Palm Beach Bedlam Page 4

  “Yeah, you were working … not praying.”

  For once, Ott had no rejoinder.

  Crawford pulled out his iPhone as the elevator door opened. He started dialing.

  “Who ya calling?” Ott asked.

  Crawford held up a hand. “Yes, can you give me the number of the Seminole Golf Club in Juno Beach, please.” He listened. “Thanks.”

  Then he dialed the number. “Yes, hello. Can you connect me to the pro shop, please?”

  Pause.

  “Yeah, hi. My name is Tyrell, and I work for Asher Bard, a member there. He’s out of the country, and I just wanted to know whether his clubs are there or whether he took ’em up north with him?”

  Pause.

  “They are there,” Crawford said into his phone. “Okay, great, that’s all I need to know. Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Crawford clicked off.

  Ott patted Crawford on the shoulder. “Good thinkin’, Charlie.”

  “Yeah, but all it does is confirm he wasn’t going to Costa Rica for golf. Unless maybe he’s got two golf bags. Doesn’t get us any closer to finding our killer.”

  6

  When Crawford and Ott arrived back at the station, Crawford’s landline was ringing in his office.

  “Hello?”

  “Charlie”—it was the receptionist, Janine—“it’s Harlan Brody on the phone. He’s the—”

  “Thanks, Janine, I know who he is.”

  Harlan Brody was the state attorney for Palm Beach County. A powerful man who led a team of 120 prosecutors and had a vast professional staff in five offices throughout Palm Beach County.

  Crawford clicked on. “Hello.”

  “Charlie, Harlan Brody here. I’d like to come see you right away.”

  Sorry, I’m busy, didn’t seem like it would be an acceptable answer. “Okay, I’m assuming this has to do with the Grace Spooner murder?”

  “Yes, it does. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Brody clicked off.

  Crawford loved it how men like Brody expected men like him to just drop everything. What if he had an interview lined up? What if he had an arrest to make? What if … It didn’t seem to matter to the Harlan Brodys of the world.

  And, sure enough, fifteen minutes later—not sixteen or fourteen—Harlan Brody stormed into Crawford’s office at a business-like clip. He was a man of medium height, short hair, and a marshmallow-white face, as if he’d never stretched out on a local beach. But he shook hands as if he were intent on breaking every knuckle in Crawford’s right hand. Crawford’s read: an over-compensator.

  “Nice to meet you, Charlie,” Brody said. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

  “Thank you,” Crawford said, not knowing what to call Brody. “State Attorney” was a mouthful and “sir” … well, he refused to call him “sir.”

  “Call me Harlan,” Brody said, making it easier.

  He sat down in a chair facing Crawford’s desk. “So, let’s talk about Grace Spooner.”

  “Hang on a sec. I want to get my partner in on this,” Crawford said, hitting the intercom for Ott. “Hey, Mort, can you come in? I’m with the state attorney.”

  “Yeah, sure, be right there,” Ott said.

  A few seconds later, Ott walked in. Crawford introduced the two and Ott sat down. It was then Crawford saw the insignia on Brody’s maroon tie. It was the unmistakable shield of one of Crawford’s old college rivals, Harvard University.

  “So, I was just about to ask Charlie,” Brody said to Ott, “what you guys got on the Grace Spooner case?”

  Ott nodded and glanced at Crawford.

  “At this point we’ve got a few suspects,” Crawford said, “but no one who we’d call a key suspect.”

  The instant frown on Brody’s pasty white face indicated that was not the answer he was looking for. “You gotta be kidding. Why the hell isn’t Asher Bard locked up right now? He was at the murder scene. He’s got a clear-cut motive. What the hell else do you need?”

  “For one thing, he’s in Costa Rica.”

  “You’re kidding. When did he go there?”

  “This morning.”

  “Well, hell, I’ll get him extradited.”

  “We have no reason to believe he was fleeing. Or that he’s a flight risk. He went there with three other men on a planned trip.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard all about his trips,” Brody said. “So, when is he supposed to come back?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “So arrest him at the airport.” Not a suggestion, an order.

