Palm Beach Deadly

by Tom Turner

  “Do I detect a subtle blow-off?”

  Crawford shook his head. “No, just a guy who’s busy as hell at the moment,” he said. “Can I borrow that one picture? Promise I won’t lose it.”

  Fredrika smiled. “Sure. It’s all yours.”

  Crawford stood up. “Thanks.”

  She took a step toward him. He could tell she was vectoring in for a cheek kiss.

  He took a step toward her.

  Instead, she gave him a quick kiss on the lips, followed by a smile. “So just let me know when it’s time for that drink.”

  “I will.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Ott stuck his head into Crawford’s office.

  “I been doin’ some more diggin’,” Ott said.

  “As only you can,” Crawford said. “And what did you come up with?”

  Ott walked in and sat down opposite Crawford. “This time…Algernon Poole. Know what HOLMES is?”

  Crawford shrugged. “A real-estate magazine?”

  “No, spelled H-O-L-M-E-S.”

  “Like Sherlock?”

  “Yeah exactly,” Ott said. “Stands for Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. It’s the Scotland Yard computer system that’s got data on just about every crime ever committed over there.”

  “Keep goin’.”

  “So I thought I’d check out Poole, see if he’s got any skeletons in his closet.”

  Crawford put his feet up on his desk. “What…was he the brains behind the Great Train Robbery or something?”

  “How ‘bout a suspect in a double homicide.”

  Crawford leaned closer to Ott. “You got my undivided attention, Mort.”

  “I’ll email you the report,” Said Ott. “But the gist is he worked in The City, which is London’s equivalent of Wall Street, as a stock broker or something. What happened was this couple was killed, who turned out to be clients of his. Apparently, he had some kind of fraud thing going where he’d siphon profits—pretty big money—from their account into a fictitious account, which he controlled. Scotland Yard guys found out about it after the couple was killed in what looked like a murder-suicide, but could never prove anything. Poole got convicted for the fraud racket and did a two-year bit, though. As soon as he got out, he came over here.”

  “No shit,” Crawford said, sliding his feet off his desk. “Can you email me that?”

  Ott stood up. “Sure, I’ll go do it now.” He said. “Oh, also got something on our writer friend.”

  “Durrell?”

  Ott nodded. “Not as big as the Poole thing, but still pretty good.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Bad case of road rage. Couple years ago up on Northlake Boulevard in Palm Beach Gardens,” Ott said. “He cut off some kid and dragged him out of his car. He was on a bridge and threatened to throw the kid over the side. Got convicted for aggravated assault.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Crawford said. “What’s with these people? More goddamn loose cannons per square inch than any town in America.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Ott said. “Maybe something in the water.”

  Crawford just shook his head. “Hey, before you go, let me show you something.”

  Crawford slid the picture Fredrika had given him out of his breast pocket and handed it to Ott.

  “Nice headlights,” Ott said of the buxom girl in the foreground.

  Crawford pointed at Hardin. “No, numbnuts, this guy. What’s he look like to you?”

  “Like a guy in a hurry to get somewhere fast.”

  Crawford nodded. “Not like a guy duckin’ out to take a piss or sneak a butt?”

  “Fuck no,” Ott said. “Look at his eyes: he’s a man on a mission.”

  Thirty

  By 3 PM the next day, Crawford had still not heard back from Earl Hardin, whose number he had gotten from David Balfour. He had left four messages. Two on his cell and two at his office on Bush Island. He got the distinct impression that Hardin was ignoring him and that didn’t sit well with him. He buzzed Ott and asked him to drop by his office.

  A few moments later, Ott walked in. He was wearing what Crawford referred to as his “janitor at a funeral look.” A maroon blazer, lightweight grey rayon pants, a white shirt, with his favorite brown and orange rep tie, white socks, and black, lace-up shoes.

  “Lookin’ natty today, Mort,” Crawford said.

  “Fuck off,” Ott said, “sarcastic bastard you.”

  Crawford held up his hands, then explained the job he had in mind for Ott.

  Ott dialed the number Crawford gave him.

