Palm Beach Bedlam Page 5

  And then there were eighteen.

  Crawford was able to reach Roddy Sproul, the PGA golf professional, who seemed accommodating. They made a date for an interview at five o’clock. He lived in Delray Beach, about a half hour from the station. Crawford also heard back from Khalid Al-Ansani, and they agreed to meet at Al-Ansani’s house at six thirty. It was one of those phone calls that goes like this:

  Crawford (answering the phone): Hello?

  Voice: Detective Crawford?

  Crawford: Yes, who’s this?

  Voice: Hold for Mr. Al-Ansani, please.

  Which Crawford did for a full minute until Al-Ansani finally came on.

  The upshot was that Al-Ansani was willing to meet, but he wanted to know what the purpose of the meeting was, though Crawford was convinced he knew already. When Crawford told him, Al-Ansani said, “Oh, I heard about that. Was that the same night we were there?” Again, Crawford was convinced he knew perfectly well that it was.

  Having the two men lined up for interviews was unusual because normally the men and women of Palm Beach treated a visit from a detective as they would an IRS man climbing over the wall behind their house. After Al-Ansani, Crawford made calls to four other men, but got only voicemails.

  Finally, he called the last man on his list, and he answered.

  “Hello. Dan Wright.”

  “Yes, hi, Mr. Wright, my name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police. I’m calling because you were at Asher Bard’s birthday party the night before last at The Colony, where the murder of a woman took place. I’d like to come talk to you.”

  A pause. “Okay, but what is it you’d like to know?”

  “Just some general questions,” Crawford said. “What you may have observed or heard at Mr. Bard’s party.”

  “I didn’t observe a damn thing except a bunch of guys getting drunk.”

  “I’d still like to talk to you. How is tomorrow morning?”

  Reluctantly, Dan Wright agreed. He said he had an errand to run on Royal Palm Way at nine, and they agreed he’d stop by the station at ten.

  Something Wright had said triggered a thought, and Crawford walked down to Ott’s cubicle. Ott was in the middle of an animated conversation with someone, gesturing excitedly with his left hand, his ninety-five percent bald head alternately nodding, then shaking side to side. “Okay, great, thank you, Mr. Greer. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning at eleven. Look forward to meeting you.”

  Ott clicked off.

  Crawford recognized Greer as one of the names on the Bard party list. “Got a live one there?”

  “Got a real talker is what I had,” Ott said. “Among other things, he said he didn’t know Asher Bard very well.”

  Crawford shrugged. “But he was invited to his sixtieth birthday party?”

  “I know. Turns out he thinks it was because of his sixteen-year-old daughter.”

  Crawford cocked his head. “Wait, I’m not with you.”

  “Greer was with his daughter at Publix and bumped into Bard there. Greer said, in retrospect, Bard was paying a little bit too much attention to his daughter. Then, at the birthday party, Greer says Bard started asking him all kinds of questions about her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like where she goes to school. What sports she plays. Shit like that. But then he asks him when her birthday was. And Greer thinks that’s a little weird, so he goes, ‘Why do you want to know that?’ And Bard says, ‘’Cause I thought I might get her a birthday present.’”

  Crawford shook his head. “I’d say that’s more than a little weird.”

  “I agree. So did Greer. He says to me he steered the conversation to some other subject after that.”

  “If it was me,” Crawford said, shaking his head, “I’d steer it to accusing Bard of being a world-class perv and tell him to not go within a hundred miles of my daughter. Man, this guy gets worse by the second. I mean, he’s major-league sick.”

  “Yeah, no shit. I get why Harlan Brody wants to take him down so bad,” Ott said. “Why’d you come by?”

  “I think I know something that might help us.”

  Ott leaned back in his chair. “What’s that?”

  “The guys at Bard’s party had no reason to leave the restaurant.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Like any restaurant, there’s a men’s and ladies’ room, so for what reason would they possibly go outside the restaurant?”

