His first stop was Rachel’s out on 45th Street, a steakhouse where you can wolf down a large porterhouse and watch strippers on the stage. A bouncer greeted him as if they were old friends. All the pretension of class with his big house and the fancy art. Why was I not surprised?
I pulled into a Rooms to Go parking lot across from Cracker Barrel and waited. After fifty minutes I almost decided to call it a night. Maybe half an hour later Stratton came out with another man: tall, ruddy, white-haired, a navy blazer and lime green pants. One of those “I can trace my roots back to the Mayflower” kind of faces. They were laughing and smirking.
They both climbed into the Bentley, put the top down, and lit up cigars. I pulled out behind them. Blue bloods’ night out! They headed down to Belvedere, past the airport, and turned into the Palm Beach Kennel Club. VIP parking.
It must’ve been a slow day, because the attendant rolled his eyes jeeringly at my wheels, but he seemed happy to take my twenty and slip me a clubhouse pass. Stratton and his buddy headed up on an elevator to the fancy seats.
I took a table on the other side of the glass-enclosed clubhouse. I ordered a sandwich and a beer and felt obliged to go up to the window every once in a while with a couple of two-dollar bets. Stratton seemed to be into it, though. He was loud and garrulous, puffing on his cigar, peeling off multiple hundreds from a huge wad on every race.
A third person came to the table: a fat, balding guy, suspenders holding up his pants. They kept betting wildly, ordering bottles of champagne. The more they lost, the more they laughed, throwing big tips to the stewards who took their bets.
About ten, Stratton made a call on his cell phone and they all stood up together. He signed for the bill—it must’ve been in the thousands. Then he put his arms around the other two and headed back downstairs.
I paid my check and hurried after them. They piled into his Bentley. They had the top down and were all smoking cigars. The Bentley was weaving a bit.
They crossed back to Palm Beach over the middle bridge. Stratton wrapped around to the right and turned the Bentley into the marina.
Partytime, huh, boys?
A gate rose and a guard waved them through. No way I could follow. I was definitely curious, though. I parked the car on a side street and climbed back up onto the walkway of the middle bridge. I headed up the ramp. An old black guy was fishing off the bridge farther ahead. The spot gave us a bird’s-eye view of the marina.
Stratton and his cronies were still winding around the dock. They walked to the next-to-last berth and climbed aboard this enormous white yacht, Mirabel, the kind of gleaming white beauty you couldn’t take your eyes off. Stratton acted as if he owned it, greeting the crew, taking the others around. Trays came out—food, drinks. The Tres Assholes had the party thing going: booze, cigars, sitting around on Stratton’s yacht as though they owned the world.
“Oooh-wee,” the black fisherman up the way whistled.
Three long-legged model types were making their way in high heels along the dock. They climbed aboard the Mirabel. For all I knew, they might’ve been the same girls who were performing at Rachel’s that night.
Stratton seemed pretty familiar with one of them, a blonde in a short red dress. He had his arm around her, introducing the others to his friends. They started passing around drinks and pairing off. The fat one started dancing with a thin redhead in a waist-baring T-shirt and denim skirt.
Stratton dragged Red Dress onto a bench seat. He started kissing and feeling her up. She wrapped a long leg around him. Then he got up and took her by the arm, a bottle of champagne in the other, and with a joke to his buddies disappeared below.
“Some show,” I said to the fisherman.
“Many the night,” he said. “Sure beats the red tail this time of year.”
Chapter 66
“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?” Ellie rose from her kitchen table, staring at Tess’s rap sheet.
“I can’t tell you that, Ellie.” I knew how pathetic that sounded. “But it’s from someone with clout.”
“Clout?” She shook her head. “This isn’t clout, Ned. The police don’t even have this information. I’m risking everything by getting involved, and you can’t tell me who else you’re talking to?”
“If it makes you feel any better,” I said sheepishly, “I didn’t tell him about you, either.”
“Oh, great, Ned,” Ellie chortled, nodding, “that just makes everything swell. I always knew this was an inside job. Now I have no goddamn idea whose.” I saw her thinking. “If Liz set up her husband on this affair . . .”
