Palm Beach Pretenders

by Tom Turner

  “Which is?”

  “That ten minutes he’s wasting on us could be time he’d be making a million bucks on his fund.”

  “An even bigger dick,” Crawford said, dialing his phone again.

  “You calling him back to tell him that?”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time,” Crawford said, putting the call on speaker.

  A man answered. “Hello.”

  “Is this Rich?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes. Hello, Detective. Got anything yet?”

  “We’ve been talking to a lot of people,” he said. “But nothing yet. Are you with your wife?”

  “Yes, she’s right here.”

  “Can you ask her if she has the cell number of Jaclyn Puckett, please?”

  “Sure—” They heard Rich ask, “You got Jaclyn’s number?”

  Addison Pawlichuk called out a phone number in the background. It began with a 516 area code.

  “Not 561?” Crawford asked.

  “No,” Rich said. “She was originally from Long Island. That’s the Long Island area code.”

  “Okay, thanks a lot,” Crawford said. “Also, while I have you, do you have your brother-in-law’s office number?”

  “I think so, hang on.” Rich called out to Addison again: “How ’bout George’s office number?”

  “Just his cell,” Crawford heard Addison say.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” Crawford said.

  Addison called out the number and Ott wrote it down.

  “Great, thanks a lot. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have something to tell you.” Crawford clicked off and dialed Jaclyn Puckett’s number.

  A woman answered.

  “Is this Jaclyn Puckett?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police Department. My partner and I are the detectives on the Carla Carton-Paul Pawlichuk murders and we’d like to come ask you some questions. How is ten tomorrow morning?”

  “I figured someone would be contacting me,” Puckett said. “Ten is fine.”

  “Would you mind coming to the police station?”

  “Sure. What’s the address?”

  Crawford gave her the address. “Thanks, Ms. Puckett.”

  “See you then.”

  Ott glanced over. “Maybe she’ll be kind enough to give us fifteen minutes of her time.”

  Finally, Crawford dialed George Figueroa and made an appointment to meet with him at his office the next morning after Robert Polk. He asked Figueroa to please have his wife Janice join them. Figueroa said no problem, he would.

  * * *

  They got back to the station and Crawford walked into his office and got on his computer. He wanted to do some homework on Robert Polk. With the help of Google, Crawford confirmed that the man was worth twenty-one billion dollars, but by tomorrow morning it would no doubt be five or ten million more. He was married to Lorinda Polk and had been for the past thirty-one years.

  There were several articles about Polk in the Daily Mail, a UK publication that seemed to specialize in pictures of unusually large-breasted women and articles about instant-weight-loss diets. The flurry of Polk-related articles in the Daily Mail involved a lawsuit brought by a reporter for the financial channel CNBC, who alleged that Polk had sexually harassed her on several occasions five years ago. Crawford followed the thread, but it seemed the lawsuit was ultimately withdrawn—a settlement, no doubt, probably for millions of dollars, which would have only been a few days’ work for Polk.

  Needless to say, there were also many articles about Polk in financial publications like the Wall Street Journal, The Financial Times, and Forbes magazine.

  Crawford decided that it would be better if Ott and he met with Jaclyn Puckett before Robert Polk. She might be able to shed some light on the relationship between Carla Carton and Polk, which could be useful when questioning the billionaire. Crawford called Puckett and asked if she would mind coming in at eight the next morning instead of ten and she agreed. He emailed Ott about the change.

  It was going to be a busy morning.

  Ten

  Jaclyn Puckett looked to be in her early thirties and about thirty pounds overweight. She had a nice smile, curly blond hair, ice-blue eyes and a Starbucks coffee cup in hand.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Crawford said as he shook her hand in the reception area.

  “Sure, no problem,” she said with a smile.

  “Just follow me back, please.” He led her back to his office and introduced her to Ott, who was waiting there. She and Ott sat in the chairs facing Crawford’s desk.

