by Tom Turner
Camilo said he could never do that. That last thing he was, he said, was a killer. Jenny told him the alternative was to have the police one step behind them, how they’d always have to be looking back over their shoulders. Camilo said they could move to Argentina. Jenny told him how naïve he was, they would still come after them there. Camilo explained that his parents lived in a remote village in the Andes.
Jenny looked at him and laughed mockingly. Did he really expect her to live in some godforsaken village up in the mountains, she asked? Live like peasants with three million dollars under their mattress? No, they had to kill her and bury her body.
Crawford and Ott drove Lila home. Out of habit, Ott started in the direction of Mellor Park.
“Where you going, Mort?” Crawford asked him.
“Oh, yeah,” Ott said. “Guess I can drive in the driveway now.”
Crawford nodded.
Balfour came running up to the car. Ott was in the back seat, having traded in his mailman’s outfit for his brown polyester pants and white rayon shirt—a fashion statement perhaps on the wrong side of Cleveland. Crawford was driving and Lila was in the passenger seat, a grin from ear to ear.
Her uncle grabbed her door and pulled it open. She hopped out and he enveloped her in a smothering hug. Neither one said anything for a long time. He just rocked her back and forth. Crawford couldn’t have pried them apart with a crowbar.
Finally, Balfour said. “Oh, God, I am so happy to see you, honey.”
“So glad to be back, Uncle David.”
Then Balfour turned to Crawford and Ott. “You guys…you guys are the best,” he said and threw his arms around Crawford, slapping him on the back with his hands. “Thank you, Charlie, thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Crawford said.
Then Balfour released him and gave Ott a hug. “Thank you, Mort, I’ll never forget this.”
“You’re welcome,” Ott said.
“Never knew you were such a big hugger,” Crawford said.
Balfour laughed and put an arm around Lila’s shoulder. “Never had such a good reason to hug anyone before.”
Thirty-Nine
Crawford got to the station at seven thirty on Monday morning. He had a lot of paperwork to do on the kidnapping. He had called Norm Rutledge on Sunday afternoon and gave him a blow-by-blow of the whole thing. Instead of saying ‘good job’ or something complimentary, Rutledge had jumped in with a series of questions: ‘Why didn’t you get backup?’ ‘Why didn’t you put me in the loop earlier?’ Even, ‘Why didn’t you go back to the station to get a battering ram, to make sure you could knock down that door?’
Je-sus! Really?
Crawford answered all his questions very patiently, as he silently wished that he and Ott had just pretended the whole thing never happened and they never reported it. Which he might have done except he needed the warrants. Though if they had gone that route, Rutledge might wonder why there were two young men and a woman in the station’s basement jail.
At eight o’clock, Crawford called Susie Loadholt.
“Mrs. Loadholt, I hope I’m not calling too early but I have a few questions about your granddaughter.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve been up for hours,” Susie Loadholt said. “Ask away.”
“First of all, did she graduate from high school?”
“Of course she did,” Loadholt said, sounding offended.
“What high school and what year?” Crawford asked.
“Forest Hill Community High School,” Loadholt said. “Class of ’97.”
“And do you happen to remember—I know it was a long time ago—but do you remember the names of her best friends back then?”
Mrs. Loadholt didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then offered, “I remember a few. There was Martha McClellan. And Jessie Williams. Then there was one with a funny name…Arria or Ariel, something like that. You know what, I have her yearbook up in her old room. I can take a look at it.”
“That would be really helpful. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” she said. “What else?”
Crawford heard a voice in the background say, “Who’re you talking to?”
Mavis. Of course. The last thing he wanted was for her to get in on the act.
“Just one last question: Those women, some of them probably got married. Would you happen to know any of their married names?”
Silence again. Then, “Only one I know is Martha McClellan,” Loadholt said. “She married a man named Raymond. Bill Raymond. He was a local newscaster.”
Crawford wrote the name down.
“Thank you, that’s very helpful,” Crawford said. “If you would give me a call with the other women’s names, I would appreciate it.”
“You bet, Detective,” she said and hung up.
Crawford didn’t have any other suspects left. So he figured he might as well pursue the granddaughter as far as it would go.
Susie Loadholt called back a half hour later and said she had done some “detective work”—she got a big chuckle out of saying that—and found out that Arria’s last name was Ware and she had married her high school sweetheart, David Abernathy.
Crawford thanked her and called the high school at a little past nine. He asked for an office staffer, and added, ‘the one with the most seniority, please.’ Then when he was connected he identified himself, and asked the woman for any information she had on Arria Abernathy, Martha Raymond or Jessica Williams, class of ‘97. Phone numbers, emails, addresses, whatever she had. He also asked her for anything the school had on Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt.
The woman said she’d look into it and call Crawford back.
Crawford thanked her and hung up as Ott walked in.
“Mornin’, Charlie,” he said and sat down facing Crawford.
“Hey,” Crawford said.
“Whatcha up to?”
“Trying to track down Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt.”
Ott nodded. “She’s about all we got left.”
