by Tom Turner
“Well, bear in mind, this was twenty years ago,” Ott said. “But seems like Danielle was pissed off Torben was two-timing her. And apparently, he was trying to shut her up so word didn’t get back to his meal ticket, Nancy.”
“Okay so he married Nancy to get his green card, presumably,” Crawford said. “But he’s married to Laurie now. What happened to Nancy?”
“Well, so she married him, but it had a real short run. Like Sam’s movie career,” Ott said. “Only lasted two years. Then Sam tried to revive it, but there wasn’t much to revive. So, a few years later—about ten years back—he marries Laurie. For love apparently, because she’s as poor as a church mouse.”
“Which is why he had to run the scam on Mulcahy,” said Crawford.
“Exactly,” said Ott as Crawford’s cell rang.
Two plainclothes cops, Stan Gilhuley and Jon Evans, were across the street from Sam Pratt’s house on Golfview. Gilhuley, in the driver’s seat, had nodded off a few minutes earlier and Evans was playing poker on his iPhone, when there was a tap on his window. Evans looked up and saw a man with a gun pointed at him.
“Hands up, boys,” said Sam Pratt.
Gilhuley woke up and both he and Evans put their hands up as Sam Pratt opened the back driver’s side door and slid in.
“So what are you doing here?” Pratt asked. “As if I didn’t know.”
Gilhuley shot a glance at Evans, then said: “We’re just—”
“Looking to cuff me, huh?” Pratt said.
Gilhuley and Evans were mum.
“Well, instead of that, we’re gonna do it the other way around,” Pratt said. “You, Mr. Driver, take your handcuffs out and put them around the wrists of Mr. Passenger.”
Nobody moved.
“Hurry the hell up,” Pratt said, gesturing with his gun.
Evans put his hands out as Gilhuley reached for his cuffs.
“Whoa-whoa-wait,” Pratt said to Gilhuley. “Where’s your gun?”
“Shoulder holster,” Gilhuley said, motioning with his head.
Pratt leaned forward, reached inside Gilhuley’s jacket with his left hand while putting his gun up to Gilhuley’s head. He found Gilhuley’s pistol and slid it out of the shoulder holster. Evans kept his hands out in front of him.
“Okay, now Mr. Driver, take your cuffs out and put them on Mr. Passenger’s wrists.”
Gilhuley did as he was told.
“They look pretty loose,” Pratt said. “Tighten ‘em up. Don’t want Mr. Passenger sliding out of those things, trying to be a hero.”
Gilhuley tightened up the handcuffs on Evan’s wrists.
“Much better,” said Pratt. “Now, Mr. Passenger, do the same thing to Mr. Driver.”
Evans reached down, got his handcuffs, opened them and put them around Gilhuley’s outstretched wrists.
“Come on, a little tighter,” said Pratt.
Evans tightened them.
“Very good,” said Pratt. “Now don’t you boys feel totally helpless?”
Neither answered the question.
“So tell me what you’re doing here,” Pratt said.
Gilhuley shifted uneasily but neither one spoke.
Pratt put the gun up to Gilhuley’s head. “Tell me,” he said.
“We’re just s’posed to see whether you came back to your house,” Gilhuley said.
“Well, looks like you fucked up,” Pratt said. “Like I snuck in without you spotting me.”
Gilhuley nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“So then what?” Pratt said. “Let me guess, you were gonna call my buddy, Charlie Crawford. Tell him I was back.”
Neither Gilhuley nor Evans answered.
Pratt pressed the gun against Gilhuley’s head.
“Yeah,” Gilhuley said. “That was the plan.”
“Well, just so you boys don’t feel bad,” Pratt said. “I been here all along. No Switzerland, no nothing, not yet anyway. I’m thinking of going to someplace that doesn’t have reciprocity with the US.”
Pratt pulled the gun back from Gilhuley’s head.
“I’m gonna make a quick phone call,” Pratt said, putting the gun down on the seat.
Pratt held his iPhone with one hand and dialed with the other.
As he did, Gilhuley slowly moved his left hand up to the door handle, where Pratt couldn’t see.
