Palm Beach Bedlam Page 11

  “Nah, unannounced visits can be the best kind.”

  “Sure can,” Ott said as they walked up the steps to the front door.

  Crawford pushed the buzzer. They waited a full minute and no one came to the door.

  “Why don’t I go around back?” Ott said.

  “Sure. Give it a try.”

  Just as he stepped down, the door opened and a plump woman who looked to be in her forties peered out. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Crawford said as Ott walked back up the steps, “are you the person in charge here?”

  “One of them. And you are?”

  “Detective Crawford and my partner, Detective Ott. Could we talk? We have a few questions.”

  “Ah, sure, come on in. I’m Janice, by the way.”

  “Hi, Janice,” Crawford said, following her in.

  She led them into a small room that had a bookcase on one wall, a few old paintings—for the most part, dreary-looking landscapes—and furniture that looked like it had been moldering there for a long time. “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to two wooden chairs.

  She sat facing them. “So, tell me what you’d like to know.”

  Crawford leaned toward her. “How long have you been here at Cedar Knolls?”

  “I’m almost a lifer,” Janice said. “Sixteen long years.”

  “Then I’m sure you remember back about ten years ago, when quite a few girls in their teens were disappearing. And it turned out, some of them anyway, had been lured into prostitution.”

  Janice’s expression had slowly changed and was now unmistakably grim. “I certainly do. I call it ‘the bad ol’ days.’ I was pretty young then, but I definitely remember it. The only good that came out of that was the people who ran Cedar Knolls back then all got fired. They ran a pretty loosey-goosey operation. Mr. Jauron, the head now, has a military background and runs a very tight ship.”

  “Is he here now?” Ott asked.

  “No, he’s gone for the day. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you remember names from back then?” Crawford asked.

  “Some.”

  “Grace Spooner?”

  “Yes. I remember Grace. Beautiful girl and nice, but she had her issues.”

  “Like what?”

  “Just had a really terrible family life. She was very … what’s the word? Impressionable. I got the sense she had never been loved and was desperate for someone to love her. Enter a guy named Frank.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott, then back to Janice. “Frank, huh?”

  “Mm-hm. He was bad news. Convinced some of the girls to run away, told ’em they’d get lots of money and dope. That’s when they got involved with that prostitution thing.”

  “Did Frank have a brother, do you know?” Ott asked.

  “Yeah, he was the ringleader. The brother. But he wasn’t here. He was on the outside.”

  “Do you remember their last name?” Crawford asked.

  “I forget, but I’d remember it if you told me.”

  “Begay?”

  “Yes, that was it. As I remember, they got arrested, but nothing ever happened to them.”

  “That’s right.” Crawford’s face took on a solemn look. It was clear Janice hadn’t heard the news. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Grace Spooner was killed earlier this week.”

  Janice’s hand went up to her mouth. “Oh, no. What happened?”

  “She was murdered,” Crawford said. “We’re the investigators on it.”

  “Oh my God, that’s just terrible,” Janice said through her hand. “I hope you catch whoever did it.”

  “We will,” Crawford said.

  Janice was slowly shaking her head.

  “Janice, do you happen to know who owns Cedar Knolls?” Ott asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Just that it’s some company up in New York. Like I said, it’s really well-run now. Kids who are here really want to get straightened out. Want to get clean. You know, forge a new life. Back then, it was a different story. To make a place like this work, you’ve got to have committed people. Mr. Jauron is; so are the rest of us.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Crawford said, as he heard footsteps that seemed to be coming toward them.

  Two girls appeared, one in blue jeans, one in a skirt. “Janice, is it okay if we go down to the library?” one asked.

  “Yeah, sure, just be sure you’re back for dinner.”

  “Don’t worry,” the girl said. Then to Crawford, “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “No problem,” Crawford said with a smile.

  The girls walked away.

  “Where’s the library?” Ott asked.

  “A few blocks from here,” Janice said. “Back in the bad ol’ days I was talking about, girls would ask if they could go to the library and then never come back. They’d meet up with that guy Begay and get into big trouble. Not anymore.”

  Crawford and Ott thanked Janice, got back in their car, and headed south to Palm Beach.

  “You buy all that?” Ott asked, turning to Crawford.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the way she described it, the place used to be hell. Now it’s heaven.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. It did seem a little too perfect,” Crawford said.

  Ott shrugged. “But now that I think about it, it could just be the difference between having those Begays around, and not.”

  19

  Crawford dropped Ott off in front of the station at four that afternoon. “Hey, do me a favor,” Crawford said, rolling down his window. “Call Signature and find out when Asher Bard and his buddies get back, will ya?”

  Signature was the company that serviced private planes at the Palm Beach airport.

  “Will do. What are you up to?” Ott asked.

  “I got a hunch about something.”

  “Is your hunch gonna land someone in jail?”

  Crawford smiled. “I sure as hell hope so.”

