Palm Beach Nasty (33 page)

“I’m Detective Crawford, this is Detective Ott, Palm Beach police . . . Mr. Greenleaf here?”

“Who?”

“Nick Greenleaf, blond hair, around twenty-five years old, six feet or so.”

The woman squinted and her head tilted to the side.

“That sounds like Mr. Avery.”

“Excuse me but . . . who are you?”

“Regina,” the woman said with a smile. “Mr. Robertson’s cook.”

Crawford had looked up 101 El Vedato in the reverse directory and saw who owned it.

“Spencer Robertson’s the owner, right?”

“Yes.”

“And who is Avery?”

“Avery Robertson,” she said. “Mr. Robertson’s grandson. Just drove off a little while ago.”

“Is Spencer Robertson here?”

“Oh, sure, he never leaves.”

“We’d like to see him, please.”

She hesitated.

“He’s . . . watching TV.”

“Can you take us to him?” Ott asked.

She hesitated again. “Ah, sure, he’s in his library.”

They followed her down a long wide hallway, through the dark formal living room and into the library.

Spencer Robertson was in white pajamas with blue piping. Crawford could see the outline of something lumpy in the back of his pajamas. The old man—Crawford figured he had to be way into his nineties—was watching a cartoon. Crawford heard Barney Rubble’s voice.

Robertson didn’t hear them come in.

“Mr. Robertson,” Regina said.

The old man turned and his face brightened as he looked up at Crawford.

“Ruby,” he said to Crawford, like they were old buddies. “Game of backgammon?”

Crawford caught the cook’s eye.

“Sorry, sir, I’m kind of busy,” Crawford said.

Robertson looked hopefully at Ott.

“Ah, maybe some other time, sir,” Ott said.

Crawford nodded to the old man and walked out, just ahead of Ott.

Crawford went into the hallway.

“Pretty easy pickings here,” Ott said.

Crawford nodded.

Then he turned to the cook.

“Regina,” he said, showing her the paperwork, “this is a search warrant. We’re going to go through the house.”

The woman’s eyes blinked. “Oh, okay . . . sure.”

“Don’t worry,” Ott said, with a reassuring smile, “we won’t mess things up.”

She nodded.

Crawford pulled out his cell and dialed.

Jim McCann answered.

“Jim, where’s our guy?”

“He just pulled up to a little yellow house on Arabian.”

It was a hard kick in the gut.

Crawford knew the house. He had been there quite a few times.

“Green shutters, gray paver driveway?”

“That’s the one.”

Crawford knew Greenleaf wasn’t picking up Lil for brunch at Green’s.

“Let me know if they go anywhere.”

Crawford hung up and glanced at Ott, who looked as eager as a bird dog on point.

“Where’s Avery’s bedroom?” Crawford asked Regina.

“Take the stairway up, turn right, end of the hallway. The blue one.”

“Thank you,” Crawford said, heading toward the dark wood stairway.

He turned to Ott. “Lots of pretty pictures on the walls.”

“I noticed. Expensive looking, too.”

They walked up the stairway and down to the blue bedroom.

The first thing they saw was a bureau across from the bed with two empty half-open drawers. Crawford walked over and pulled out the other two drawers. They were empty, too. Ott opened the closet door. There was nothing inside but wood hangers and a pair of brown loafers.

“Looks like Nick’s history,” Ott said.

“From Nick Greenleaf to Avery Robertson,” Crawford said. “A rags-to-riches tale.”

“Wonder why he’d give up the good life.”

“Heard footsteps, maybe,” Crawford said, pulling open a drawer. “I bet if we got here a day ago we’d find a jacket missing a button with a Z on it.”

He spotted a yellow piece of paper and a card at the back of the drawer and reached in and pulled them out.

“Well, now, isn’t this interesting,” he said, showing Ott a deposit slip, “Avery . . . Nick . . . just had $3 million wired to his bank on Friday.”