Then, suddenly he yanked the handle up, and bolted out of the driver’s seat. He had taken eight strides before Pratt picked up his Beretta Px4 Storm, aimed it and squeezed the trigger. On his tenth stride, Gilhuley went down, catching a bullet in the back of the thigh and another in the shoulder.
“Stupid bastard,” said Sam Pratt, jumping out of the back seat, then going through the open door into the driver’s seat.
He aimed the pistol at Evans. “Don’t be as dumb as your partner.”
Evans put up his hands. “Please,” he said. “I’m not gonna do anything.”
Pratt turned the ignition key. The Caprice started up and Pratt floored it.
Crawford looked down at the display on his iPhone. It said, ‘Gilhuley.’ He clicked it.
“Yeah, Gil, what’s goin’ on?”
“I got hit,” Gilhuley said, “Sam Pratt. He just took off with Evans as his hostage.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Crawford said. “You gonna be okay? Where are you?”
“Lawn across from Pratt’s house on Golfview—”
Crawford yelled at Ott. “Get an ambulance over to 19 Golfview, house across from it. First responders, whoever else, get ‘em there fast.”
Ott nodded and started dialing.
“You gonna be all right, Stan?” Crawford asked again.
“Yeah, just losin’ a little blood here,” Gilhuley said. “I’ll be okay. You gotta get Pratt before he does something to Evans.”
“We will.” Crawford said. “So he took off? Any idea where he’s heading?”
“South. Then outta the country, he said.”
“Okay. You got something you can use as a tourniquet?” Crawford asked, getting up and grabbing his jacket from behind his office door.
“Nah, I’m cuffed. Wait, I hear a siren,” Gilhuley said.
“They’ll be there before you know it,” Crawford said, signaling to Ott to follow him. “We’re gonna go get Evans now.”
Forty-Six
“Where we goin’?” Evans asked Sam Pratt as they went down South Ocean.
Pratt was doing the speed limit, not wanting to attract any more attention than a police car normally attracts.
“Cuba,” said Pratt.
“You serious?”
“Think I’d tell you?” Pratt said. “If your partner hadn’t gone and fucked things up, you two would be in a closet in my house and me and my wife would have been headed to the airport.”
As Pratt went past Mar-a-Lago, he saw a police car up ahead pulled over to the other side of the road with its light bar going, but no siren.
Pratt slowed down, then took a left into a driveway.
It was the entrance to the Beach and Racquet Club, known as the B & R.
Pratt looked into his rear-view mirror and saw that the police car had followed them in.
“Shit,” Pratt said, rolling up to the front entrance of the club.
Two young guys wearing khakis and polo shirts with the club insignia on their breast pockets were standing next to the front door. One of them came up to Pratt.
“Can we park your car, sir?” he said. “What’s your membership num—”
Pratt raised the Beretta and smiled. “I’m a gun club member, not the B & R.”
The kid’s eyes got huge and he backed away.
The driver of the police car was keeping his distance. He was on the phone with someone.
Pratt looked over at Evans and pointed his gun. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’re goin’ inside. Shove over.”
Evans slid over close to the door as Pratt slipped over next to him. “You’re gonna get out slowly and I’m gonna be right
behind you. Then I’m gonna put my hand around your neck and you’re gonna be cool. No panic, no blood. Got it?”
Evans nodded.
“It’s definitely the car,” the cop in the car at the B & R parking lot said to Crawford. “He’s just sitting there next to Evans. Wait—they’re getting out now.”
Crawford was speeding south on South Ocean, just north of Mar-a-lago.
“They got out on the passenger side. Guy’s got a gun to Evans’ head,” the cop said. “They’re backing up into the main entrance of the club.”
“Okay,” said Crawford. “Stay where you are. Don’t move, don’t get out of your car, don’t do a damn thing.”
“Copy that,” said the cop.
“Me and Ott are almost there”—then, turning to Ott—“we got a hostage negotiator?”
Ott thought for a second. “Bostwick did one once,” he said, “but he’s on vacation.”
“Guess we got the job,” Crawford said. “Hope like hell we got that bull horn in the trunk.”