“So nothing else has jumped out at you from Loadholt’s past cases?” Crawford asked.
“No, the guy had those three bad incidents in his forty-year career,” Ott said. “Some might say that’s not too bad a record.”
Crawford shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, compared to what?” he said. “I mean, if you or I had just one of those things up in Cleveland or New York, we’d be done.”
“Yeah, but as we said before, Loadholt was pretty much the master of the cover-up,” Ott said. “Throw-downs, getting other cops to lie for him, the guy was good.”
Crawford’s iPhone rang. He looked at the display. “Gotta take this,” he said. “Hello.”
It was the staffer at Forest Hill Community High School.
She explained that Arria Abernathy lived up in Glen Ellen, Illinois, and gave him her phone number. Jessie Williams’s whereabouts were unknown and Martha Raymond still lived in West Palm Beach. He took her number as well.
Crawford called Martha Raymond right away.
Crawford put it on speaker and it rang three times.
“Hello,” said a voice.
“Mrs. Raymond?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, my name is Detective Crawford,” he said. “Palm Beach Police Department. I’m calling about an old classmate of yours, Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt.”
“Oh, yes,” Raymond said. “I read that her grandfather got killed. I would have called her but don’t have her number. What did you want to know?”
“Well, so you haven’t kept in touch with her?” Crawford asked.
“I did for a while,” Raymond said. “Poor girl had a tough go of it after she graduated.”
“I know,” Crawford said, “but you lost track of her, or what?”
“Yeah, I did,” Raymond said. “Until our fifteenth.”
Crawford thought for a second. “Fifteenth? Oh, you mean fifteenth reunion?”
“Yes, exactly,” Raymond said. “Which wa
s pretty memorable.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters, Liz showed up in a white limo about a mile long.”
Ott sat up straight in his chair.
“Really?” Crawford said. “What else?”
“And she was wearing jewelry worth more than my house,” Raymond said. “And her clothes. A Chanel suit and Manolo Blahnik shoes, which I’d never even heard of, but another girl clued me in.”
“Sounds like she was trying to make an impression,” Crawford said.
“Trying…and succeeding,” Raymond said. “It was almost like she had gone away and become a movie star or something.”
Ott moved closer. “Mrs. Raymond, this is Detective Ott, Detective Crawford’s partner. Did you happen to find out what Ms. Loadholt did for a living?”
“To get so rich, you mean?”
“Yes,” Ott answered.
“Or maybe she married a rich man?” Crawford asked.
“She didn’t talk about it. Somebody asked, I remember, what she did. She mentioned that she had been married, ‘for like fifteen minutes,’ I remember her saying.”
“So that was all you remember?” Crawford asked.
“Yes,” Raymond said. “She was kind of mysterious about the whole thing.”
“But she was alone, right?” Ott asked. “No one with her?”
“Yes, all alone in that big monster limo.”
“And how did she introduce herself?”
“Same as when we were in high school,” Raymond said. “Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Raymond,” Crawford said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Yes, and if you happen to have any contact with Ms. Loadholt,” Ott said, “please call us.”
“Okay,” said Raymond, “but that’s not gonna happen. She lives in a completely different universe than me. Goodbye, detectives.”
Crawford clicked off and looked at Ott. “Woman’s got my attention now,” he said.
Ott nodded. “Big time.”
Forty
All five members of The Mentors were on board Beth Jastrow’s yacht, bobbing out in the ocean ten miles from Palm Beach. It was a pleasant night in the mid-seventies with a gentle breeze and a full moon.
“She says she’s on a tear trying to finish up her second book and can’t make it down here now,” Beth told the group.
Diana Quarle cocked her head, looking first at Rose Clarke then at Beth. “Does she realize what we’re capable of doing for her?”
“Yeah, or is she one of those authors who’s perfectly content to sell seventeen copies to family and friends?” asked Rose.
“Why’s she being so difficult?” Marla asked Beth.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Beth said, putting up her hands, “don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what she told me.”
“I know, but did you tell her how much we can help her?” Diana repeated her question.
“Yes, of course, I used Lulu Perkins as an example,” Beth said. “What more could I do?”
“Nothing,” Rose said. “It’s just hard to believe that she wouldn’t be more…”
“Receptive?” Diana said.
Rose nodded.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Beth said. “Can we talk about someone else?”
The other four nodded.
“I want to propose someone who would be only too happy to come meet with us,” Elle said. “Even if she had to walk the whole way.”
The others laughed. “Okay, let’s hear about her,” Marla said.
“Okay, her name is Helen Baker and she lives somewhere in Georgia—”
“That’s not too far a walk,” Diana said.
Elle laughed. “And she’s designed, and has a patent for, a full-sized kayak that weighs only five pounds that she can make for just two hundred bucks.”
“Five pounds. How is that possible?” Marla asked.
“Good question,” Elle said, “but one of the photos she sent me was of the kayak on a scale. And sure enough, five pounds. She claims it’s really durable too. Indestructible, she said.”