  Crawford drove out to the Motor Vehicle Department in Royal Palm Beach. He could have called them, but last time he tried, he’d been put on hold for fifteen minutes and made to endure some extremely schmaltzy Lawrence Welk-type music. Then, when a woman finally picked up, she said all the people who could help him were celebrating an employee’s fiftieth birthday and were unavailable. She took his number and said someone would call him back, but, of course, nobody ever did. The next time he ID’d himself as a cop and, exaggerating a little, said it was a matter of life and death. He immediately got disconnected.

  So this time, screw it, he was going to go there in person. He stood in line at the counter, and when someone asked if they could help him, he said he was a police officer and told her he needed to know what kind of car a certain individual drove. She told him normally that was not something she could divulge. He got the sense, though, that if he sweet-talked her a little, he could wheedle the information out of her. He leaned closer to her and dropped his voice. “It’s critical information to solve a brutal murder, ma’am.”

  Her eyes widened. “Well, in that case …”

  Three minutes later, he knew Frank Begay drove a 2017 black Ford F-150 and his brother Johnnie a Cadillac CTS—the same make of car that had picked up Grace Spooner the night she was murdered.

  Crawford got a panicked call from David Balfour. “I think I blew it. I know you’re right in the middle of that big case, but I really need your help, man.”

  It all came at Crawford like machine gun fire. “Slow down, David. What happened?”

  “So I had a come-to-Jesus conversation with Missy. Said I was going to give her a hundred grand and that I knew all about the paintings switch.”

  “Okay, so then what happened?”

  “Then I went to the Poinciana for my Wednesday golf game.”

  “And then?”

  “Came back five hours later and the real Kline and Hockney paintings were back on my walls.”

  Crawford scowled. “So, let me guess
. Missy denied they had ever been taken and acted like she didn’t know what the hell you were talking about. And probably still wants half your money.”

  “Yeah, exactly, but it gets worse. The P.I. from Miami disappeared.”

  Crawford sighed as the reality hit him. “Oh, I get it, so Missy or probably Jenkins got to him and paid him off. So now you don’t have him to testify about the paintings switch.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Balfour said, his voice thin, his exhale loud.

  “Well,” Crawford said, “the good news is I took a few close-ups of the painting with my cell phone.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Balfour said. “I was kicking myself for not doing that.”

  Crawford shook his head. “Problem is, that doesn’t really prove anything,” he said, then thought for a moment. “How are you at bluffing, David?”

  “What do you mean? I’m a pretty good poker player.”

  “You’re going to tell Missy that I broke into Jenkins’ studio and got photos of the Kline and the Hockney.”

  Balfour sighed again. But this time it was a sigh of relief.

  Crawford was back at the station at six thirty, reading whatever he could on the internet about Asher Bard, Lord Sunderland (nee Ainslie Sulcher), Joe Mitchell, and Khalid Al-Ansani.

  At a little before seven, Crawford heard footsteps approaching his door.

  “Hel-lo, Charlie.”

  Dominica McCarthy was wearing a short beige skirt and flashing a little cleavage but far from flaunting it. Personifying the old expression she’d look good in a potato sack, Dominica had thick brown hair, cat-like green eyes, full lips, and a slinky walk that was always a sight to behold. Sometimes Crawford slowed down to let her get ahead of him so he could take in her majestic hip-swaying.

  “What? Are you out roaming the hallways again,” Crawford said, “looking for someone to bother?”

  “I take offense at that. Have I ever bothered you, Charlie?”

  “Um. Never.”

  She raised her arms. “Are you going to ask me to join you or just stare at me?”

  “I like staring at you but would be honored if you’d join me,” Crawford said, pointing to a chair opposite him.

  “Isn’t that the one molded to Ott’s ass?” she asked.

  “No, it’s that one.” He pointed to the other chair as she sat down.

  “So, how you doin’ on Spooner?”

  He tapped the top of his desk. “Got a few things. Not enough yet.”

  “I keep hearing the name Asher Bard.”

  “Yeah, he’s high on the list. What do you know about him?”

  “I just hear the same things you do. Rich sleazeball who’s bad news with women.”

  “I think you’re being generous.”

  “And I hear he’s got some friends who are no day at the beach.”

  Crawford nodded. “The morning after the murder, Bard and some of those friends flew down to Costa Rica on a golf outing. Only problem is, they forgot their golf clubs.”

  “Isn’t Costa Rica a place where old guys go to meet young girls?”

  “Yup. Bard’s flying back tonight. I’ll be camped out on his doorstep tomorrow morning.”

  Dominica nodded, then yawned. “Well, I’m bored. What do you say I buy you a drink?”

  Crawford tapped his desk. “I got a better idea. How ’bout I buy you a drink … at a strip club?”

  “Now there’s an offer I’ve never had before.”

  “So, what do you say?”

  “I say … sure, what the hell,” she said with a shrug.

  “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, McCarthy, your adventurous spirit.”

  “And what I’ve always liked about you, Crawford, you recognizing it.”

  “I think it’s that Irish-Spanish-Hungarian blood in you.”

  “Irish-Spanish-Czechoslovakian.”

  “Even better.”

  “What’s the name of this dive you’re taking me to?”

  “Puss in Boots.”

