Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  Crawford held it up to Al-Ansani. “That is Grace Spooner ten years ago … standing right next to you.”

  He had Al-Ansani dead to rights. “Okay, Detective, I met with you as you requested, but now I’m done. And the next time, if there is one, my lawyer will be present.”

  “The more the merrier,” Crawford said. “My last question: do you have any plans to leave the country?”

  “I might. Why?”

  “Because, Mr. Al-Ansani, I’m instructing you to cancel them.”

  Monte Bittar lived in a Brutalist house on Eden Road. It was built in 1961, when Brutalist architecture had a toehold in various, mostly urban, parts of the country. The home featured reinforced concrete on three sides and rough-hewn stone on the fourth side. Aesthetically pleasing was not a phrase that jumped to mind to describe it—more like muscularly unappealing.

  Ott and Bittar were seated in a living room dominated by sparse, modern furniture. Ott was doing a quick warm-up to the hard-core Q&A, which would be coming along shortly. Bittar was a movie director who did big-budget action movies. The kind Bruce Willis and, more recently, actors like The Rock and Jason Statham starred in. Generally speaking, the movies were not candidates for Academy Awards nor were they showcased at either Sundance or the Cannes Film Festival.

  “I was a huge fan of Full Throttle,” Ott said, referring to a movie about rival race-car drivers that came out in 2017. “Must have been fun to shoot that. I read a lot of those scenes were shot at actual races.”

  “It was a complete pain in the ass,” Bittar said. “It rained for a solid week in Monaco. We had to sit around and wait for the weather to clear. Got to know the gin mills pretty well, though.”

  “I’ll bet,” Ott said, flashing on the ingénue who played the love interest of both race-car drivers. “Just out of curiosity, did Eva Strange hang out with you in those gin mills?”

  Bittar chuckled. “Eva Strange was barely old enough to drink legally. She’s also one of those ‘my-body-is-my-temple’ women. Strictly green tea and Perrier.”

  “That’s no fun.” It was officially time to get to work, Ott thought. “Mr. Bittar, as I mentioned on the phone, me and my partner are the detectives on the murder that took place at The Colony yesterday, and, since you were there, I have some questions for you.”

  “Sure, fire away,” Bittar said. “But I doubt I’ll be much help.”

  Ott reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photo of Grace Spooner. “Did you see this woman at The Colony night before last?”

  Bittar shook his head. “The only place I’ve ever seen her is on the front page of the Glossy.” He was referring to the local weekly newspaper, the Palm Beach Daily Reporter. “I can’t believe that happened while we were there.”

  “When did you get there, and when did you leave?”

  “Too early and too late,” Bittar said, rolling his eyes. “Got there at about seven, left around eleven thirty.”

  Ott straightened up in his chair. “What do you mean, ‘too early and too late?’”

  “I mean, two of those hours were bullshit toasts about how Asher Bard was, basically, the second coming of Christ. All about his charitable giving, his various philanthropies, his being an incredible father and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Bittar leaned in close to Ott. “I mean, what’s wrong with tellin’ it like it is? Asher’s a helluva businessman, very generous with his friends, but he sure as hell ain’t no saint.”

  “And what about the other two hours, Mr. Bittar?”

  “The other two hours were a damn good dinner, lots of top-shelf bubbly, and—if you don’t know now, you’re gonna find out sooner or later—women who are paid to make middle-aged men happy.”

  Ott nodded. “Matter of fact, I did know that.”

  “I figured,” Bittar said. “You and your partner, I hear, have a pretty good rep for catching bad guys.”

  Yeah, eight for eight, to be exact, Ott thought. “Thank you,” he said. “You never went outside the CPB restaurant, did you?”

  Bittar shook his head. “Nope, just sat there and listened to all that hot air,” he said. “Watched the girls pop out of a cake or wherever the hell they came from. Can’t really remember that well.”

  “So, is it safe to say you never saw or heard anything related to the murder?”

  Bittar nodded. “It is very safe to say that.”

  “Going back to something you said … Mr. Bard’s charities. Can you tell me a little about them? If you know the specifics.”

