by Tom Turner
The ceremony concluded, the bride and groom were walking down the aisle, followed by the wedding party. As they headed to the area where the reception would be held, three waves of white-jacketed waiters made their way into the crowd with trays of fluted glasses filled with champagne.
“Thanks,” Paul Pawlichuk said as he reached for a glass, then proceeded to drain it in one long gulp.
His wife Mindy, aware of her husband’s prodigious appetites in so many areas, thought nothing of it when Paul grabbed a second flute off another waiter’s tray on the fly.
“Beautiful ceremony, didn’t you think?” Mindy asked her husband as their daughter Janice approached them with her husband George Figueroa and young son in tow.
“Very nice,” Paul said, then under his breath, muttered, “But the padre kind of dragged it out a little.”
The “padre” was a renowned monsignor from Miami who spoke too slow and flowery for Paul’s taste.
“Hey, hon,” Paul said, kissing his daughter Janice and ignoring his son-in-law the way he always did.
Janice shook her head. “You do see George standing next to me, Dad…and your grandson?”
Paul nodded. “Hey, Jorge, how’s it goin’, bro?”
Paul called everyone ‘bro’ except his brother.
Janice looked furious. “It’s not Jorge, for God’s sake.”
Paul refrained from saying what he was thinking, Well, it used to be, and instead gave his four-year-old grandson a pat on his undersized head.
Janice turned to her mother and whispered under her breath. “You believe that tramp?” she said, flicking her head in the direction of the TV star and bride’s sister. “Decked out like some Las Vegas hooker.”
“Hey, hey,” her mother said. “A little reverence on your brother’s wedding day.”
“Well, it’s true,” Janice said, as she caught her father sneaking a glance at Carla.
Across the room, Carla had walked up to one of the two outside bars and was talking to an older man who had followed her there. He was Robert Polk, the billionaire owner of Polk Global.
Carla leaned close to Polk and asked under her breath, “When was the last time you spoke to Alex?”
Polk glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “I went up to Deerfield and saw him play in a soccer match,” he said, “Took him out for dinner afterward.”
Carla frowned. “That was way back in the fall, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s spring now.”
“Well, you had him for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Polk said.
“Yes, but there was a lot of time in between.”
“What can I tell you, I’ve been busy as hell lately,” Polk said. “When does he hear from Yale?”
“In a couple of weeks,” Carla looked concerned. “It’s a sure thing, right?”
Polk nodded and took a sip of his champagne.
Carla’s sister Addison, clad in her twenty-thousand-dollar Zac Posen wedding dress, walked up to them.
“There she is,” Carla said, giving her sister a big hug and kiss. “Such a beautiful ceremony. And, oh my God, your flowers are so gorgeous—”then turning to Polk—“you remember Robert?”
“Of course, hello, Robert,” Addison Pawlichuk said, then turned to her sister. “Well, it’s official, I just married into the Polish royal family of football.”
“Mazel tov,” Carla said, raising her drink.
Addison laughed. “That’s Jewish, not Polish.”
“Close enough,” Carla said. “You got a real mixed bag of people here. Which makes for the best weddings, they tell me.”
“We’ll see about that,” Addison said.
Carla, looking over her sister’s shoulder, zeroed in on her husband, Duane Truax. “Which one of your bridesmaids is Duane impressing with his race-track heroics now?”
Addison turned around and looked. “Oh, that’s Chelsea.”
“Is she the Prada model?” Carla asked.
“Yes, exactly, living with a chef at Nobu,” Addison said.
“Where’s he?”
“Working.”
Carla nodded knowingly. “While the cat’s away, I guess.”
Addison laughed.
Robert Polk took a step closer to hear better.
Carla, still looking at her husband and the young model, shook her head disdainfully. “I’ve seen that look in his eye. I bet he just told her he was Driver of the Year.”
Addison turned to her sister. “He was?”
“Yeah, back in 2005.”
