Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  Mrs. Bellingham glanced at me again. “You know about the Heisman, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I played a little college football myself. Not as good as your dad, though.”

  “You saw him?”

  I shook my head. “No. Never had the pleasure. I heard he had an arm, though. Biggest Hail Mary in the game.”

  She almost smiled. “He loved that game. He played NFL you know.”

  “Cleveland.”

  She nodded. This time she did smile. It was only temporary. I could see now she had a split lip. “I was born there. We left when I was three. He was good, my dad. But not good enough.”

  I knew the feeling. “It’s a hard thing to leave behind. But there are other challenges, other things to strive for.”

  “That’s what my dad used to say.” She looked at her fingers, then at me again. “He used to keep the Heisman on a shelf in his den. It was never really on display. Like it wasn’t the center of anything, just another part of his life.”

  “Some winners define the Heisman, and some are defined by it.”

  She nodded and remembered not to smile. “I was the one who used to watch the games with him. Thanksgiving, especially. My sister would help my mother make turkey and cranberry sauce and I’d sit with Dad and watch football.” She paused, then glanced at Danielle. “It’s why he wanted me to have it. When he passed away.” We waited in silence for a moment before Danielle spoke.

  “Did someone really steal the trophy?” she said.

  Mrs. Bellingham glared at her. “You think I made it up?”

  “I don’t know what happened, Jenny.”

  “It happened just like I said. No one believes me.”

  “I believe you,” said Danielle. “What I don’t understand is how anyone knew you had it, in order to steal it.”

  “My husband.” She shook her head. “I probably should have pretended to have it stolen, then hidden it from him.”

  “What did your husband do?”

  “He tried to sell it.”

  Danielle and Mrs. Bellingham both looked at me, then back at each other.

  “Sell it, how?”

  “On the internet. He listed it on the internet,” Mrs. Bellingham said.

  “But you weren’t okay with that.”

  “No. It was my daddy’s.”

  “But Newt didn’t agree.”

  “No.”

  We waited in silence again, each of us thinking.

  “Ma’am, do you have a computer?” I said.

  She nodded. “In the spare bedroom. Newt does his fantasy football on it.”

  “May I?”

  She nodded again.

  I walked down a corridor that ran down one side of the home. The corridor had rooms off it, like on a sleeper car on a train. The first room was a bathroom. The second room was the spare room. I figured the master bedroom was the room at the end. I flicked the light on in the spare room. It was full of the junk of life. An old two-seater sofa, maybe a pull out for when Newt’s buddies came over and drank too many to stand up and get to their trucks. There was a stack of moving boxes, filled with detritus. A couple of As Seen on TV exercise devices. A desk covered in envelopes and paper. Bills and junk mail. A computer monitor sat in front of a tattered red office chair. There was a desktop system on the floor underneath. I got down on the carpet to look at the back. I was getting up when Danielle entered the room.

  “Something?”

  “Hard to tell,” I said, brushing off my hands. “The carpet could do with a vacuum.” I stood up. “If he listed the Heisman online, then he might have had communication with the burglar by email. It might tell us something.”

  “You think we should take the computer?”

  “No. That might set old Newt off. I found a USB port on the back, so if we get an external hard drive we can copy everything over.”

  “There’s a big box store just on the other side of I-95.”

  “I’ll go if you wait here.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll go. I need you to talk to her. She won’t open up to me about the bruising. I need you to come from another angle. Help her understand that we can help her. Whatever her situation.”

  “Lawful or not so?”

  Danielle looked hard at me.

  “She needs to know all her options.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  JENNY BELLINGHAM OFFERED me coffee. I watched her pour boiling water on the instant granules and she passed me the mug. It had a bass on one side. The other side said ‘I’d rather be fishing.’

  “Sugar or NutraSweet?”

  I shook my head. “How long have you lived here in the park?”

  “About five years.” She poured water in another mug and filled it to the brim with milk.

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Seven.”

  “No kids?”

  She closed her eyes and sipped her coffee. There were daffodils on her mug. “Newt isn’t interested. Says they’ll suck the money out of you. You got kids?”

  “No. Not married, either.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. Never met the right woman, or if I did I let work get in the way.”

  “What do you do exactly?”

  I took a card out and slid it across the kitchen counter. “I help people solve problems.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  “All sorts. I help find people, or discover if people are doing something wrong. I help people escape bad situations. Sometimes some corporate work.”

  She picked up the card. “LCI?”

  “Lenny Cox Investigations. He was the original owner.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it’s my place.”

  She put the card down. “I can’t afford a private investigator, Mr. Jones.”

  “You don’t need to. Someone else is paying me. But in finding their thing, I might find yours.”

  She nodded slowly, then sipped her coffee. It stung her lip and she grimaced.

  “Keep the card anyway. Like I say, I help people out of situations. You ever need help, you call me.”

  “What can you do? The police can’t do anything.”

  “The sheriff can do more than you think. And I can do even more.”

  “How?”

  “I have a little flexibility in my approach. I’ve helped woman like you before.”

