Palm Beach Taboo (Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mysteries Book 10) Page 9

  Rose shook her head. “I think I’ve heard Peavy’s name but that’s all. Larry Swain or Xi Kiang, sorry, never heard of them.”

  “Okay, then, the Melhados… what can you tell me about them?”

  Rose leaned back in her Adirondack chair. “Well, I know that Fannie had like a five-minute marriage to one of the Hearsts. You know, the newspaper Hearsts.”

  Crawford nodded.

  “And Freddie… he’s a classic hail-fellow-well-met guy.”

  Crawford nodded. “Gotcha. That was my impression, too.”

  “Hey, by the way, how’s Dominica? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “She’s good,” he said. “Well, Rose, I appreciate your help, as always—” he got to his feet “—I gotta get going, catch me some bad guys.”

  “You’re welcome, as always…. If you ever want to get into a high-stakes game of croquet, let me know.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t own any white shirts where the collar defies gravity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stays in the up position.”

  Rose laughed. “Oh, right.”

  “So, I think I’ll just stick to being a barely-adequate golfer.”

  It was just before ten when he walked into his office. Ott was waiting for him in a chair facing his desk, banging away on his laptop.

  “Hey,” Ott said. “What are you doing, putting in Rutledge hours?”

  Their chief was well-known for never getting to work before nine or leaving past five.

  “I had an early morning croquet lesson.”

  “What?”

  “My secret life,” Crawford joked. “So, got anything new?”

  “Not really, how ’bout you?”

  “I got a little backstory from Rose about Guy Bemmert,” Crawford said and filled Ott in on what Rose had told him. “We got a date with him and Swain in Boca.”

  “Yeah, I dug into Bemmert, along with a few others. Spent a couple hours on ’em,” Ott said. “Didn’t really find much on Bemmert, though. Just some reference to him heading a mortgage company.”

  “Nothing about him defrauding Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac?”

  “No, just that he was CEO of… I forget the name.”

  “Well, we’ll see what he has to say about it,” Crawford said. “I’ve also got a bunch of calls into Leo Peavy, but he’s clearly in no hurry to call me back.”

  Ott smiled at that. “We’ll track him down.”

  Crawford nodded. “Yes, we will. But first, the boys in Boca.”

  “What’s the address?” Ott asked as they got into their aging but still game Crown Vic.

  “702 Coquina Drive B,” Crawford said.

  “B?” Ott looked over at him. “What kind of address is that?”

  Crawford shrugged. “I don’t know, a condo maybe.”

  Ott dialed it in on his GPS.

  The morning sky had darkened, and it looked like a storm was coming in, so Ott flicked on his headlights.

  They had just merged onto I-95 south when Ott’s phone rang. Ott looked down at the number and seemed to ponder whether to answer it or not.

  “Hey,” he said finally, clicking his iPhone.

  Crawford could hear a woman’s voice.

  “Ah, sure,” Ott said after a few moments, then in an apprehensive tone. “In a library?”

  More listening.

  “Okay,” he said, frowning. “Really, subtitles?”

  Crawford heard the woman’s voice say, ‘Yes.’

  “Okay, honey, I’ll pick you up,” Ott said, clicking off.

  Crawford had heard just enough to dope out the gist of the conversation. “They really suck.”

  Ott frowned. “What does?”

  “The three French ‘shorts’ you’re going to see at the West Palm library.”

  “How the hell—”

  “The clues were ‘library’ and ‘subtitles,’” Crawford said. “But the big question is, who’s honey?”

  Ott’s face turned ripe-tomato red. “Oh, just… this woman.”

  “Come on, Mort, details.”

  Ott sighed. “That’s enough.”

  “No, no, no. You’re always wearing me out with questions about women. Now it’s my turn. Who is she?”

  An even deeper sigh. “Just this woman I met.”

  “How’d you meet her?”

  Ott started tapping the steering wheel like he was going to break it. “Just, you know, around.”

  “Cut the shit, Mort. How’d you meet her?”