“I know,” I said, finishing the thought for her, “she could’ve set him up on the art, too.”
Ellie sat back down, an expression that was part realization, part puzzlement. “Could we be all wrong about Stratton?”
“Let’s say she did set up her husband on this.” I sat down next to her. “Why go after my buddies? And why did they have to kill Dave?”
“No,” Ellie said, shaking her head, “that was Stratton. I’m sure of it. He was double-crossed. He thought it must’ve been you.”
“So who the hell is Gachet, Ellie? Liz?”
“I don’t know. . . . ” She took out a pad of paper and scribbled some notes at the counter. “Let’s just stick with what we have. We’re pretty certain Stratton had a hand in killing Tess. Clearly, he found out about the scam. And if he did, chances are good he knows his wife was behind it, too.”
“Now we know what all the bodyguards are about,” I snorted. “They’re not so much to protect her. They’re there to make sure she doesn’t run.”
Ellie curled one leg under the other, yoga-style. She picked up the rap sheet. “I figure we can either take this and hand it over to the PBPD. Who knows what they’ll do with it. . . .”
“The person who gave it to me didn’t want me to do that, Ellie.”
“Okay, Ned.” Ellie looked at me a little crossly. “I’m game. What did he want you to do?”
“Clear myself, Ellie.”
“Clear yourself, huh? Meaning what, you and me?”
“This woman’s in a shitload of danger, Ellie. If we could get to her . . . If she could help us prove a connection between Stratton and Tess, maybe even the art, that would be enough, right?”
“What do you want to do, kidnap her? I told you, I already tried —”
“You tried your way, Ellie. Look —” I spun around and faced her—“don’t ask me how I know this, but I was told Liz Stratton has a standing lunch date on Thursdays down at Ta-boó on Worth Avenue. That’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Who told you this?” Ellie stared at me, a little angry now.
“Don’t ask.” I took her hand. “I told you, someone with clout.”
I searched her eyes. I knew what a risk she was already taking. But maybe this could clear me. Liz Stratton obviously knew some things.
Ellie smiled fatalistically. “This person you know has enough clout to get me out of the jail cell next to you when all of this comes out?”
I squeezed her hand. I smiled a thank-you.
“You know there’s still the little matter of the bodyguards, Ned. They’re always around her. And we can’t exactly have you coming out in public, can we? At Ta-boó.”
“No,” I agreed, shaking my head, “but fortunately, Ellie, I know just the guy.”
Chapter 67
“SO HOW DO I LOOK?” Geoff grinned, peering coolly over his Oakleys. “Clean up pretty well for an outback grease monkey, if I say so myself. Credit the Pob store in town.”
The well-appointed front room and bar at Ta-boó was filled with the in crowd of Palm Beach. Blondes, blondes everywhere, women in pastel-colored Polo cashmere with Hermès bags; men in their Stubbs & Wootton slippers and sunglasses, Trillion sweaters draped over their shoulders, picking at stone crabs and Caesar salads, some of the best grub in Palm Beach. Several patrons looked as if they had stepped in out of the mansions on Ocean Drive.
“George
Hamilton’s got nothing on you,” Ellie said, glancing over Geoff’s shoulder across the room.
Liz Stratton was seated at a corner table, having lunch with three girlfriends. Her two bodyguards were at the bar, one eye on Liz, the other drifting to another slender blonde who had just climbed out of a Lamborghini.
“Just soaking up the view,” Geoff said, smiling, “until I spring into action. Never know when I’ll get invited back here to the island.”
Ellie sipped her Perrier and lime. Her stomach had a riot going on inside. Just to be sitting in Ta-boó, she must be out of her mind. Up till now, she could make the case that she was doing her job. In a few minutes, though, if things didn’t go so well, “aiding and abetting” would be a gift plea for her.
The key was to get Liz Stratton out of the restaurant and keep the bodyguards there. Ned was waiting in back with the car. They would whisk her away, and hopefully Liz would be as eager to talk as they were to hear her.
“Jesus,” Geoff said, craning his neck and nudging Ellie with his elbow, “tell me that’s not Rod Stewart at the bar?”
