Palm Beach Bones

by Tom Turner

  Beth Jastow liked to have a lot going on. She usually read two or three books at the same time, while also reading a magazine and the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times digital editions. She was a well-informed woman.

  She didn’t hear Jerry Remar approach because she was absorbed in Architectural Digest pictures of a house in East Hampton.

  “Ms. Jastrow?” Jerry said.

  She looked up and shaded her eyes. “Oh, hi, Jerry. What’s up?”

  “I thought you’d want to know, I got a call from a friend of mine,” Jerry said. “He told me two cops were looking for you.”

  Beth put the magazine down on the deck and sat up. “Where?”

  “At the marina.”

  “Did they say what they wanted?”

  “Something about the boat tax.”

  Beth frowned but didn’t say anything.

  “They asked him what our destination was.”

  “And did he tell them?”

  “No, said he didn’t know.”

  Beth nodded and thought for a second. “Okay, thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Jerry started to walk away.

  “Oh, Jerry,” Beth said. “Cancel the berth at the Harborage Marina in Charleston. Let’s tie up at that one in Mount Pleasant instead.”

  Jerry nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mount Pleasant was a town that was just over the bridge from Charleston.

  Beth thrummed her fingers on the teak table then took a sip of Diet Coke. Then she put it down, picked up her cell phone and dialed.

  A man answered.

  “Hey, honey,” she said. “I’m an hour away. Instead of the Charleston marina, I’m tying up in Mount Pleasant.”

  “Right around the corner from me, huh?”

  “If you’d like I can drop anchor right in front of your house,” Beth said.

  The man laughed. “You’d run aground. It’s pretty shallow.”

  “So what do you want to do tonight?”

  “You know damn well what I want to do.”

  Beth laughed. “Before that.”

  “I’ve got us a reservation at Fig for seven thirty.”

  “Perfect,” Beth said. “I love that place. You want to come to the boat and have a cocktail before?’

  “Sure,” said the man. “We can talk a little shop. Get that out of the way.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Beth said. “Can’t wait.”

  Fifty

  Crawford called Ott and told him to stop by his office as soon as he got back to the station.

  Fifteen minutes later Ott walked in. “What’s up, Chuck?”

  “How’d you like to go to Spoleto?”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  Crawford was on his computer reading about it. “Charleston, South Carolina. It’s this festival up there. Classical music, opera, string bands—”

  “But I’m a rock n’ roll guy,” Ott said.

  Crawford scrolled down the schedule. “Flamenco dancers, ballet, chamber music,” he read. “Oh, hey, they got Dee Dee Bridgewater.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Shit, man, you don’t know?”

  Ott shook his head.

  “This really amazing jazz singer.”

  “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

  “I checked and it’s about a seven-hour drive,” Crawford said, “which you can probably knock off in six. Flying doesn’t make any sense ‘cause like New Orleans, it’s connecting flights.”

  “I got a full tank in the Caprice,” Ott said. “Let’s hit the road.”

  This time they decided not to bother telling Norm Rutledge until they were in Charleston.

  Ned Carlino walked up the gangway of the Revenge.

  A man in a white jacket, black bow tie, and a silver tray with two flutes of champagne met him at the top of the steps.

  “Good evening, Mr. Carlino,” the man said. “Champagne?”

  “Thank you, James,” Carlino said, taking one of the flutes.

  “Ms. Jastrow is getting ready, but asked if you’d wait on the aft deck.”

  “Sure,” Carlino said.

  He found several lavish teak chairs with cushions laid out in a seating arrangement at the rear of the boat. Carlino did not sit, but looked out at the view. Farther down, along the beach, he could almost see his house.

  Carlino was a lawyer based in Philadelphia who spent at least four months of the year going back and forth between his beach house in Mount Pleasant and his twelve hundred acre plantation an hour south. His house in Mount Pleasant was a six-bedroom brick Georgian that had expansive views of the ocean, which didn’t interest Carlino in the least. What Carlino liked most about the house was the fact that his wife spent almost no time there. She had five sisters and a million friends in Philadelphia and had no interest in making new ones in South Carolina.