Ott looked at the slip while Crawford picked up the card and read it.

It was a cosmetic surgeon in Boca Raton. The time and date of an appointment the day after tomorrow was written on it.

“Our boy Nick’s a little young for a nip and tuck,” Crawford said.

“What are you thinking?”

“A wild guess, maybe he wants to look like someone he isn’t? Let’s go have another chat with Regina.”

Crawford headed for the stairs, then turned back to Ott.

“I got a hunch we might find a few paintings missing,” Crawford said.

His cell rang as he started down the steps.

“Hello.”

“Charlie, woman with a bunch of suitcases just got into the Rolls,” Jim McCann said, “young blond guy’s driving.”

Crawford didn’t need to ask him what the woman looked like. He looked at his watch. It was ten forty-five.

“Just follow ’em, headed to the airport is my guess.”

“I won’t let ’em out of my sight.”

Crawford clicked off and turned to Ott.

“After we have another chat with Regina, we’re going to the airport.”

Ott nodded.

Regina was in the laundry room.

“Regina, does Mr. Robertson have another bedroom. Upstairs maybe?” Crawford asked. “One he used to use?”

She was folding big, fluffy towels with blue “R” monograms.

“Yes, he couldn’t get up the stairs anymore, so we put him in one down here. But his old one, the master, is upstairs. Opposite end from Mr. Avery’s.”

“Thank you . . . ah, Mr. Avery . . . anyone ever call him any other name?”

Her lips pursed in thought. “No.”

“Besides you, Mr. Robertson and Avery . . . another man lives here, right?”

“Well, yes, Alcie, Mr. Robertson’s butler. Except . . . he just retired.”

“An African American gentleman?” Ott asked.

“Yes, he is.”

“And where is he?” Crawford asked.

“Out shopping, I think.”

Ott looked at Crawford.

“Let’s go back upstairs,” Crawford said.

“I just remembered something,” Regina said. “I overheard Mr. Avery say something to Alcie about someone coming to visit.”

“Who was that?” Crawford asked.

“I didn’t hear a name.”

“Coming to stay here?”

“I think so.”

“Thank you very much, Regina.”

“Have you noticed any paintings missing, by any chance?” Ott asked.

She nodded and took them to the powder room near the front door.

Crawford spotted three holes on the wall.

Then she pointed out a discolored rectangular area on a wall above a banquette just off the kitchen. As he got closer Crawford saw the same triangle of little holes.

“I don’t get it,” Crawford said.

“What?”

Crawford ushered Ott over, out of earshot of Regina. “Only these two missing. And in places where you’d hang the third string. Why wouldn’t he have sold the big ones in the living room?”

Ott shrugged.

“And how’d he get $3 million for those two little ones?” Crawford said.

Crawford turned to Regina.

“Thanks again,” he said, then to Ott, “let’s go back upstairs.”

Crawford was halfway up the stairs.

The master bedroom was like a small museum. It had old rifles, Japanese swords, models of boats, pictures of famous golf courses in Scotland, old stock certificates of defunct airline companies. In a glass display case was a baseball card collection of the Milwaukee Braves including a valuable one of Hank Aaron as a rookie, and a stack of stamp collection books about five feet high.

“You could spend all day going through all this shit,” Ott said.

Crawford nodded absently, his eyes scanning the cavernous master bath.

Then he walked over to the walk-in closet. He flipped on the switch. It was huge but completely empty. He saw another door on the other side of the room. He walked over to it and opened it.

Everything was hanging perfectly. A row of doublepleated tan slacks, probably twenty pairs, exactly the same. Another long row of blue blazers, each one with shiny silver buttons. He took one off its hanger and studied it. It had a breast pocket patch from Seminole Golf Club. He looked at another one, then another. Each had a patch from a famous club. Then he scanned a row of close to thirty black belts. Crawford turned one over and saw the size. Forty-two. He saw another row of brown belts, all of them either crocodile or alligator. Crawford turned to Ott and pointed to a space between two of them. One was missing.