“Nice and easy,” Pratt said to Evans as they backed into the club. “Atta boy.”
Pratt turned his head and saw a large woman dressed in a beige skirt and a blue blazer that had a Beach and Racquet insignia on the breast pocket.
“Sir, what is the meaning of this?” she said, apparently not intimidated by the 9mm pistol in Pratt’s right hand.
Pratt eyed her. “We’re gonna be using the facilities for a while,” he said. “Hope that’s okay with you.”
The woman cocked her head to one side. “I remember you,” she said. “Weren’t you guests of the Goodwins one night for dinner?”
“Yeah,” Pratt said, backing down a long wide corridor. “Now cut the chit-chat and go tell the cops I’m gonna blow this guy’s head off if they do anything stupid.”
The woman didn’t move.
Pratt gestured menacingly with his gun. “Go on, do it.”
The woman walked toward the front door of the B & R and went out.
Crawford, Ott, and about twenty plainclothes and uniformed cops were huddled up outside of the B & R. There were eleven marked and unmarked cars parked haphazardly in the parking lot. Light bars were flashing, no sirens. Crawford was addressing them when the woman walked out of the main entrance, waving her hands frantically.
“That man’s got a gun,” she said. “I’m terribly worried about our members and staff.”
Crawford walked over to her. “Did he say anything to you?”
“Yes, that he was going to shoot the man with him if you did anything stupid.”
“Where is he?” Crawford asked.
“At the end of the corridor,” the woman said. “I think he went into a room that we use for meetings.”
“Where are the other exit and egress points in the club?” Crawford asked.
The woman told them of four other ways to get inside and about how there were two pools on the ocean side along with various changing rooms, and on the other side, six tennis courts.
After she described the lay-out of the club, Crawford thanked her, huddled up with the men again, and laid out a plan. Basically, it was for the others to block all ways of escape, but not to get anywhere near Pratt and Evans.
Crawford and Ott were going to go in the front entrance and try to engage Pratt in conversation.
Additionally, Crawford had put in a call to Jack Ingleby, a sharpshooter who had just driven up. Ingleby was decked out in a chest-protector and helmet and had a L129A1 gas-operated sniper rifle with an elaborate scope slung over his shoulder.
Crawford and Ott walked over to him as he got out of his car.
‘Thanks for getting here so fast,” Crawford said. “Subject’s in a room at the end of a long corridor. We’re going in there”—he pointed to the front entrance—“try to talk to him. Maybe you can get a shot from outside.”
“Through one of those sidelights maybe,” Ott said, pointing at the narrow windows on either side of the front door.
“Okay,” said Ingleby, “I’ll check it out. I just want to make sure he can’t spot me.”
“Yeah, definitely,” said Crawford, then he and Ott nodded and walked toward the other cops. A few moments later they all fanned out to the sides and the back of the club, while Crawford, bullhorn in hand, and Ott walked in the front entrance.
Right away, Crawford saw Pratt and Evans at the end of the long corridor. Pratt was sitting on a long, wide mahogany conference table facing them, while Evans, in hand cuffs, stood in front of him. The room had a door in the middle with sidelights on either side.
Crawford put the bullhorn up to his mouth. “We’re both unarmed, Mr. Pratt. We took off our jackets, so you can see. We’re here to make this end—” his first thought was to say, ‘without bloodshed’ but he said instead, “without incident.”
“Well, good,” Pratt shouted. “Come a little closer so you don’t have to use that thing and I don’t have to shout.”
Crawford and Ott walked down the corridor until they were about fifteen feet from the door to the meeting room and stopped.
“How’s this?” Crawford asked.
“That’s good. Nice to see you again, Charlie,” Pratt said.
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, wish it was under different circumstances.”
“So I’ve had a little time to think,” Pratt said, “and I’m not real keen on having one of those long stalemates you see in movies—”
“Okay, so how you want to play it?”
“Very simple,” Pratt said. “I want a helicopter to land on one of the tennis courts, so he can take me where I tell him to go.”
Crawford thought for a second.