  Carlino was no longer a practicing lawyer but a businessman who had extensive commercial real estate holdings, which included a hotel and a majority interest in a racetrack. In the last year he had sold a harness racing track outside of Philadelphia to Harrah’s.

  Carlino heard footsteps behind him and turned.

  Beth Jastrow looked stunning in white slacks and a black top with a glittering array of sequins. She had flashing, bright eyes and, yes, a killer body. She raised her champagne flute, then walked up to Carlino and gave him a kiss on the lips.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said softly.

  “And I you,” Carlino said with a laugh. “If that’s proper English.”

  “I get the idea,” she said, putting her arm around his back. “So you want to sit?”

  “Sure,” said Carlino and they both sat, facing each other.

  “How long are you here for?” Carlino asked.

  “As long as you want me,” she said. “Well, except I have to be back for a meeting in a few weeks.”

  “Your little philanthropic group?”

  “Gotta give back once in a while, right?”

  Carlino shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m a taker.”

  Jastrow laughed. “Least you’re honest about it,” she said. “So are you making any progress?”

  Carlino killed the rest of his champagne just as the waiter walked toward them.

  “Can I get you another, sir?”

  “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks,” Carlino said.

  The waiter looked at Jastrow’s glass, but it was still half full.

  He walked away.

  “You’ve got him well-trained, Beth,” Carlino said. “So in answer to your question: Charleston is a tough town to break into. Classic good-old-boy network. But I finally got to a few guys in high places—guys with no money but more power than they deserve.”

  Jastrow’s eyes lit up. “My favorite kind,” she said. “Men who can be persuaded by an envelope full of cash.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, my boss Ming Yao is ready to step up when you get the approval for the casino,” Jastrow said.

  Carlino leaned toward Jastrow and gave her a kiss on the lips. “I’ve got to hand it to you,” he said. “Getting the Chinaman to go from, ‘Where’s Charleston, South Carolina?’ to ready-to-step-up is a hell of a feat.”

  “Well, it was two things: showing him the demographics about all the rich Yankees with houses in Charleston,” Jastrow said. “But mainly, you and your friends getting all those high-end cruise ships to stop there.”

  The waiter came back with Carlino’s scotch on the tray.

  “And I’ll have another champagne, please, James,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the waiter said and walked away.

  “How are you coming with the mayor?” Jastrow asked.

  Carlino shook his head and frowned. “He’s the fly in the ointment,” he said. “An incorruptible public servant.”

  “So what are you going to do about him?” Jastrow asked.

  “He might have to become the victim of an accident,” Carlino said.

 
Jastow smiled. “Oh, I hate when that happens.”

  “I never realized how long this damn state is,” Ott said. “I mean, it just goes on forever.”

  “Yeah, I know, almost three hundred miles from West Palm to Jacksonville alone,” Crawford said.

  “And then we gotta go through Georgia,” Ott said. “At least we got Sirius.”

  Ott was bouncing back between two Sirius stations: one that played primarily Tom Petty and another Bruce Springsteen.

  “Badlands” had just finished.

  “Gotta love Bruce,” Ott said. “But I always thought he could do better in the wife department.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Crawford said.

  “I don’t know, I’m not saying Patti’s a dog, just think the guy coulda done a little better,” Ott said. “And speaking of Bruce, what’s with that whole ‘working class’ thing anyway? Have you seen the house in LA he just put on the market? Like sixty mil or something. Working class, my ass.” Ott took a breath. “Know who else?”

  “Who else what?” Crawford asked.

  “Coulda done better in the wife department,” Ott said.

  Crawford shook his head. “Jesus, where’d this rant come from?”

  “Just killin’ time, Charlie. Don’t have to get all tetchy.”

  “Whatever that means,” Crawford said. “You just go off on these wacky tangents.”

