Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  “Okay, Norm, we got the idea,” Crawford said, heading him off at the pass before he could launch into a long riff that went nowhere.

  Crawford and Ott quickly walked out of his office. The wit and wisdom of Norman K. Rutledge, Crawford was thinking. Rutledge could no doubt write a book about his lifelong career in law enforcement. His title: The Man, The Myth, The Legend. Crawford’s title: The Life of a Perfectly Average Police Chief.

  27

  Crawford had called earlier in the morning and had spoken to Tyrell, who said it would be okay if Crawford came over to his father’s—soon to be his and his brother’s—house at ten o’clock. Crawford had asked crime scene tech and newly reinstated friend with benefits Dominica McCarthy to come along with him. The fact that he had missed the tiny scratch on the Cadillac CTS in The Colony Hotel surveillance tape, and she had spotted it, reminded him of just how good she was.

  They got to Bard’s house a few minutes late. Darnell opened the door.

  “Hello, Detective, and—”

  “My associate, Dominica McCarthy,” Crawford said. “She was at your father’s boat yesterday. She’s a crime scene technician.”

  “I remember,” Darnell said with a smile. “How could I forget?”

  “Hello, again,” Dominica said.

  “So, you want to see his bedroom?”

  “Yes, please,” Crawford said.

  “Just follow me.”

  “We would also like to take a look at his cell phone, if you know where it is. As you remember, yesterday he just had that burner on him.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I don’t know where his iPhone is.”

  “Maybe we call the phone number when we get in his bedroom,” Dominica suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  They followed Darnell into a huge foyer with black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern, through a large, expensively decorated living room Crawford guessed wasn’t used much, then down a long, dark hallway and into a bedroom that had a massive bed.

  There was a chaise lounge next to the bed which, surprisingly, had clothes stacked on it in a messy heap. “Surprisingly” because the rest of the house was so immaculate.

  Darnell saw Crawford looking at it and chuckled. “Dad wasn’t the neatest guy around. He’d just toss his clothes on that”—pointing at the chaise lounge—“before he went to bed.”

  “I can relate,” Crawford said. “I do the same thing on a chair.”

  Dominica smiled, familiar with Crawford’s clothes pile. She pulled out her Samsung Galaxy. “Why don’t I call his cell number now.”

  “Good idea,” Crawford said. “What’s his number, Darnell?”

  Dominica dialed it. A phone rang across the room. Crawford took out a pair of milk-white vinyl gloves, pulled them on, crossed the room, and opened a door. It was a walk-in closet that could have accommodated a Sherman tank. The ring seemed to be coming from a blue silk bathrobe hanging from a brass hook. Crawford reached into a pocket of the bathrobe and pulled out an iPhone, then went back out into the bedroom.

  “You mind if we take this with us?” Crawford asked Darnell.

  “No. Just bring it back, please.”

  “Don’t worry,” Crawford said, putting the iPhone in his pocket.

  Dominica pointed at the heap of clothes. “That’s probably a good place to start,” she told Crawford. “Go through Mr. Bard’s clothes. Check his pockets.”

  Crawford nodded.

  “You don’t need me to stick around, do you?” Darnell asked.

  “No,” Crawford said. “We probably won’t be long. I’ll come get you when we’re done. Where will you be?”

  “In the family room,” Darnell said. “It’s on the other side of the living room. Off the kitchen.”

  Crawford nodded. “I saw it. Thanks.”

  As Darnell walked out, Crawford and Dominica went over to the chaise lounge. Dominica picked up a pair of pants and went through the pockets. She found some change—two quarters, a dime, a nickel, and two pennies. She held them up to Crawford.

  “You can’t keep that, you know.”

  “Aw, darn.”

  Crawford picked up a pair of dark green shorts and reached in one of the pockets. He pulled out a handful of golf tees. “So, the guy really did play,” he mumbled to himself.

  “What?” asked Dominica.

  “Nothing. Just found these.”

  Dominica smiled. “You can keep them.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Crawford’s cell phone rang. He looked down at it. It was Ott, who was at Asher Bard’s office on Royal Palm Way.