“Sounds like a can’t-lose,” Rose said. “Just take it to L.L. Bean and what’s that other chain…”
“Gander Mountain,” Diana said. “And there’s another one called Bass Pro, I think it is.”
Rose eyed Diana, impressed. “How do you know about these places?”
“Had a boyfriend who was a hunter and all ‘round outdoorsy guy,” Diana said. “Liked to go camping, sleep under the stars. It didn’t last long, ‘cause I hated that shit.”
“Yeah, give me a bed with thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets any day,” Rose said.
“Amen, sister.”
Crawford and Ott had decided to go talk to Clyde Loadholt’s daughter again. They planned to just show up, say they had some business in Hobe Sound, where she lived.
Ott pulled up to the house where he had gone two days before and there was Megan Sullivan sitting outside her house smoking a cigarette, the one-eyed dog sitting at her feet.
They got out and walked over to her. She didn’t look thrilled to see them and stubbed out the cigarette on the ground next to dozens of other ones.
“Hello, Mrs. Sullivan,” Ott said, “this is my partner Detective Crawford. We were in the area and decided to stop by.”
She shaded her eyes and looked up at Crawford, then back at Ott. “What can I do for you?”
“You mind if we sit down, Mrs. Sullivan?” Crawford asked.
There were two rickety looking rusted aluminum chairs with green canvas seats and backs facing her.
“Help yourself,” she said, pointing.
“I think I’ll stand,” said Ott eyeing the chairs skeptically as Crawford sat in one. “So, first thing, Mrs. Sullivan, do you have any pictures of your daughter, Elizabeth Jeanne? Maybe in a scrapbook or something?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure I do,” she said. “I have her high school yearbook too.”
“Oh, you do? Great,” Ott said. “Would you mind if we borrowed it for a few days? The photos too. We’ll bring ‘em back, I promise.”
Sullivan stood up. “I’ll go get ‘em for you.”
“Thanks,” Crawford said. “We really appreciate it.”
Sullivan went into the house.
“Her eyes don’t exactly light up when she starts talking about her kid,” Crawford said.
Ott nodded.
“I’ll bet she didn’t hear from her when she came back for the reunion,” Crawford said.
Ott nodded. “Bet you’re right,” he said as Megan Sullivan came out with a book and some loose photos.
She handed the book to Crawford and the photos to Ott.
The first thing that was obvious was that a smile was not Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt’s natural default. In all of the pictures she had the same downcast look. It reminded Crawford of a TV commercial he had seen recently. It was for the ASPCA. Picture after picture of dogs who looked like they had masters who beat them. It was a pitch for people to send them money so something could be done about it. Crawford had written a check for a hundred dollars and taken it out to his mailbox at ten o’clock that night.
Elizabeth Jeanne Loadholt looked like one of those dogs. Like it was not just sadness, but fear as well. Fear that she had to be on her toes to avoid the next beating.
Ott turned to her page in the yearbook. Her expression was even more morose looking, particularly in contrast to the girl beneath her who had an ear-to-ear grin.
Crawford looked up at Megan Sullivan.
“So Mrs. Sullivan, do you know who Martha McClellan is?”
“Of course, my daughter’s old high school friend,” Sullivan said. “Haven’t seen her for years.”
“Well, she saw your daughter about four years ago,” Crawford said. “It was at Elizabeth Jeanne’s fifteenth high school reunion.”
“Is that right?”
Crawford nodded. “She seemed to think your daughter had bec
ome quite successful. You know, she wore nice clothes, jewelry, and stuff. Did you see her when she was here for her reunion?”
“No, I haven’t seen her since she ran away from my dad’s house.”
Crawford and Ott studied her closely for a tell—a twitch, not making eye contact, something.
But her expression hadn’t changed.
“Why do you suppose she didn’t—” Ott started.
“Because, Detective, we had a lousy family life,” Sullivan blurted.
Ott shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can relate,” Ott said. “I didn’t have the best one either—”
“Trust me, it was way better than ours,” Sullivan said.
“Can you tell us a little bit more about it, Mrs. Sullivan?” Crawford asked, doing his best ‘casual Charlie’.
Megan Sullivan shot him a hard, cold stare. “Do you think my daughter killed my father?”
“We are trying to find your father’s killer,” Crawford said. “Whoever it may have been.”
“My father was a monster,” Sullivan said. “The world is better off without him.”
Crawford and Ott just let that hang in the air for a while.
“Just out of curiosity, Mrs. Sullivan, what happened to your dog?” Ott asked finally.
Sullivan actually laughed. “No, he didn’t do that.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“My father molested me,” she inhaled deeply, “and he molested my daughter. Now, I have nothing more to say on the subject and would appreciate it if you would go away and leave me alone.”
Forty-One
Crawford and Ott were at Mookie’s. Sometimes they’d go there in the middle of the day for a beer, then go back to the station afterwards. They found it could be a good place to talk over a case because it lacked the distraction of a hovering and badgering Norm Rutledge and phones that were constantly ringing.
They had their go-to beers in front of them on coasters: Crawford a Bud, Ott a Yuengling.