“That’s not Rod Stewart. But I think I see Tommy Lee Jones.”
A waiter named Louis came up and asked if they were ready to order. “Stone crabs for me,” Geoff said, closing the menu, as though he did this every day. Ellie ordered a chicken salad. She had a receiver in her ear, wired to Ned in back. They just had to wait for the right time to make a move. Oh, brother . . .
A few minutes passed. The waiter came with their meals. All of a sudden, Liz Stratton stood up with one of her friends. They headed toward the ladies’ room.
“It’s happening now, Ned,” Ellie said into the wire. She cast a cautious eye at the bar. “Watch my back, Champ.”
“Just my luck. Food looks great,” Geoff groaned, looking at his just-arrived crab claws.
Ellie got out of her seat and made a beeline to Liz, intercepting her in the back of the restaurant. Liz blinked back a vague look of recognition.
Ellie leaned in as if to give her a kiss. “You know who I am, Mrs. Stratton. We know about you and Tess McAuliffe. We have to talk to you. There’s a back door straight ahead. We have a car outside. We can do this real smoothly if you come now.”
“Tess . . . ,” she said hesitantly. Then a quick eye to her guards, “No, I can’t. . . .”
“Yes, you can, Liz,” Ellie said. “It’s either this or you go down for extortion and accessory to murder. Just don’t look behind, and follow me out the door.”
Liz Stratton stood there, unsure what to do.
“Believe me, Mrs. Stratton, no one’s looking to lay any of this on you.”
Liz Stratton twitched back a nod. “Suz, you go ahead,” she told her friend. “I’ll be in in a second.”
Ellie put her arm across Liz’s shoulders and quietly tried to propel her forward. “Ned, we’re coming out,” she said.
One of the bodyguards got up. He stood there, watching for a second, trying to gauge what was going on.
Ellie pushed Liz through the door. C’mon, Champ, now! Do your thing.
“G’day, mates.” Geoff stepped up to the bar, blocking their way. “Either of you know where a guy might find a ticket to the Britney Spears Dance America concert at the Kravis?” I think it’s at the Kravis.
“Fuck off,” the bodyguard with the ponytail said, attempting to push past him.
“Fuck off?” Geoff blinked, stunned. He kicked the legs out from under the big one with the ponytail, knocking him to the floor. “I take my Britney very seriously, mind you, and I don’t care for anyone making her seem like some cheap passed-around tart.” He grabbed the second guy by the arm and hurled him up against the bar. A tray of drinks toppled, glass shattering.
A pretty brunette bartender with the nametag Cindy yelled, “Hey, cut it out!” Then, to the other bartender, “Andy! Need a little help here. Bobby! Michael!”
Suddenly, Ponytail reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun.
“On the other hand, mate,” Geoff said, backing away, palms up, “anyone who sticks her tongue down Madonna’s throat for the whole world to see is a bit of a slut in my book.”
He pushed a barstool at the startled bodyguards, then made a dash for the front door.
“It is you!” he said, knocking into Rod Stewart at the bar. “Loved the last album, mate. Very romantic. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Chapter 68
“THIS IS NED KELLY,” Ellie said, pushing Liz Stratton into the backseat of her FBI car.
Liz stared, shocked and confused at what she was hearing.
“He’s an innocent man, Mrs. Stratton, who’s being framed for murders we think your husband committed.”
I turned from behind the wheel and peered into Liz Stratton’s eyes. They didn’t look outraged or angry at what was going on. Only a little afraid.
“He’ll kill me,” Liz said. “Can’t you tell—I’m scared to death of him. But I can’t hold this together anymore.”
“We’re going to put him away, Mrs. Stratton.” Ellie squeezed into the rear seat next to her. “But to do it we need your help.”
I hit the gas and gunned the car as soon as I heard the door slam in back. I went around the block and stopped on a side street.
Ellie turned and faced Mrs. Stratton. This was it, I knew. What Liz said in the next two minutes could save, or doom, me. “We know you set up Marty Miller to pose as Tess McAuliffe to have an affair with your husband.”
