Half Court Press

  Half Court Press

  A Miami Jones Florida Mystery

  AJ Stewart

  Jacaranda Drive

  For Heather, who reminds me that when I get the chance to sit it out, I should always choose to dance.

  Chapter One

  I was sitting in my office with my feet up on the desk, my boat shoes on the floor, and my partner, Ron, lounging on the sofa that was his second home. The window was open and the spring breeze eased in, keeping the rising heat at bay while holding back the need for air-conditioning.

  We were a couple of silent birds, letting the sounds of West Palm and the clickity-clack of Lizzy’s keyboard in the front office fill the void. Ron lounged in a polo and Nantucket Red trousers and looked deep in thought; he could have been contemplating Dante’s Inferno or deliberating between the turkey sub and the roast beef on sourdough lunch specials. From his glazed expression, it was impossible to tell.

  I was equally adrift. I had started off thinking about my fiancée, Danielle, whom I hadn’t seen in ten days. Ron and I had been wrapped up in a big insurance case in Jacksonville when she last got more than a single day off, and by the time we got back she had already returned to her duties in Miami. The separation was wearing on me, so I brushed the thoughts away and tried to think of other things.

  I wasn’t worried about the lack of clients. The season was winding down, and the cases generally went north with the snowbirds, but Lizzy made sure the piggy bank was fed in such a way as to allow for lean days. Besides, the insurance cases always paid pretty well, even if the work was uninspiring.

  So my thoughts drifted from work to margaritas to long, sandy beaches and then into the azure waters off the coast of Florida, where they were whisked away on the breeze so that when my phone buzzed, my pulse was south of sixty beats per minute and my mind was as blank as a fresh canvas.

  “Detective Ronzoni is here,” said Lizzy through the intercom. She didn’t sound impressed. She wasn’t a huge fan of Ronzoni’s manners, or lack thereof. Slowly, I reentered the world, as if rousing from a deep slumber, and hit the call button.

  “Send him in,” I said, glancing at Ron.

  We were both thinking the same thing: What have we done now? Ronzoni generally only paid our little firm a visit when a case was causing us to tread on his delicate toes, so we were at a loss to figure how we were upsetting him now, given we weren’t working on anything.

  Ronzoni stepped inside. Decorum suggested I should drop my bare feet from the desk and Ron should at least sit up, but for Detective Ronzoni we didn’t bother. He generally didn’t stay long.

  He was in his usual JC Penney suit that looked designed for a man with slightly wider shoulders. His tie was pulled tight but poorly tied, as if he had never been shown how to tie a Windsor and had gotten the limp effort he wore off YouTube. The tie itself, though, was a solid muted blue, and actually bordered on stylish.

  “Zamboni,” I said. “Slow crime day?”

  Ronzoni didn’t bite. He sat in the visitor’s chair and looked at me like he was considering arresting me, but as I knew he had no jurisdiction in West Palm Beach, the look just gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  “Some water, detective?” asked Ron.

  Ronzoni glanced at Ron and nodded, so Ron flipped his feet off the sofa and leaned over to the bar fridge. He retrieved a bottle of water and tossed it to the detective. Ronzoni had some kind of gland issue that meant he couldn’t sweat, which must have been a real bear in the Florida heat—especially as he always wore a suit. Even the mayor of Palm Beach didn’t do that.

  Ronzoni cracked open the bottle and took a long slug. Then he recapped it.

  “Thanks,” he said to Ron, and then he looked back at me.

  “What can I do for you, detective?” I asked him.

  He paused a moment.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I could see from the taut lines on his face that this was killing him. He must have been desperate. He was a cop on an island where the wealthiest of Americans lived. He was generally good at his job and as honest as you could expect a guy to be when continually surrounded by temptation, all of which meant he had friends and a solid police department around him, so I figured he wasn’t after help to move house, and he wasn’t after a loan. But we had always butted heads over his pathological need to take credit for everyone else’s—read my—work, and my tendency to flout the law to get the job done.

  So I said nothing and waited for him to continue.

  “I need to hire you,” he said.

  “Hire me?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a professional capacity?” I asked.

  “Can you act in a professional capacity?”

  I grinned. Ronzoni was not adept at glib repartee, so I was impressed with the attempt. I slipped my feet off the desk and leaned forward toward him.

  “You want me to investigate something?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been hit on the head recently?”

  “I’ve been wondering that, too, but no.”

  “So you remember that you are a police detective.”

  “I do.”

  “And you work in a police department full of other detectives and officers who investigate things for a living?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  Ronzoni took another sip of his water.

  “A girl I know has received an extortion threat.”

  I wasn’t sure which part of that sentence I wanted to explore more, but I went with, “You know a girl?”

  The fact was law enforcement officers were just people in uniform. They ate, slept, defecated, laughed, cried, loved, and hated just like the rest of us. I should know: I was engaged to an agent of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, who, despite her better judgment, seemed to be enamored with me. Despite that, I had never thought of Ronzoni as having a life beyond the job.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Are you involved with this girl?”