  “Hey, Mort, what’s up?”

  “Got something good for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I just found Bard’s checkbook and guess what? One of the last checks he wrote was for three hundred grand. Made out to Amazing Grace, LLC, the night Grace Spooner got killed.”

  28

  Crawford and Dominica spent ten more minutes at Asher Bard’s house and found nothing of interest except his cell phone. They were in a hurry to join Ott at 350 Royal Palm Way.

  They parked in the underground parking area below Bard’s office building and took the elevator up to the second floor. Ott introduced Dominica to Jennifer Atwood, and then Crawford, Ott, and Dominica went into Asher Bard’s office.

  “I pretty much turned the place upside down. Nothing much until I found this.” Ott picked up a big black checkbook, the kind that had three checks to a page, opened it, and pointed at a stub. The date said “3/14/19” and, sure enough, it was made out to “Amazing Grace, LLC” for three hundred thousand dollars. The date was one day before Spooner was killed.

  “Wow,” Crawford said, looking at Ott. “This makes things a little more complicated.”

  Ott nodded. “No kidding. Not to mention, it leaves a lot of unanswered questions. Like, did he give it to her that night at the The Colony?”

  Crawford nodded. “Did she change her mind once she got the check—if she got the check—and decide she wasn’t going to give Quinn Casey the interview?”

  “Or what about this?” said Dominica. “Maybe Bard offered her the check, but she turned him down. Said she didn’t care about the money, just wanted to get her story out there and testify. He got pissed off, realized the only way to stop her was to kill her.”

  “Yup,” Crawford said to Dominica. “That definitely could’ve happened.”

  “We got a real problem here, boys,” Dominica said, running a hand through her hair.

  “What’s that?” Crawford said.

  “In all those scenarios, the principals are dead.”

  “Yeah,” Ott said. “That is a problem.”

  “Did you find anything else?” Dominica asked Ott.

  Ott pointed to a large file cabinet. “I haven’t been through it yet.”

  “Looks like it might be a big project,” Dominica said.

  Ott nodded as Crawford saw movement and looked toward the door. He saw a flash of red fabric and remembered Jennifer Atwood was wearing a red silk top. He thought he saw Dominica glance over, too.

  Crawford pointed to a laptop on the corner of Asher Bard’s desk. “Taken a look at that yet?”

  Ott shook his head. “Haven’t had a chance. Mainly just went through his desk. His checkbook was in the top drawer.”

  “But you didn’t see anything else that caught your interest?”

  “Nah, the check was the big news.”

  “Quinn Casey told me that Grace Spooner never cancelled her breakfast with him,” Crawford said.

  Dominica nodded. “Which either means she never got the check from Bard, or she did and told him to keep it.”

  “Pretty tough to turn down that kind of money, though,” Ott said.

  “I got another scenario: she could have planned to cash Bard’s check and screw him at the same time,” Crawford said.

  “You mean, take Bard’s money and spill the beans to Casey?” Dominica said.

  Cr
awford nodded. “Lots of ways she could have played it,” he said. “I’m going to see if I can get a court order to check Bard’s account and Grace’s to see if the check was cashed.”

  “Good idea,” Ott said. “Want a hand with that?”

  “Nah, shouldn’t be too difficult,” Crawford said, opening the MacBook Air laptop.

  The computer was on, which was fortunate. He’d assumed he’d have to ask Jennifer Atwood for the password.

  He sat down in Bard’s desk chair and started reading Bard’s emails while Ott and Dominica attacked the large file cabinet.

  Ten minutes later, Crawford had skimmed all of Bard’s incoming and sent emails for the last ten days and had seen nothing that jumped out at him. They seemed mostly to go to and come from business contacts, or women. Clearly, Bard mixed business with pleasure. Crawford intended to get Jennifer Atwood’s permission to take the laptop back to his office, where he could study it more closely.

