by Tom Turner
“I got a feeling people in this line of work don’t see a whole lot of the morning,” Ott said.
“I got a feeling you’re right,” Crawford said with a nod. “Tell you what, let’s go around back. I think there’s a back entrance to the Puss executive suite.”
They walked around back and saw the same black Ford F-150 pick-up and Cadillac CTS parked in the same spots as when Crawford and Dominica had visited the strip club.
Ott flicked his head at the truck and car. “The executive vehicles?”
“Yup.” Crawford pointed. “That’s the Caddy Dominica spotted.”
They walked up to a door and Ott hit the buzzer. After a few moments, they heard the thudding sounds of slow-moving footsteps.
The door opened a crack. Frank Begay squinted out, naked except for frayed Jockey underwear.
He groaned. “Not open. Come back at five.”
Crawford pushed the door open. Begay didn’t resist.
“We need to have a few words with your brother,” Crawford said.
“So, ’zat mean I can go back to bed?”
“No. Since you’re up, you’re included, too.”
Another groan.
“Go get him, will ya?” Ott said as he and Crawford walked in.
“All right, all right,” Frank said, shuffling off.
“This place smells a lot like Rutledge’s office,” Crawford said.
Ott nodded knowingly. “Labrador retrievers.”
Johnnie Begay appeared. Same Jockey underwear, but his had a hole in one side.
“How ’bout you put some clothes on,” Ott said.
“What the fuck is this?” Johnnie snarled.
“Put a shirt on, at least,” Ott said. “It’s too early in the morning to look at your flaccid bodies.”
“Whatever the fuck that means,” Johnnie said.
“You just roll out of bed sayin’ fuck, Johnnie?” Ott said.
“Fuckin’ right. What do you want?”
Frank came out of the back and threw a blue plaid shirt at his brother.
“We want to ask you some questions,” Crawford said.
“Jesus Christ,” Johnnie said. “Not again.”
“A few days back, your car was caught on camera at the lot on Australian in Palm Beach. What were you doing there?”
Johnnie glanced at Frank and smiled broadly.
Crawford had a sudden premonition that he wasn’t going to like the answer.
Johnnie scanned the room with his hand. “You think this place is all I got to show for years of hard work and keepin’ my nose clean?”
“Answer the question,” Ott said.
“Hold on,” Johnnie said. “I’m tryin’ to answer it. I got a Regulator 41 down there at the docks.”
“What’s that?” Crawford asked.
“A fishing boat,” Ott told his partner.
“A hell of a nice fishing boat,” Johnnie said.
“So, exactly where were you the day before yesterday between twelve thirty and one forty-five?” Crawford asked.
“On my boat,” Johnnie said. “About three miles out.”
“You know Asher Bard?” Crawford asked. “And don’t bullshit me like last time.”
Johnnie sighed and rubbed his unshaven face. “Once upon a time a long time ago I knew him. Haven’t seen him or said a word to him since … shit, ten years ago.”
Crawford looked over at Frank.
“Yeah, same with me,” Frank said.
“So, that’s what you woke us up for?” Johnnie asked.
“Yeah. And to see if you found out who put the wood to my partner the other night,” Ott said.
Johnnie shook his head.
Ott glanced at Frank. “How about you?”
“No idea.”
“Okay, boys, we’re done. You can go back to bed,” Crawford said, heading to the door.
Ott’s eyes were stuck on Johnnie’s holey underwear. “Ever thought about getting one of your girlfriends to darn up those skivvies of yours?”
30
“Score one for the Begays,” Crawford said.
“Yeah,” Ott said, getting into the Vic. “You never heard of a Regulator?”
Crawford turned the car key. “Nah, not much of a fisherman.”
“So, how you feel about having Norm in on the Archie-girls interview?” Ott asked.
“Knowing him, he’ll probably try to score their phone numbers.”
Khalid Al-Ansani had jumped to the top of Crawford’s list as a leading candidate for the murders of Grace Spooner and Asher Bard. Also-rans for either, or both, murders were—in no particular order—Lord Ainslie Sunderland, Joe Mitchell, and Harlan Brody. Scratched from contention were Johnnie and Frank Begay. Long shots included … well, there really weren’t any to speak of at the moment.
Crawford was back at his office, making calls and wrapping up loose ends. He had just called the office of State Attorney Harlan Brody. He had asked for ‘Mr. Brody’s appointments assistant,’ which in the old days would have meant his secretary. He had been bounced around—reminding him of his experiences with the Motor Vehicle Department—for the last fifteen minutes. If there was one thing Crawford wasn’t, it was patient, and he was getting frustrated.
“State attorney’s office,” said a chirpy voice.
“My name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police. I’m working on an investigation and would appreciate you telling me where the state attorney was yesterday between the hours of approximately twelve thirty and one forty-five.”
“Why do you want to know?” the woman asked, going from chirpy to all business.
“I’m just trying to establish a time line,” he said, not even sure what he meant by that.
“The state attorney was down in Miami for a morning conference, Detective. Then a twelve-thirty lunch with donors.”
“So when did he get back to his office, do you know?”
“Around four. I’m still not sure why you want this information.”