  “Well, what I know is that he’s the financial backer of a whole slew of non-profit rehab centers up and down the east coast,” Bittar said. “What I heard was his nephew had a pretty serious drug problem when he was a kid, died of it eventually, and that’s what got Asher involved in the first place.”

  “So they’re drug and alcohol rehab centers?”

  “Yes, drug, alcohol, troubled kids, the whole nine yards, is what I’ve heard. He got some humanitarian-of-the-year award for his efforts.”

  Ott was taking notes in his well-worn leather notebook, which he’d had since his days back in Cleveland. He looked up and locked eyes with Bittar. “Gee, I wonder if any of those troubled kids ever ended up on his yacht.”

  10

  David Balfour called at just past seven the next morning and asked Crawford if he would come over. He apologized for the early hour but said he really needed to meet with him. He went on to say he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink the night before. The whole thing was odd because Balfour usually slept until nine, followed by twenty laps in his pool and breakfast at nine thirty. Crawford knew this because Balfour had once given him a blow-by-blow of his typical daily schedule, and Crawford had been more than a little envious. Especially when Balfour described his typical nine-thirty breakfast, which was meticulously prepared by Bonnie Lynn, his cook: fresh-squeezed orange juice, Sumatra coffee—Crawford had no clue where Sumatra even was—eggs Benedict, bacon he’d had shipped down from Peter Luger Steak House in New York, and Peter Reinhart’s multigrain toast (whoever Peter Reinhart might be.)

  Balfour’d had Crawford drooling after reeling off that “typical” breakfast menu. Rich guys might have problems like everyone else, Crawford concluded, but they didn’t have breakfasts like everyone else.

  Crawford had planned to have his own breakfast afterward at Green’s Pharmacy, which was his main go-to, along with Dunkin’ Donuts. He pulled up to Balfour’s house at seven thirty, figuring he’d spend a half hour there, then head over to Green’s.

  Balfour opened the front door seconds after Crawford hit the buzzer, then led him back to Balfour’s trophy room. Balfour had a Bloody Mary in hand, “a little bracer in my time of need,” as he referred to it, and soon Crawford was savoring a cup of the aforementioned Sumatra coffee.

  “I don’t normally drink at this hour, Charlie, but Missy’s going to turn me into a raging alcoholic.”

  “Why, what’s the latest?”

  “She’s going after half of everything,” Balfour said as a look of shock popped up on Crawford’s face.

  “What? You had a prenup, right?”

  “Yeah, but my lawyer said it’s not a very good one. ‘Not very tight,’ were his exact words.”

  “But wasn’t he the one who drew it up?”

  Balfour shook his head and put down his Bloody Mary. “No, actually, I got it from one of those online sites.”

  “Jesus. Really?” Crawford said, not wanting to make Balfour feel any worse than he already did. But that was truly a bone-headed move. Spending ninety-nine dollars, or whatever, for a form prenuptial agreement.

  “Yeah, this friend of mine told me about it. This site called Rocket Lawyer.”

  Crawford felt bad for his friend, but how could such a wealthy man cheap out on a document that important?

  “Well, the good news is no judge is going to award anyone half of someone’s estate who they were married to for five minutes,” Crawford said.

  “That’s w
hat I’m hoping. I mean, I think her affair started about six months into the marriage.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Remember I told you I hired a private eye.”

  “Oh, yeah, who is he?”

  “He’s not from around here,” Balfour said. “A Miami guy.”

  “I hope he’s good and you’re paying him a lot of money.”

  “Trust me, I really checked him out. And he ain’t cheap. Plus, he had lots of references. I spoke to three of them.”

  “Well, good. So, he thinks the affair started six months in?”

  Balfour nodded and took another sip of his drink.

  “What else did he find out?”

  Balfour stood and motioned to Crawford. “Follow me. I need to do a show and tell.”

  Crawford followed Balfour into his living room. It was a beautiful, elegant space that Balfour had once told Crawford was decorated by a famous decorator. Mario somebody, he seemed to remember. There was a lot of cheery-looking chintz that to Crawford made it look more like the living room of an older woman or elderly couple. It clearly didn’t bother Balfour, though.