  “That’s a good point,” Ott said. “Other than to have a smoke maybe, I can’t think of any reason unless to pay a visit to Grace Spooner.”

  Crawford nodded. “And, as I remember, there was a camera at the entrance that connects the restaurant and the hotel.”

  Ott nodded. “So, we go see if anyone walked out of the restaurant into the hotel?”

  “Exactly,” Crawford said. “We both don’t need to go. I thought I’d head over there now. I’ve got appointments with Sproul at five and the arms dealer at six thirty.”

  “Ever interviewed an international arms dealer before?”

  Crawford shook his head. “Only arms dealer I ever met was a guy selling stolen Kalashnikovs out of the trunk of his car up in Riviera Beach.”

  After Crawford examined the surveillance footage from the door connecting the CPB restaurant with The Colony Hotel, he discovered that four men from Asher Bard’s birthday party had left the restaurant. One of them, it turned out, was one of his upcoming interviews, Khalid Al-Ansani. Al-Ansani was easy to recognize: he was wearing a thobe and a turban. Crawford had no idea who the other three men were. One was tall, had a shaved head, and was wearing a blue blazer and pink pants. Another was skinny, had Gordon Gekko slicked-back hair, and was wearing a tan suit.

  The third was a mushy-looking man with drooping eyebrows and curly reddish hair who had a wide grin. Crawford snapped a shot of all three men with his iPhone. He intended to have Roddy Sproul identify them, then show the photos to Ott.

  He took a look at his watch. It was 4:35. He walked out to The Colony parking lot, slid into his Crown Vic, and headed south to Delray Beach. He pulled into the peach-colored ranch house at the address he had for the professional golfer.

  Sproul, who answered the door, was an older version of the man Crawford had seen walk off the eighteenth green of Augusta National to thunderous applause fifteen years before. The Masters champ was a little grayer and paunchier but still had the hawkish look and penetrating blue eyes. He was wearing a straw hat with a Poinciana club logo on it, beige shorts, and a green collared shirt.

  “Welcome, Detective. Can I get you something to drink?” Sproul asked in a South African accent.

  Crawford had forgotten he was from there.

  “Just a water would be great,” Crawford said, shaking Sproul’s hand.

  “Oh, come on, Detective. It’s five o’clock. How about a beer or something?”

  “No, thanks. I appreciate it, though.”

  “Well, come on back.” Sproul gestured with his hand. “I’m going to have a beer.”

  Crawford followed Sproul into his large, antiseptically white kitchen and up to the refrigerator.

  Sproul reached in and pulled out a green bottle. Crawford didn’t recognize the name on the label. “Windhoek?” he said. “Thought I knew my beers, but I don’t know that one.”

  “It’s from South Africa. Sure I can’t—”

  Crawford shrugged. “Why not?”

  Sproul smiled and reached in for another bottle. Then he got an opener from a drawer and opened them both. They walked out to a sunroom in the back of the house and sat down facing each other.

  “Terrible thing, that murder at The Colony,” Sproul said.

  “Sure was,” Crawford said. “When you were there for Bard’s birthday party, did you see anything … out of the ordinary?”

  Sproul chuckled. “I saw quite a few things out of the ordinary, but not what you mean.”

  Crawford squinted. “I’m not with you.”

  “Well, I th
ink what you’re asking is did I see anything out of the ordinary that might have had to do with a murder, and the answer is no. But at the birthday party, there sure as hell were a few things out of the ordinary.”

  “Like what?”

  Sproul cocked his head. “Have you spoken to any other guys who were there yet?”

  “No, you’re the first.”

  Sproul paused as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell tales out of school. Finally: “Okay, well, fasten your seat belt.”

  “It’s fastened.”

  Sproul leaned forward. “And I’m assuming this is confidential. You won’t ever quote me.”

  “You have my word. Nothing you say will go outside this room.”

  Sproul took a long sip of his Windhoek. “Okay, well, the first thing that struck me was it seemed more like a bachelor party than a birthday party.”

