Palm Beach Deadly

by Tom Turner

  “Where are you?” Crawford asked Rose.

  “114 Dunbar,” she said. “Jimmy Pappas’s place.”

  Crawford turned to Ott. “114 Dunbar,” he said. “drive like you got a fire up your ass.” Then into his cell phone. “Thanks, Rose, we’ll be right there.”

  Five minutes later, Ott pulled up behind a big red Mercedes on Dunbar Avenue. Cars were parked on both sides of the street. They got out of the Vic and hoofed it up to the front door of number 114.

  Crawford tightened up his tie and wished his shoes were a little shinier as Ott pressed the doorbell.

  A black woman in a black dress with white lapels opened the door.

  “Welcome,” she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Pappas are out on the back patio with the other guests. Come right in.”

  “Thank you,” Crawford said, noticing her eye Ott and his “janitor at a funeral” attire.

  Then she turned and disappeared into the kitchen as Crawford and Ott walked through the living room and saw people out on the patio in back.

  “Lotta pink and green out there,” Ott observed.

  “Team colors,” said Crawford, opening the French door to the patio.

  The patio was huge and looked out over a vast backyard with a tennis court at the far end.

  Crawford scanned the crowd for the man in the double-breasted blue blazer. He saw a lot of men in blue blazers but not one double-breasted one. There were many people on the far side he couldn’t see, though.

  A tall man with curly white hair wearing lime green pants and a long-sleeved azure blue shirt walked up to them as they were taking in the guests. The man thrust out his right hand.

  “Hey, fellas,” he said, somewhat quizzically, “I’m Jimmy Pappas.”

  “Oh, hi,” Crawford said as he saw Rose Clarke come up behind Pappas.

  “Jimmy, these guys are friends of mine,” Rose said, giving Crawford, then Ott a kiss on the cheek. “Hope it’s okay I invited them over.”

  Pappas nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely,” he said. “The more the merrier. Bar’s right over there.”

  Pappas slapped Ott on the back and walked away as Ott winced.

  “You okay, Mort?” Rose asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Just some guy whacked me with a two-by-four a little while ago.”

  Rose looked over at Crawford. “He’s joking, right?”

  Crawford smiled. “Yeah, you know jokin’ Morty,” Crawford said. “Where’s our guy?”

  “He’s out there somewhere,” Rose said looking out over the crowd of people on the patio. “I just had to duck into the bathroom for a second.”

  A young woman with a silver tray with a half dozen flutes of champagne came up to them.

  “Champagne?” she asked.

  “Ah, no thanks,” Crawford said.

  “Come on, you’ll blend in better,” Rose said. “One glass isn’t going to cloud your brilliant detective mind.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Ott, taking one. Then, under his breath: “For the pain.”

  “What the hell,” Crawford said, taking one.

  She smiled back and nodded.

  “Let’s circle around the other side,” Crawford said. “Really gotta find this guy.”

  The three walked around the outer perimeter of the patio. Crawford saw his friend David Balfour chatting up a tall, wispy blonde wearing aviators. Crawford recognized her from one of the pictures that the Glossy photographer had taken. He thought she was the woman with Paul Mulcahy.

  “You know her?” Crawford asked Rose. “The girl with David Balfour.”

  Rose laughed and lowered her voice. “You mean the high-class call girl?”

  “Come on,” Crawford said. “Really?”

  “Got news for you, your friend David’s not above that,” Rose said. “I think her name is Willow or one of those made-up kind of names.”

  Crawford turned to Ott. “She was the one with Paul Mulcahy at his father’s party, I think.”

  “No shit,” said Ott.

  “That makes sense,” Rose said, lowering her voice. “Word is, Paul did some pimping for his father. Or acted as his beard sometimes.”

  “What’s that?” Ott asked.

  “You know, where you make it seem like a girl’s with you,” Rose said. “But really you’re just a deliveryman.”

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Crawford said.

  Ott started nodding. “You mean, she might have been delivered to the pool house?”

