James Patterson - Lifeguard

Stratton swung around at the light and continued over the bridge into West Palm. I followed, a few car lengths behind. He was busy talking on the phone. I figured even if he noticed, there was no way a guy in an old clunker like mine would register on his mental radar.

His first stop was Rachel’s out on 45th Street, a steak-house 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 May fl ower ” 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.”

“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.”