Liz swallowed, knowing there was no point keeping up the pretense anymore. “Yes, I set him up,” she said. Part of her seemed to smile while admitting it; another part seemed on the verge of tears.
“And, yes, I know he found out and had her killed. I know it was wrong, terribly wrong. But my husband’s a dangerous man. He won’t let me go anywhere without those goons.”
“I can make that end,” Ellie said, placing her hand on Liz’s shoulder. “I can tie him to the murder scene at the Brazilian Court. I just need to prove he found out about what you were doing.”
“Oh, he knew about it,” Liz Stratton sniffed. “He ran a security check on Tess. He traced a bank wire of mine to an account under her real name. He confronted me two days before the art was stolen.”
Liz pulled down her sweater and showed us two dark bruises around her neck. “This proof enough for you?”
I couldn’t wait any longer. I spun around. Liz knew enough that she could change everything that had happened to me. “Please, Mrs. Stratton, who stole the art? Whoever did murdered my friends and my brother. Who is Gachet?”
She placed her hand on my arm. “I promise you, Mr. Kelly, I had nothing to do with whatever happened to your brother. Or any of the others who died. But I wouldn’t put anything past Dennis. He’s crazy over his art. He wants it back more than anything I’ve ever seen.”
I looked at Ellie. She seemed as surprised to hear these words as I was. If Dennis Stratton didn’t steal his own paintings, then who did?
“Someone double-crossed him, Mrs. Stratton. I think you may know who. Who took the art? Who set this in motion? Was it you?”
“Me?” Liz’s mouth twisted into an amused smile. “You want to know what a prick my husband is, well, you’re about to find out. The art wasn’t stolen.” A glimmer of revenge flared in her eyes.
“Only one painting was.”
Chapter 69
ONLY ONE PAINTING was stolen. Ellie and I blinked at her, perplexed. “What are you saying?”
Suddenly I heard the roar of an engine coming from down the block. Champ, bent over the bars of his Ducati, was gunning the cycle straight for us. He decelerated in a flash, screeching to a stop next to our Crown Vic. “Time to go, Kemo Sabe. Posse’s on our tail. About a block behind.”
I looked up the street and saw a black Mercedes making the turn, speeding directly toward us.
“It’s me they want,” Liz said, looking at Ellie. “You don’t know these terrible people. They’ll do anything for my husband
.” She turned to me. “You’ve got to go!”
She pushed open the car door and, before we could stop her, climbed out and started to back away. “Here’s what I’ll do. Come to the house,” she said. “Around four. Dennis will be there. Then we’ll talk.”
“Liz,” Ellie said, starting after her, “just tell me what you meant, only one painting was stolen? There were four.”
“Think about it, Agent Shurtleff,” Liz Stratton said with a smile, backing farther away. “You’re the art expert. Why do you think he calls himself Gachet?”
The black Mercedes veered toward Liz and started to slow down. “Come to the house,” she said again with a thin, fatalistic smile. “At four.”
Two men jumped out on the run and grabbed Liz Stratton. They glared angrily at us, stuffing her roughly into the backseat. I didn’t like leaving her, but we didn’t have a choice.
“Uh-oh, Neddie.” Champ glanced back up the street. He revved the Ducati. “We’ve got trouble.”
There was a second vehicle behind the Mercedes—a black Hummer—speeding directly for us. And this one showed no signs of slowing.
“Ned, get out of here.” Ellie started to push me out the door. “They’re after you, remember.”
I squeezed Ellie’s hand. “I’m not leaving you.”
“What can they do to me?” Ellie said. “I’m with the FBI. But I can’t be here with you. Go!”
“Ned, c’mon,” Geoff urged, revving the Ducati to a deafening pitch.
I jumped out of the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic and hopped on the back of Geoff’s cycle. Ellie waved. “I’ll call you when we’re clear.”
“Don’t worry about her, mate,” Champ said. “Worry about us!”
I locked my arms around his waist. “Why?”
“You ever been in an F-15?”
“No.” I looked behind. The Hummer was bearing down on us. It wasn’t slowing. In about three seconds it would be right on top of us.
“Neither have I.” Champ said, redlining the Ducati, “but hold on. I’m told it feels something like this.”