  Crawford nodded back as he spotted a short man in a robin’s-egg blue, double-breasted blazer and white ducks. “Not that guy?” he said.

  Rose looked over and laughed. “No, that’s Paul Whitman, owns that horse that won the Preakness.”

  “Where is he, Rose?” Crawford said impatiently.

  “He was here fifteen minutes ago is all I can tell you,” Rose said.

  “Maybe left when you went to the bathroom?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shit,” Crawford said under his breath.

  “Sorry, Charlie, I thought I was helping.”

  Crawford exhaled slowly. “You were, Rose, I appreciate it.”

  He led her away from the crowd. Ott followed. “Rose, on another subject, Earl Hardin, broker up on Bush Island”—she rolled her eyes—“what’s his reputation in the real estate business?”

  “He makes a lot of money,” Rose said. “Gets a lot of listings because he makes certain, let’s call ‘em, side deals.”

  ‘What do you mean ‘side deals?’” Crawford asked.

  “A lot of people who want to move to Bush Island have all the money in the world, but no connections,” Rose said. “Meaning they don’t know people in the club. And if you want to get into the club, you need someone to propose you, second you and write letters saying what a huge asset you’d be. Earl can make that happen…if, of course, you buy a house from him.”

  “So it’s kind of a—”

  “—quid pro quo,” Rose said, nodding. “It also works the other way.”

  “What other way?” Crawford asked.

  “Well, let’s just say you’re a guy from Queens who just struck it rich in the garment business and somehow you heard about Bush Island. Figure it sounds like a nice place to have a second home”—Crawford nodded as Ott moved closer to Rose—“You call up Earl’s real estate company and Earl hears your accent and asks a couple of questions. Then he goes, ‘Sorry, Mr…Whoever, but there’s nothing available at the moment.’ And Mr. Whoever says, ‘What do you mean, I saw that place listed for twenty million on the Intracoastal and another one for sixteen million on the ocean,’ and Earl goes”—Rose finished off her wine—“‘Sorry, the one on the Intracoastal has a deed restriction that it can only sell to a club member and the one on the ocean is about to go pending.’ Earl keeps goin’ like this—putting up road blocks—and poor old Mr. Whoever gets sick of the runaround and finally figures fuck it, who needs it, I’ll find a place somewhere else.”

  Both Crawford and Ott were shaking their heads.

  “Wait I got more,” Rose said. “Jesus, don’t get me started on the guy. So, and this is more in the conjecture department, but I’ve heard it enough times to believe it’s true. Earl has a real knack with little, old, rich ladies. They trust him ‘cause…well, ‘cause he’s a pretty slick act. So, they think he’s going to take care of them, you know, do the right thing. So they call him up and say they want him to list their house. He rubs his hands together, slaps on his smarmy smile, and proceeds to get the listing. But what he does is get them to list it at a below market price—”

  “What do you mean? How’s that work?” Ott asked.

  “Okay, so let’s say, the comps say a house is worth ten million. Earl doesn’t tell the sweet, little, old lady that. Instead he tells her it’s worth eight. Then he goes to his buddy, Johnny Boyd, the contractor, and gets him to buy it for eight. I know that happened at least twice last year. So, Johnny puts a million into it and sells it for f
ourteen million. Earl gets a six percent commission on the eight million sale, then another six per cent on the fourteen-million-dollar sale and, I suspect, Johnny gives him a piece of what he makes off of the flip for throwing the deal his way.”

  “Wow, I’m doing some quick math,” Ott said, “that sleazeball probably made over a million bucks on that one deal alone.”

  “Yup,” Rose said. “You do that a couple times a year and, guess what, it pays for one of the biggest summer houses on Martha’s Vineyard, not to mention his shiny, new helicopter.”

  Crawford was silent, then finally, looking at Ott, said. “I could say something like, ‘hey, we’re in the wrong business, Mort,’ but I’m just gonna say…a house on Martha’s Vineyard, a shiny, new chopper, guy’s still a lowlife sleaze bucket.”

  Crawford heard steps right behind him. “I thought that was you,” a voice said.

