by Tom Turner
She started to scream, but her voice was muffled. Cam grabbed her arms, pulled them behind her back, and tied them up with another strip of duct tape as Marco and Mel ran out of the guesthouse. Marco had a syringe in one hand. He walked up to the girl, and as Cam held her arm tightly, Marco injected her. Mel, towing the long metal toolbox behind him, came up parallel to the chaise lounge the girl was lying on and opened it. Mel took the girl’s arms as Marco took her legs. They lifted her into the rolling toolbox that had plenty of room to spare.
Five minutes later they were crossing the south bridge to West Palm Beach.
Nineteen
It took a little digging, but Crawford found out that the gay couple, one of whom had been crippled by Clyde Loadholt, were named Johnny Baxter and Ben Silver. Baxter was the crippled one, now in a wheelchair. They had run a little shop over on Dixie Highway in West Palm. Crawford went there and talked to people who ran neighboring shops. The word was they were the nicest guys in the world and would do anything for you. A woman in a clothes shop told Crawford about how after a hurricane had flooded some of the other shops, Silver had gone door to door with a huge shop vacuum and vacuumed up the floodwater in the neighboring stores. That same woman had kept in touch with Baxter and Silver and said they had moved down to Key West.
She gave him Silver’s cell number, which Crawford dialed. When Crawford asked Silver where his partner and he had been three nights ago, Silver said that he and Baxter had gone up to Miami to celebrate Baxter’s birthday and had spent the night at a hotel there. Crawford called the hotel and found out that, in fact, they had been there on the night of Loadholt’s murder.
Ott went to see Chelsea, the former stripper, now a salesperson at the Macy’s up at Palm Beach Gardens. Ott suspected that her last job in her old profession might have been at Clyde Loadholt’s poker game. It turned out to be Chelsea’s day off and though she wasn’t thrilled about re-hashing the night at Loadholt’s, she agreed to meet Ott with her husband, an out-of-work carpenter.
Pete the carpenter was still seething about the incident and particularly the trial. Chelsea seemed to have done a much better job than him of putting the whole thing behind her. When Ott asked them where they were the night of Loadholt’s murder they said they were bingeing on a TV show on Amazon Prime called Bosch. Ott perked up when he heard that, knowing the show was about a cop named Harry Bosch, Michael Connelly’s tenacious, jazz-loving homicide detective in the Hollywood division of the LA Police Department.
Pete suggested Ott watch it, pick up some pointers maybe. That was a joke, he said.
Ott thanked them and left for a four thirty meeting with Norm Rutledge to discuss the case. A meeting Ott was looking forward to as much as having a tooth pulled with a pair of pliers and no novocaine.
As he looked across the desk at Rutledge, Crawford wondered if a prerequisite for becoming police chief of Palm Beach was that you either be a loose cannon or quasi incompetent. Rutledge’s office had always bothered Crawford because on all four walls were pictures of Rutledge and his loving family in a wide assortment of ridiculous poses. The one that took the cake was the family all dressed in their matching brown outfits. There were pictures everywhere, no escaping them: Rutledge, his wife Jean, his two daughters, and his two sons, Normie, Jr., and Brockton. Crawford wondered who would ever name a son after a grimy town in Massachusetts where Rocky Marciano was from anyway? In another picture, Rutledge, his wife, and Brockton knelt on their hands and knees on the bottom, his two daughters above them, then smiling, tow-headed little Normie the cherry on top of the family pyramid. But the thing that bugged Crawford most was the fact that, despite appearing to be the patriarch of the happiest family in America, Norm was a serial cheater.
The designation police chief was actually no more, because six years ago it had been given a new, pasteurized version—Director of Public Safety. Crawford wondered what the hell was wrong with police chief? Director of Public Safety conjured up an image of a man with a whistle in his mouth and a day-glo orange belt ushering blue-haired ladies across the street. Which was something Rutledge would actually have been good at.
Rutledge had started their meeting by railing about how, on its official website, the Palm Beach Police Department—which it was still called—had 2.3 stars, versus West Palm, which had 4 stars, and Palm Beach Gardens, 4.6 stars.