  “Women like me?” She said it defiantly, like she wasn’t ready to admit she was being abused.

  “Women who are sometimes a little clumsy and fall down,” I said.

  I finished my coffee as I heard the Mustang pull up outside. Danielle came in and we connected the hard drive to the USB port on the rear of the tower. I got the transfer going and we went back to the living room. It was still dark inside. We drank more coffee and Mrs. Bellingham told us about her father. Some of his stories. About her sister in Tequesta. After my second coffee I went and checked the transfer. It was done. Pretty quick. No videos. Very few pictures, I guessed. I unplugged the drive and put it back in its box and carried it out.

  Danielle got up and put her hand on Mrs. Bellingham’s shoulder. “We’ll check this out and see what we find. I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Danielle stepped down onto the path and strode towards the Mustang. I got to the threshold and Mrs. Bellingham put her hand on my elbow. I turned and looked at her. The bruise on her left eye had gone black and blue. It was a hell of a nasty fall.

  She smiled with her cheeks, not her lips. “My daddy would have liked you.”

  I nodded. “I would have liked him.” I paused for a moment, then, “You need anything, you call. Okay? Anything.”

  She nodded and I stepped down into the glare as she closed the door behind me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE YACHT CLUB overlooked the glittering water of the intracoastal. The sun bounced off the ripples between sprouts of cloud. The radio was still talking about a stor
m, but it was nowhere to be found. Motor yachts, each worth more than my house, lined up along the docks that spidered out from the promenade on Flagler Drive. We found two vans belonging to Black Tie Catering on the promenade, at the end of the dock that lead down to the clubhouse. We followed a girl in a plain white blouse, black skirt, and black stockings. She carried a stainless steel tray containing some kind of hors d'oeuvres down to the water. A large motor launch was tied up against the shore. The girl stepped aboard the boat via a small aluminum gangway that rattled as she tiptoed across.

  Ron and I stood on the promenade in the sunshine. I had my shades on, and I’d even put on trousers. One should look the part. We watched the hubbub on the boat. It was a pontoon boat with a wide flat deck, like a miniature ice rink without the ice. Chairs and tables had been set up in cocktail fashion. A bar and buffet were set up near the back. Or was it the front? Next to the cockpit, or whatever the little shed with the steering wheel in it was called.

  Someone walked past us. It was a guy in the same black and white uniform that the girl was wearing. He carried another steel tray onto the boat. I watched him step around the tables. He moved well. He had dark brown hair that was neat, if a touch long. He was tall, but not large. Big enough to take care of himself, but small enough to not attract unwanted attention. I watched him help move a bain-marie on a stand into the corner of the deck. Then he ambled out across the gangway. He walked towards Ron and me and squinted up into the bright sky. His shirt was open at the neck. I assumed he had one of those clip on black bow ties in his pocket.

  “Dennis,” I said as he got to me.

  He looked down from the sky and blinked. “What?”

  “Dennis Rivers?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “You got a minute to talk?”

  He looked me up and down. I thought I looked pretty snappy. “About what?” His body coiled some.

  “We’re investigating a theft from the Baker residence.”

  “C’mon man,” he groaned. “The cops already hassled me. That was nothing to do with me.” He walked towards the van.

  “You did work at the event. The night of the burglary.”

  “Beat it, man.”

  I looked at Ron. “I guess we’ll just have to take it up with the catering company.”

  Rivers spun around. “C’mon man. They’ll can me.”

  “Couple minutes, Dennis.”

  “I’m workin’ here, man.”

  “So give us a card. If they ask, we’re interested in getting some catering done.”

  He hesitated, looked at the boat. Then back to the van.

  “Two minutes,” he said, walking down the promenade, away from the boat.

  “You guys aren’t cops,” he said.

  “We work for Mr. Baker.”

  “So why you ragging on me?”

  “You were at the event, yes?”

  “We all were. You asking everyone else these questions?”

  “Possibly.”

  “C’mon, man. You hassling me ‘cause I got a record.”

  “That doesn’t help you.”

  “So you just gonna lay it on the ex-con? Easy done, right?”

  “Like you said, we’re not the police. We’re just trying to get Mr. Baker’s property back.”

  “Well, I don’t got it.”

  “What were you in for?” said Ron. His voice was soft and caring. He sounded like a grandpa.

  “GTA. Stole a few cars. I don’t do that no more.”

  “You learned how to cook inside?” said Ron.

  “Yeah. We had to learn a skill.”

  “You like it? Cooking?”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad.”

  “But this isn’t cooking,” Ron said, pointing back to the boat.

  “Nah, man. It’s just waiter stuff. But it’s a job.”

  “So what can you tell us about the event at Mr. Baker’s?” I said.

  “Look, I don’t know nothing, man. It was just another gig. I didn’t even know the man’s stuff was pinched until the cops came knocking on my door.”

  “Did you see the Heisman?”

  “Nah, man. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “What about two days ago, early morning? Can you verify your whereabouts?”

  “Why?”

  “Can you?”

  “You mean like an alibi?”

  “Yes, Dennis, an alibi.”

  “Why?”