  “On what charge?”

  “You got two days to dig up evidence to charge him with.”

  Crawford looked down and tapped his desk with a pen. “What makes you so sure it was Bard?”

  Brody sighed and shook his head like he was in the presence of a couple of dopey high-school boys who needed to be spoon-fed. “Jesus, have you been listening to me? Because he was at the murder scene, and because he had a motive. My witness, Grace Spooner, was about to go to trial and put him away for twenty years.”

  Crawford nodded. “But, wait a minute, there already was a trial ten years ago. And a conviction. Wouldn’t that be double jeopardy?”

  Brody smiled. “Very good, Charlie”—it was a touch condescending—“I see you’re a lawyer and a detective. The charge this time is different from the one the first time. But, in reality, pretty similar.”

  Crawford nodded. “I gotcha. So the other three from back then, they were also going to trial on the new charges?”

  Brody nodded. “But forget the other three. Bard did it. Trust me.”

  “Well, Bard’s definitely our leading suspect, but we haven’t ruled out the others at his birthday party,” Crawford said. “We don’t have any physical evidence yet. We’re hoping to get a print or DNA but don’t have the results yet.”

  “Well, hell, man, you need me to speed things up?” Brody asked.

  Crawford glanced at Ott, who nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Right after this, I’ll make the call.”

  Crawford nodded.

  “But, goddamn it,” Brody said and pounded Crawford’s desk, “I’m telling you, Bard did it.”

  Crawford held up his hands. “Okay, as soon as he’s back, we’ll be all over him. In the meantime, we still have the others at his party to interview. Question: Was there a statute of limitations on the sexual battery charge against Bard and the others?”

  Brody nodded slowly. “That’s a good question, and the answer is, it was going to run out in six months.”

  Crawford nodded. “So that gave you enough time?”

  “Yeah, and based on everything Grace Spooner told me, she was going to be a very convincing witness. With enough detail to put Bard away for, as I said, a long time.”

  Brody stood up. “All right,” he said to Crawford. “We’ll be talking on a regular basis. I need your cell phone number, too.”

  Crawford gave it to him. “We’ll let you know when we have something.”

  As he walked toward the door, Brody turned back to Crawford. “No, that’s not good enough. Get something in the next three days so you can greet Bard at the airport with your handcuffs out.”

  7

  No sooner was State Attorney Harlan Brody out the door than Police Chief Norm Rutledge walked in the door. “What was that all about?” Rutledge asked Crawford.

  Crawford and Ott were still standing, having just done another quick knuckle-breaker handshake with Brody before his hasty exit. “Seems the state attorney wants to see Asher Bard put in solitary for life up at Raiford,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah, with no parole,” Ott added.

  Raiford was the notorious state prison west of Jacksonville.

  “Yeah, well, who can blame the guy after what Bard did to him,” Rutledge said.

  “What? What exactly happened?” Crawford asked.

  “Guess it was before you guys got down here,” Rutle
dge said. “I’d say it was maybe five or six years back. Anyway, Brody was the chief assistant in the state attorney’s office. Young—like late twenties—and ambitious as shit. He was out to nail Asher Bard and add another scalp to his belt. He had, or so he thought anyway, an iron-clad case against Bard and the other three. Three teenage witnesses who were going to detail what went on at Bard’s house and on his yacht.” Rutledge had Crawford’s and Ott’s complete, undivided attention. “So, he called the first girl to the stand, and she gets up there and says with a straight face how Bard and one of the other guys just helped her with her homework—math in particular—whenever she came over.”

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Ott said, shaking his head incredulously. “That’s what she said?”

  “Yup,” Rutledge said. “And when Brody started questioning her about giving the men massages or any kind of sex having occurred, she denied everything. Said very innocently that nothing at all like that happened. They were all perfect gentlemen.”

  “That’s unbelievable,” Crawford said. “So, what happened next?”

  “When Brody saw where it was headed, he dismissed her quick and called the next girl. So, she gets up and says that Bard and the other men were all very generous with their time and gave her advice on how to set up and successfully run a lemonade stand—”

  “Bullshit!” Crawford said in total disbelief. “Really?”

