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“No, sir, I don’t. It was handled by the intermediary.”

  “Who was the intermediary?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Dale, if you want this car found, you need to level with me.”

  “And I can’t tell you who it was. I never met them.”

  “You never met them? Who was at the barn?”

  “No one.”

  “You could have just taken off with the damned thing.”

  “It’s not an easy car to hide. And we assumed they were watching.”

  “So whoever was handling the sale knew it was here. They might have stolen it back.”

  “We arranged the shipping, not them. So they didn’t know where it was going.”

  “But this would be a decent guess.”

  “As might be my museum. Or any number of other places. And they wouldn’t have known when it was going to arrive.”

  “When did it arrive?”

  “Three days ago. The morning before the hurricane.”

  “The morning before the hurricane?” I shook my head. “You might have led with that. I need to see the security video.”

  Chapter Five

  I didn’t get to see the video. Angie Beadman had gone into West Palm Beach on some business, so I asked Dale Beadman to tell her to call me when she got back. We stopped off at Ron and Cassandra’s apartment so he could change into fresh clothes. The Lady Cassandra was sweeping off the large balcony that overlooked the water across Ocean Drive. The beach was black with sea debris that the ocean was slowly but surely reclaiming with each new tide.

  Getting back to the office was a chore. Flagler Memorial Bridge, the northernmost crossing, was still closed due to rebuilding, and Royal Park Bridge was closed as a result of the storm surge that had almost swept me away into the Intracoastal only days before, and was pending a structural engineer’s okay to reopen. We trudged slowly down to Southern Boulevard and even more slowly back up into West Palm. Flagler Drive and the walking paths along the Intracoastal seawall were closed thanks to debris cleanup—things didn’t happen quite as fast in West Palm as they did on the island—so we labored along South Dixie Highway.

  Clematis Street was a shambles. The street had been cleared of debris, and then the store owners and the restaurateurs and the bar proprietors had come in to mop up the mess and had deposited their fresh debris back onto the street. The second cleanup was yet to occur, and the sun was baking the soiled food and waste into something to behold.

  The bank branch on the ground floor of our building was still closed. The floodwater had swept right through it and I think they were reconsidering the choice of carpet in their foyer. The elevator lobby to our office was tiled and had required nothing more than a mop out, and someone had already done that. Ron and I took the stairs up to the office. I figured I’d give the elevator a few days of use to work out the kinks and make sure it wasn’t going to fail from all the rain before I tried it. Besides, the stairs were a vital part of my fitness regimen. It was incidental movement like taking the stairs that kept the beer belly at bay. At least, that was the consensus of Danielle and my office manager, Lizzy.

  Lizzy was already in the front office when we arrived. She had hair the color of coal and lipstick the color of a stop sign. Her shirt was a white button-up and her skirt was tight but a conservative length, and she gave the business a more professional first impression than we probably deserved. Lizzy gave me a look up and down that ended with a deep scowl that suggested my sweaty U of M t-shirt and workout shorts didn’t meet her standards. It was a fair assumption, but in my defense, I had been cleaning up storm damage when Angie Beadman had found me at Longboard Kelly’s, and I was yet to get home.

  “There are laundered shirts and shorts in the closet,” she said.

  “We have a closet?” I asked, glancing at Ron. He shrugged.

  “In the second office,” said Lizzy.

  I found a crisp shirt with little maps of Florida all over it and slipped on a pair of cargo shorts. It was a testament to how far our relationship had come that Lizzy had stocked a wardrobe with shorts.

  Ron was sitting on the sofa in my office sipping a water when I got there. Technically the second office was his, but he never used it, preferring the sofa in mine. Lizzy was in the visitor’s chair in front of my desk but was turned around to face Ron. She looked at my clothes and nodded.

  “Dale Beadman,” she said.

  “You know him?”

  “Of course I know him. He’s a legend.”

  “I didn’t take you for a NASCAR fan,” I said, edging around behind my desk and sitting down.

  “What does a NASCAR fan look like to you?” she asked. Lizzy had a gift for turning my words around on me and tying me up in them.

  “Male, large, bearded and Southern.”

  Lizzy shook her head. “I would expect someone about to marry a female law enforcement officer to engage a little less in gender stereotyping.”

  “That’s not gender stereotyping,” I defended. “I’ve only known one person who was a mad NASCAR fan and I just described him. You’d be the second.”

  “I’m not mad about it, I just follow it some. I like Daytona.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Lizzy’s going to do a little digging into Dale’s personal life,” said Ron. “I’ll check out his businesses. See if we can’t find any motivation for the burglary there.”

  I was about to say that was a good idea when we heard the front door of the offices open and close. Lizzy jumped up and stepped out of my office. The front area was her domain. She didn’t close the door and I didn’t hear any conversation. Lizzy reappeared in my door.

  “Detective Ronzoni,” she said, before she stepped aside to let Ronzoni through.

  He looked the same as he had earlier, which was the same as he always looked. Disheveled was the word that came to mind. He really didn’t have the crisp, clean look that one expected with the Palm Beach Police Department. I liked that about him. He did act like the personal stormtrooper for the rich and powerful folks on the island at times, but he was also aware that those same shiny folks were as capable of crime as any other human being.