“Well, thank you very much,” Crawford said, eager to end the conversation. He clicked off.
So much for Harlan Brody as a suspect … No self-respecting politician aspiring for higher office would ever miss a donor’s lunch: the opportunity to put the bite on rich people eager to buy some influence always had to be a top priority.
Crawford just wished he hadn’t had to identify himself but knew that without saying who he was, he wouldn’t have gotten the information.
Ott had made an appointment with Joe Mitchell. This time, instead of a stroll on the beach, they were meeting at Mitchell’s house on Indian Road.
Ott was met at the door by the same housekeeper he encountered last time he was there.
He followed her back to Mitchell’s home office that had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three sides. He noticed half a shelf, above Mitchell’s head, seemed to be the entire oeuvre of the news anchor Bill O’Reilly. Killing Kennedy, Killing Nixon, Killing Reagan, Killing Patton … Ott had a silent chuckle to himself. Everything except Killing Bard.
Mitchell gave Ott a dead-fish handshake. “So, what can I do for you this time, Detective?”
“Quite an impressive collection of books, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Thanks. Are you a reader?”
Ott leaned back in his chair. “I read about twelve books a year. You know, one a month.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, but there are only three authors I read.”
“And who would they be?”
“Stephen King, Harlan Coben, and Lee Child. Between the three of them, they knock out about twelve books a year.”
Mitchell’s eyes narrowed. “I see. So, you just read popular fiction then?” It was clearly a put-down.
Ott nodded. “Yeah, whatever you want to call it.”
Mitchell glowered. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“You can remember a conversation you had on the golf course a while back. You were playing with Asher Bard, Robbie Sproul, an
d I’m not sure who the fourth was.”
“Yes, I remember. The fourth was Eric Hobson.”
Ott wrote the name down in his dog-eared notebook. “We’ve heard that during that round of golf, Mr. Bard directed a comment to you. He told you someone had threatened him, but he’d learned or come across something that was going to ‘turn the tables’ on that person. Sound familiar? Do you remember him saying that, Mr. Mitchell?”
“No, but it sounds like Asher. He was always trying to get leverage on everyone.”
Ott leaned toward Mitchell and turned up the volume. “Are you saying you don’t remember him saying that to you, or who he was talking about?”
“That’s what I’m saying. I think the person who told you this—who I deduce was Roddy Sproul—had me confused with someone else.”
“The only ‘someone else’ it could have been is the man you just told me about, Eric Hobson.”
“Yes, so I suggest you talk to Eric.”
“Mr. Mitchell, my source was sure it was you who Bard said that to.”
Mitchell shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, but it wasn’t. Maybe you should ask your source how many of those South African beers he’d had before he heard this.”
After Crawford got off the phone with Harlan Brody’s assistant, he called Berkman Ross, Asher Bard’s attorney. The law firm’s receptionist asked him for his name, and he said, “Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police.” A few moments later Berkman Ross picked up.
He skipped the hello. “I’m assuming this has to do with Asher Bard, Detective?”
“Yes, it does. I’m one of the investigators on his murder. My first question is, did Asher Bard ever tell you about someone who had threatened him or whom he may have feared?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Wasn’t my job to keep track of Asher’s enemies, but I’m sure he had a few.”
“Next question is, do you have in your possession, or know where I can get my hands on, Mr. Bard’s will?”
“What do you need that for?”
“I’m hoping it may shed light on who his killer might be. It’s kind of a long shot but worth checking into.”
“Yes, I do have a copy. It’s funny, because he called me last week and said he wanted to come in and change something on it.”
“Did he say what?”
There was a long pause.
“No, but I could take a guess.”
“Tell me.”
Ross sighed. “Couple weeks ago, he talked about cutting his assistant out of it.”
“You’re talking about Jennifer Atwood?”
“That’s who I’m talking about.”
“Why was he going to do that?”
“It’s kind of a long story, but she’s in his will for ten million dollars.”
“Wow, he was a generous boss.”
“Well, there’s more than meets the eye about their relationship—” He paused like he wasn’t sure he should go on.
Crawford realized he needed to give Ross a little prod. “Keep going, Mr. Ross, this may be critical to my investigation.”
“Well, Asher’s dead, so I suppose the usual discretion isn’t necessary anymore. See, back about twenty years ago, Jen was Asher’s girlfriend. Not totally exclusive because … well, I’m sure by now you know all about his appetite for women. At one point, she kind of manipulated him into asking her to marry him. Then, he reneged. But along the way, she got him to put her in his will.”
“To the tune of ten million dollars.”
“Exactly. But then a couple months ago he was in here on another subject, and he started talking about Jen. How he pays her five hundred thousand a year, not to mention a big bonus and, you know … how that was plenty. Why did he also need to leave her ten million? Particularly since those two boys, Tyrell and Darnell, had become so important in his life.”
Crawford was digesting the numbers. “He was paying her five hundred thousand a year? Plus a bonus?”
“Yeah, the bonus worked out to another two to three hundred thousand.”
“That’s incredible. And, as of right now, Jennifer Atwood’s still in Bard’s will as a ten-million-dollar beneficiary?”