  “There was another burglary.”

  He shook his head violently. “Man, I knew it. You trying to nail me.”

  “Just tell us where you were, Dennis, and the problem can go away.”

  “Why, man? It’s not like you’re gonna believe me. Guy like you in your fancy clothes never believe a guy like me.”

  So I did look pretty snappy. I knew it. But I also knew the kid had a point. I wasn’t going to buy anything Rivers said at face value.

  “Look, man. I gotta get back to work. Just leave me the hell alone.”

  “Dennis, did you tell Black Tie Catering you were an ex-con?”

  His face changed, to something I suspect he didn’t have before he went to prison. He looked completely devoid of emotion. Not angry, but capable of anger.

  He held up my business card. “I know where to find you.”

  He turned and strode back to the van. We watched him grab a plastic crate of glassware and carry it to the boat. He didn’t look back at us.

  “Don’t ever get that guy to do catering for you.” said Ron.

  “That’s a bit harsh. He might be an okay chef, even if he is a crook.”

  “I don’t know about his cooking. But based on the look he just gave you, I can guarantee he’ll spit in your food.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE RAIN CAME down for twenty-four hours straight. It was unseasonably late and unusually long. It hit the roof on our building like we were at the bottom of Niagara Falls. I was sitting in a visitor’s chair in the front office, watching Lizzy type slowly. Or play solitaire, I couldn’t tell. I was considering breaking into my Scotch stash in my office when there was a knock at the door. A mousy woman in a long raincoat poked her head in.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She was hard to hear over the rain. “The office downstairs sent me up here. Do you know where I can find a Mr. Miami Jones?” If she wore makeup, it had washed away. Her hair was only a touch damp. She must have been holding an umbrella behind the door.

  “I am he. How can I help?”

  She looked at me, unsure. I was wearing chinos and a shirt with station wagons and surfboards on it. I had boat shoes on. I was presentable enough. Then she looked back at the nameplate on the door.

  “LCI,” I said. “That’s the name of the company. I’m the owner.”

  “Oh,” she said. She was holding onto the door. “Would it not be easier to have your name on the door?”

  “Yes, ma'am, it would. If I wanted everyone to know this was my office. That’s not always the case.” I stood up and put my hand out. “Miami Jones. And you are?”

  She took my hand. Hers was soft and small, more bone than skin. She couldn’t have been much past forty, but she presented like she had given up a long time ago.

  “My name is Arlene Ferguson. I was given your name by Sheriff’s Deputy Castle.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ferguson. She mentioned it. Won’t you come through?”

  Mrs. Ferguson stepped into the office. She held a long black umbrella with a polished wood handle.

  “Let’s sit in my office.” I put my hand on the back of her shoulder. I felt like I was dealing with my grandmother. “Would you like coffee?”

  “Do you have tea?”

  I looked at Lizzy for help and she nodded. I ushered Mrs. Ferguson into my office and sat her on the sofa that spent most of its life as Ron’s day bed. She wore a dress with red flowers on it. Big petals. Hibiscus or something like that. She adjusted her hem below her knees and clasped her delicate hands in her lap. I turned arou
nd the visitor’s chair that was facing my desk and sat. Lizzy came in with a tray. She placed two mugs of tea on the table between us. I didn’t know where the tea had come from. She smiled at Mrs. Ferguson. They couldn’t have been more different. Lizzy wore enough makeup to stock an opera company. They were about the same height, five five-ish, but no one in their right mind would call Lizzy mousy. She stood to leave.

  “Grab a chair,” I said. Lizzy put the tray on my desk and turned the other visitor’s chair around. Mrs. Ferguson held her tea like she was cold. It might have been raining cats and dogs, but it was still seventy-two degrees out.

  “Deputy Castle tells me your husband is missing.”

  “Yes,” she said into the tea.

  “When did he disappear?”

  “A couple of days ago. He was gone all night, which isn’t like him. The next day I called the sheriff.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him.”

  “No,” she whispered. The rain kept tapping against the window.

  I made no move to pick up my tea. “What do you think might have happened to him, Mrs. Ferguson?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t understand.”

  “What does your husband do?”

  “Do?”

  “For a living?”

  She nodded. “He sells cars.”

  “At a dealership?”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  “What sort of cars?”

  “Cars are cars.”

  I nodded. I didn’t care about the cars. I just wanted to get her talking. Conversations need momentum.

  “Has he always done that? Sold cars?”

  “Pretty much. He got a job with a Ford dealer when we lived in Belle Glade. That was out of college. When our son started high school we moved to West Palm. Sandy got a job at the lot.”

  “Sandy, that’s your husband.”

  She nodded and sipped her tea. Lizzy was watching her, studying her face.

  “Tell me about your husband, Mrs. Ferguson.”

  “The thing you need to know, Mr. Jones, is my husband is a good man. He’s just sad, is all. We met in college and he was so full of life. He was charming and athletic and just so full of life. After we graduated and our son was born, well… he lost his spark. He had a family to support and bills to pay and I don’t think selling cars was his dream job. Not sure it’s anybody’s dream job.”