  “So, we’ll get right to it,” Crawford said. “As I said, Detective Ott and I are the detectives on the Pawlichuk-Carton murders. Our first question is, do you remember seeing anything at all unusual or suspicious at the wedding?”

  Jaclyn thought for a second. “Mm, not really. Just a lot of big football players in their twenties drinking a lot and getting a little rowdy. And then there were the rest of us, just talking, drinking, dancing, the usual stuff you do at a wedding.”

  Ott leaned forward in his chair. “Ms. Puckett, what specifically did you observe about the woman you worked for, Carla Carton?”

  “Carla was just being Carla. She liked to flirt and be the center of attention. Men were buzzing around her the way they always do, women were giving her dirty looks…the way they always do.”

  “Who specifically?” Ott asked. “What men were buzzing around her? And what women were giving her dirty looks?”

  Jaclyn exhaled slowly. “Xavier Duke talked to her, I noticed. I saw her talking to her sister and Robert Polk at one point. Then one of the football players, whose name I don’t know. Lots of men.”

  “What about Paul Pawlichuk?” Crawford asked.

  Jaclyn shook her head. “That’s the funny thing, I didn’t see them together at all.”

  “And the women…who were giving her dirty looks?” Ott asked.

  “I was kind of kidding about that,” Jaclyn said. “But a lot of women don’t like Carla. Or I should rephrase that: they perceive her as a threat. And, you know what, they’re not wrong. But I do remember Rich’s sister Janice shooting daggers when Carla was talking to her husband. Not that Carla would ever have any interest in that slug George.”

  “George Figueroa, you mean?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Excitement.” Jaclyn covered her mouth. “Sorry, that was cruel.”

  “We won’t tell,” Crawford said. “What do you know about the history between Carla and Paul Pawlichuk?”

  “Well, Carla didn’t confide in me that much. I mean, about boyfriends and lovers,” Jaclyn said. “But then again she didn’t have to”—she chuckled—“All I needed were eyes and ears. But one thing I do remember her telling me, when we were flying down to the wedding, was that she and Paul had a thing way back when she was in college. She was a cheerleader, he was the football coach.”

  “But nothing since then?” Ott asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Jaclyn said. “But my general observation would be that they didn’t exactly travel in the same circles.”

  Crawford and Ott nodded.

  “What about Xavier Duke?” Ott asked.

  Jaclyn laughed. “Travel in the same circles, you mean?”

  Ott smiled. “What I mean is, know each other.”

  Jaclyn glanced away. “Vaguely.”

  “I just thought…because they were kind of in the same business…”

  Puckett laughed. “Hardly. Carla was in a hit series on Netflix and Duke made porn and supposedly was backed by the mafia.”

  “Tell us more about that?” Ott asked.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly read it in Variety, but you hear things.”

  “And what did you hear?” Crawford asked.

  “That some mafia guys were the money behind Duke’s porn movies.”

  “So, who was Duke friends with? Why was he at the wedding?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but my gue
ss would be that he was a friend of Paul.”

  Crawford tapped his desk a few times, then leaned toward Jaclyn. “What about Robert Polk?” he asked. “There were rumors about…something between him and Carla.”

  Crawford knew that ‘rumors’ was pushing it. Just something Arnie Stoller had dropped.

  Jaclyn’s eyes fluttered and she quickly looked away. “I don’t know what you’re referring to. ‘Something between them?’”

  “You know, something in the past,” Ott said. “Something they didn’t want other people knowing about. Since they were both married.”

  Jaclyn scratched her arm nervously and glanced down at her shoes. “Sorry, can’t help you with that.”

  By Crawford’s count, Jaclyn Puckett had just exhibited three of the ten early-warning signs of someone who was lying. He glanced at Ott and saw he had picked up on it too.

  “Ms. Puckett,” Crawford said, going for his stern, school-principal voice. “We need to know exactly what you know about this.”

  “Yes, and the last thing we want to do,” said Ott, “is ask you to take a polygraph test.”