  “Roger Federer,” Ott said. “I mean, I’m sure Mrs. Federer is really nice and all but he’s maybe the best tennis player ever lived and a nice looking guy to boot. Then there’s Cate Blanchett’s husband. She really coulda done better. Guy looks like Humpty Dumpty on a bad day. And, I read somewhere, the guy might be messing around with another woman.”

  “Okay, Mort, I have no idea what Cate Blanchett’s husband looks like and don’t care,” Crawford said. “Can we just get back to listening to Bruce sing his songs about his sad, pathetic, blue-collar life?”

  After a few minutes, Crawford got on his phone, trying to locate where the Revenge might be mooring. The first two marinas he tried had said no such boat was scheduled to be mooring there. Then a third one said that the Revenge had been scheduled to tie up there, but had cancelled a few hours before.

  Crawford told Ott.

  “Shit,” Ott said. “You figure she knows we’re after her?”

  “I don’t know,” Crawford said. “I’m just gonna keep trying to locate the boat.”

  Crawford tried four more Charleston marinas but struck out with each one. Then he tried ones near but outside of Charleston. Finally he tried one in Mount Pleasant.

  “Yes, I’m looking at it right now,” said a man who identified himself as the harbormaster. “A couple is walking down the gangway, going toward the parking lot.”

  “Do me a favor,” Crawford said. “See what kind of car they’re getting into. And the license plate if you can.”

  “You got it,” the harbormaster said. Then after a few moments, “It’s a black Tesla X, South Carolina LE1663.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Crawford said. “Appreciate it.”

  Crawford clicked off and dialed another number.

  “Who’re you calling?” Ott asked.

  “I need to speak to someone at SLED,” Crawford said.

  Crawford had done some poking around and found out that SLED stood for South Carolina Law Enforcement Division based in Columbia, the state capital. They had jurisdiction for any arrest made in the state and the last thing Crawford wanted to do was to go rogue—arrest Beth Jastrow and haul her back to Palm Beach without SLED’s direct involvement. That would be something that would give a defense attorney grounds to get her off.

  He and Ott had already done that with David Balfour’s niece and thought it was a really bad idea to do it twice in the same week.

  Crawford got bumped around at SLED until finally he was talking to a man who seemed to have both the authority and the ability to grasp the fluid situation Crawford had just described to him.

  “So we’ve located the subject’s boat,” Crawford said. “We know she just departed from there by car with a man. We’re going to go there and try to find out where she went. What I’ll do, once I’ve found out, is give you a call, then we can hook up.”

  “Sounds good,” John Birkenheuer, the SLED constable said. “Just keep me posted. My partner and I will be on our way to Charleston in a few minutes.”

  “Will do,” Crawford said, and clicked off.

  He turned to Ott. “How much longer?”

  Ott looked down at the odometer. “I figure another fifty miles.”

  “The address is 1610 Ben Sawyer Boulevard,” Crawford said.

  Ott nodded and put the address in his GPS.

  Another thing Crawford had done on the ride up was to get a warrant issued from a West Palm Beach judge for the arrest of Beth Jastrow. He had also been instructed on the extradition process from South Carolina to Florida.

  Crawford turned to Ott and patted the car’s dashboard. “You think this old girl can run down a Tesla X if it has to?”

  Ott glanced over at Crawford. “What do I always tell you, Charlie?”

  “You tell me a lot of lame shit,” Crawford said. “Oh, you mean, ‘It’s not about the car, it’s about the driver?’”

  “Bingo,” Ott said, chuckling. “Even though a Tesla X can do zero to sixty in 2.9 seconds.”

  Fifty-One

  Fig on Meeting Street in Charleston doesn’t look like much on the outside, but what comes out of its kitchen is spectacular. Even though Ned Carlino had called and made the reservation that same day, management scrambled so he could have the best table in the house. Ned Carlino was a prodigious tipper, a server’s dream.