  Rutledge nodded his head. “Half the people in the courthouse were stifling laughs at this point. Brody’s up there red-faced, looking like a total idiot, and the judge decides it’s time for a recess. Long story short, it’s over. Brody wisely doesn’t call the third girl, and all but one of the charges were dismissed. They got him for something minor, I forget what. Got, basically, a wrist slap.”

  “Wow,” Crawford said, looking at Ott. “I guess we know why Brody wants Bard’s ass so bad.”

  “Yeah, the whole thing was a big setback in his career,” Rutledge said. “But, gotta hand it to him, the guy hung in there and a few years later got the job he was after. And, word is, he’s now thinking about running for senator in 2022.”

  “And it sure wouldn’t hurt to have a murder conviction for a high-profile guy like Asher Bard on his résumé, would it?” Crawford asked rhetorically.

  Rutledge nodded. “Sure wouldn’t.”

  “So, this is way more than just politics.”

  “Sure is.”

  8

  Asher Bard and his fellow passengers aboard his Citation X were indeed primary suspects, and if Harlan Brody had his way, Crawford and Ott would be on their way to Costa Rica to arrest them all. Even though Brody didn’t seem to have much interest in considering Ainslie Sunderland, Joseph Mitchell, Jerry Reposo, and another man, Monte Bittar, whose name had surfaced, as suspects in the murder of Grace Spooner. A year ago, Crawford and Ott pursued a suspect all the way to Mexico. Back then, they had substantial evidence that their suspect, a Mexican national, was the killer. In the Spooner case, though, they had nothing to justify spending good money and wasting a lot of time going after Asher Bard and company in Costa Rica.

  They were in Crawford’s office figuring out a plan of attack. Typically, they used something resembling a spreadsheet, on which they designated and split up people they needed to interview, locations they wanted to revisit, and follow-up conversations they were eager to have, typically with the ME and crime scene techs.

  There were twenty people on the list they had gotten from Jennifer Atwood. They had to interview all of them. It went without saying that one interview could be quite different from the next one. There was the interview in which a subject was ruled out almost immediately. An airtight alibi, usually. Or, as in a previous case, a physical handicap that made it impossible for a suspect to commit a crime.

  Crawford decided the best way to proceed was to talk to David Balfour about the men on the list. Get his impressions. He called Balfour, who sounded even more dispirited about his deteriorating marital situation than before, but who readily agreed to help on the Spooner case in whatever way he could.

  So Crawford and Ott drove over to Balfour’s house. As usual, they met in Balfour’s library.

  Crawford had just handed Balfour the list.

  “So, you’re asking me who on this list could be a murderer?”

  “That would be nice,” Crawford said with a smile. “You tell us who did it, we go read him his rights and lock him up. But somehow I see it being a little more complicated than that.”

  Balfour was scanning the list. He stopped at one. “Wow, Khalid Al-Ansani was there?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You don’t know?” Balfour asked.

  “Name is vaguely familiar,” Crawford said.

  “He’s what’s called an international arms dealer by some, a legendary philanderer by others … Me, I just call him a rogue. A lovable rogue sometimes; other times, kind of a sinister rogue.”

  “What nationality is he?” Crawford asked.

  “He’s a Saudi. Makes deals all around the world. S’posedly speaks, like, seven languages and has five wives and ten mistresses.”

  “Is he the kind of rogue who kills people?” Crawford asked.

  Balfour chuckled. “Not that I know of personally, but I’ve heard stories.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “He can play a little rough, supposedly.”

  Crawford made a mental note to follow up on him right away.

  “Who else on this list jumps out at you?” Ott asked, shifting in his chair.

  Balfour turned to Ott. “Well, you saw the golfer, Roddy Sproul, right?”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, what’s he like?”

  “I don’t know him that well, even though he’s a member at the Poinciana,” Balfour said. “I hear he’s got a temper, though. Throwing clubs, stuff like that.”

  Ott couldn’t resist. “How ’bout throwing women?”