  It was one of those Ottisms that had absolutely no teeth to it and would never happen. But Jaclyn Puckett looked unsettled, as if that was something she really wanted no part of.

  She sighed deeply and spoke softly. “Well, I guess I don’t officially work for her anymore. So, I don’t need to be so confidential.”

  “The best way to look at it is,” Crawford said, “whatever you tell us may help find her killer.”

  Jaclyn sighed again. “Well, this is a long story,” she said. “You got a couple of hours?”

  Crawford looked at his watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes.”

  “Well, that should be enough,” she said. “If I talk fast.”

  * * *

  Ott was going to interview three members of the wedding party while Crawford was heading to meet with Robert Polk. Polk’s office was in a modern glass building in Philips Point, just across the bridge in West Palm Beach.

  It was only a five-minute ride from the station; Crawford parked in the building parking garage and took an elevator up to the penthouse. The reception area was unassuming. A lot of dark wood and functional furniture. Nothing in the least bit flashy, considering he was in the top twenty-five of the richest men in America. There was a small chrome sign that said, Polk Global LLC, then below it, even smaller, Established 1985.

  A tall, well-dressed black woman who introduced herself as Jeanette came out into the reception area a few minutes after he got there. “Follow me, please, sir.”

  Crawford followed her back to Robert Polk’s office, a space cluttered with papers, keepsakes, diplomas, and pictures on all four walls, the diametric opposite of Arnie Stoller’s spartan office in Miami. It was like Polk had never thrown anything away. A billionaire hoarder. Crawford noticed three pictures of men dressed in football uniforms and recognized them as his old Ivy League rivals, the Yale Bulldogs.

  Crawford introduced himself but Polk made no effort to shake his hand. Instead he made a show of holding out his arm, pulling up the sleeve of his white shirt and tapping his wristwatch. “Ten minutes,” he said.

  Not just a dick, but a colossal, prodigious monumental dick.

  Polk wore a dark wool suit that looked way too hot for a day that was up to eighty degrees already. He was a short man, maybe five-six, and looked fit. He had black wavy hair that, Crawford guessed, had been professionally dyed and eyes that didn’t seem to miss a trick.

  “Okay, what is it you want to know?” Polk asked.

  Crawford noticed several pictures of Polk behind him with a rifle in his hands and dead animals at his feet. A tiger. A lion. An elephant. If you’d never met Polk, you might get the idea he was a dangerous man.

  Time was a-wasting, Crawford thought, might as well cut to the chase. “Okay, first question is, do you have any idea who killed Paul Pawlichuk and Carla Carton?”

  Polk’s expression did not change. “No. Next question.”

  “You and Ms. Carton,” Crawford asked. “What was the relationship between you two?”

  “Casual acquaintances,” Polk said. “I met her once, then saw her again at her sister’s wedding.”

  “That’s surprising, Mr. Polk,” Crawford said. “Because casual acquaintances who met once usually don’t end up getting invited to family weddings.” He let the silence stretch out between them. “You were family, were you not?”

  A frown cut deep into Polk’s face. “Family? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Meaning,” Crawford said, “you and Carla Carton had a son together.”

  That was Jaclyn Puckett’s bombshell and there was no denial from Polk.

  The air seemed to start leaking out of Polk as he stared blankly at Crawford.

  “The fact is, your relationship with Carla Carton is of absolutely no concern to me,” Crawford said. “Except how it relates to her murder. These kind of…personal dynamics, as I’m sure you can appreciate, help fill out the picture.”

  Polk didn’t respond.

  “Okay, Mr. Polk, here’s a question we’ve asked everyone: At the wedding, what did you see or hear that, in retrospect, might have given you a sense who might have killed Carla Carton and Paul Pawlichuk?”

  Polk frowned. “You just asked me that.”

  “A little bit differently.”

  “I am not a detective and I have absolutely no idea.”

  Crawford nodded. “And did you at any point cross South Ocean Boulevard to the pool on the ocean?”

  Polk shook his head. “No. Never been there in my life. Never been to Mar-a-Lago before, either.”

