by Tom Turner
“Like I said, when you’re in the slammer you have a lot of time to think.”
“I gotcha. So, what did you come up with?”
Gerster tapped the arm of his chair. “You ready for a longshot?”
Crawford leaned in. “Sure, whatever you got.”
“You ever heard the name Andy Barrow?”
Crawford shook his head.
“I’m not surprised,” Gerster said. “So, Andy is a caddy at some fancy club like the Poinciana in Palm Beach, except it’s not the Poinciana. And he met Christian’s daughter, Samantha, a year or so ago in a bar, I think it was. Anyway, they hit it off and after a while it got serious, then Christian heard about it. He was not happy. Told me once, ‘I’m not about to let my daughter marry a goddamn caddy, especially one who was a high school drop-out.’ But it was too late, his daughter, who was a dental assistant, was already engaged to Barrow and wanted to marry the guy. So, Christian put heavy pressure on her to break it off. I think his wife, Lorinda, got pretty involved too.”
“How old were they? Andy and Samantha?”
“I think she was like twenty-five and he was a few years older. Anyway, it sounded like the guy was gonna be a caddy for life, or until his knees gave out.” Gerster paused and took a sip of coffee. “So, Chris and Lorinda were real persistent and finally Samantha caves and cancels the engagement. So, Andy goes to Chris, who he’s never met before, and tries to plead his case. But all Christian’s sees is the kid’s mullet and hears him call him ‘man.’”
“What did he say exactly?”
“I don’t know, something like, I love your daughter… man. So, Chris tells him he doesn’t want him marrying her and Andy kind of snaps, grabs Chris’s shirt with one hand and says, ‘This ain’t the end of this.’”
“Really?”
Gerster nodded. “Flash forward to a week after Christian gets killed—”
“The two get married?”
“How’d you know?”
“I’ve seen that movie before… or maybe its sequel.”
Twenty-Seven
As their conversation was winding down, Ray Gerster remembered at which club Andy Barrow was a caddy: a fancy place called Blowing Dunes.
After he left Gerster’s house, Crawford called the country club and asked for the golf shop, then got transferred to someone else, who he asked to be connected to Andy Barrow.
“Uh, AB’s out loopin’,” the man said.
Crawford, being an experienced but less-than-average golfer, knew that “looping” meant caddying eighteen holes.
“When he gets back in, ask him to call Charlie Crawford, please,” Crawford said, electing to leave out ‘Detective.’ No sense in getting the person who answered suspicious, or Barrow in trouble. “Tell him it’s important. He left his number.”
Next, he called Phoebe Lilly, whose number he got by Googling the Palm Beach Prayer Group again. He didn’t have any better luck there and left a message.
Then he called Rose Clarke, who always answered his calls. Not this time, though. He left her a message, too.
After Rose was Vega. No luck again. He left another message. 0 for 4. He was beginning to feel unloved, but then Rose called back a few minutes later.
“Hey, Charlie. You rang?”
“I know you don’t touch a buyer who’s looking for a house for under five million,” he said. “So, I wondered if maybe you could recommend an agent who can show places for between three and four hundred thousand.”
She was silent for a few moments. “I’m guessing the prospective buyer might be you?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for a condo. I don’t want to mow grass or pull weeds and I’d really like a nice view.”
“That Publix parking lot got old, huh?”
She had been to his place on more than one occasion.
“Yeah, the ocean would be great. Got somebody you can recommend?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, me.”
She’d totally be slumming it, taking him around to dumps barely up to the standards of her cleaning lady, but if she was game….
“Do you even know what a condo is?” he asked.
She laughed. “There’re plenty of five-million-dollar condos. There are even some for over ten.”
“Yeah, well, drop a zero or two. Plus, your commission is gonna be about forty-eight bucks.”