  As they reached the center of the living room, Balfour pointed at a painting. “That’s my Franz Kline,” Balfour said of the artist. “Paid just under a million bucks for it twenty-two years ago. About three years ago one sold for forty million. Mine’s a pretty good example of his work, so it might be worth more than forty in today’s market.”

  Crawford’s mind was reeling. He loved art and had ever since taking a gut at Dartmouth called Art: The Last Fifty Years. He’d become totally consumed by it at the time. He still went to galleries and to the Norton Museum in West Palm when he had time or wanted to take his mind off murder. But Franz Kline was an artist he’d never gotten excited about. To him, Kline’s paintings were a lot of thick black lines that occasionally crisscrossed and looked dark and foreboding. Which, come to think of it, was how Kline the man looked: dark and foreboding, and to whom a smile seemed like a foreign element.

  Balfour turned to him and smiled. “Only problem is it’s a Roy Jenkins, not a Franz Kline.”

  Crawford searched his brain. Roy Jenkins was not an artist he was familiar with. So he asked the obvious question. “Who’s Roy Jenkins?”

  Balfour turned to Crawford and smiled. “Missy’s boyfriend.”

  It took Crawford a few moments to put together the pieces. “You gotta be kidding.”

  Balfour shook his head, still smiling.

  “That’s incredible. Missy’s boyfriend knocked off Franz Kline? So … where’s the actual Franz Kline?”

  “Glad you asked. My P.I., being an enterprising man, found out where Jenkins’ studio was and just happened to gain access to it in the middle of the night—”

  “You mean, broke in?”

  “Charlie, Charlie, that would have been illegal,” he said, chuckling. “Yeah, so he … found an open window or something, and guess what he found?”

  “The real Franz Kline that used to hang where the Roy Jenkins does now,” Crawford said, pointing.

  “Not only the Kline, but see that one,” Balfour said, pointing to another painting of a woman in a swimming pool that Crawford had always been keen on.

  “David Hockney, too?”

  Balfour nodded. “Yup. As a painter of his own stuff, Roy Jenkins pretty much sucks. My P.I. showed me a few photos he took of his stuff. But as a knock-off artist, he’s not too shabby.”

  Crawford pondered the whole thing and shook his head. “Jesus, that’s unbelievable. So the plan was for Missy to end up with your forty-million-dollar Kline and … What’s the Hockney worth?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Twelve million, maybe.”

  “So, to own a forty-million Kline and a twelve-million Hockney and stick you with two worthless Roy Jenkinses?”

  Balfour nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  Crawford brightened. “Something tells me Missy’s going to end up with a whole lot less than half when she finds out what you got on her.”

  “How much you think I should give her?”

  “When she knows you’ve got her on art forgery and art theft ... oh, I don’t know. How about a buck ninety-eight?”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I am serious,” Crawford said. “Far be it from me to be a vindictive man, but that woman was out to screw you big-time.”

  “So, what do you think? Give her a couple hundred thousand?”

  Crawford chuckled. “That sounds very generous to me. But then, I don’t have any perspective.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, a couple hundred thousand to me is like a vast fortune. To you, it’s like a tip, so I can’t really advise you on this.”

  “Maybe a hundred thousand.”

  “Sure, if you’re good with that,” Crawford said. “In my opinion, though, you don’t have to give her anything. Just threaten to call the cops about the whole scam. Tell ’em how she was going to screw you.”

  Balfour chuckled again and shook his head. “Yeah, and not in the way I wanted her to.”

  11

  Crawford pulled up to Green’s Pharmacy at 8:10, having left David Balfour to do his pool laps, followed by an extravagant breakfast prepared by his chef extraordinaire, Bonnie Lynn.

  He walked in, nodded at Ruthie, the Green’s waitress, and went over and sat down at “his” table. It was actually his and Ott’s table, but Ott had an early morning car repair appointment and wouldn’t be joining him.