  He scanned the task bar and clicked Reminders. It looked pretty much like a to-do list. Things like, ‘Golf shoes,’ ‘Tina re. St. Bart’s trip,’ ‘Get Theranos book.’ Then one caught his eye: ‘Sub. beneficiaries to T and D.’ He glanced out the big picture window, then back at the line in Reminders. A good guess was T and D were Tyrell and Darnell.

  He turned to Ott and Dominica. “Got a quiz for you.”

  “Fire away,” Ott said.

  “Says here on his Reminders, ‘Sub.’—S-u-b-dot—‘beneficiaries to T and D.’ What’s that mean to you?”

  “Simple,” Dominica said without hesitation. “Substitute, in a will, somebody or somebodies for Tyrell and Darnell.”

  “Meaning, put Tyrell and Darnell in and take somebody else out?” Crawford asked.

  Dominica nodded. “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Wow, you’re quick,” Ott said. “I was still trying to figure out who or what T and D were.”

  “So, are you thinking”—she turned to Crawford—“if Bard was taking somebody out of his will and replacing them with Tyrell and Darnell, that could possibly be a motive for murder?”

  Crawford nodded. “Could be. What I’ve dug up about Bard is, one, he’s never been married, and two, he was an only child. Which means he didn’t have any natural heirs to leave his money to. Seems like Tyrell and Darnell were about to get the bid. But apparently Bard never got around to it.”

  “Or else it wouldn’t still be in Reminders, you mean?” Dominica said.

  “Exactly.”

  “You think we could get our hands on his will?” Ott asked.

  “I don’t know; I was thinking of that. We could try. Might be some worthwhile information in it.” Crawford glanced toward the door separating Bard’s office from Jennifer Atwood’s office and saw what he thought was a shadow. “All right, Mort, why don’t you stick around and go through the rest of that file cabinet.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Ott asked.

  “Just drop in at Khalid Al-Ansani’s house. Guy hasn’t called me back, and I’ve got a lot more questions for him.” Crawford turned to Dominica. “You want to help Mort or head back?”

  “I’ve got to get back. I’m getting results on that burglary at the south end,” Dominica said.

  Crawford nodded. “All right, let’s hit it then.”

  “See you, Mort,” Dominica said.

  “Later, beautiful.”

  Crawford and Dominica walked through the door into Jennifer’s office. She was on her computer. She turned to them and smiled. “Find anything useful?”

  “A few things maybe,” Crawford answered. “Would you mind if I took this computer with me?” He held it up. “I’d like to have a closer look at it back in my office.”

  She looked alarmed for a split second, but quickly erased it with a smile. “Sure, but how about … Can you maybe pick it up a little later? There are a few things on it I need for bookkeeping purposes. Also, a few bills on it I need to pay.”

  “Of course. But if I can get it as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” Jennifer said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, do you have a copy of Mr. Bard’s will, by any chance?”

  Again, a flash of alarm; again, it evaporated quickly. “That’s something you’ll have to get from Mr. Bard’s attorney, Berkman Ross.”

  “He didn’t keep a copy here in the office?”

  “No, I think maybe he did in the New York office.”

  “Could you give me Mr. Ross’s phone number, please?”

  “Sure.” She wrote a number on a pad, tore it off, and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” Crawford said. “And we appreciate your cooperation. My partner’s gonna stick around a little longer.”

  “Sounds good,” Jennifer said with another smile.

  Crawford and Dominica went down to the underground parking lot and got into the Crown Vic.

  Just as they did, Dominica’s cell phone rang. She looked down at the caller ID. “The call I’ve been waiting for.”

  She clicked on the speakerphone. “Hey, Paul.”

  “Hey, doll,” the male voice said.

  “You’re on speaker,” Dominica said. “I’m with Charlie.”

  “Oh hey, Charlie … So I got a hit for you from that surveillance footage at the Town Docks parking lot. Turns out that a midnight blue Caddy CTS that was there when that guy got killed is registered to a certain John E. Begay.”

  “You’re the best,” Dominica said. “Took you a while, but it was worth the wait.”

  “Yeah, thanks, man,” Crawford said.