“Are you tellin’ me that Palm Beach Gardens is twice as good as us? Really?” Rutledge said.
Crawford ignored the question but Ott shrugged and said. “Hey, Norm we’re not trying to tell you anything. I mean, who gives a shit? One star, twenty stars, who the fuck cares?”
Crawford laughed his agreement.
Rutledge shook his head. “So where are you guys on Loadholt anyway?” Then he had an afterthought. “And how’ bout one of these days you catch the guy in the first forty-eight?”
Ott looked at Crawford and did a quick roll of the eyes. Ott had a habit of challenging Rutledge; Crawford couldn’t be bothered.
“Whoa,” said Ott. “How many other teams do you know that are five for five? You know what the national clearance rate is? Something like forty percent. Chicago is twenty-eight percent. We’re one hundred percent.” He paused. “Aren’t you glad you brought it up?”
But this time Crawford decided to chime in. “Hey, we’d like to catch ‘em in the first five minutes, but it doesn’t usually work out that way. What the hell does it matter, the fact is, we catch ‘em,” he said. “And while we’re at it, why didn’t you give us the full story on Loadholt?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know, the fact that a rape allegedly took place at his house, for starters,” Crawford said.
“Or the fact that he killed a guy in a pretty hinky burglary takedown,” Ott piled on.
“You didn’t think any of that was relevant, Norm?” Crawford asked.
Rutledge shook his head dismissively and stared hard at Crawford. “Anybody ever accuse you of something you didn’t do, Crawford?” he asked. “Seems to me I remember something about a police brutality charge up in New York.”
He was referring to a story in the Palm Beach Morning News. The paper’s silent owner, a man named Ward Jaynes, later to become a convicted murderer, had browbeat a reporter into planting a story in an effort to discredit and humiliate Crawford.
Crawford’s fist tightened and his jaw got rock hard. “That was total bullshit. Every single word of it and you damn well know it.”
Rutledge smiled. “Exactly my point,” he said. “That story about you was bullshit and so is all this shit about Loadholt.”
Ott wasn’t buying it. “You might be able to dismiss it like that,” he said. “But more and more stories about Loadholt keep coming out of the woodwork. Like that guy he crippled.”
Rutledge shook his head and dialed up his best sneer. “I got news for you, Ott,” he said, “this is a murder case and Loadholt is the victim, not the perp. And the idea is, just in case you lost your way, to find out who did it. Not to run around dredging up all kinds of shit on a cop with a distinguished thirty-five-year career in law enforcement who’s not around to defend himself.”
Crawford had to admit it, sometimes Rutledge could sound like the head of the debate team.
Ott started to say something, but Rutledge cut him off. “How ‘bout just tellin’ me what you got.”
After a long pause, Ott detailed his interview with Chelsea McKinnon and her husband; then Crawford proceeded to tell Rutledge about the gay couple who seemed to be in the clear and about Sonia Reyes and her incarcerated brother.
“So that’s it?” Rutledge asked.
“We’re still digging,” Ott said.
“We’re looking into a tie-in with Meyer’s murder,” Crawford said. “The common denominator being the regular poker game at Loadholt’s house.”
Scrolling on his iPhone, Rutledge looked up. “Yeah, I told you about that game.”
“It was way more than a
card game,” Crawford said.
Rutledge looked up. “Whatever happened there, it went away, just like your brutality charge. I can’t believe there was even a trial.”
Ott shot a glance at Crawford and then turned back to Rutledge. “If you had a card game at your house, would you send your wife—”
“All right, enough. This isn’t about some goddamn card game, it’s about a cop killer,” Rutledge said. “And whether he was retired or active, it doesn’t matter. Whether he had a stripper at his card game, it doesn’t matter. Whether he used undue force in that incident ten years ago on Worth Avenue, it doesn’t matter. What matters is a cop was killed and we need to take down his killer.”
Crawford had to give it to him again. It was one of Rutledge’s better speeches.