“Sure is. As of now and forever. That’s the will that’s gonna stand unless—”
Crawford could imagine the light bulb snapping on over Berkman Ross’ head.
“Okay, I get it now. You’re asking me these questions because you suspect Jen may have had something to do with Asher’s murder?”
“I’m looking at everyone in his life,” Crawford said. “What about Tyrell and Darnell, what were they getting?”
“Well, they both had trust funds … and now I’m thinking what you probably suspect, that maybe Asher was going to will Jen’s ten mill to the boys.”
The problem was there was no way in hell Crawford could see Jennifer wielding a forty-pound kettlebell as a murder weapon. Not that she couldn’t hire someone to do it.
“So,” said Crawford, “since yesterday you’ve had plenty of time to think about who might have killed your client. Who have you come up with?”
“The state attorney, Harlan Brody, hated Asher with a passion,” Ross said. “I know what you’re thinking … a guy that high up would never do it.”
“Anyone else?”
“Why are you dismissing Brody?”
“I just am.”
“Why?”
“Trust me, I looked at him, but he’s got a solid alibi.”
Ross sighed. “Damn,” he said. “Nobody I’d love to see in the slammer more than that arrogant prick.”
“Sorry,” Crawford said as his cell phone rang. “Thank you very much for the help. Gotta take this other call.” He clicked off.
“Hello.”
“Crawford, what the hell are you up to?” Speak of the devil, it was a clearly apoplectic Harlan Brody.
“’Scuse me?” Crawford said innocently.
“You know damn well. Calling my office and asking ’em where I was when Asher Bard was killed.”
“Oh, that? Mr. Brody, my partner and I make about a hundred calls like that in the course of a typical investigation,” said Crawford, exaggerating it about threefold. “It’s called a routine question, and I’m sorry if you were offended.”
“Offended. Are you fucking kidding me, I was totally pissed off. You pull a stunt like that again and, I promise you, you’re in deep, deep shit.”
Crawford’s first instinct was to push back, but he let it go. “I said I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of an important interview and need to go now.”
It was what Crawford called a “catch-up” session and Ott referred to as a “shoot the shit” session. Both of them were reviewing what they had done, or found out about the two cases, in the twenty-four hours since they last sat down together.
Ott told Crawford he’d spent another two hours going through the big file cabinet in Asher Bard’s office but hadn’t come up with anything like the three-hundred-thousand-dollar bombshell: the check to Grace Spooner. It was mostly files relating to Bard’s business. Crawford asked him if he happened to notice that Jennifer Atwood seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time keeping an eye on what the three of them were saying and doing in Asher Bard’s office when they were all there. Ott said he’d been aware but had chalked it up to natural curiosity to learn what they’d found out about her longtime boss. Crawford flashed back to what he had seen on Asher Bard’s computer and made a mental note to go and get the MacBook Air from Jennifer Atwood once he and Ott were done.
Next, Crawford summed up his conversation with Bard’s lawyer, Berkman Ross. He grabbed Ott’s full attention by starting out saying, “You’re about to go on a date with a multimillionaire.”
Crawford left out the part about Bard’s eleventh-hour desire to change his will. His gut still told him Jennifer Atwood was a long shot for the murders, and he didn’t want to dampen his partner’s spirits unnecessarily.
When he’d finished replaying his convers
ation with Berkman Ross, Ott said, “Wow, five hundred K a year and another two hundy in bonus. I should marry that woman and retire from my long, distinguished career in law enforcement.”
“Yeah, but before you marry her, you gotta at least have one date with her.”
“Coming right up.”
“Might want to get a ring beforehand.”
Ott chuckled. “I should.”
Crawford stood up.
“Where you going?” Ott asked.
“To see Jennifer.”
“You bastard, you gonna try to steal her away from me, aren’t you?”
Crawford laughed. “I’m gonna get Asher Bard’s computer.”
Ott chuckled. “Yeah, a likely story.”
Crawford went over to Jennifer’s office at 350 Royal Palm Way, got the MacBook Air without incident, then brought it back to his office.
He spent the next hour going over Bard’s emails again. This time he went back two months on both Asher’s sent and received emails. There were some steamy back-and-forths with a number of women, some vituperative rebukes of executives in his media company over a takeover that had apparently blown up, some kindhearted messages to adopted sons Tyrell and Darnell, and many notes to Jennifer Atwood requesting her to attend to certain tasks. But what there wasn’t was a smoking gun. Nothing even close. Crawford had hoped for more.
He closed the computer and looked at his watch. It was 7:10 and his stomach was growling. It was time to call it a night. Then he had one last thought. He picked up the computer again and punched Reminders on the task bar. He scrolled down, not finding what he was looking for, then scrolled up and down one more time.
But the reminder that had said “Sub. beneficiaries to T and D” was nowhere to be found.
31
There was no mystery who had erased ‘Sub. beneficiaries to T and D.’
Crawford called Ott right away. “You getting ready for your big date?”
“I’m actually on my way to pick her up. What’s up?”
“That thing about Tyrell and Darnell under Reminders in Bard’s computer? It miraculously disappeared.”