  Lizzy stepped out and closed the door behind her. Ronzoni took the visitor’s chair and Ron tossed him a bottle of water, which he cracked open and guzzled half down. Then he wiped his lips with his suit jacket sleeve. The humidity was down since the hurricane, but it was still plenty muggy. I wouldn’t have worn a jacket outside for a carload of cash. Even trousers were out for me.

  “What’s he hiding?” asked Ronzoni.

  “What’s who hiding?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Jones. Beadman.”

  “What makes you think he’s hiding something?”

  “He called me to investigate his stolen vehicles. He doesn’t need you. So I have to ask myself, why are you there? And why does he want you to stay behind after I’m gone?”

  “He didn’t call you, Ronzoni. He called the police because he has to, in order to file an insurance claim. You have done his paperwork for him, haven’t you?”

  “Don’t mess with me, Jones. This is a police matter.” He took a breath and sipped some more water. “We worked together at the hotel. No reason not to do it again.”

  I smiled. Ronzoni was getting soft in his old age, and he wasn’t that old. He was right, we had worked together to solve a murder during the hurricane. He had actually surprised me. He was pretty good at his job. And I think I had surprised him, as well. Mainly in my readiness to concede all credit to him for solving the crime. He was a puzzle, that was for sure. He loved getting the credit for solving cases, but he never seemed to use this credit to advance his career. From his current position, he might hope to become chief of detectives someday, but beyond that he was terminal. He’d never be chief of police, not in Palm Beach and probably not anywhere else, either. He just didn’t have the political animal in him. The chief of police wasn’t elected like the sheriff, but he was appointed by th
e mayor—who was voted in and out depending on the whim of the people—so the chief was as subject to the political process as anyone. Ronzoni wasn’t the sharpest tack in the toolbox, but I think he knew where his skill set ran aground. Perhaps he just liked solving crimes. It was a cheesy thought but one that fit Ronzoni better than his suit.

  “Okay, Detective. I’ll play. No reason not to, right? Did you see the security video?”

  If he noticed that I had started asking the questions, he didn’t let on. “I did,” he said. “What did you see in it?”

  “Nothing,” I said. It was the truth, given I hadn’t yet seen the video.

  “Me neither. The garage is locked up tight, the storm comes in, the cars are there, then boom, the power gets wiped out and there’s no more video. When it comes back online there are no cars.”

  “Do we know if the video goes off due to a power outage or if it was cut?”

  “Good question. Haven’t had a chance to ask Florida Power and Light about that. And I got to get out to another call. Seems a lot of people get up to no good during a big storm.”

  “We’ll be back out to the Beadman place later, so I’ll see if there are any FPL guys around.”

  “Let me know,” said Ronzoni, standing. He finished his water, crushed the plastic bottle and dropped it in the wastebasket. He walked to the door and stopped.

  “How did they get ten cars off the island?”

  I shrugged. “They drove them off, or they put them on a truck and drove the truck off.”

  “Two bridges were closed, that we know.”

  “Is there video on Southern Boulevard?” I asked him.

  “There’s video, but they don’t record it.”

  “They don’t record it? What’s the point?”

  “It’s used for traffic management or some baloney. DOT says they can’t afford to record it all over the state. Plus they’d have to hire people to handle all the requests they’d get from damn lawyers and such. What do you think about the idea of using a boat?”

  “Would you have taken a boat out in that weather?”

  “I wouldn’t have stolen the cars. There’s no telling what people will do.”

  He was right about that.

  “I’ll check out any possible spots that could have allowed a boat to load.”

  “Keep me informed,” said Ronzoni, and he stepped out the door and was gone.

  “Yes, boss,” I said to no more than the thought of him.

  Chapter Six

  I got let back in through the substantial gates and pulled my Cadillac SUV around in the driveway of the Beadman estate. In my absence, a pile of decomposed granite had been dumped in the open space between the house and the showcase garage, ready to replace the previous driveway surface, which had been washed across the island during the hurricane.

  I was met at the front steps by a woman in tight jeans and a white cotton shirt. She had long blond hair and wore a full layer of makeup, I assumed, designed to mask her age. She gave me a warm smile that was all mouth and no eyes.

  “Mr. Jones,” she said in a syrupy Southern accent. “I am sorry we were not acquainted before. I am Missy Beadman, Dale’s wife.”

  “Mrs. Beadman,” I said, shaking her hand. Her hands were petite, but her grip was strong, and she had a magician’s fingers. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is mine, sir. And please, call me Missy.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now come inside for some tea.”

  She led me into the house, through a two-story entranceway with a sweeping staircase and into a large great room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a killer view of the ocean. To the side of the great room was a kitchen. It featured two islands and the largest refrigerator I had seen outside of a morgue. Missy pulled at one of the refrigerator doors with both hands in order to get it open and then fished out a pitcher of tea.

  “Iced tea, Mr. Jones?”

  “Thank you.” I had a mind to ask her to call me Miami, but I liked the way Mr. Jones rolled off her tongue.