Crawford sighed. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Yeah, but the question is…when?” Rutledge said looking at his watch. It was two past five. “Well, it’s quittin’ time. I’d be happy to resume this conversation at O’Herlihy’s.”
He stood up to go. Despite his little speech, Rutledge seemed much more interested in his first cocktail of the day than Loadholt.
Crawford and Ott got into the Crown Vic that had ‘Wash Me’ scrawled on the back trunk.
Ott turned to Crawford. “Just what I want to do. Go have a drink with that horse’s ass at his dipshit bar.”
“Yeah, you’d think just once he could stretch it out a few minutes at work. You know, make it to five thirty,” Crawford said.
“If he did, he’d miss part of happy hour,” said Ott, waving at Bill Nesto, one of the motorcycle cops, as they drove out of the parking lot.
O’Herlihy’s was a cop bar. Sort of.
Unlike Mookie’s, it didn’t have one of those big jars with pickled eggs in it that looked like it could incubate several diseases simultaneously. Unlike Mookie’s, it didn’t have a dart board or a pool table with ripped green felt in front of one of the corner pockets. Unlike Mookie’s, it did have waiters and waitresses instead of just one bartender who was also the owner. Unlike Mookie’s, it didn’t have an ashtray at the end of the bar so Don Scarpa could smoke illegally at his seat of honor.
The cops who frequented O’Herlihy’s were a decidedly more reputable-looking bunch than those who hung out at Mookie’s. They sported much less facial hair and had not one tattoo in sight. And the conversations there were generally on more elevated subjects: the latest trends in law enforcement and new, breakthrough technologies as opposed to the bust size of the new girl in the Bicycle Patrol Unit or who was going to win the Gators-Bulldogs game that Saturday.
Crawford’s cell phone rang as they pulled into O’Herlihy’s. He looked down at it and slid the unlock button. “Well, Alexa, it’s been three whole hours since I heard from you.”
“Hello, Charlie,” she said. “I knew you’d be missing my voice.”
“What’s up? I’m just about to go into another cop bar,” he said.
“Jesus, is that all you do?”
“Pretty much.”
“So how about a drink tomorrow night at a reporters’ bar?”
“So I can field questions from you and your newshound friends?”
Ott turned off the car’s engine.
“Just me. Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said.
“Otherwise you’re just gonna keep harassing me, right?”
“Pretty much.”
Crawford sighed dramatically “Okay,” he said.
“Cool,” she said. “It’s called Jack’s, on Congress.”
“Okay.”
“Seven good?”
“See you then,” Crawford said and clicked off.
“Who’s that?” Ott asked as they got out of the car.
“Remember that reporter at the Loadholt scene? Dropped her card from the chopper?”
“How could I forget,” Ott said. “The hottie.”
Crawford and Ott felt like ducks out of water at O’Herlihy’s but were making the best of it. They were at a table with Rutledge, who was having a conversation with the West Palm Police Chief Ron Mendoza, seated one table away.
“So the sensors are mounted on rooftops and telephone poles and can immediately pinpoint the location of the gunshot,” Mendoza said. “Then the systems computer triangulates the origin of the gunshots based on how far it is from the sensors. And boom, a uniform can be there in minutes. Oh, and plus, it can tell the difference between a car backfire and a gunshot.”
“No kiddin’,” said Rutledge. “What’s the thing called again?”
“Shotspotter,” Mendoza said. “They’ve been using ‘em in California for quite a while now.”
“Ah, Norm,” Crawford said, waving to get Rutledge’s attention. But Rutledge was too engrossed in the Shotspotter.
Crawford’s cell phone rang.
He looked at the number but didn’t recognize it.
He clicked it. “Crawford.”
“Hey, Charlie, it’s David Balfour,” Crawford could hear panic in his voice. “I’ve got a bad situation here.”
“What is it?” he asked as Rutledge babbled on across the table.
“I can’t talk about it on the phone, can you come here? To my house.”
“I’m on my way. I’m with my partner,” he clicked off, stood up, and turned to Ott. “David Balfour. Something serious.”
Crawford stood then Ott followed suit. Crawford didn’t even bother to catch Rutledge’s attention as he and Ott walked quickly toward the front door.
