by Tom Turner
That was, of course, bullshit, but it sounded good.
Kramer took his time before he answered. “No. Unequivocally not. Is that good enough for you?”
“Yes, it is. If it’s true.”
“It is.”
Crawford nodded. “And when you gave Duke the check, where did that take place?”
“I met him at his club,” Kramer said. Then as if he had just caught a whiff of something foul: “That hideous Royal & Alien Club.”
It was a club that, some would tell you, took in Palm Beach’s outcasts and losers. Rich outcasts and losers, that is. Others, especially its members and guests, would tell you that they had more fun there than the members of any other club in Palm Beach.
“And so that was the end of it?”
“Jesus, do you want me to sign it in blood or something?” Kramer asked. “That was the last that I saw or heard from him”—his face brightened—“until the news of his untimely demise.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Kramer,” Crawford said getting to his feet. “That will do it then.”
“And you won’t forget—”
Crawford put up a hand. “Maybe you should get a new wallet.”
* * *
Ten blocks away, up on Dunbar, Ott was having a similar conversation with Tuck Drummond.
Drummond assured Ott that he had not heard anything more from Xavier Duke. He even went a step further and said that, if Duke had contacted him again, he was prepared to go to the cops and report him for extortion. He’d almost done it the first time, he claimed. At the end, he made a comment similar to Carlton Kramer’s: “What a shame about what happened to poor Xavier.”
* * *
Crawford went straight from Carlton Kramer’s house to meet with Judge Shanahan in West Palm Beach. His phone rang on the way.
“Hello, Dominica.”
“I’m lonely, Charlie.”
“Nothing I like more than a direct woman,” Crawford said. “Let’s figure out how we can remedy your situation.”
“What we did last time worked pretty well.”
“You mean, dinner and—”
“Yeah, that.”
“Here’s my problem—”
“Oh, God, here goes.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got—well, you know—two murders that are 24/7,” he said. “Make you a deal: the minute I solve one of ‘em, we’ll have dinner that night. Any place you want to go.”
“That could be weeks.”
“I don’t think so. I think we’re getting close on at least one,” he said. “I’m on my way, right now, to get something that might help crack it.”
“All right, then,” Dominica said. “Just don’t force me to say yes to this man who keeps calling me.”
“Who’s that?”
“I can’t say. Just that he’s devastatingly handsome, smart, funny and, most of all, available.”
“Yeah, right, you’re making this up.”
“Don’t make me have to prove it.”
“I’ll see you in a few days.”
“I hope so, Charlie.”
Crawford pulled up to the judge’s office at 401 Clematis Street in West Palm Beach. He parked and went inside.
The judge was in golf clothes and a hurry.
He signed and handed Crawford the two pieces of paper he needed and rushed out the door, headed for a first tee somewhere.
Crawford got back in his car, drove back to the station on County Road, picked up Ott and headed up to Jupiter.
Ott had in his breast pocket a voice recorder the size of a paper clip that had ten hours of battery life and was capable of ninety hours of audio storage. Ott had jury-rigged a piece of scotch tape to it so he could stick it wherever he wanted. It came with head phones that were sitting on the center console between the detectives.
On the way there, they went over their meetings with Carlton Kramer and Tuck Drummond and agreed that both men were likely in the clear.
A half an hour later, they pulled into the same small shopping strip in Jupiter that they had visited before. They looked around the parking lot but didn’t see the Bentley with a JPF vanity plate.
They walked into the office of Figueroa & Associates and found no one at the receptionist’s desk.
“Hello,” Crawford shouted.
“Anybody here?” Ott asked.
“Yeah, who is it?” George Figueroa said, coming out of his office. “Oh, hello, detectives.” He was clearly not thrilled to see them.
“Can we come into your office, Mr. Figueroa?”
“Sure. I don’t know what you want from me but—”
“Just the truth,” Ott said.
Crawford chuckled to himself. Sometimes Ott could sound like he was channeling the Detective Joe Friday from the ancient TV series Dragnet.
They followed Figueroa into his office. Crawford noticed that Figueroa’s computer was on and a video-poker hand displayed on the screen.
Figueroa saw him looking at it and quickly went and switched off the monitor.
All three sat as Crawford pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.
“Mr. Figueroa, the is a court order from a U.S. judge for you to provide us with the records and files of Paul and Mindy Pawlichuk’s account, which you manage.”
Figueroa’s face blanched. It was the exact same expression Crawford and Ott had seen in the unflattering photo in the online article about George’s British gambling troubles.
“Let me see that,” Figueroa said.
Crawford handed it to him.
He took a long time reading the simple document. Finally, he said, “I’m going to call my lawyer.”
Crawford and Ott both nodded.
“Nothing he can do about it, but go ahead,” Ott said.