  “No prob. Catch you guys later.” Paul clicked off.

  Dominica turned to Crawford. “Well, well, isn’t that interesting.”

  “Sure is. Mort and I need to pay the brothers a visit. Want to come?”

  “When?”

  “About an hour. I’ve got a re-interview with this guy Al-Ansani. Right after that.”

  Dominica shook her head. “’Fraid I can’t. Got to dust for prints at the break-in.”

  “Well, we’ll miss you.”

  “Thanks. Give those yahoo brothers my best,” Dominica said. “On another subject, was it me, or did you notice Jennifer was kind of hovering?”

  “I was just going to ask you that,” Crawford said. “Like she was trying to eavesdrop, right?”

  “Yeah, that was my impression.”

  Crawford shrugged. “Maybe just curious.”

  “Maybe.”

  Crawford was back on Khalid Al-Ansani’s back porch, two houses down from Rose Clarke’s, questioning the Saudi Arabian mystery man. Al-Ansani had answered the door himself and was apologetic about not having returned Crawford’s many calls to him. He said a business “emergency” had come up that required his full attention which had now, he volunteered, been resolved. Crawford mused to himself that Khalid Al-Ansani, at least according to Quinn Casey, had had more than his share of business emergencies over the years.

  Crawford, nursing a glass of ice water, decided to plunge right in. “Mr. Al-Ansani, it’s come to my attention from a reliable source that you have a substantial mortgage on a condo in New York City that you bought from Asher Bard.”

  “Yes, I do. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Was Bard about to foreclose on it?”

  Al-Ansani shook his head. “His lawyer sent a few notices to me and my lawyer, but we would have worked it out—Asher and me.”

  That wasn’t exactly a no.

  “I was told the principal was forty million dollars and there was close to another ten million in deferred interest.”

  “Like I said, we would have worked it out.” Al-Ansani said it like it was no big deal and the whole subject was starting to irk him.

  “But haven’t you had four years to work it out?”

  Al-Ansani shook his head and took a long pull of his Perrier. “I get it. What you’re implying is this may be a motive for me to have killed Asher. Is that it?”

  “You tell me. Is it?
”

  “I don’t make a habit of going around killing my friends.”

  But what about your enemies?

  Crawford nodded. “That’s good to know. And while I’m tossing out hypotheticals and possible motives, what about this one? The woman who was murdered at The Colony, Grace Spooner, and who, I believe, was going to testify that you had sex with her when she was a minor, was there at the exact same time that you were there. At The Colony. You were on the second floor, she was in the penthouse.”

  Al-Ansani rolled his eyes theatrically. “And I never went anywhere near the penthouse. Not only that, I had no idea she was there. How was I supposed to know that?”

  At least he wasn’t denying knowing Grace Spooner this time.

  “I don’t know. One hypothetical would be that Asher Bard told you she was there. Maybe—and this just came to me this moment—maybe Bard told you she was there and suggested you, let’s say, eliminate Grace Spooner as a witness in exchange for discharging part of, or maybe all of, your debt to him.”

  “Do you really believe any of these preposterous allegations?”

  “I wouldn’t call them allegations. They’re just … what-ifs, conjectures, theories. You’d be surprised how many what-ifs, conjectures, and theories turn out to be what actually happened.”

  Al-Ansani tapped on the table impatiently. “Look, I’ve been very cooperative with you, and I’ve listened to all of your nonsense, but I really don’t want to do it anymore. So, in the future, if you want to talk to me again, call my lawyer. His name is Anthony Barton. But, please, if you’re just going to float nonsensical scenarios, don’t waste either of our time.”

  Crawford got to his feet. “Thank you very much, Mr. Al-Ansani, for suffering through my nonsensical scenarios. If you do see me again, I will be reading you your rights and pushing your head down right before you get in the back of my police car.”

  29

  Crawford picked up Ott at the station at eleven thirty a.m., and they drove over to the Puss in Boots in West Palm.

  They got no answer when Crawford leaned on the buzzer at eleven forty-five.