Crawford turned to Ott when they got outside. “Had enough of this shithole anyway.”
“Yeah, totally lacking in atmosphere.” Ott said. “Not to mention, no tasty pickled eggs.”
Twenty
Crawford’s cell phone rang again as he and Ott crossed the bridge over to Palm Beach. It was David Balfour again. Crawford clicked it. “Yeah, David?”
“I was thinking,” he was whispering now, “it’s a bad idea to drive up to my house. You’ll understand why later. So here’s what you do: park down at Mellor Park, then walk up the beach and come through my tunnel. You remember where it is, right?”
“Yeah, that bulkhead door on the dune,” Crawford said.
Balfour lived at the south end of South Ocean Boulevard. There was a stretch where no houses were directly on the ocean because the road had been built so it separated the houses from the beach. Several of the houses had tunnels that went under South Ocean and came out right on the beach.
“Okay,” Crawford said. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, man,” said Balfour. “I really appreciate it.”
“For my best CI,” Crawford said, “anytime.”
David Balfour was hardly a confidential informer. He was a fifty-five-year-old man who had inherited a lot of money. But he was also a down-to-earth, good-hearted man who had become a genuine friend of Crawford’s. Crawford had met Balfour through Rose Clarke, who had gone out with him briefly, and Balfour had given Crawford information a few times that was helpful in solving murders. So Crawford had designated Balfour as his unofficial CI.
It seemed to give the man purpose.
Ott pulled the Crown Vic into Mellor Park and parked. They got out and walked to the beach. It was a full moon and the stars looked as though they were only a few miles above.
“What do you s’pose this is about?” Ott asked as they walked over a dune.
“No clue,” said Crawford, looking out at the lights of a big tanker ship several miles out. “Something pretty serious, I’m guessing. That’s it over there.” Crawford said, pointing at a white bulkhead door.
They walked up to it and Crawford pulled on the metal door handle. It opened up and light streamed out. Crawford walked down three steps, Ott was right behind him.
“If I was part of that father-daughter burglary team, this would have come in pretty handy,” Ott said halfway through the tunnel.
“Yeah, except it’s got all kinds of locks at
the other end and usually the beach door is locked,” Crawford said walking down the tunnel.
“Charlie,” came a voice. David Balfour waited at the end of the tunnel.
“Hey, David,” said Crawford.
Balfour shook his hand like he hadn’t seen him in years then turned to Ott. “Hey, Mort. I really appreciate you guys coming.”
“No problem,” Ott said.
“So what’s goin’ on, David?” Crawford asked as the three went up the stairs from Balfour’s house’s cellar into a corner of his enormous kitchen.
Balfour turned to them. “My niece, Lila, has been kidnapped.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Crawford said. “Really?”
“Yeah, come on into the living room,” Balfour said. “You guys want a drink or something?”
“No, thanks,” said Crawford, motioning with his hand, “but let’s go back down to the cellar. In case someone’s watching the house.”
Ott nodded.
“Good idea,” Balfour said.
The three of them went back over to the stairway leading to the cellar and went down the stairs. Balfour flicked the light on. The finished basement room had a pool table in it and, Crawford guessed, Balfour’s second-string furniture. The centerpiece was a big brown leather sofa, which had some mileage on it, facing two leather chairs. The room had a slightly dank smell and a cluster of cobwebs over in one corner.
“I’m guessing you don’t use this much,” Crawford said.
“Couple times a year is all,” Balfour said.
None of them made a move to sit.
“So start from the beginning,” Crawford said.
Crawford knew the backstory about Balfour’s niece. How she had lived with him ever since her parents—Balfour’s older sister and brother-in-law, Kirk and Kitty Bacon—had been killed in a car accident six months before. The two were on 95 coming home from a dinner party up on Bush Island when a drunk driver in a pickup coming from the opposite direction had jumped the median and plowed into them. Lila was eighteen or nineteen Crawford guessed, and, he seemed to recall, was taking classes at a college in the area. He wasn’t sure which one.