“Charlie, I would be honored to squire you around. There’s a pretty good selection on the market right now. It’s a buyer’s market. I’m thinking of something on North or South Flagler would be good for you. You can get some amazing views there. The Intracoastal in the foreground, then Palm Beach, and the ocean off in the distance.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“It would be fun. I think you can probably get two bedrooms, two baths in that price range. Only thing is the bedrooms run pretty small. Square footage would probably be between eleven-hundred and twelve-hundred square feet. Something like that.”
“That’s plenty. I think my rental’s around a thousand. Hey, I really appreciate it. The best broker in Palm Beach taking me around in her shiny white Jag. What an honor!”
Rose laughed. “How about financing? Are you going to need a mortgage?”
“Nah, I got cash. Us homicide cops pull down the big bucks. Truth is, I never spend money on anything.”
“That’s not true. You took me out to dinner at Buccan once.”
“Yeah, ’cause I had an ulterior motive.”
Rose chuckled. “And, as I recall, it worked.”
Twenty-Eight
They agreed to go look at condos on Sunday. Rose said she would email him a bunch of listings in his price range in buildings on Flagler, with an emphasis on ones that were on high floors and had good views.
A little while later, Phoebe Lilly called back. “Did I do anything wrong?” she asked in a friendly tone. “It’s Phoebe Lilly. I don’t have detectives calling me all that often.”
“No, ma’am, you’re good. I’m working on a case and just wanted to stop by and ask you a question or two. Background information, really.”
“On what subject, may I ask?”
“Fannie Melhado.”
A pause. Then, a change of tone. “Oh, Fannie. Well, she no longer belongs to my group.”
“I know. Do you have any time this afternoon?”
“Sure. How’s three o’clock?”
“That’s perfect. And the address, please?”
Before he met with Phoebe Lilly, Crawford decided to go over to West Palm—specifically Flagler Drive, which ran along the Intracoastal—and drive up and down it, looking at buildings that had good views. He was getting more and more into the idea of having a nice place, one that looked out over not one, but two, bodies of water. He also started thinking about getting a new car. The Camry had served him long and loyally, but it was time. Then he went a level deeper and wondered why it was that, since he’d left New York, he had always had a shitty car and lived in a shitty apartment.
He could have afforded something better, quite a lot better.
It was odd. He was odd.
Was he rejecting his childhood? His entire privileged background? Was that it? Growing up rich—well, maybe not rich, but certainly well-off—in one of the richest towns in the country?
If so, why? What was the point?
He came to the realization that, if not for the one big incident in his life—his friend getting run down on purpose the night before his Dartmouth graduation—his whole life would have turned out vastly different. He would have taken the job that had already been offered him at Morgan Stanley and probably worked in some branch of finance for the rest of his life: a banker, a trader, or maybe a hedge-fund honcho. That was where many of his friends, along with his brother Cam, had ended up. Chances are he would have bought a co-op somewhere in New York City, a summer place—Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, the Hamptons—and, odds were good, still be married to Jill. Because that was the life that she’d wa
nted. The one he hadn’t given her.
He looked up at twin buildings on Flagler and saw a sign that said Rapallo. He pulled up in front and studied the structures. They looked to be about twenty stories high and were facing due east. The views from the high floors had to be spectacular.
He drove ten minutes north and saw another building on the right with a sign that said Placido Mar. Again, he pulled over and looked up. It, too, looked like it had jaw-dropping views and was even taller than the Rapallo buildings. He imagined seeing tanker ships miles off on the horizon, puttering along in the ocean. Or seeing Crux’s new yacht down on the Intracoastal making its maiden voyage.
He looked at his watch. It was 1:50 p.m. He was going to be late for his meeting with Phoebe Lilly at 611 Island Drive on Everglades Island. He did a U-turn and caught the Placido Mar building in his rearview mirror. He liked the name. He could picture himself living there.
But enough of that... A condo and new car could wait. He was spending way too much time on personal stuff. The killer of Christian Lalley was still out there, not where he belonged—behind bars.
