What floor?” he asked, looking at the floor buttons.
“Twenty-seven.”
“Practically in the clouds, huh?”
Rose nodded. “Wait ’til you see the view.”
“You’ve seen this one?”
“Just on the internet. Looks fabulous.”
The elevator stopped and Crawford followed Rose to a door. She opened a lockbox, took out a key, let them in.
They walked through the living room.
“Oh, my God,” Rose said. “Look at that. It’s even better in real life.”
They walked out onto a balcony. It was truly a breathtaking view: the Intracoastal directly below, then Palm Beach island, then the ocean beyond.
Crawford focused on the Intracoastal. There were seemingly hundreds of boats—mostly sailboats— moored in the thin body of water below. “Damn flotilla down there.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Rose said. “You can’t get a view anywhere near as good as this in Palm Beach”—she checked her listing sheet—“and it’s only $275,000.”
Crawford turned back inside and looked down at the floor, disapprovingly. “Plus, this lovely mud-brown marble floor comes with it.”
Rose frowned. “Yeah, that is kind of an eyesore. So, what do you think?” she asked, following him into one of the bedrooms.
“I love the fact that all the bedrooms have balconies too,” Crawford said.
“Yes, that’s pretty unusual. I noticed there was no exhaust fan in the kitchen.”
“Ain’t no deal killer,” Crawford said with a chuckle. “You know how much I cook.”
She nodded. “Take-out Charlie.”
They spent another ten minutes poking around in walk-in closets, opening cabinets, and admiring the incredible view again, then headed down to 2600 North Flagler.
This building did have a person manning the front desk and was also five minutes closer to the Palm Beach police station. The apartment was on the seventh floor and had a nice view but was by no means as dramatic as the one on the twenty-seventh floor of the building before. It had a nice layout and generously proportioned rooms, but also a monthly maintenance charge of over eight hundred dollars.
Crawford did some quick math. “That’s almost ten grand a year.”
Rose’s expression didn’t change.
Crawford chuckled. “Yeah, I know, chicken feed to you and your clients, but not to a lowly cop.”
Rose feigned indignance. “You’re a highly-decorated homicide detective, Charlie.”
“Gee, thanks, Rose. Let’s go check out the other two.”
Rose nodded. “They’re both in the same building. Rapallo North.”
“Is that the one just south of the middle bridge?” he asked, recalling his earlier drive by.
“Yup. It’s a great old building.”
In Rapallo North, they looked at apartments on both the fourteenth and seventeenth floor. The one on fourteen was two bedrooms that needed work but had a nice southeast view across the Intracoastal.
“How much to replace the floors and renovate the master bath?” Crawford asked Rose. “Ballpark.”
“Um, I’d say around twenty-five thousand.”
“Which means I could get it done for twenty.”
“Yeah, if you know how to lay tile and change out plumbing fixtures.”
“Ah, not exactly,” Crawford said. “But I figure you’re quoting Palm Beach contractor prices, not West Palm ones.”
“Okay, okay, maybe twenty-two, then.”
Then they went up three stories to see a one-bedroom apartment described as a “stunning designer renovation with breathtaking views.” The view was nice but nowhere near as jaw-dropping as the first one they’d seen.
“So?” Rose asked as they both looked across at Everglades Island.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think this one if you just want to move in and do nothing. It’s pretty perfect the way it is. The question is do you need an extra bedroom?”
Crawford shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s not as though I got a hell of a lot of people coming to visit.”
The one time his brother Cam had come down, he’d stayed at a high-end hotel.
“Well, there you go. Of the ones we’ve seen, I’d say this is perfect for you.”
“Does the building take dogs?”
Rose cocked her head. “Dogs? Since when do you have a dog?”
“I don’t. But I’m thinking of getting one.”
“Jesus, Charlie. You got all kinds of life changes goin’ on. New pad. New dog.”
“An old pad and an old dog would be okay, too. I’m thinking about getting one from the Humane Society.”
“Wow, so it wasn’t just a passing thought?”
Crawford shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
“You know, you’ve got to walk a dog so it can pee and poop. Take it to the dog park and all that. Thos
e little plastic bags. You got time to do all that stuff?”
He thought for a second. “Yeah, those are drawbacks.”
“What about a cat?”
“I hate cats.”
“A hamster?”
Crawford laughed. “So, do they take ’em in this building or not? Dogs.”
“I think so, but I’ll find out for sure.”
“I saw this one at the Humane Society. Part Labrador, part…I-don’t-know-what.”
“Big dog?”
“Pretty big.”
“Cause the buildings that take ’em like to limit the size. Twenty pounds or so is typical.”
Crawford thought for a second. “I’d say this pooch would have to go on a diet. Lose about thirty pounds.”
“Hm.” Rose considered that. “What about a goldfish?”
Thirty-Two
A few minutes past 8 a.m., Crawford and Ott were nursing mugs of office rotgut in Crawford’s office. Crawford filled in Ott about what Maxwell had found out about Leo Peavy. Ott had said ‘no shit’ three times and whistled once while shaking his head so hard Crawford thought something might fall out of it.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, I snuck my GPS tracker under the trunk of Fannie Melhado’s Mini.”
Ott raised his fist. “Attaboy. Why is it the richest people in the country drive those little shit boxes?”
Crawford shrugged.
“I’ll tell you why… to broadcast to the world that—down deep—they’re just modest, ordinary folks.”
Crawford chuckled. “The world according to Ott.”
“That would make a good title to a book,” Ott said.
“Already taken.”
Ott shrugged. “So, which bug did you use?”
“That little black one.”
“Good old SpyTec.”
“Yeah, and if I had another one with me, I would have put it on Vega’s new BMW. Maybe I’ll swing by there tomorrow and slip one on it.”
“Better wear a disguise.”
“Nah, I’ll be alright. The lot at Elysium is separate from the house.”
“That’s true,” Ott said. “So, you suppose Fannie Melhado buys her groceries at Winn-Dixie and her clothes at TJ Maxx?”
“Unlikely. But I guess we’ll find out.” Crawford sat back and tapped his desktop for a few moments. “It’s time, Mort.”