  Crawford turned.

  Fredrika Bloomquist was wearing a short beige skirt and a sleeveless silk top with more than a suggestion of cleavage.

  “Oh, hey, Fredrika,” Crawford said.

  “Hi, Charlie,” Fredrika said, kissing him on the cheek, then to Rose, “Hey, Rose.”

  “Hi, Fredrika,” Rose said with an impish smile. “Looks like you and Charlie hit it off.”

  Crawford wasn’t going within five miles of that. “And this is my partner, Mort Ott.”

  “Hi, Mort,” Fredrika said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Back atcha,” Ott said, like he was saying hello to a cop at Mookie’s.

  Crawford searched the crowd again for the man in the double-breasted blue blazer.

  “Fredrika,” Crawford said, “I hate to be rude, but we’re trying to locate someone. We need to look around a little.”

  Fredrika held up her hands. “I understand. Do what you have to,” then to Ott, “well, nice to have met you, Mort.”

  “Likewise,” said Ott.

  Crawford walked to the far corner of the patio, Ott and Rose right behind him.

  Rose scoured the crowd, then shook her head. “I guess that’s what happened,” she said.

  “You mean he left while you were in the can?” Ott asked.

  Rose laughed. “‘Fraid so.”

  Crawford turned to Ott. “Know that car that was leaving when we got here?”

  “That black BMW?”

  Crawford nodded. “Could have been him. He was headed toward Lake Way. Maybe a security cam caught him.”

  Ott nodded.

  Crawford turned to Rose. “A big favor: If we find this car in the camera footage and can make out the driver, will you swing by the station and ID him?”

  “Sure,” said Rose. “No problem.”

  “Thanks,” Crawford said.

  Ott looked down at his empty champagne flute, then up at Crawford. “Well, Charlie, guy’s not here, might as well have some more bubbly.”

  A half hour later, Ott was holding court.

  Fredrika Bloomquist, David Balfour, Leelee Pappas, Rose Clarke, and Crawford were listening to a story Ott was telling. Crawford wasn’t listening too attentively because he had been there when it happened.

  “So they were sittin’ around skinny-dipping in their in-door pool when all of a sudden three alligators splash down into it—”

  “Wait, what?” Leelee Pappas’s jaw dropped a full inch.

  “Yeah, I remember,” David Balfour said, nodding. “Came through the air-conditioning ducts, right?”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, these Russian guys built the house with big commercial-sized ducts, so the guys who did it—posing as AC repair men—brought in the gators in a van and shoved ‘em in on the ground floor.”

  “Killed the brothers and one of the women, right?” Rose asked.

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, another woman who was there escaped.”

  “That’s incredible,” Fredrika said. “I didn’t know alligators were aggressive like that?”

  “They are when they’re hopped up,” Ott said.

  “What do you mean?” Fredrika asked.

  Crawford decided to throw in his two cents worth. “They shot ‘em up with something called apostolyn. Same effect steroids have on bodybuilders.”

  “So you mean like ‘roid rage?” Balfour asked.

  “Something like that,” said Crawford.

  “Jesus,” said Balfour.

  Crawford turned to Ott. “We gotta get goin’, Mort,” he said, then to the others, “town doesn’t pay us to hang around knocking back cocktails, tellin’ war stories.”

  Ott looked disappointed. Like he was just getting started. “One more.”

  Crawford shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Ott nodded.

  Crawford turned to Rose and Fredrika who were standing next to each other. “Ladies,” he said. “Nice to see you again. Wish we could stick around, but…”

  “Bye, Charlie,” said Rose, then turned to Ott. “See you, Mort.”

  Ott smiled and nodded.

  “I’m going to call you in a little while about something else,” Crawford said to Rose.

  Rose smiled and nodded.

  “Hope you catch the bad guys,” Fredrika said, giving Crawford a long look then a short smile.

  “Thanks,” Crawford said, then he turned to go.

  He and Ott walked through the house, down the front steps and out to their car.