  “Involved?”

  “Are you intimate?”

  Ronzoni frowned like he’d eaten a bad pickle. “No, no, it’s not like that.”

  “So how do you know this girl?”

  “From the Boys and Girls Club.”

  I felt like I was going down a rabbit hole. “How do you know a girl from the Boys and Girls Club?”

  “She goes there. It’s a place youth can go to partake in activities like sports and academics and such in a safe, respectful environment.”

  “I know what the Boys and Girls Club is. What I don’t get is what it has to do with you.”

  “I volunteer there.”

  Again I was surprised that Ronzoni had a life outside of being a cop, and that that life might extend to volunteering his time for kids.

  “You volunteer there? Okay. Good for you. How long have you been doing this?”

  “I don’t know, six or seven years.”

  “Good for you,” I said again, and I meant it. “So you know this girl from the club?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she brought an extortion case to you?”

  “Her father, actually. I know him through the club, too. He brought it to me.”

  “So why would someone extort a little girl? Is she the heir to a fortune or something?”

  “There aren’t many heirs to fortunes at the Boys and Girls Club, and she’s not a little girl.”

  “What is she then?”

  “She’s just been selected pick number one in the WNBA draft.”

  I leaned back in my chair and took a slow breath. “So she’s a basketball player.”

  “Yes,” said Ronzoni.

  “A pretty goo
d one, it would seem.”

  “Very good.”

  “And now that she’s been picked up by the WNBA, someone is trying to extort money from her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. For future reference, you could have started with that. So what is the nature of the extortion?”

  Ronzoni pulled out his cell phone, tapped it and then handed it to me. The screen showed a photo of a letter. It was standard white paper, with computer-printed type on it.

  It read: Do you want your daddy to go to jail? $100,000 will stop it. Pay up or his fraud is exposed.

  I read the message twice and then handed the phone back to Ronzoni. “What’s the deal with the father? Is he a crook?”

  “No, he’s a good guy. I’ve gotten to know him pretty well over the years. A solid guy. I don’t think there’s any kind of fraud.”

  “Someone thinks there is.”

  When Ronzoni shrugged, the shoulders of his suit didn’t move.

  I clapped my hands. “All right, Ronzoni. If there’s a threat and possible fraud, why aren’t you investigating?”

  “Not my jurisdiction. The Boys and Girls Club isn’t in Palm Beach, and the family doesn’t live in Palm Beach.”

  “Where is the club?”

  “Riviera Beach.”

  I nodded. It was in my neck of the woods.

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “They’re looking into it.”

  “So why do you want me to do what they’re already doing?”

  “There’s a new detective in town. Have you met him?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t hang with the sheriff’s crew much these days.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Ronzoni. “How’s Danielle doing with the FDLE?”

  “Busy. Miami’s that kind of town.”

  “That’s why we live up here.”

  “It is,” I said. “So what about this new detective?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not filled with confidence that this has his complete attention.”

  “Why so?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Now Ronzoni was being all mysterious, which was very un-Ronzoni.

  “All right, detective. I’ll take a look into it for you. Give me all the details and the relevant players.”

  “I can do better than that. I can take you to meet them right now.”

  “Where?”

  “The club.”

  “Right then, let’s go.” I looked at Ron. “You hold the fort?”

  “I’ve got it all under control,” he said, flipping his feet back onto the sofa.

  I stood and slipped into my shoes.

  “Does this girl have a name?”

  “Tania. Tania Bryson.”

  “Good, let’s do this then.”

  “I’m driving,” said Ronzoni.

  “Whatever floats your boat, detective.”

  “What’s your hourly rate?” he asked.

  “Lizzy takes care of that stuff. Let’s chat with your girl first.”

  “I’m not paying for meals. Or beer.”

  “I never charge a client for beer, detective.”

  I shot Ron a look and then ushered my new client out of the office.

  Chapter Two

  Ronzoni drove an unmarked Taurus that was clean inside and out but still smelled of old French fries. He headed up Route 1 toward my home, but never got as far as Singer Island. The Boys and Girls Club was in Riviera Beach, which was actually a beachless section of coast on the mainland, if you didn’t count Singer Island—which nobody but the city did. The club was tucked behind the marina on the wrong side of Broadway Avenue.

  The Atlantic Coast of Florida had a peculiar demographic demarcation. A lot of the coast was sheltered by barrier islands—Palm Beach and Singer Island, for two—with one stretch of waterfront real estate on the ocean side and another on the Intracoastal Waterway that sliced between the islands and a third stretch of waterfront coast on the mainland. That made both the islands and the mainland coast high-value real estate and the domain of the wealthy. As the cities and towns grew west, they then flowed into the original parts of Florida habitation: old Florida cracker architecture that often predated air-conditioning. In many cases, the middle-class money had, over the years, moved out of these older suburbs and fled further west, into gated residences and new-build, master-planned communities.

  The result was demographic fault lines that ran north–south down the coast, separating three regions as they moved west: wealthy, not wealthy, wealthy again. Or as was often the case: white, black, white.