“The one around Cynthia Dexter’s neck,” Ott said.

“Yup,” Crawford said. “Remember McCarthy’s write-up: ‘Size 42, expensive-looking brown alligator belt.’ ”

Something had caught Ott’s attention. He was looking at the black belts.

“See near the end,” he said, pointing.

Crawford looked over. Another one was missing.

FIFTY-FIVE

L
il, sitting in the passenger seat of the Rolls, knew that everything Nick had told her was complete and total bullshit. But at least he was consistent, so she played along like an infatuated girlfriend. No point in letting on she knew.

They were talking about where Nick said he was jetting off to. Cap d’Antibes, he had told her.

“I think of Cap d’Antibes as strictly a summer place,” she said to Nick, “but it’s nice in winter, too?”

They were pulling up to Signature, one of the private jet terminals, two miles south of Palm Beach International Airport.

“Oh, yes, Cap is fabulous this time of year. The expat crowd is there year-round. But no tacky tourists now.”

Nick had no idea what he was talking about. Fitzgerald only wrote about summer there. But he thought it sounded plausible.

He slowed down as he drove up to the front entrance of Signature.

“Wheels up at what time?” Nick asked, opening his door.

“In about twenty minutes,” Lil said, “ ’course since I’m the only passenger . . . they can wait until I’m good and ready.”

“Gotta love flying private, huh?” Nick asked, never having had the privilege.

“Yeah, it’s the only way to go.” She hadn’t either. “You going through Paris?”

She knew he wasn’t going anywhere. She had checked on flights, pretending to be his wife. No reservations to anywhere for Avery Robertson or Nick Greenleaf.

“Yes, Paris, then down to Nice,” he said, turning to look at their bags in the back seat. “Tell you what, Lil, you go on in, I got a little surprise waiting for you in there. I’ll get the bags.”

She smiled. She loved surprises.

“Thanks. See you inside.”

He watched her walk inside, and as soon as she was out of sight unzipped her blue canvas T. Anthony bag. He dug down beneath the black thong underwear on top, and felt a soft bag. She had made the mistake of telling him that she had gone shopping at Cartier after getting Ward Jaynes’s wire transfer. He opened the bag and saw a diamond necklace that had a Cartier logo on it. Bingo. There were two expensive-looking rings and a brooch in the bag, too. He grabbed the three items and put them on the car seat. Then he paused, eyeing her black thong. How better to remember her? He grabbed it and jammed it into his pants pocket.

Then he unzipped the heavy leather suitcase that he had taken from Spencer’s closet, containing his clothes, and put the jewelry underneath one of his shirts, right next to the black belt he’d pilfered from Spencer’s closet.

He had the belt on top for a reason.

He figured Lil would be pouring her first glass of Cristal champagne now from the bottle he’d had delivered earlier to the private terminal.

He opened another of her suitcases and felt around.

Nothing. He was hoping for a thick wad of cash maybe. He zipped it back up and, making two trips, carried all six of their suitcases inside. After Lil got on her plane, he was going to take a cab to the Chesterfield hotel where he’d made a reservation. He’d hang out there until he paid his final visit to 101 El Vedato and took care of business. He had it all perfectly planned. Sneaking back in, in the middle of the night. Taking the belt with him. His new cosmetically reconfigured face. A patrician nose, instead of the pathetic, mashed-in mound he was born with.

“Y
OU WERE
right about the airport, Charlie,” Jim McCann said, “but you got the wrong one.”

“The private one, huh?”

“Yeah, Signature . . . you get off at Southern, go down to Military and double back on a little street running parallel.”

“We’re fifteen minutes away,” Crawford said, flooring it.

Ott looked over at Crawford.

“Man, this bartender, $3 mill in the bank, private metal, guy doesn’t fuck around.”