As he drove up to Phoebe Lilly’s house, he imagined that if he had taken the route in life he’d been destined for, he could reasonably have expected to one day own a house like hers. Hell, he knew guys his age—late thirties, early forties—who already had them.
He chuckled to himself.
Nah…a nice two-bedroom at Placido Mar with a killer view will be just fine.
He figured Phoebe Lilly to be around sixty as she walked him out to the covered back porch of her house on Island Drive. She turned, shaded her eyes, and looked up at him. “Have a seat.” She motioned to a padded chair that looked out at the Intracoastal. “I’ll give you the one with the nice view.”
He imagined being up on the twentieth floor of his place in the Placido Mar, looking down at Lilly and himself. Two little specks a few miles away.
“So, what would you like to know about Fannie Melhado?” she asked once they were seated. “And the bigger question is why are you investigating her, but you probably won’t tell me that.”
Crawford tapped the arm of the chair and looked off in the distance at two tall buildings. He was pretty sure it was the Rapallo buildings he had gazed up at only a half-hour ago.
“I’m one of the detectives working on the case of the man killed up on North Lake Way earlier this week—”
“Christian Lalley.”
“Yes, did you know him?”
“No, I didn’t, but, of course, I read all about it. And knew that Fannie’s a member of that group he was in.”
‘That group’ had a distinctly disdainful ring to it.
That was when he noticed that Lilly was chewing gum. It was so incongruous, this woman in a crisp, light blue dress and expensive-looking shoes with little bows on them. Crawford seemed to remember they were called Belgian shoes. Rose had a pair, maybe two, maybe ten. Phoebe sported perfectly-coiffed but unmistakably bleached-blond hair and a patrician accent. She was almost a stereotype of the many rich, elegant, WASPs who had a winter house in Palm Beach, not to mention two or three others scattered around the country or the world. Crawford had heard her type of accent referred to as Locust Valley lockjaw.
Gum? he thought again. Really?
“Ms. Lilly—”
“I’m old-fashioned. Mrs. Lilly, please.’
“Mrs. Lilly…could you tell me a little bit about Fannie Melhado’s time with your group?”
Phoebe nodded. “Sure. I knew Fannie before she was in the group. She’s a smart woman, outspoken, not very good at suffering fools. Gets kind of impatient. Anyway, I think she was looking for a project. She wasn’t cut out to be a mere dilettante all her life.”
“She told you that? About looking for a project?”
“No, not in so many words, but I could tell. By the way, I apologize for the gum, but I’m trying—for the umpteenth time—to quit smoking.”
Crawford nodded. “Well, good luck with that. So, according to what I read, Ms. Melhado tried to… is it safe to say, take over your group? Make it into her vision, was the way I read it.”
Phoebe stopped chewing her gum and thought for a few moments. “Yes, I suppose that’s safe to say. I remember thinking at the time it was like she wanted to be queen with as many subjects as she could assemble. It was weird. I mean, all I was really trying to do was bring together like-minded people who could join me in forming as close a bond with Jesus as possible.”
“So, what finally ended up happening?”
“Well, two things, really. The first came one day when I played this CD of Billy Graham.” Phoebe stopped chewing. “You know who he is, right?”
Crawford nodded. “Sure. The evangelist. Died a while back.”
Phoebe nodded. “Yes. The CD was a collection of his sermons. Teachings, I guess you could call them. Anyway, Fannie was totally mesmerized by them. She asked me if she could borrow the CD. I said sure and gave her a few others I had too. In our next meeting, all she did was rattle on about how brilliant and what an incredible visionary Billy Graham was.”
“Like what did she say specifically?”
“Well, like he had almost become… Jesus Christ himself to her. She told us, the group I mean, all about how Graham had been close with Martin Luther King. And Queen Elizabeth. And just about every president for the last fifty years.” She cocked her head. “You know much about the man?”
Crawford shrugged. “Not much.”