  “Mr. Hardin, please, Earl Hardin,” Ott said to the woman who answered.

  “Who’s calling, please?” the woman said.

  “A guy who wants to buy a house on South Ocean Boulevard,” Ott said.

  “Just a second, please,” said the woman.

  “Hello, this is Earl,” Hardin answered, almost immediately.

  “Hi, Mr. Hardin, my name is Mort Ott,” Ott said. “I’m down here from Cleveland and I saw a house with your sign on it at 1108 South Ocean in Palm Beach. How much you want for that?”

  “You’re in luck, Mr. Ott, they just reduced the price,” Hardin said. “It’s only eleven-point-nine. Seven bedrooms, eight baths, a pool, and one of the finest wine cellars in Palm Beach.”

  “Oh, man, that’s music to my ears,” said Ott, “’cause I’m a big-time oenophile. Got myself an award-winning collection of cabs and merlots. When can I see it?”

  “How ‘bout later this afternoon?” Hardin said. “I just need to drive down from Bush Island. Owners are out of town. Five o’clock work for you?”

  “Perfect,” Ott said. “See you then.”

  He clicked off and smiled at Crawford.

  “Oenophile, huh,” Crawford said, “is that like a pedophile?”

  Ott chuckled. “Funny,” he said. “Hey, I wonder if the guy’ll think I’m natty enough to pay ten-nine for his big ass crib.”

  “Thought it was eleven-nine?”

  Ott shook his head. “Come on, Charlie, you think I’m stupid enough to pay the full ask?”

  An hour and a half later, Earl Hardin glanced over at Ott in the driveway of the $11.9 million house. His look said he doubted Ott could afford even the mailbox.

  Then Crawford got out of the Crown Vic, which was sorely in need of a wash, and Hardin’s suspicion was confirmed.

  He was seething.

  He walked across the courtyard and up to Crawford. “You made me drive all the way down here for nothing?”

  “We could go look at the house if that would make you feel better,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah,” Ott said. “Wouldn’t mind checkin’ out that wine cellar.”

  Hardin didn’t deign to even acknowledge Ott’s existence. “What do you want?” Hardin asked, resplendent in a seersucker suit and bow tie with little bunny rabbits on it.

  “Next time, call me back,” Crawford said, his eyes cruising the exterior of the yellow Spanish-style house. “Eleven point nine seems a little on the high side.”

  “I said, what do you want?” Hardin demanded.

  “Just a few simple questions,” Crawford said as his eyes circled back to Hardin. “Where were you going when you went out the back door of Knight Mulcahy’s house, the night he was murdered?”

  Hardin didn’t hesitate. “Home,” he said. “It was a really boring party.”

  Crawford nodded. “You’re married, right, Mr. Hardin?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Did your wife go with you?”

  “We went there in separate cars,” Hardin said, scratching his cheek. “She’s always the last to leave.”

  “Mr. Hardin,” Ott said, uncrossing his arms, “did you talk to Knight Mulcahy at all that night?”

  “No, I barely know the guy,” Hardin said. “Just there ‘cause my wife knew his wife a little.”

  “But you both were members of the Poinciana Club,” Crawford said.

  “So? There are
five hundred members,” Hardin said. “I avoid his group. I don’t know how they ever got in in the first place.”

  “So you never went down to Mulcahy’s pool house?”

  “Wouldn’t even know where it was.”

  “Next to his pool.”

  “Well, yeah, no shit,” Hardin said. “Told you, I went straight home.”

  “What did you do when you got home?” Crawford asked.

  “Watched something on the tube.”

  “You remember what?”

  “Something on the Golf Channel.”

  “You remember what?”

  “Jesus, what difference does it make?’

  “I’m trying to give you an alibi.”

  “For Chrissakes, like I need an alibi,” Hardin said. “It was a replay of the Players.”

  Crawford glanced over at Ott, who didn’t seem to have any more questions.

  Neither did Crawford. “Okay, Mr. Hardin,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

  Hardin slowly shook his head. “You’re not welcome,” he said. “I coulda sold a goddamn house in the time you wasted.”