  “Is Dale in the garage?” I asked, taking a barstool at one of the islands.

  “I’m afraid Dale had to return to Charlotte.”

  “What’s in Charlotte?”

  She dropped a coaster in front of me, placed a glass of iced tea on it and then took a stool beside me.

  “Why, Mr. Jones, you are amusing.”

  “I try, Missy. So what’s in Charlotte?”

  She sipped her tea and looked out the window toward the white walls of the garage building. I could see the guys finishing up the palapa over the deck.

  “You don’t follow NASCAR, do you, Mr. Jones?”

  “Not as much as I should, apparently.”

  She smiled again. It still didn’t make it to her eyes. It wasn’t until you met someone who only smiled with their mouth that you realized how much of a smile happens in the eyes. Danielle’s smile did. Her mouth would crinkle up on one side and her eyes would light up. Missy’s eyes didn’t do that. I wondered if they ever had. She didn’t have any wrinkles around her eyes, but that seemed too high a price to pay.

  “Dale’s team workshop is just outside of Charlotte. Most of the NASCAR teams are based in the Charlotte area.”

  “That’s quite a commute.”

  She nodded, and I thought I saw something in her look. Distance, like she went somewhere for a moment. Then she was back.

  “It is,” she said.

  “Why is he based there?”

  “Like I say, most of the teams are there.”

  “Why are any of them there? What’s so special about Charlotte?”

  “I can’t honestly say, Mr. Jones. It’s just always been that way. I’m sure part of it is geographical. A lot of the races are in the South, of course. But Charlotte is convenient for the races in the north as well.”

  “Is Dale there a lot?”

  “Yes, I guess he is. Especially in season.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “Winning doesn’t come easy, Mr. Jones.”

  I sipped my tea. It was sweet. I preferred my iced tea unsweetened, but sweet tea was the Southern way.

  “How did you meet Dale, Missy?”

  “At a racetrack, of course.” For a moment I thought I saw the smile in her eyes, but then she caught herself. It must have taken a lot of practice. She stepped to a bureau. On top of it were two photographs in matching silver frames. She picked one up, looked at and then turned it to me. It was black and white but clearly taken at night under floodlights. There was a group of people standing in front of an old stock car. They all had beers. Some of them were facing away from the camera. A very young Dale Beadman was looking straight at the lens.

  “He was racing stock cars in Alabama. I was at school in Tuscaloosa and a boy I knew took me to an evening race meet.” She paused for a moment and I felt no need to fill the void. “We were in a sponsor’s tent after the race—it sounds more glamorous than it was—and Dale was the number two driver for the sponsor’s team. He was very charming. He asked me all kinds of questions about what I was doing at college and what I wanted to do with my life. . .”

  “What about your boyfriend?”

  “Oh, honey, he wasn’t my boyfriend. Can’t say that he even wanted the job, but after I met Dale it was irrelevant. He was the only man for me.”

  I glanced again at the photograph. Everyone was young and carefree and happy. Dale Beadman looked like he would live forever. And then I recognized the face two away from him. It was Missy. She wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking at Dale Beadman. She wore the look of love.

  Missy placed the frame back on the bureau. “Did you know Dale arrived at my sorority house for our first date in a stock car? I had to climb in through the window.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Not street legal, no. It was a different time.”

  I said nothing.

  “We moved to Daytona after we got married. Dale grew up on the Space
Coast.”

  “You quit college?”

  “No, sir. I graduated summa cum laude.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Did you go to college, Mr. Jones?”

  “University of Miami.”

  She nodded. “That’s where you gained the name.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good football school. Not ’Bama, but good.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I glanced at the second of the two silver frames. It was a picture of Dale and Missy, a decade or two after the other one. It was in color. They were standing on a balcony overlooking a wide bay that was filled with large luxury yachts. The color of the water was the color of Missy’s eyes.

  “Monaco,” she said. “Have you ever been?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “We went for the race, of course.”

  “Did you travel with Dale a lot?”

  “Not by then. Angela Jean was born by the time that photo was taken. She was there, somewhere.”

  “Did you like France?”

  “I didn’t get to see France,” she said. “Didn’t even get to go to Paris. There was no race in Paris.”

  Her eyes drifted away again and then came back.

  I said, “So how did you end up in Palm Beach?”

  Missy collected our empty glasses and placed them in the sink. “That came later. I did travel with Dale for a couple years. I looked after the financials for the team. Then he got his shot at NASCAR. They have their own people, so they didn’t need me. We moved to Charlotte but he was away a lot. Charlotte’s nice, but it never really felt like home. When I was pregnant we decided to step outside of the bubble, so to speak. That was Palm Beach.”

  She tapped her thin fingers on the marble countertop and her rings made a sound like a meat mallet.

  I asked, “Were you here when the F-88 was delivered?”

  “The F-88? Oh, you mean Dale’s newest darling. Yes, I was here, in the house. Angela Jean handled the delivery.”

  “Angela Jean?”

  “Yes, she prefers Angie. Mothers can be so unnaturally attached to old names, can’t they?”

  I shrugged.