  “How so?”

  Sproul paused again. “’Cause there were dancing girls in attendance.”

  “Dancing girls?” Then it clicked. “Wait, you don’t mean strippers, do you?”

  Sproul chuckled. “I never used that word.”

  “But that’s what they were, right?”

  Sproul nodded. “Second of all, when I left, Asher told me we had gone through two cases of Pommery Cuvee.”

  “I’m guessing that’s something you drink?”

  Sproul nodded. “A very expensive brand of champagne,” he said, shaking his head. “And that’s with two guys who are teetotalers.”

  Crawford did some quick math: Twenty minus the man who didn’t show, minus the one who just had one drink, minus the two teetotalers. That meant the sixteen remaining men had averaged a bottle and a half each. “That’s a lot of champagne.”

  “No kidding,” Sproul said with a laugh. “Judging by how I felt the next morning, I might have single-handedly knocked off a couple of those bottles.”

  “I noticed on a surveillance camera that several of the men walked out of the restaurant with women. I’m assuming they were—”

  Sproul leaned even closer. “Between you and me, dancing girls who doubled as working girls. I heard Asher had booked a couple of rooms in the hotel for, let’s just say, amorous activities.”

  “And a few of the guys ended up in these rooms?”

  Sproul put his hands up. “Not me, mind you. I’m a happily married man.”

  “So, what I saw on the surveillance tape was several women walk out with some of the men.”

  “Yeah,” Sproul said, shaking his head. “One of the girls started to leave the restaurant very skimpily clad, but Asher didn’t think that was a good idea. He headed her off at the pass.”

  “Speaking of Bard, did you see him leave with one of the girls?”

  “I’m not going to comment on that,” Sproul said. “I’ve given you a lot already.”

  “Yes, you have, and I appreciate it, but I didn’t see Bard leave with any of them. Or go into the hotel at all.”

  Sproul dropped his voice, like he thought Asher Bard might have a spy planted behind one of his curtains. “Maybe if there was a camera in the kitchen …”

  Crawford nodded. “Are you saying Bard went into the kitchen with one of the girls? Then … what? Through the kitchen into the hotel … maybe?”

  Sproul shrugged. “Could be.”

  Crawford chewed on that, then reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulled out three photos. “Who are these three men?”

  Sproul took the photos out of Crawford’s hand. “That’s Jerry Reposo,” he said, pointing at the man with the shaved head. “And that’s Tom Schiller, a heavy hitter on Wall Street. And that”—he was eyeing the photo of the man with reddish hair and drooping eyebrows—“that’s Ainslie Sunderland.”

  “And the women? Do you remember their names?”

  “Well, they didn’t exactly flash their driver’s licenses around, but the one with Tom is Betty and the one with Jerry, I think, called herself Ronnie, as I recall.”

  “And the one with Sunderland?”

  “Sorry, no clue.”

  Crawford made a mental note to talk to Jennifer Atwood, Asher Bard’s secretary. See if she knew anything about Betty and Ronnie.

  Crawford couldn’t think of anything else to ask Sproul. “Okay, Mr. Sproul—”

  “Call me Roddy.”

  “Roddy, I really appreciate all your help.”

  Sproul nodded. “My brother’s a cop back in Cape Town. I’ve always been partial to law enforcement. Plus, just in case one of your guys pinches me for going ten miles over the speed limit, it’s good to have a friend in high places.”

  Crawford smiled. “Not sure I can help you there, but thanks again. Say,” he said, “are you playing on the senior circuit these days?”

  “Yeah, a little bit. Got a second last month. Won the Chubb Classic last year.”

  “Good for you. Well, I’ll be looking for you on TV.” Crawford pulled out his wallet and got a card. “You think of anything else that might be helpful, please give me a call.”

  “You got it,” Sproul said, and he walked Crawford to the door. “Remember, you didn’t hear a thing from me, right?”

  “Not a word.”