  Hardin walked over to his car, opened the door, started the engine and gunned it. His Mercedes left a ten-foot strip of rubber on the white asphalt driveway.

  Ott turned to Crawford and shook his head. “The Crown Vic could do better than that.”

  “Guy’s not off my list,” Crawford said. “What do you think?”

  “A killer…umm, not so sure,” Ott said, “An asshole? Hundred percent sure.”

  On their way back to the station, Crawford’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. He hit the green button.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Charlie, it’s Jerry Pournaras,” said the undercover cop, “Lonnie Bates just showed up at the body shop.”

  “We’ll be there in ten,” Crawford said, hanging a hard right and flooring the Vic.

  They actually made it in eight minutes. They drove up to Pournaras’s Taurus parked behind a cluster of U-Haul trucks in a raggedy-ass lot across from the auto body.

  Pournaras’s window rolled down as they pulled up beside him. “Hey, boys,” he said. “So Bates showed up in a green Charger, pulled into that second bay.” He pointed at the auto body that had three bays.

  “You made the plate?” Ott asked.

  “Yeah, definitely his,” Pournaras said.

  “You see him get out?” Crawford asked.

  “Nah, just saw two guys. Couldn’t make ‘em out.”

  Crawford turned the key and shut off the engine. “Come on, Mort, let’s go have a chat with Lonnie.”

  They both got out of the Crown Vic.

  “Need me?” Pournaras asked.

  “Nah, we’re good,” Crawford said.

  They walked across the street. It was seven-thirty at night but still around eighty-five in the shade.

  Two sweating guys were under the hood of a red pick-up.

  “We’re closed,” one said.

  Crawford flashed them ID.

  “Whaddaya want?” said the other, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls.

  “Lonnie Bates,” Crawford said.

  “Hasn’t been around in a few days,” the first one said out of the side of his mouth.

  “So that’s not his car?” Ott said.

  The first guy shrugged, like he hadn’t seen it there before.

  “Where is he?” Ott asked.

  Both of them shrugged.

  Crawford walked up to a closed door on the far side of the second bay.

  ‘Where’s this go?” Crawford asked.

  “Nobody’s there,” said the second one.

  “I didn’t ask you that,” Crawford said. “Where’s it go?”

  “Storage room,” the second one said.

  Crawford pushed open the door. There were no lights on. “Anybody in here, come on out,” he said.

  Nothing.

  He walked in, Ott right behind him.

  Crawford saw movement just before something hit him on the back of both shoulders. It was like the roof caved in on him, but, fortunately, missed his head. He slumped forward into a crouch but didn’t go down all the way.

  Then he saw another man with a five-foot two-by-four come down hard on Ott’s shoulders. Ott fell forward with a loud groan.

  As Crawford got to his feet, the first man head-butted him in the ribs. Crawford didn’t have time to think, but slashed with his right hand hitting him in the back. Then again. Then a third time. The guy fell to the floor, head first. Crawford’s shoulders felt like when a three-hundred-pound linebacker speared him during a Dartmouth-Cornell football game.

  The man on the ground beneath him started to move. Crawford kicked him in the left side. He stopped moving.

  Jerry Pournaras ran into the dimly-lit room, his Glock drawn.

  “Hands up, motherfucker,” he said to the guy holding the two-by-four over Ott’s head.

  The guy dropped it and raised his hands.

  Ott was on the floor, on all fours. “Fucking A,” he groaned.

  Crawford walked over to him, grabbed an arm and lifted him up.

  Ott looked up to see who it was. “Fuckin’ A, Charlie,” he said. “Like a fuckin’ head-on with a fuckin’ semi.”

  Crawford had once counted five ‘fucks’ in one Ott sentence, so this was nothing. Crawford looked back down at the man on the floor he had beat on. He was moving now.

  “Which one of you assholes is Lonnie Bates?” Crawford asked.

  The guy standing looked down at the guy on the floor and flicked his head.

  Crawford gave Lonnie Bates a tap with his shoe, then noticed Ott pointing at two square shapes the size of bricks wrapped in clear plastic and tape sitting on a wooden cable spool.