Addison glanced over at the six-piece band, which had segued into something slow after having just finished a bouncy number.
“Would you like to dance?” Polk asked Carla, sounding very formal.
Carla rolled her eyes and raised her eyebrows at her sister. “You mean, would I like you to tromp all over my toes?”
Addison tried to suppress a laugh. Polk looked stung.
Carla couldn’t care less. “No, thanks,” she said, looking away from Polk. “I’m going to go talk to my old friend, the movie director. It’s been a while.”
Addison glanced to where her sister was looking. A short man in his fifties with slicked-back blond hair and a ring in his ear was talking to a young woman.
“Movie director?” Addison said with a knowing smile. “I’d say you just gave him a promotion.”
Carla laughed. “Okay, how about…director of short features where none of the actors wear clothes.”
Addison patted her sister’s shoulder and smiled. “Yeah, exactly, the kind that never have much of a plot.”
“But plenty of skin,” Carla whispered, then gave Robert Polk a kiss that barely grazed his cheek. “Bye, Robert, nice to see you.”
“I’ll give you a call,” Polk said.
“Go ahead, but I’m going to be busy as hell,” Carla zinged him.
Carla walked over to the man with the slicked-back blond hair. He was talking to a woman—late teens or early twenties—who had boobs so tightly packed into her dress that they looked like they were struggling to come out for air.
“Hello, Xavier,” Carla said.
The short man swung around and came eye level with Carla’s expensive Bvlgari diamond necklace.
“Well, hello, Carla,” Xavier Duke said.
Carla glanced at the young woman. “Hi, I’m Carla.”
The woman’s baby blues lit up at having been addressed by the well-known actress.
“And this is my friend, Taylor Whitcomb,” Duke said.
“Hi, so nice to meet you,” Taylor said. “I love your show.”
“Well, thank you,” Carla said. “Wait, are you related to Rennie and Wendy?”
Taylor laughed. “Daughter.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Carla said. “I haven’t seen them in such a long time. Do they still live in New York and have a house down here?”
“Yes,” Taylor said. “Sure do.”
“Well, please give them my best,” Carla said.
“I definitely will,” Taylor said.
Carla turned back to Duke and said flirtatiously, “So how ‘bout a dance, big boy?”
Big boy he wasn’t, but game he was. “I’d love to,” Duke said, then to Taylor, “See you in a little bit.”
Xavier Duke had no original parts left on his face. Two years ago, he’d had a major facelift to expunge the bags under his eyes, and the plastic surgeon had thrown in a complimentary Kirk Douglas cleft chin. All of his crow’s feet, frown lines and smoker’s lines had been lasered into oblivion. His teeth had been bleached to an extreme, almost unnatural white.
Duke and Carla made their way to the dance floor, then she dropped her voice…and her smile. “A hundred thousand dollars,” she said, suddenly all business.
“Add a zero,” Duke said.
“Fuck that.”
“It’s like a tip to you.”
“Two hundred is the best I’m doing,” she said.
“You’ve got until Monda
y,” Duke said.
Carla pulled back from him. “And you’ve got until I make a phone call.”
She didn’t have some big goombah on speed-dial but figured there was no harm in implying she did. Carla walked away quickly, headed for the bar.
She watched Paul Pawlichuk walk across the room with a drink in his hand and decided to follow him. He seemed to be heading in the direction of Mar-a-Lago’s living room. She looked around to see if anyone was watching and, seeing no one, walked faster until she was right behind him. As he got to the door, she reached between his legs and goosed him.
He swung around and, seeing her, broke into a wide smile.
“Hello, Paul,” she said. “You weren’t looking for me, by any chance?”
He touched her on the shoulder.
“I’m just going to take care of a little business with my son-in-law, then I plan to give you my complete, undivided attention.”
Two
“Guy’s got to weigh close to three hundred pounds,” Mort Ott said, looking down at a large, naked male body sprawled out in a white chaise longue.
