by Tom Turner
“That wasn’t even in the equation.”
“Oh, bullshit, Charlie.”
“Well, maybe just a little.”
“We’ll discuss this in greater detail,” Dominica said. “Where do you want to go?”
“I’m thinking Lentini’s or Dos Caminos,” Crawford said, “but I’m open to anything.”
“I could do a margarita or two.”
“So, Dos Caminos,” Crawford said. “Pick you up at seven?”
“See you then.”
* * *
Dominica looked like a million bucks. But then, she always did.
They sat in a back-corner table at the Mexican restaurant in West Palm Beach. They ordered Texas margaritas and Crawford caught her up on the murder of Xavier Duke. It didn’t take long, since he had so little on the case.
“What’s your gut say about whether Duke and Pawlichuk are linked?” Dominica asked.
“My gut hasn’t really weighed in yet,” Crawford said. “Kind of depends on what Hawes comes up with.”
Dominica nodded, took a pull on her margarita and gave him a thumbs-up.
“But,” Crawford said, sipping his margarita after licking a little salt around the edge of the glass, “Hawes being Hawes, he’s gonna take his sweet time.”
“You still think he likes to piss you off just to piss you off?” she asked.
“Yeah, ‘cause I always used to ride him to get his reports done faster,” Crawford said. “One time he gave me this big lecture. Said, ‘Unlike how you probably did shit up in New York, we do things slow and deliberate down here.’”
“Implication being you did things fast and sloppy up there.”
“Exactly. So nowadays I don’t say anything,” Crawford said. “Just get Ott to buddy up to him, give him a little nudge. So, what are you working on?”
“That string of burglaries in the estate section.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s got to be an inside job, right?”
“That’s what we thought at first. Now we’re not so sure.”
“Who’s we? You and Cato?”
Dominica nodded. “Yeah. I like working with her,” she said. “Girl can spend five straight hours at a scene crawling around on her hands and knees.”
“I know, I’ve seen her in action.”
Dominica leaned forward and put her hand on Crawford’s. “So, Charlie, we need to have a talk.”
“We do?” Gulp.
Dominica nodded.
“O-kay,” Crawford said, the word laden with apprehension.
“If I were my father, I might start this conversation by asking, ‘So, Charlie, what are your intentions with my daughter?’”
“Is this going to get heavy? Because, if so, I’m going to order two more of these bad boys right now,” Crawford said, hefting his glass.
“Two more and you’ll need assistance walking out of here.”
“I know, my cut-off is two,” Crawford said. “The one time I had three, I had to call Uber.”
“Are you filibustering to avoid my conversation?”
“Ah, I guess maybe a little,” he said. “But, go ahead, what’s the question?”
“I’ll get around to the question in a second, but, first, here’s a scenario: There’s this handsome cop, who’s kind of funny and, for the most part, fun to be around. Every once in a while, he’ll call up one of two women, though there may be more, and ask them out to dinner. And because he’s handsome, and kind of funny, and, for the most part, fun to be around, they’ll end up in bed with him. Even though the two women are friends and know everything about what the other one does.”
“Wait a second, there’s something bothering me about this scenario of yours.”
“And what would that be?”
“You said—twice—this guy is ‘for the most part, fun to be around.’ What’s that all about, the ‘for the most part’ part?’”
“Well, ‘cause sometimes he drones on about his cases a little too much. I suspect to get help from those two women who, by the way, are both extremely intelligent.”
“And there’s another thing you said,” Crawford said. “You mentioned there were two women, then said ‘though there may be more…’”
“Yes.”
“Well, there aren’t.”
“Oh, well, that’s reassuring,” Dominica said. “So, to go on, one of the two women, who shall go nameless at the moment though I think you know who she is, thinks that the handsome cop just asks her out when he’s, well, horny—”
“Hold it, hold it, hold it,” Crawford said, trying to stifle a laugh. “That woman must be smokin’ something to come to that conclusion.”
The waiter came to their table. “Can I take your orders, folks?”
They ordered their usual and he walked away.
“So you don’t think the ‘horny’ conclusion is an accurate one, Charlie?”
“Put it this way, it’s way down the list.”
“Oh, but, so it is somewhere on the list?”
Crawford’s face got red. “Near the bottom.”
“But maybe you can understand why this woman might think that?”
“No, why?”
“Because this woman and the other woman…oh, what the hell, let’s give them names, Rose and Dominica, didn’t feel that these relationships were really going anywhere.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do you think I mean? That it was always a nice dinner, nice conversation, followed by nice sex. No, that’s not fair, great sex, but the relationship itself was never building to anything.”
“Dominica, that is so not true. At one point last year—and you can’t deny this—we had a full-blown relationship complete with I love yous, spending lots of days in a row together, and me even thinking about proposing to you.”
Dominica’s head jerked back. “Well, that’s the first I heard of that.”
Crawford bowed his head and nodded. “Yeah, well, I guess I got busy and chickened out or something.”
“Then what happened?”
Crawford tapped the table nervously. “Well, it sort of lost a little steam.”