  The tapping got more intense. “On one of those sites.”

  Crawford’s head went up and down. “Hey, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Which one? Match?”

  Ott shook his head. “No, it’s called Elite.”

  “Well, hell, man,” Crawford said with a big smile, “that you are.”

  “Douchebag.”

  “So… more questions. How many dates have you had?”

  Reluctantly. “Three.”

  “So, you did the coffee date ice breaker. Then the drinks date. Then the dinner one. Now it’s the foreign-film date. Watch it: she’s testing to see if you’ve got any culture.”

  Ott laughed. “We both know the answer to that.”

  “Hey, you got more than I do.”

  702 Coquina Way B turned out to be a modest two-story garage apartment behind 702 Coquina Way, which itself was anything but modest.

  They had to go through a barrier gate to get there. First, Ott pressed a button, then a few seconds later a voice asked, “The detectives?”

  “Yup,” said Ott and the mechanical arm went up and Ott drove in.

  702 Coquina Way, the large house they went past, was close to ten thousand square feet, Crawford estimated. It was a grey steel modern house with more windows than he remembered ever seeing in any place before. As Ott drove past it to the adjacent garage apartment, Crawford imagined an exorbitant monthly bill for window-washing. More than his monthly rent, no doubt. He could picture the crew finishing the massive window-cleaning job, only to have to start all over again.

  Ott parked in front of the four-car garage, which was underneath Bemmert and Swain’s garage apartment. A blue Nissan Sentra was also parked there.

  “Not much of a car for the treasurer of SOAR,” Ott said.

  Crawford nodded as they walked up the outside stairway.

  Crawford pushed the doorbell. Nobody came to the door right away, so he hit it again. This time the door opened and a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties gave them a big smile. “Welcome, fellas.”

  Crawford put out his hand. “Hi, Detective Crawford and my partner, Detective Ott.”

  “Larry Swain,” the man said. He had close-cropped hair, bright emerald-green eyes, a three-day growth, and muscles that would have made Schwarzenegger in his prime envious.

  His handshake was predictably bone-crushing.

  “Get you fellas something to drink?”

  “Water would be great,” Crawford said.

  “Me, too,” said Ott.

  They followed him into the kitchen, and he opened the refrigerator door.

  “How ’bout a Perrier?”

  “Sure,” said Crawford and Ott nodded.

  Swain pulled out two bottles of Perrier and a black can of something called Monster, which Crawford was pretty sure was an energy drink. They followed him through the living room to a terrace that looked out over a back lawn to a tall ficus hedge beyond. Crawford was struck by how little furniture there was and, with the exception of one lone travel poster that said Amalfi Coast, how bare the walls appeared.

  Swain introduced them to Bemmert, who was reading The Economist as they sat and joined him. Bemmert was the diametric opposite of Swain: short and pudgy with scraggly blond hair and clumps of grey on the side. Crawford’s first impression was that he actually looked like a man who had an IQ of 150.

  He welcomed Crawford and Ott, then fell silent.

  “So,” Crawford said, picking up the slack, “as I
said on the phone, we’re the lead detectives on the Christian Lalley murder case and would like to ask you some questions.”

  Bemmert nodded. “Sure, ask away.”

  Crawford didn’t sense that he should start with his standard alibi question: Where were you the night Christian Lalley was killed? So, he took a softer tack.

  “How long you guys been living here?” he said.

  “’Bout six months.”

  “And how long have you been with SOAR?”

  “A little longer. Around nine months or so.”

  “What exactly do you do for SOAR?”

  “Well, actually, I’m the Chief Financial Officer of SOAR,” Bemmert said. “And Larry’s my assistant.”

  “So,” Ott said with an innocent smile, “I guess that means you’re in charge of the money?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it,” Bemmert said as Swain nodded.

  “And, as I understand it,” Crawford said, “you just had a major windfall a while back?”

  “What do you mean?” Bemmert asked.