Charlie Crawford nodded. He had his hand on his chin as he observed a woman’s body, also naked, also dead, face-down on the pool deck ten feet away from the chaise. “Yeah,” he said. “And I’m guessing she was on top.”
“So, like 425 pounds of thrusting and grunting,” Ott said. “Damn chaise must be pretty well made.”
A row of eleven more chaise longues all faced the pool in a perfect symmetrical formation.
“I’m guessing she tried to run,” Crawford said. “Shooter probably did her first, then him.”
The man had been shot in the temple and chest and the woman three times in the back. The man—six-foot-five or so—had a Buddha-like paunch with slab-like arms and legs. He had a good tan, and, it appeared, based on the small triangular patch of slug-white skin from his hips to his mid-thighs, sunbathed in a bathing suit from the Speedo family. Crawford and Ott, both semi-knowledgeable about college football, had recognized the victim right away as Paul Pawlichuk, the legendary college coach.
The woman was shapely, had long blond hair and stunning good looks. She also had a nice tan, but without lines, so in their professional opinion she sunbathed nude.
It was 6:30 in the morning. Crawford and Ott were at the Mar-a-Lago pool on the ocean, which was across the street from where the Pawlichuk-Carton wedding had taken place. The actual address was 1100 South Ocean Boulevard, Palm Beach, Florida. With them was Bob Hawes, the local medical examiner, and two CSEUs—Crime Scene Evidence Unit techs—who were scouring the immediate area for hair follicles, DNA samples, and other useful forensic clues. Surrounding them, and watching them go about their methodical business, were two Palm Beach police officers, who had arrived first on scene, and another twelve unidentified men in civilian clothes, who may or may not have been Secret Service.
Ott, who was taking notes in an old, leather-bound notebook he’d had since his days as a homicide cop in Cleveland, lowered his voice.
“She can’t be the coach’s wife. Why would he be banging her here instead of—”
“No way it’s his wife,” Crawford agreed.
Bob Hawes, who was crouching to examine the woman, looked up. “You boneheads don’t recognize her?”
Ott shrugged. “Who is she?”
“Madeline in that Netflix show, Bad Karma,” Hawes said. “I don’t know her real name.”
“Holy shit, you’re right,” Ott said. “The chick who plays the senator’s mistress.”
“What’s your estimate of time of death?” Crawford asked the ME as he pulled out his iPad.
“Six and a half hours ago,” Hawes said without hesitation.
One thing that always bugged Crawford about Hawes was how sure he always seemed to be about everything. He suppressed an instinct to ask how Hawes could peg the vics’ time of death so precisely, but he let it go.
Crawford was six three with piercing blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair worn a little longer than his crew-cut boss liked. More than once, Crawford had been asked by people on the street whether he was that polo-playing Ralph Lauren model. Ott, shorter by seven inches, rounder by four belt-sizes, older by fifteen years, and balding, was an easy man to underestimate. That would be a mistake, because, at fifty-three years old, Ott could bench press his weight, outrun Crawford, and, thus far anyway, outthink any southern Florida mutt, miscreant or outlaw.
The detectives had already inspected the couple’s clothes, which had clearly been hastily tossed onto a nearby chaise. They hadn’t found a wallet or anything identifying either person.
Crawford took out his iPad. “So, Madeline’s the character’s name?” he asked Hawes.
Hawes nodded.
Crawford started scrolling on his iPad.
He found what he was looking for. “Says Carla Carton is the name of the actress who plays Madeline Larsen.” He glanced down at the body again. “Thirty-nine years old, she was also in that show, The Gloaming. Before that, a bunch of soaps. Married to—I’ll be damned—Duane Truax.”
Ott spun around and his mouth dropped. “Get outta here.”
“Yeah, for the past fourteen years,” Crawford said.
“Who the hell is Duane Truax?” Hawes asked.
“Christ, what rock you been hiding under?” Ott said. “Guy’s a big time NASCAR driver.”
“Why the hell would I pay attention to that redneck sport?” Hawes shot back.