  Today, Crawford felt like having one of his favorites: a couple of big, greasy sausages and a triple-egg Swiss cheese omelet.

  “Hey, Charlie,” he heard a voice say.

  He looked to his right and saw the reporter Quinn Casey parked behind an open New York Times.

  “Hey, Quinn. Didn’t take you long to find the best breakfast in town.”

  “Hey, man, I’m a reporter.” He opened his hand. “Join me?”

  “Sure,” Crawford said, getting up, walking over, pulling out a chair, and sitting down. “Not the ‘detectives table,’ but I suppose it’ll do.”

  “I imagine you were very particular about what table was going to be the ‘detectives table.’”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you wanted to be where you could see everyone coming and going. And where nobody could sneak up on you.”

  Crawford nodded. “You know your stuff. Wouldn’t want to end up like Wild Bill Hickok, right?”

  Ruthie, the gawky waitress, came up to the table. “Top of the morning to ya, Charlie. The usual?”

  “Hey, Ruthie. Yeah, but I’m gonna have tea instead of coffee.”

  Ruthie nodded and walked away.

  “Tea?” Quinn said, shaking his head. “That doesn’t jibe with my profile. I got you pegged as a black-coffee guy.”

  “Profile. What profile?”

  “The detective who takes down Grace Spooner’s killer. Strong, lantern jaw, ramrod-straight posture, long, athletic stride—”

  Crawford held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, first of all, you’re way ahead of the story. Got a way to go before we ‘take down’ Grace Spooner’s killer. Second of all”—Crawford laughed—“my posture ain’t all that great.”

  Quinn rubbed his brow. “How long were you on the job up in New York?”

  “How’d you … Oh, yeah, you’re a reporter.”

  Quinn smiled. “First of all, you hardly struck me as a guy born and bred in Florida, so I looked into your background. You had some pretty high-profile cases up there. How long were you there?”

  “Thirteen fun-filled years.”

  “I bet. And how’d you end up here, of all places?”

  “Burned out up there. Wanted a beach and palm trees instead of black snow and honking horns.”

  “You miss it at all?”

  “Sometimes in the summer.”

  “The heat down here?”

  “And humidity.”

  Quinn nodded as Ruthie sh
owed up. She set a plate down in front of Quinn. On it was a bowl of oatmeal with a banana on the side.

  “Jesus, Quinn,” Crawford said. “You didn’t research this one too well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you had, you’d know that when in Green’s you gotta go with either bacon and eggs or big, greasy sausages and eggs. Or a stack. Pancakes are pretty damn good, ’cept you gotta use about five of those.” Crawford pointed at a bowl containing syrup packets. “What do you think this place is, a health-food joint?”

  Quinn laughed. “I got a little cholesterol problem.” He pointed at his oatmeal. “You think I like this stuff?”

  “I would hope not. Might start to wonder about you.”

  Quinn chuckled. “Hey, and you, the hard-boiled detective who drinks … tea?”

  Crawford smiled. “Not on a regular basis,” he said. “See, I read this article about all the antioxidants in tea. Plus, it’s got less caffeine than coffee and supposedly lowers your risk of a heart attack.”

  “Hell, man, you sound like a commercial,” Quinn said. “Plus, you don’t seem like a candidate for cardiac arrest.”

  Ruthie showed up with Crawford’s plate: the cheese omelet, two sausages, and wheat toast slathered with butter covered virtually every square inch of his plate.

  Quinn’s eyes got big as he took it all in. “But then again,” he laughed and pointed, “if you were to look up ‘heart attack’ in the dictionary, that would be the perfect illustration for what causes it.”

  They were finishing up their respective breakfasts.

  “So”—Quinn did some calculating—“it’s been two days since Grace Spooner’s murder. Whatcha got so far?”

  “Not enough,” Crawford said, wondering just how much he actually wanted to tell Quinn Casey. “Did you know Asher Bard was having a birthday party at The Colony the night it happened?”

  Quinn put his spoon down. “Get out of here. Well, isn’t that a coincidence? So I guess that gives you a few new suspects.”