  “Even though you live in Palm Beach?”

  “My politics are a little different from those of Mar-a-Lago’s owner.”

  “I see,” Crawford said. “Did you happen to see Carla Carton and Paul Pawlichuk walking in the direction of the beach?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see them together at all?”

  “No. I barely knew what Paul Pawlichuk looked like.”

  Crawford leaned forward in his chair. “Six-five. Roughly 270 pounds. Big man. Couldn’t miss him.”

  “There were a lot of big men at the wedding.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  An irritating buzzing sound interrupted. Polk’s wrist watch.

  Polk stood. “Time’s up. I told you ten minutes and I meant it. I don’t know a damn thing about the death of Paul Pawlichuk or Carla Carton. I went home at nine o’clock and you can confirm that. Since they were both seen after that time, alive and well, you’ve been wasting my time here. Now if you would please leave my office.”

  “Who can verify that?” Crawford asked. “The time you got home.”

  Polk didn’t hesitate. “My wife.”

  Crawford stood up. “Okay, Mr. Polk. Thank you for your time.”

  Polk looked down, clicked a key on his desktop computer and started typing.

  Crawford walked out of Robert Polk’s office, went down the elevator and got in his car.

  Well, he thought, that went well.

  Eleven

  Crawford and Ott met back at the station, hopped in the Crown Vic, and made the thirty-five-minute drive up to Jupiter.

  Figueroa & Associates, LLC was located in a high-end strip mall on route A1A in Jupiter. Ott parked the Vic in front of the office and he and Crawford got out of the car and walked in. The reception area had light green wall paper, several leather chairs and a casually-dressed woman at the reception desk.

  “One of you Detective Crawford?” the woman asked.

  “I am,” Crawford said and pointed to Ott, “and this is Detective Ott.”

  “Welcome,” the woman said, “I’ll show you in to Mr. Figueroa’s office. Ms. Bartholomew is in there too.”

  “Ms. Bartholomew?”

  “Oh, yes,” the woman said. “Mr. Figueroa’s wife. That’s her professional name.”

  Crawford nodded
as Ott and he followed the woman back.

  She led them into a large office where a dark-haired man in a jacket and tie sat behind a desk and a woman in a tan suede skirt and blue top sat across from him. Crawford guessed the man was in his late thirties and the woman in her early thirties.

  The man stood up. “Detective Crawford?”

  Crawford shook his outstretched hand. “And my partner, Detective Ott.”

  “And this is my wife, Janice.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Janice said, and they all shook hands.

  “Have a seat,” Figueroa said to Crawford and Ott, and the four were seated.

  Crawford looked at Figueroa, then Janice. “Thank you for seeing us,” he said. “My partner and I would like to express our condolences about your loss.”

  “Thank you,” said Janice.

  Figueroa nodded solemnly.

  “We’re interviewing members of the family and others who were at your brother’s wedding,” Crawford said to Janice. “Our hope being, of course, to find out who killed your father and Carla Carton. So, our first question is, did either of you observe anything or notice anyone whose behavior made you suspicious?”

  “It was either Robert Polk, Xavier Duke, Duane Truax, or Joey Decker,” Janice blurted as if there was no doubt in her mind.

  Ott nodded. “We’re trying to track him down. Joey Decker, that is.”

  Ott had just found out that Decker went to high school in Boca Raton. Problem was there were six Deckers in the Boca Raton phone book.

  “I can’t believe he just showed up out of the blue,” Janice said. “And how he even found out about the wedding.”

  “Good question,” Ott said.

  “Did you see him again, after he got thrown out?” Crawford asked.

  Figueroa shook his head. “No, but who knows where he went from there?”

  “You mean, like maybe he went down to the beach?” Ott asked.

  “Could have.”

  “Did you hear him threaten Paul?” Ott asked.

  “No, but I heard him call him a bunch of names.”

  “Do you have any idea how to get in touch with Decker?” Crawford asked. “Maybe Rich would know?”