  “Kinda doubt that,” Balfour said.

  They went through the rest of the names on the list. Three of them Balfour didn’t know at all. The rest of them were men he knew to varying degrees. Crawford asked him again if he had to choose someone on the list to be a murderer, who it would be.

  “Well, this is obvious, but Bard is your leading candidate at this point, right? I mean, talk about motive. That woman’s testimony could put him in jail for a hell of a long time. Or else one of the other men from the trial ten years back, who she was going to implicate again.”

  “You mean Sunderland, Mitchell, and Bittar?”

  “Yes, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

  Crawford nodded, his mind veering in another direction.

  “What are you thinking?” Ott asked.

  “Just that in my experience, the most obvious suspect turns out to be the killer about sixty percent of the time.”

  “Someone else forty percent?” Ott said.

  “Yeah, what would you say?”

  Ott nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  “So, the sixty percenter is Bard, and the forty percenters are Monte Bittar, Joe Mitchell, and Ainslie Sunderland.”

  “Yeah, so far, but something tells me we’re going to be adding to the list.”

  “I agree.”

  Crawford turned to Balfour. “Let me ask the question another way. Who on this list would you rule out?”

  Balfour looked down the list and thought for a few moments. “This is hard, especially since a couple of these guys are friends of mine.”

  “I hear you,” Crawford said. “See, one of our problems is that none of them have alibis, since they all were at The Colony. Unless they can prove they left early and went home. You know, where their wife can alibi them or something. We can usually rule out people pretty fast, assuming they have solid alibis.”

  “I understand,” Balfour said, reaching into a coffee table drawer next to him and pulling out a pen. “Tell you what I’m going to do: I’m going to put checks next to ones I’d call ‘le
ast likely.’ Does that help at all?”

  Crawford nodded. “It definitely does. But then again, I’ve run across a murderer or two who everyone describes as the nicest guy they’ve ever met”—he turned to Ott—“know what I mean?”

  “Oh, yeah, for sure,” Ott said. “Boy Scouts, class presidents, Most Likely to Succeed … Murderers don’t all look like Charlie Manson.”

  Crawford nodded.

  “In fact,” said Ott, “Ted Bundy was an honor student in high school and went to law school for a while.”

  Balfour looked up. “Is that right?”

  “I had one guy when I was up in Cleveland who was the choirmaster at the Unitarian Church. Taught Sunday school and turned out he got his jollies by hacking up people into tiny little pieces in his spare time.”

  “You’re kidding,” Balfour said, shaking his head.

  “Nope. Sidney Machowski. I’ll never forget ol’ Sid.”

  “That reminds me of something,” Balfour said. “Does the name Sid Sherman mean anything to you?”

  Crawford and Ott both shook their heads.

  “He’s a Broadway producer whose wife, I heard, is having an affair with Bard.”

  “Does Sherman know about it?”

  “I doubt it. But even if he does, I’m not sure he’d care much because—”

  Crawford held up his hand. “Don’t tell me. Because he’s having a thing with someone else’s wife.”

  Balfour nodded. “You catch on quick, Charlie. By the way, we never had this conversation. Bard’s not my friend, but I sure as hell don’t want him as an enemy.” He turned to Crawford. “On another subject—Missy—I hired a private investigator my friend recommended. He’s looking into her and her boyfriend. I get the sense the P.I. knows what he’s doing.”

  “Sounds good,” Crawford said. “Keep me up to speed on it. Let me know if there’s anything I can help with.”

  “I will,” Balfour said. “In the meantime, good luck on your case.”

  “At this point, we sure could use some.”

  Crawford and Ott went back to the station, split up the list, and started making calls right away. Two men were eliminated quickly. One had the flu the night of Bard’s party and never left his house. Crawford confirmed that by phoning Jennifer Atwood, who said the man called the day of the party and said he didn’t want to give the flu to the others at the party. Another man Ott called said he’d only gone to the party for one drink because his wife had had a fender-bender the afternoon of the party, banged up her knee a little, and he’d come home early to take care of her.