  Ott opened the driver’s side door, got in and glanced over at Crawford. “First cocktail party I even went to, Charlie.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, didn’t have many up in Cleveland.”

  “C’mon, man, they have ‘em everywhere,” Crawford said. “You just didn’t travel in the right circles. Until now, that is.” He motioned with his hand. “Let’s go see if we can find a tape of our mystery man.”

  Thirty-Two

  Jacqui Mulcahy and Algernon Poole were having sex on her ultra-king sized bed, which measured nine feet by nine feet. Jacqui was on top and Algernon was grunting like a mover who was lifting a heavy couch into a truck. As their lovemaking reached its crescendo, Algernon started slapping Jacqui hard on her buttocks. Then, even harder. At first she seemed to like it, but then it was just plain painful.

  “Stop, that’s too hard,” she said.

  “I thought you liked it rough,” Algernon said, slapping her again. “That’s what I heard through the grapevine anyway. You and Brewster Collett going at it with riding crops. So the story goes, anyway.”

  Jacqui rolled off him and looked him square in the eyes. “What is wrong with you, for God’s sake?”

  “What do you mean, love?” Poole said. “Pain and pleasure, a very thin line.”

  “I’m talking about what you said,” Jacqui said. “About Brewster Collett.”

  “Well, I hope it wasn’t true,” Poole said. “I mean, riding crops, please, that is such a cliché. Surely you could have come up with something more original than that. I overheard my former employer getting quite a chuckle out of that.”

  Jacqui sat up on the two pillows behind her and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. “Just let me remind you, Algernon, you work for me. Don’t blow it; you have a very good thing going here.”

  Algernon reached up, grabbed her arm and pulled her across his body in one swift motion. Then he smacked her three times—harder than before—on her buttocks.

  “Ow,” she cried out in pain, “stop that, goddamnit! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Then she tried to wriggle free but he had her pinned.

  He spanked her again on the buttocks three more times. This time you could see his finger marks on her.

  “I’m going to tell you what the rules are around here, milady,” Poole said, his mouth just above her ear. “One, you are prohibited from further assignations with Collett at the Breakers or anywhere else. Two, you will ask for my permission to leave the house, and three”—Poole took her arm and twisted it roughly up behind her back—“and three, you will do every
thing I tell you to do, because if you don’t, you will end up like a certain former client of mine in London. I suggest you Google her. Her name is…was Lizette LeGrande”—Poole wrenched her arm up even farther—“may she rest in peace.”

  Crawford was dialing David Balfour when Ott walked into his office. Crawford motioned for him to have a seat. Balfour answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, David,” he said. “That woman you were with last night at the Pappas party, I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Yeah, I bet you would,” Balfour said. “Pretty hot, huh?”

  Crawford laughed. “Police business, David. I think she was with Paul Mulcahy the night of his father’s party. I have a few questions for her.”

  “Yeah,” Ott said, under his breath. “Like how much does she charge?”

  Crawford rolled his eyes and shook his head at him.

  “Here’s her number,” Balfour said and gave him her cell number. “Her name is Willow, not sure what her last name is.”

  “Willow’s good enough,” Crawford said. “Thanks.”

  “Any time,” Balfour said.

  Crawford dialed the number. A woman answered.

  “Hello, is this Willow?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes it is, who’s calling?” She said.

  “My name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police Department.”

  “O-kay,” she said warily in what sounded like an eastern European accent.

  “I just want to ask you a few questions,” Crawford said.

  “What about?”

  “I’d like to meet with you in person to ask them,” Crawford said.

  “O-kay,” she said again, even more warily.

  “Can you come to the police station at 345 South County Road?” Crawford said. “Or I can come to you. Either way?”

  “Okay,” she said, “why don’t I come there.”

  Crawford was guessing her accent was Polish. A little like Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice.

  “How is four this afternoon?” Crawford asked.

  “Fine. What is the address again?”

  Crawford gave it to her, thanked her, hung up and looked up at Ott.

  “Just so happens,” Ott said, “I’m free at four.”