“And the I love yous?”
“Ah, not as many as before.”
“That’s half true,” Dominica said. “I didn’t run out of steam and I was still saying those words.” She picked up her margarita and took a sip. “You have to admit, it’s a pretty strange relationship all around. Rose and me—good friends—both quasi-going out with you and there being no attempt on anybody’s part to keep it quiet or hide anything.”
Crawford smiled. “I guess strange is as good a word as any,” he said. “But, let’s be fair, there’s no lack of exclusivity with either of you two.”
Dominica cocked her head. “What are you referring to?”
“Well, there was that Russian guy you went out with.”
“Which never went anywhere.”
“You mean, ‘cause he got killed.”
Dominica shook her head. “No, ‘cause it was never gonna go anywhere.”
“Well, Rose has gone out with quite a few guys.”
“Who were mainly men who had something to do with her business. Men whose houses she was hoping to list, stuff like that,” Dominica said. “What if Rose and I were to make a pact and cut you off? No more nice dinners, nice conversation and nice sex ‘cause we decide that good ol’ Charlie just reeks of non-commitment.”
Crawford shrugged. “That would, of course, be totally your call,” he said. “But…if you’re going to do that, would you mind starting tomorrow?”
Dominica burst out laughing. “This was supposed to be a serious conversation.”
“Hey, I’m dead serious.”
* * *
When dinner came, they were still talking about sex.
“Back when I was in college, I always thought that guys liked it and girls just put up with it,” Crawford said. “You know, just to make the guy happy.”
“Now who’s smoking so
mething?” Dominica said. “How’d you come up with that?”
“I don’t know, I guess ‘cause it was always the women who said no,” Crawford said. “The guy never said no, he was always up for it.”
“I would have figured that guys at a nice Ivy League school like Dartmouth would have been much better behaved than the dudes at hormone-raged University of Miami,” Dominica said, taking a bite of her quesadilla.
“Well, then, you would have been sadly mistaken. If you ever had the misfortune of showing up for a weekend in Hanover, New Hampshire, good luck trying to find just one ‘well-behaved’ guy. Oh my God, we were the worst. That old movie, Animal House? That was based on a Dartmouth frat house. And it was pretty damned accurate.”
“See, for some reason, I equate smart Ivy League guys as having better discipline. You know, they work harder, don’t drink as much—”
“That would be your second misconception,” Crawford said. “Because if you showed up for a weekend—say on a Friday—there’d be about a fifty-fifty chance your date would have already passed out.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Boy, was I mistaken.”
Crawford got a faraway look in his eye. “Did I ever tell you about my first college girlfriend?”
“No. Let’s hear.”
“Miriam Wexley, the love goddess of Bennington College.”
“A hot number?”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Crawford said. “Just willing. And willing. And more willing. Every hour on the hour.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have let her get away, Charlie.”
“If I hadn’t, I’d be dead of a heart attack,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, “If I was going to die of a heart attack, I’d rather it be in your arms.”
Twenty-Four
They were waiting in front of Dos Caminos for the valet to bring Crawford’s car up to them.
Crawford’s brain was working so hard he was surprised his head hadn’t started to smoke. He had no idea how to play it with Dominica after the sex conversations they had just had. He could be totally phony and say, ‘Maybe it’s best if I just drop you off at your place tonight based on what we talked about.’ But if he did that, she might actually take him up on it. Which was the last thing he wanted. Or he could say, ‘I just want you to know I listened very carefully to you tonight and would like it if we got things back to where they were before. When we were seeing each other for days in a row, and said ‘I love- I love—’ But he was worried that the three-word phrase might not roll off his tongue as it had not so long ago.
He decided instead to go with a line that he’d had success with in the past. “I got fresh sheets.”
Dominica turned to him and shook her head. “You’re just incorrigible, aren’t you?”
He smiled. “I can’t think of anything better than having that hot, tempestuous, Irish-Italian-Spanish body next to me between those nice clean sheets that I ironed myself.”
“Get outta here. You ironed them yourself?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Slowly and carefully, so there were no creases. I’ve got a lot of domestic talents you probably weren’t aware of.”
“I am so impressed,” Dominica said, as the valet drove up.
Crawford went around and opened her door.
“And always the gentleman,” she said as she slipped into the passenger seat.
“Yup,” he said, going around, giving the valet a fiver, then getting into the driver’s seat.
“You know, Charlie,” Dominica said, “there were a few times when we went out for dinner when I didn’t sleep with you.”
“I remember,” he said, nodding. “Back in 1986, I think it was. Right before the Cuban Missile crisis.”
Dominica laughed. “Your history sucks.”
Crawford shrugged. “Must have been Miriam Wexley then.”
“You mean the girl who never said no?” Dominica said. “Just more, more, more?”
“Yeah, the eager little beaver.”
“Watch it.” Dominica shook her head and sighed like she was dealing with a misbehaving twelve-year-old.
“Oh, in case you were wondering, this overnight package comes with eggs, toast and Nueske’s triple-thick-cut bacon.”