  He and Beth Jastrow were on their first drinks.

  “So the mayor,” Beth was saying, almost in a whisper. “Do you have someone lined up for the accident that will soon befall him?”

  Carlino laughed. “I love the way you say that. So refined and understated,” he said. “It’s almost like he’s going to skin his knee or something.”

  Jastrow shrugged. “Yes, if skinning your knee is fatal.”

  “My brother’s got a guy who was a sniper in Afghanistan.”

  “That ought to do it,” Jastrow said, then with a smile, “but if you ever need anybody to do it for free...”

  Carlino laughed. “You actually enjoy it, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Jastrow’s eyes got flinty. “Those scumbags deserved everything they got.”

  Jastrow had shared a few of her secrets with Carlino.

  The waiter approached.

  Carlino held up his hand. “A few more minutes.”

  The waiter nodded and walked away.

  “Tell me the whole story,” Carlino said.

  “I thought I did,” Jastrow said.

  “You did, but give me all the nitty-gritty details,” Carlino said.

  Jastrow reached for her drink and finished it in one gulp. “Okay, fasten your seat belt,” she said. “So my beloved grandfather had this regular poker game every week with his asshole buddies. Lots of heavy drinking, you know, a couple of times they’d have strippers show up.”

  “Wait, I thought he was married?”

  “He was, but that never got in the way,” Jastrow said. “He’d send her over to her sister’s.”

  Carlino nodded. “What did grandma make of that, I wonder?”

  “Susie Loadholt didn’t ask questions,” Jastrow said. “If she did, she’d end up with bruises all over her face the next day.”

  She took another sip of her drink. “So this one time I made the mistake of going down to the kitchen when the game was going on,” Jastrow said. “One of ‘em spotted me and said, ‘Hey, honey, whatcha doin’?’”

  Carlino leaned toward her. “How old were you at the time?”

  “Seventeen,” Jastrow said, a pained expression in her eyes. “So this guy—the honorable Judge Meyer—motioned me over. Like an idiot, I wal
ked into the den and the guy starts groping me.”

  “With your grandfather right there?” Even Carlino was shocked.

  Jastrow was choked up.

  Carlino put his hand on her arm. “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” Jastrow said. “I’ve never told anybody else.” She wiped her eyes with her napkin, “So all of a sudden all these pigs were groping me. Their hands up my skirt. All over my—”

  “Beth, seriously, you don’t have to—”

  “I said, I want to,” Jastrow said. “Next thing I know the judge is dragging me to a bedroom and my grandfather’s just yukking it up with his buddies, doing nothing. Pretending like he’s not seeing what’s going on.”

  The waiter came up to them again. “No, not yet,” Carlino said, waving him away.

  “I remember this one guy saying something—trying to stop it—and the judge just telling him to shut the fuck up. I was hoping…but the guy just backed down.”

  Carlino put his hand on her arm again. “I’m sorry, honey. You shoulda killed the whole damn lot of ‘em.”

  Jastrow tried to smile. “Well, it was only a matter of time until I got the judge. Bastard lived a lot longer than he should have, though.”

  “And your charming grandfather. What—”

  “So I came back here a month ago. Told the guys in Macau that I was going on a little extended vacation after I did the deal in Vegas.” Jastrow shrugged. “I had the boat here and I got hooked up with the girls through a mutual friend—”

  “The group, you mean The Mentors?”

  “Yes, we were having meetings every couple of days,” Jastrow said. “And I really got into it. I liked the idea of helping women just starting out. I was thinking, ‘Shit, I wish there were people like us around when I was a kid.’ I was even thinking about buying a house in Palm Beach.”

  “But, why bother, with a boat like the Revenge?”

  “That’s true.”

  “So you got in touch with Grandpa?”

  Jastrow nodded her head. “Yeah, even though my gut told me it was a bad idea. But some little misguided part of me wanted to hear him apologize, tell me that he loved me and how much he regretted what happened.”

  “So what happened?”