  “A brother and sister named Melhado committed to donating a lot of money to SOAR.”

  “Well,” Bemmert said. “I wouldn’t say donate is quite accurate.”

  “Okay, well then, what would you call it?”

  “I’d call it more like … providing working capital.”

  “Fair enough,” Crawford said. “So, let’s call it that. But, if I’m not mistaken, SOAR’s not regarded by the government as a philanthropy, correct?”

  “We’re working on that,” Bemmert said.

  “Good luck with it,” Crawford said. “Mind me asking, what did you do before SOAR?”

  “I worked for a financial company. Kind of similar to what I’m doing now at SOAR.”

  “Understand. And what was the name of that company?”

  “Martell Mortgage Capital,” Bemmert said. “It’s not around anymore. Principals sold it to a competitor last year.”

  Crawford nodded. “How ’bout you, Mr. Swain?”

  “My prior job, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I worked in construction.”

  “Oh, yeah, where?”

  “Columbus, Ohio.”

  Crawford flicked his head at Ott. “He’s from Cleveland.”

  Swain nodded. “Just down the road.”

  “So, let me change the subject a little,” Ott began, turning to Swain. “Mr. Swain, as we understand it, you once had an… altercation with the murder victim, Christian Lalley?”

  Swain waved his hand, “Oh my God, that was nothing. Christian had one too many and said something that was offensive. So, we had a little… shoving match.”

  “And that was it?”

  “That was pretty much it.”

  Ott nodded and glanced back at Crawford.

  “Okay, as we ask everybody we interview,” Crawford said, “including all the SOAR members in the various houses, where you were at the time Christian Lalley was killed. Meaning last Wednesday night at about one in the morning. First you, Mr. Bemmert.”

  “Sound asleep,” Bemmert said. “Right here.”

  “And you, Mr. Swain?”

  “Same.”

  Ott nodded, then turned to Bemmert. “And what about the night before last?”

  “The night before last?” Bemmert asked.

  Ott nodded.

  “What time?”

  “Just after eleven p.m.”

  “Reading a book,” Bemmert said, “or probably by that time, I had fallen asleep.”

  “What about you, Mr. Swain?”

  “I was here,” Swain said. “Watching something on Netflix.”

  “Oh, yeah, what?” Ott asked.

  “This documentary on high-school quarterbacks,” Swain said.

  “QB1,” Ott said. “Good show.”

  “I agree.”

  Crawford turned to Bemmert. “Does the name Holmes Whitmore mean anything to you?”

  “No,” Bemmert replied quickly.

  Crawford shot a look at Ott. “That’s a little surprising because the man was a big story about a year ago.”

  Bemmert shrugged. “We was just getting here then. Guess we missed it.”

  “He was the man who took over for Crux’s father when he had all that trouble up in New York. Back about twenty years ago. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Not really,” Bemmert said. “That’s a long time ago. Crux never told me his life story.”

  “Okay, then I’ll just give you a few chapters.” Crawford said.

  And for the next five minutes, Crawford recounted how Crux’s father lost his job during the time Holmes Whitmore was having an affair with Crux’s mother. Then he went over the accusation—false, he was now sure—that Whitmore was a pedophile, based on the photos of the boys at Whitmore’s back door. Then he put forward the scenario that Crux might have been behind the whole thing and charged Christian Lalley with the job of paying the boys for their service. Crawford said he and Ott suspected that there were probably others involved but didn’t have proof who they were.

  “That’s all very interesting, but what’s it got to do with us?” Bemmert asked.

  Crawford shrugged. “I just wondered if you knew anything about it.”

  Bemmert shook his head. “Now you know. And, by the way, if I ever knew that Christian Lalley had been involved in something like that, I would have urged Crux to toss him out of SOAR immediately.”

  “That’s commendable, but what if Crux ordered him to do it?”

  Bemmert exhaled deeply. “You seem to think Crux is an evil, scheming sociopath or something, detective.”