“I was expecting nothing less,” Dominica said. “That one time you tried to take me to Dunkin’ Donuts”—she shook her head and grimaced—“Tryin’ to cheap out on me.”
The kissing began just inside the door and they were naked from the waist up before they even got into the living room.
* * *
Ott was sniffing for a soap scent as he walked into Crawford’s office at eight the next morning.
“Smells like your Irish Spring,” he said, “but with a strong hint of—”
“Okay, knock it off.”
Ott laughed, wondering who it was this time.
Crawford leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “So, we got our favorite banker in an hour. You got anything new?”
“Aside from the CSEUs coming up empty?”
“I know. I stopped by there first thing,” Crawford said. Still no DVDs had been found anywhere.
“We get the ballistics report from Hawes in three days if I push, but not too hard.”
“It’s a fine line, right?” Crawford said.
“Yeah, which you suck at.”
“No argument there.”
Ott sat down in his favorite chair opposite Crawford and put his feet up on his desk. “Speaking of ballistics, did Hawes ever give you his full-metal-jacket discourse?”
Crawford shook his head.
“I guess he just gives it to his buddies,” Ott said. “So anyway, you know what full metal jacket is, right?”
“Yeah,” Crawford said. “You know, I have been in this business for a while.”
“Yeah, I know, so tell me.”
“Where a lead bullet is covered in another metal, usually copper. Doesn’t break up or change shape when it hits a body.”
“Correct. You get an A,” Ott said. “And a semi-jacketed bullet?”
“Where the tip is left uncovered,” Crawford said. “It hits the target and flattens out and gets wider. A lot tougher on a body. And a hollow-point’s even worse. It peels back into a mushroom shape with nasty jagged edges.”
“Very good, Charlie,” Ott said. “Guess you don’t need to sit in on Professor Hawes’s lecture. Okay, now for extra credit, here’s the final question: ‘Does a low-velocity round—defined as traveling less than 1,000 feet per second— cause more or less damage than a high-velocity round and why?”
“Sounds like a trick question,” Crawford said. “I’m going to go with a low-velocity bullet causes more damage and I don’t have any clue why.”
Ott pressed an imaginary buzzer on Crawford’s desk. “EEHHHH! Sorry, no extra credit,” he said. “And here’s the explanation. When a low-velocity bullet passes through tissue, it tends to crush everything in its path. This is referred to as “crushing” or creating a “permanent cavity.” In high-velocity gunshot wounds, shock waves may precede the bullet deep in the tissue, causing injuries to organs and tissues a greater distance from the permanent cavity.” Ott rapped Crawford’s desk authoritatively. “Aren’t you glad you asked?”
“Ah, can’t say I remember asking, Mort,” Crawford said. “And just how is that relevant to our case?”
“It’s totally irrelevant,” Ott said, looking at his watch. “Just a damned good way to kill a few minutes before our banker friend opens his doors.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they rolled up in front of the PNC Bank on Royal Poinciana Way. They were the bank’s first customers and Crawford saw Randy Connors through a glass window in what looked like a conference room.
They walked in, said Connors was expecting them, and a short woman in a blue sundress led them into the conference room. Connors had several rows of documents laid out on a big wooden conference table.
/> “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said shaking Crawford and Ott’s hands. “Got everything you need right here.”
“Thanks,” Crawford said as Ott nodded to Connors. “As we mentioned, we’re most interested in deposits made to Mr. Duke’s accounts in the last year.”
“I know you are,” Connors said, “And what you’ll see is there aren’t that many deposits, but they’re big.”
Crawford nodded. “We assumed they would be since he had over three million in the money market.”
Connors walked over to the front and back copies of four checks laid out side by side on the center of the conference table and pointed. “Here they are.”
The first one was made out in the amount of one million dollars. It was check number 2123 from Carlton Kramer and his address was on the check: 208 Pendleton Avenue, Palm Beach.
Ott took his notebook out and wrote down the name and address.
“Do you know who Carlton Kramer is, Mr. Connors?”
“No idea,” Connors said. “I’d probably only know him if he banked here. But as you can see, he’s at U.S. Trust.”
When he saw the second check for a million dollars, Crawford did a double-take. It was from someone he actually knew. The year before he had asked his friend, David Balfour, to set up a golf game at the Poinciana Club. His ulterior motive had been to learn more about certain members who were on his suspect list for the murder of the talk show host, Knight Mulcahy.
The man who had signed the second check was named Tommy Sullivan and he lived in a modern British Colonial on Emerald Lane that Crawford had once visited.
Crawford leaned close to Ott and pointed at Sullivan’s check. “I met with that guy about Knight Mulcahy last year.”
Ott nodded. “I knew the name sounded familiar.”
“Nice enough guy,” Crawford said. “I’ll give him a call and go see him.”
Ott nodded and they both moved to the next check. It was made out to Xavier Duke and was for two cents.
The name on the check said:
EG, LLC
P.O. Box 335
West Palm Beach, FL. 33409
Crawford laughed. “What the hell’s that?”