A man in gray pants and a starched long-sleeved white shirt walked between the two Palm Beach cops and beelined over to Crawford, Ott and Hawes.
“Who’s in charge here?” he demanded.
Crawford stepped forward. “Sir, this is an active crime scene,” he said. “I’m going to have to ask you—”
The man got so close it looked like he was going to kiss Crawford. He lowered his voice. “We don’t need this,” he said. “Is there any way you can keep this whole thing under wraps? We really don’t need this.”
“Sir, I don’t know who you are, but this is the scene of a double homicide, and we don’t keep homicides under wraps,” Crawford said. “Not only that, I don’t know if you noticed, but there are a bunch of reporters out on the street who know something’s up.”
Ott nodded. “Cat’s gonna be out of the bag any minute.”
The man sighed as his eyes darted around nervously. “Okay,” he said, “but do you need to release the victim’s names? This is a matter of national security.”
“It is?” asked Crawford. “And how’s that?”
The man had no answer. He sighed theatrically, turned, then cut through the cluster of onlookers.
“Well,” said Ott, “at least we know what qualifies as national security: when a guy making millions drawing up X’s and O’s gets whacked ballin’ a TV hottie.”
Three
The media, of course, was having a field day. How could they possibly have asked for more? A famous, married man having a moonlight tryst with a famous, married actress at Mar-a-Lago, gunned down together point-blank. It didn’t get any better than that.
Palm Beach Police Chief Norm Rutledge, on the other hand, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In his eleven-year stretch as chief, he had never faced anything quite like this. Yes, there had been the billionaire killer a few years back, and the murdering, then murdered, Russian brothers last year, not to mention the famous talk-show host who had bought it in his pool house with his skivvies down around his ankles.
But there had never been anything like this: a murder at the home-away-from-home of the most powerful man in the universe.
Rutledge was calling Crawford, who was still at the crime scene, every five minutes for a progress report. When Crawford had stopped answering, the chief had begun calling Ott, but Ott had a firm policy of avoiding Rutledge’s calls altogether.
Bob Hawes and the two crime-scene techs had come up almost completely dry in their initial analysis. They concluded that the murder weapon had
been fired from less than twenty feet away, but that was about all they had. Worse, none of the bullets had lodged in either body and not one of them had been recovered. Hawes reported that the three bullets that had passed through Paul Pawlichuk’s body had ricocheted off the cement pool deck on a trajectory toward the ocean. The slugs that had gone through Carla Carton, he stated, could have gone anywhere.
So, Crawford and Ott had very little to work with. In the six hours since the bodies were found, they had been interviewing people who had attended the wedding, their hope, of course, being to find someone who might have been an eyewitness to the murders. It quickly became apparent that no one had.
What seemed clear was that the murdered couple had wandered away from the wedding reception—which was being held outside the main house at Mar-a-Lago—and, no doubt in search of privacy, crossed Ocean Boulevard to the beach club and pool on the other side of the road. Several witnesses had noticed the two talking, after which they hadn’t been seen again.
Mindy Pawlichuk had called Palm Beach Police at 3:25 a.m. to report her husband missing, though judging from her tone, she hadn’t been overly concerned. Two plainclothes cops had arrived at 3:39 and spent an hour looking for Pawlichuk, while at the same time discovering that Carla Carton was not in her room. Finally, at 6:15 a.m., they found the two bodies and contacted Crawford and Ott, who’d arrived at Mar-a-Lago within five minutes of each other—at around 6:30.
They had met with Mindy Pawlichuk after having spent an hour and a half at the crime scene. Mindy’s reaction was odd: she didn’t seem shocked, nor did she cry. In fact, she hadn’t looked too broken up at all. She simply nodded and asked who her husband had been with before they even had a chance to tell her that Pawlichuk’s body was discovered ten feet away from a naked woman. Crawford and Ott concluded that this was not the first time Paul Pawlichuk had wandered off with someone who was not his wife.