  “No, I just—”

  Bemmert held up a hand. “I’m not buying for a second that Crux was involved, and as for Larry and me… we’ve got nothing to hide. Me and Larry are law-abiding men.”

  “Religious, law-abiding men,” Swain added earnestly.

  Bemmert nodded and smiled.

  “Good to hear. Well, I guess that’ll do it, then,” he glanced at Ott. “You got anything else, Mort?”

  Ott shook his head. “Nope. Not that I can think of.”

  Crawford stood. The other three followed suit. “Oh, one last thing. Just curious, do you rent this place from the owner of the big house in front.”

  “Yes, we do. We have a one-year lease.”

  “And you’ve been here six months?”

  Bemmert nodded.

  Crawford looked out the window at the stretch of lawn and perfectly maintained ficus hedge. “Nice view.”

  “Yeah, we like it,” Bemmert said.

  “Well, thanks for your time.”

  “You bet.”

  All four shook hands. Then Crawford and Ott went out the door, down the steps and got into the Crown Vic.

  “Pretty sparsely furnished for them having been there half a year,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah, sure is,” Ott said, driving away from the garage apartment.

  Sixteen

  “Okay, but what do you think most of ’em have in common?” Ott asked as he drove up the on-ramp onto 1-95.

  They were talking about cults or NRMs, as Ott, who had delved into them extensively on-line, pointed out they were called by experts. NRM stood for New Religious Movements and, indeed, a new one seemed to pop up every few years somewhere.

  “Most of ’em end badly, in answer to your question,” Crawford said.

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, fact is, a lot of ’em end in mass suicides. Jonestown being the best known. There was also that one called Heaven’s Gate in California, remember? Another one called the Order of the Solar Temple, where a bunch of their members committed suicide in Canada and Switzerland. Then this other one—this is a mouthful—the Movement for the Restoration of the Ten Commandments of God.”

  “I don’t remember that one.”

  “Supposedly started by a couple of ex-Catholic priests, some nuns, and a former prostitute.”

  “Hell of a combination.”


  “Yeah, back in 2000 or so. Hundreds of ’em either committed suicide or were murdered; they’re not sure which.”

  Crawford shook his head slowly. “And Heaven’s Gate, what happened to them; I forget?”

  Ott shook his head and sighed. “Talk about whack jobs,” he said. “So, do you remember the Hale-Bopp comet back in the late 1990s, I think it was? It was supposed to come close to earth?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, these Heaven’s Gate people were convinced there was a UFO following it.”

  “Following the comet, you mean?”

  “Yeah, so a bunch of ’em thought it was a good idea to commit suicide, thinking the UFO was going to transport them off to heaven. Not quite sure how that was supposed to work. Know what else a lot of them had in common?”

  “What?”

  “‘Free love’ was what they used to call it. But it was worse than that. Sex abuse of kids was more like it. In this other cult called Children of God, the leader, a guy named David Berg, boasted how his toddler son, or maybe stepson, had engaged in sex with adult women. Turns out the kid ended up murdering his former nanny, then shot himself.”

  “Jesus, man, bunch of very sick people.”

  “You ain’t kiddin’.”

  “One good thing about SOAR…”

  “What’s that?”

  “They don’t have any kids.”

  Crawford nodded.

  Later, as they were driving across the bridge to Palm Beach, Crawford turned to Ott. “You forgot a more recent one.”

  “Which one?”

  “That guy who had the cult somewhere in upstate New York. Stole a ton of money from the Bronfman sisters. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” said Ott. “Nexus or something. Up in Albany, I think it was. Took the Bronfman babes for a hundred mil or so. Can’t remember the guy’s name.”

  “Neither can I. Just that he had something going with underage girls too.”

  “So, as usual, all roads lead to sex and money.”

  When they walked into the station, Bettina (don’t call me Betty), one of the receptionists, told them the chief wanted to talk to them.

  “What do you suppose that’s about?” Ott asked as they walked back to Rutledge’s office.

  “Probably got it all figured out. Who did Lalley.”