“Okay, here are a few tidbits that I remember from what Fannie told me: Lyndon Johnson asked him to be a member of his cabinet. Richard Nixon offered him the ambassadorship to Israel. He was the fourth person in U.S. history to lie in state at the Capitol rotunda in Washington—” She smiled and nodded. “And last but not least, he has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”
“Hmm. That’s quite the resumé.”
“I’ll say. A lot of people think he was the greatest preacher since Jesus.”
“Including, it sounds like, Fannie Melhado,” Crawford said. “You mentioned two things. What was the other?”
“SOAR. She felt it was going to go a lot further than my little group. And she was absolutely right. I never had aspirations of my group being, you know, the next big thing. And, from what I understand, they’ve got very ambitious goals.”
“How do you mean?
“Well, like how they want to have a huge presence in the world as a major religion, one day.”
Crawford shrugged. “Interesting. I know what you mean. It does seem as though they’ve got big goals.”
He flashed on Xi Kiang and the Falun Gong.
“Not to mention, they’ve got a lot of money and brainpower.”
“Oh, you mean the Mensa thing?”
“Yes,” she said with a little laugh, “But I never quite got the Einstein vibe from Fannie. Don’t get me wrong, she’s smart, but I don’t know about top two percent. Ambition, though… top one percent, without a doubt.”
Twenty-Nine
Crawford was at the exclusive Blowing Dunes Country Club in Palm Beach Gardens conducting an interview in a golf cart. Definitely a first.
He had driven up there hoping he’d catch the caddy, Andy Barrow, in between “loops.” As it turned out, Barrow had just completed eighteen and was in the ‘caddy shack,’ which was hardly a shack at all, but instead a nice, air-conditioned room at the rear of the clubhouse that had two wide-screen TVs—one tuned to the Golf channel, the other ESPN.
Not wanting to get Barrow in trouble with anyone, Crawford asked a young man coming out of the caddy room if he would tell Barrow a family friend had dropped by to see him.
A few moments later, a tall, rangy, man with broad shoulders, a skinny waist, and a perfect Coppertone tan walked out. He was clearly in shape and could probably do three loops a day if daylight allowed.
Crawford put his hand out. “Andy? I’m Detective Crawford.”
“I go by Andrew.”
“O
kay, I’m lead detective on the murder of Christian Lalley.”
Barrow gave him a fish-grip handshake, which contrasted mightily with his musclebound physique. “Okay, so what do you want from me?”
“Just have a few questions.”
Barrow looked around apprehensively. “Okay, well, just so my… colleagues don’t wonder why I’m talking to a guy with a bulge at his hip, why don’t we step into my, ah, mobile office.”
Barrow pointed to a golf cart behind Crawford and started walking toward it. He slid into the driver’s side of a golf cart. Crawford walked around and got in the passenger’s side. Barrow turned the key and drove them down a cart path in the direction of a practice putting green and driving range.
There, with nobody around, Barrow pulled to the side of the cart path and turned to Crawford.
“Okay, Detective,” he said with a smirk, “is this maybe the scenario you dreamed up in your head? Christian Lalley didn’t like his daughter going out with a caddy, and really didn’t like her being secretly engaged to one. So, he gets on her case to dump me. And me, being wildly in love with his daughter, goes crazy and sees killing him as being the only solution.”
Crawford cocked his head. “Well, you tell me. Is that what happened? You wanted to remove an obstacle?”
Barrow laughed sarcastically. “Not even fucking close. It was Samantha’s idea to get engaged. It was Samantha who, more or less, asked me out on our first date. It was Samantha who was in a big hurry to get married. What I’m trying to tell you is the fact that Chris didn’t consider me a catch wasn’t something I gave much of a shit about. ’Cause if not Samantha”—Barrow shrugged—“well, there’re plenty of women out there. Know what I mean, dude?”
Crawford glanced over at the putting green and saw a rotund man with white, hairless legs putting. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