  9

  Khalid Al-Ansani was wearing stylish white linen pants and a blue and white striped sport shirt that Crawford thought he had seen in the window of Maus & Hoffman on Worth Avenue. He remembered thinking, when he walked past the store, that the shirt probably cost half his paycheck. A third, at the very least. It was a far cry from the thobe and turban surveillance cameras had showed him wearing at Asher Bard’s party.

  He greeted Crawford at the front door of the huge, olive-colored Mediterranean, and, as Roddy Sproul had, he asked if Crawford would like something to drink. This time Crawford thanked him but declined. Al-Ansani led him outside, and they sat on a patio overlooking a pool and the ocean beyond. It was a familiar view for Crawford, as Al-Ansani’s house was only two doors down from Rose Clarke’s home, where he had spent many a night.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Al-Ansani. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, Detective, that’s what you came for,” Al-Ansani said, raising his martini to Crawford.

  Crawford reached into his breast pocket for the photo of Grace Spooner. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”

  Al-Ansani took the photo and looked at it. “No, I never have. So, she’s the woman who was killed.”

  Crawford nodded. “You never saw her in The Colony Hotel the night of Asher Bard’s party?”

  Al-Ansani shook his head. “No, I did not.”

  Crawford studied his eyes. He didn’t blink or look away.

  “Did you either hear or see anything at Mr. Bard’s party or in the hotel that looked in any way suspicious? Anything that made you think a crime might be in the works?”

  Al-Ansani tapped the arm of his chair a few times. “No, nothing at all. We were just a group of men eating and drinking and toasting our host on his birthday.”

  “A group of men, you say. Were there any other people there?”

  Al-Ansani thought for a moment. “Well, yes, waiters and bartenders.”

  “But nobody else?”

  Al-Ansani shrugged. “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Had the man contracted a convenient case of amnesia or was he just a willful liar? The latter, Crawford decided.

  “Yes, unless someone came after I left.”

  “And when did you leave, Mr. Al-Ansani?”

  “I think it was around eleven fifteen or eleven thirty.” He took a quick, nervous sip of his martini.

  Crawford reached into his pocket again and pulled out another photo. He held it up for Al-Ansani. “Do you mean when you left with this woman to go into the hotel or when you left to go home?”

  Some men would have been embarrassed; some men would have looked guilty. Khalid Al-Ansani just looked colossally pissed off. “Is this what the Palm Beach Police Dep
artment does? Goes around and spies on private parties? This is outrageous. Why don’t you go after the murderer of that poor woman instead of focusing on a bunch of men celebrating another man’s birthday?”

  There was a lot to be said for the maxim, the best defense is a strong offense.

  “Mr. Al-Ansani, I can assure you neither I nor any other members of the Palm Beach Police Department have any interest in investigating a man’s birthday party. But this particular birthday party took place when and where a murder took place. So, I repeat, when you left with the woman in the photo, did you see Grace Spooner, or possibly a man who might have looked suspicious?”

  Al-Ansani polished off the last of his martini. He seemed to be trying to rein in his anger, but he was still fuming. “I don’t think we have anything further to discuss, Detective.”

  Crawford smiled and made no move to get up. “Well, I do, Mr. Al-Ansani, because I know you have, in fact, seen the murder victim before.”

  Al-Ansani could no longer hold back. “What the hell are you talking about?” A little spittle flew with the question.

  “You met Grace Spooner back when she was a teenager. When she was fifteen years old. And my understanding is she was now on the verge of testifying about what happened back then at an upcoming trial.” Crawford sighed. “But, of course, she can’t do that anymore.”

  “That’s an absolutely outrageous charge.” More spit flew. “I have never laid eyes on that woman in my life.”

  Crawford reached into his breast pocket again. This time he pulled out a photo Harlan Brody had sent to him. It was of Al-Ansani, Asher Bard, and Ainslie Sunderland on the upper deck of a yacht with three young women by their sides. It had been taken by an investigator from the state attorney’s office, and, clearly, the three men had absolutely no idea it was being taken.