  Riviera Beach was a little different, but only because of the port. Singer Island had money. Not Palm Beach money—not even Palm Beach tip money—but money nevertheless. I’d happened to pick up my little rancher on the Intracoastal in a foreclosure auction at the bottom of the market; otherwise, it would have been well beyond my pay grade. On the mainland side, though, the location of the Port of Palm Beach meant this section of coast was the domain of salty dogs and marine supply stores.

  Riviera Beach proper didn’t start until it hit Broadway Avenue. West of Broadway, the blacktop was gray and cracked, the grass a parched, wheat-colored yellow, and the buildings low-slung and often in need of TLC. As the housing moved west beyond I-95, it got newer, until the communities that stretched up into Palm Beach Gardens offered manicured lawns and hurricane-proof windows.

  Ronzoni pulled into the lot beside the club. The Boys and Girls Club had originally started in a disused firehouse, but now resided in a nice 22,000-square-foot, purpose-built facility with that New Florida look, which stuck out like a jewel in the Old Florida suburb.

  We got some looks when we walked in. Singer Island might have been 90 percent white, but Riviera Beach as a whole was two-thirds black, and this was where they mostly lived. If a politician ever needed a lesson on the racial poverty divide, they could get a crash course right here.

  Ronzoni led me through the facility like a man who knew his way around, and he got enough nods to suggest he was a known entity. He pushed a door open, and the sound of squeaking sneakers was a dead giveaway we were headed for the gym.

  There was a game of basketball going on, and we walked to the end of the court. Behind the hoop was a small wooden bleacher that held a handful of spectators and a few kids who, if their clothing was anything to go by, were up next in the rotation of games on the court. The kids laughed and talked trash and twirled basketballs like they were auditioning for the Globetrotters, and gave me the once-over several times.

  Ronzoni stepped up to a lean man sitting against the wall at the top of the bleachers. He wore a neat mustache and close-cropped hair, and glasses with gold rims that gave him a vaguely seventies look. He nodded but didn’t smile, and then offered Ronzoni a high five.

  Detective Ronzoni never struck me as a high five kind of guy, but he landed it just fine, with enough force even to provide a slap. The man slid along to allow Ronzoni to sit, leaving me just enough space to perch half my pitcher’s backside on the edge.

  “Draymond, this is the guy I told you about,” said Ronzoni. “Miami Jones, this is Draymond Bryson.”

  Draymond leaned across Ronzoni and offered his hand, and I shook it.

  “Good to meet you,” I said.

  “You too, man.”

  I have big hands, even for a guy who’s six-two. Lots of good pitchers do. It allows us to do things with a curve or a knuckleball that other guys can’t. But Draymond’s hand enveloped mine. He was only an inch or two taller than me, but his hands looked like they had grown on another man’s body.

  “Miami’s an investigator,” said Ronzoni. “He’s gonna help me with your situation.”

  “Anyone’s better than that other guy. What’s his problem?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Crozier,” said Ronzoni. “The sheriff’s detective.”

  I nodded but said nothing. I noted that Draymond’s attention had moved back to the court.

 
; “Is your daughter out there?” I asked.

  Draymond nodded and pointed at the ten players on the court. “There she is now.”

  I watched a tall girl with a ponytail dash toward us down the sideline, stop well short of the three-point line, and before the defense got anywhere close to set, she took the shot. There was no sound of the ball hitting the backboard or the rim. Nothing but a soft woosh as the ball dropped through the basket.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “Not bad?” replied Ronzoni.

  “Number one in the draft, is that right?” I asked Draymond.

  “Yeah,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “You must be proud.”

  “Couldn’t be prouder,” he said. He didn’t smile or look proud. Some people don’t give up their emotions visually, but I wondered if there was more to it. Like worry.

  “Tell me about the letter,” I asked.

  Draymond sighed. “She don’t know, okay?” he said, nodding toward the court.

  “Okay, so she didn’t receive it?”

  “No, it went to her mother’s house.”

  “And where does Tania live?”

  “Right now? With her mother.”

  I frowned.

  “She lives with her mother but she didn’t get the letter?”

  Draymond gave a soft half laugh. “Her mother intercepted it.”

  “Okay. Does that happen a lot?”

  “With Camille, who knows.”

  “Camille is Tania’s mother,” said Ronzoni.

  I nodded like I needed the clarification, and looked back to Draymond.

  “I assume you don’t live there.”

  “No. Camille and I got divorced when Tania was seven.”

  “Okay. But she told you about the letter and not Tania?”

  “Hell no,” said Draymond. “She wouldn’t have told me nothing. It was that detective, Crozier. He came asking questions about it and I had no idea what he was talking about. Then he showed it to me.”

  “But not Tania?”

  “No, she wasn’t there when he came.” Draymond looked at Ronzoni and shook his head. “I also asked him not to mention it to her, but I don’t think he cared much about that. He said if he needed to ask her about it he would, because he was investigating a crime and hurting people’s feelings wasn’t his problem.”