“This isn’t something you need to think about, Charlie”—There it was again, ‘a-boot’ instead of ‘about.’ “It’s how it’s goin’ down and it’s non-negotiable. Also, I want a million dollars in the front seat of that chopper. Travel expenses, let’s call it. So, get on your phone and make it happen. You’re a ‘can do’ kinda guy, right?”
Crawford had already alerted Norm Rutledge to what the situation was and told him to be expecting a call. “I’m going to reach into my pocket now,” Crawford said, “get my cell, and call the chief of police, okay?”
“Yes, go ahead,” Pratt said.
Crawford pulled out his iPhone and dialed. Rutledge picked up on the first ring.
“Yeah?”
“I’m here at the Beach & Racquet Club with Mr. Pratt and his hostage, Jon Evans. Mr. Pratt has asked for a helicopter with a million dollars in it to land on one of the tennis courts here.”
“What the fuck, Charlie,” Rutledge said. “I can’t do that.”
Crawford had hoped for a better answer from Rutledge, but wasn’t really surprised.
“I know you can’t do it immediately,” Crawford said. “But will you make the necessary calls.”
“Like to who?” Rutledge said. “I can’t just pull a helicopter and a million bucks outta my ass.”
Crawford smiled. “Great,” he said. “So why don’t I call you back in, say, fifteen minutes and see where things stand—”
“Five minutes,” Pratt said.
Crawford nodded. “Okay, five minutes.” Then like he was listening to Rutledge. “Yeah, I agree, talk to the mayor and check Palm Beach County Park Airport, see what helicopters they got available. Yeah, perfect, sounds good.”
Crawford clicked off with Rutledge and looked up at Pratt. “We’re on it.”
Pratt was nodding. “I see that,” he said. “There are dozens of choppers around here. And coming up with a million bucks, that’s kids’ stuff.”
“Yeah, but you have to give us a little time,” Crawford said.
All of a sudden, Ott cleared his throat and spoke. “How ‘bout you substitute me for Officer Evans, Mr. Pratt?”
Pratt studied him suspiciously. “Why, what’s the difference?” he said, then with a smile. “Except maybe you’re a little easier to hide behind.”
Ott smiled back. “Ye
ah, well, there’s that,” he said. “Not to mention, Officer Evans has a wife and kids. I don’t.”
Pratt shook his head. “Nah, we’d have to go through the whole handcuff thing. Takin’ em off and putting ‘em on.”
“I’ll just have my partner put ‘em on me,” Ott said. “Then walk over to you and switch places with Officer Evans.”
“And in that split second, give your sniper out there a shot at me?” Pratt pointed at Ott. “I want you, Pudge, to go get his rifle and bring it back to me.”
Ott nodded, walked toward the front door, opened it and went outside.
A moment later he walked back in holding the sniper’s rifle in both arms in front of him.
When Ott was twenty feet away, Pratt pointed to the floor. “Okay, put it down on the floor and slide it over here.”
Ott did.
“Good man,” Pratt said, picking it up and putting it to one side of him.
Crawford and Ott just stared at Pratt for a few uncomfortable moments. Finally, Crawford thought, why not ask?
“Why did you kill Knight Mulcahy, Mr. Pratt?” he asked.
“What’s this Mr. Pratt stuff?” Pratt said with a smile. “Out there on the golf course it was Sam and Charlie, newfound friends.”
“Okay then, why’d you kill Knight Mulcahy, Sam?”
“‘Cause the fat shit couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
“That’s it,” Crawford said. “That’s a reason to kill a guy?”
“Ask around, Charlie,” Pratt said. “Half the town wanted to kill the bastard. You probably know that by now.”
Crawford’s cell phone rang. It was Rutledge. “Yeah, Norm?”
“We’re not on speaker, right?”
“No.”
“Okay, here’s the long and the short,” Rutledge said. “I can get a chopper there, but no way in hell a million bucks. Even spoke to National Patrolman’s Benevolent; nobody can authorize it in a hurry.”
“Okay, that’s good, Norm,” Crawford said. “How long ‘til it gets here?”
“About a half hour,” Rutledge said, “but you heard me about the money, right?”
“Yeah, sure did, that’s great.”
Pratt waved his hand. “Put him on speaker,” he said.