  “Cute,” Dominica said, cocking her head to one side. “Who came up with that name?”

  “Couple of dipshits named Johnnie and Frank. But the dancers actually do wear boots.”

  “And that’s about all, right?”

  “Yup.”

  Clem the muscle-bound lunkhead was at the door of the Puss.

  He gave Dominica a long, approving stare after he asked her for ID.

  “Thank you, sir,” Dominica said as she dug her ID out of the wallet in her purse. “You make me feel young and vital.” She had turned thirty-one a few months back.

  He grunted something and gave her a stubby thumbs-up.

  They walked into the hallway. “Charming gentleman,” Dominica said.

  “Clem? Oh yeah, salt of the earth,” Crawford said. “It gets better. Wait ’til you meet the rest of the gang.”

  They walked in and there were two mostly unclad women dancing on the stage in the middle of the bar. Boobs were bobbing and bodies grinding.

  “Oh, my,” said Dominica, eyes wide.

  Crawford pointed to two bar stools. They sat.

  The bartender with the nicotine-stained teeth and stud in her nose who reminded Crawford of his old Sunday school teacher sidled up to them. “Welcome back. Mort, right?”

  Crawford nodded and turned to Dominica. “What are you gonna have?”

  “Ah, got any pinot grigio?” she asked the bartender.

  “Sure do.”

  Dominica smiled at Crawford. “How ’bout you … Mort?”

  Crawford studied the beers on tap. “I’ll have a Hoppy Ending IPA.”

  Dominica’s eyes shot to Crawford’s. “A what?”

  “It’s a beer. Heavy on the hops, lame on the name,” Crawford said, looking up at the women on stage. One of them blew him a kiss. She was the one from last time, her arms sleeved in blue ink.

  Dominica noticed and chuckled. “You a regular here?”

  “Nah, just the one time.” Crawford flicked his head. “That’s Daisy … or is it Daff?”

  “Daff?”

  “Yeah, all the girls are named after flowers.”

  “Oh, really,” Dominica said. “And why’d the bartender call you Mort?”

  “’Cause that’s my alias.”

  “Your partner know that?”

  “Gotta keep some secrets from him,” Crawford said. “All right. Enough small talk. We got a job to do.”

  “Talk to the brothers, you mean?” Dominica asked.

  Crawford nodded. He had told her about Johnnie Begay owning a Cadillac CTS, the same car that had picked up Grace Spooner the night she died.

  Crawford flagged down the bartender.

  “What’s up, Mort?” She eyed his three-quarter filled Hoppy Ending beer.

  “Johnnie and Frank back in their office?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You gonna hassle them again?”

  “Yup.”

  She glanced at Dominica, then back to Crawford. “Gonna take your little friend along?”

  Dominica got a steely look in her eyes. “I’m his boss. Name’s Rutledge. We need to see Johnnie.”

  Crawford suppressed a laugh as the bartender held up her hand. “All right. All right.” Then to Crawford, “You know where to go.”

  Crawford took another slug of his beer, then got up, leaving the Hoppy Ending half full. “You ready … boss?”

  Dominica took a dainty sip of her pinot grigio, then got up. “Let’s do this.”

  Crawford walked back to the door to the brothers’ office, noticing the bartender had just made a call on her cell.

  They got to the door and Crawford banged on it. A few moments later, Frank Begay opened up. “Well, well, back like a bad penny.”

  “Hello, Frank. This is Dominica. We work together.”

  “Wow,” Frank said. “Look at you.” He went from her toes up to her long and lustrous hair. “Whatever the Palm Beach Police Department’s paying you, we’ll doubl
e it.”

  “Thank you, Frank, but I’m very happy where I am. Need to ask you and your brother some questions.”

  Johnnie was across the room in his recliner, watching a basketball game this time. A woman Crawford hadn’t seen before was in his lap. “Johnnie, look who it is,” Frank said. “Our old friend Detective Crawford, and a lady-friend.”

  Johnnie glanced over and did a double-take when he saw Dominica. “Well, hel-lo, sweetness,” he said with a leer. “You here for a job interview?”

  “Screw off and get over here,” Dominica said. “We got questions.”

  Johnnie clicked off the basketball game and stood. “Seems like all we ever do is answer questions.”

  Crawford reached into the breast pocket of his jacket as Johnnie walked up to them. “You got a blue Cadillac CTS, right, Johnnie?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Crawford held up a photo. “Is this your car? ’Cause it’s also a blue Cadillac CTS.”

  Johnnie took a quick look at the photo. “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “’Cause I know you’re trying to place that woman who got killed in my car, but she was never anywhere near it.”

  “‘That woman.’ You know who ‘that woman’ is?”

  “No idea.”

  Crawford held up the photo of Grace Spooner getting in the car again. “Take another look.”

  Frank and Johnnie both shrugged.

  Crawford shook his head and raised his voice. “I’m getting sick of you assholes lying all the time.” He looked at Frank. “You lived in the same house with ‘that woman’ ten years ago.” Then to Johnnie, “And you, you lowlife pimp, you had her in your teenage girl stable.”