  “Looks like coke to me,” Crawford said to Ott.

  Ott nodded and walked over to the round wooden spool. “Sure does,” he said.

  “We thought you were someone else,” said the guy, standing.

  “What’s your name, shithead?” Crawford said, raising his left arm gingerly to see if it was still working.

  “Ronnie,” the guy said. He was tall and skinny and had an old Mohawk that had grown out.

  “Ronnie who?” Ott asked.

  “Bates.”

  Ott shook his head. “Ronnie and Lonnie,” Ott said. “Ain’t that cute. Your parents, pretty fuckin’ creative. Sister named Bonnie, by any chance?”

  With great difficulty, Lonnie got to his feet.

  Crawford looked at Pournaras. “Cuff ‘em, Jerry.”

  “Hey, man,” Lonnie said. “We thought you were tryin’ to rip us off.”

  “So you sayin’ we should just drop the aggravated assault charge, Lonnie? Pretend we didn’t see the coke?” Crawford said, counting at least six tattoos on the man.

  “What if we give you something you want?” Lonnie said.

  “Like what?” Crawford said. “A lube job?”

  Lonnie picked up his Harley Davidson baseball hat off the floor. “No, about what happened to Amir Al-Jabbah.”

  “Who?” Crawford played dumb.

  “You know who,” Lonnie said. “The kid who got killed at his uncle’s garage.”

  “So what about him?” Crawford asked.

  Lonnie pointed at the brick of coke on the wooden spool. “That goes away, right?”

  Crawford looked over at Ott, then back at Lonnie and shook his head. “Depends on what you tell us.”

  “Come on, man,” Lonnie said.

  “Let’s hear what you got,” Crawford said. “May just be a buncha worthless shit.”

  Lonnie sighed. “Amir found out something his uncle was up to. Something his uncle didn’t want him finding out about.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Lonnie said. “Amir never told me the whole thing.”

  Crawford shook his head. “Like I said, you might just have a buncha worthless shit.”

  “Kid said his uncle mighta had s
omething to do with ISIS,” Lonnie said. “Might be planning something.”

  Crawford looked over at Ott again. Ott wiped his mouth. “You use the word might a lot,” Ott said. “Got anything that doesn’t have might or maybe in it?”

  “Said his uncle had these two converts he was training,” Lonnie said.

  “What kind of converts?” Crawford asked.

  “To ISIS,” Lonnie said.

  “What else?” Ott asked.

  “The uncle was pissed Amir found out.” Lonnie said.

  Crawford looked over at the less talkative brother. “What about you, Ronnie? What do you got?”

  “I wasn’t in Rockwell,” Ronnie drawled. “I just remember Amir sayin’ he was scared shitless his uncle might do something to him. You know, ‘cause he found out about the ISIS thing.”

  “What? The uncle thought Amir might tell someone?”

  Ronnie nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “about the converts, too.”

  “So bottom-line it: who you think killed Amir?” Crawford asked.

  “I think the uncle coulda,” said Lonnie. “Or gotten the converts to.”

  Crawford shook his head slowly. “Still hearin’ too many ‘shoulda’s’ and ‘coulda’s’ and ‘mights’ and ‘maybes,’” he said, then pointing at the coke. “How you figure that’s making those bricks go away?”

  Thirty-One

  Crawford and Ott had just driven into the lot behind the station house, Ott was at the wheel. It was 7:15.

  “We gotta call the FBI,” Ott said.

  “Yeah, but not ‘til we got more,” Crawford said.

  “Why not now?”

  “Like I told the lowlifes,” Crawford said, “all we got is a bunch of suppositions. Plus, they could fuck things up for us.”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, it is the FBI.”

  Crawford’s cell phone rang. He looked down at the number. It was Rose Clarke.

  “Hey, Rose.” He said as Ott turned off the Vic’s engine. “I was actually just going to call you.”

  “Charlie,” she was whispering, “I’m at a cocktail party and John, the man in the double-breasted blazer, is here. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Crawford reached across Ott’s right leg and turned the ignition key back on. Ott gave him a confused look.