Figueroa dialed his cell phone, his hand shaking slightly.
“Yeah, is Ed there? This is George Figueroa”—his eyes flitted from one side of the room to the other— “Okay, tell him to call me right away.” He gave his number, then clicked off.
“I’m not going to just give you that file,” he said. “It’s private information.”
“Yes, I know,” Crawford said. “But private information that Judge Shanahan has ordered you to turn over to us.” He had carefully explained to the judge how critical that information—particularly the balance in the Pawlichuk account—was.
“I keep all my confidential files in that safe,” Figueroa said, pointing to an old-fashioned army-green safe in a corner to his right.
Crawford glanced at Ott, then back to Figueroa. “Okay, so if you would open it, please, and let us see the Pawlichuk file.”
Figueroa looked like a trapped rat. “I don’t understand why you need to see it. It just basically shows what the investments are and what the account balance is.”
“Yeah, that’s all we need to see,” Crawford said. “The most recent statement.”
Figueroa sighed, then stood up and took a few steps toward the safe.
As he did, Ott slipped the bug out of his pocket and stuck it under Figueroa’s desk. That was the other thing Judge Shanahan had approved.
Figueroa got down in a crouch and turned the dial on the safe to the left several times, stopped, then to the right, and finally to the left again. His shakes clearly evident now, he steadied himself by putting his left hand on the wrist of his right hand. Finally, he pulled the lever down and the safe opened.
Both Crawford and Ott strained to see inside it.
Figueroa reached in quickly, pulled out a green Pendaflex file, closed the door, and turned the dial.
“Wait, was that a pistol I saw in there?” Crawford asked.
“Yeah, looked like a Glock,” Ott said.
Figueroa ignored their question and opened the file. “This is what you want to see.”
“Yeah, and that gun too,” Crawford said
“Sorry, you’ve got a court order to see my records, not the gun.”
“You have a problem with us seeing it?” Ott
asked.
“It’s all perfectly legal,” Figueroa said. “Want to see the permit?”
Crawford knew he wasn’t going to let them see the gun. He put out his hand. “The file, please.”
Figueroa handed it to him.
Crawford took it and opened it up as Ott leaned closer.
Crawford turned the pages of the computer printout until he found what he was looking for at the bottom of page five. The balance: $51,225,341.20.
“Like I told you when you were here last time. Fifty million, give or take,” Figueroa said with a smile.
Crawford eyed him “And where do you keep the assets?”
“A bank.”
“Yeah, we figured,” Crawford asked. “But which one?”
“Sun Trust.”
“Which branch?”
“On Military Trail.”
“Would you give them a call? I want to speak to the manager there and confirm that money’s there.”
Figueroa rolled his eyes. “Damn right I’d mind. I showed you what you asked for. That’s all I’m doing. Did it occur you that I have a business to run here?”
It occurred to Crawford that today’s business seemed to be online poker. He stood. “It should take us a few hours to get back here with another court order. At that time we expect to confirm that there is”—he looked down—“$51,225,341.20 in the Pawlichuk account at Sun Trust on Military Trail.”
“Fine,” Figueroa said. “Until then, how about leaving me alone to conduct my business.”
Crawford and Ott walked toward the office door.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Figueroa,” Crawford said.
Figueroa swiped the Pendaflex file up from his desk. “You’re not welcome.”
Thirty-Four
“My guess is our visit is going to shake things up in the Figueroa household,” Crawford said, sliding into the Crown Vic in Figueroa’s parking lot.
Ott hit the ignition. “I’ve never seen a more guilty look on anyone’s face in my life.”
“Yeah, I know,” Crawford said, putting on the headset that connected to the bug Ott had left under Figueroa’s desk.
“The question is, guilty of what?”
“Well, we know—or at least are ninety-nine percent sure—that there’s less in the Pawlichuk account now than when George first got his hands on it.”
Ott squinted his eyes as he pulled out of the parking lot. “So you’re not buying that printout?”
“No, ‘cause that’s all it was. A printout,” Crawford said. “You gotta figure George’s smart enough to at least make an attempt to cover his ass with bogus paperwork.”
“I wonder how much is left.”
“Well,” Crawford said, “we know he had to pay back that casino in London. That was 950,000 pounds, which is over a million dollars. Supposedly he lost another two million. He’s got a rep for gambling and his wife for spending. They’ve got a $330,000 car. No way there’s still fifty-one million in that account. Last thing George wants is to have us talk to the Sun Trust manager.”
“You think the judge is going to get sick of seeing us every five minutes?” Ott asked as he took a right on Center Street.
“The problem is, he’s playing golf,” Crawford said. “So we’ve got to find out which course, scare up a golf cart, do the paperwork and track him down.”
“I hope he’s having a good round, We don’t want to show up right after he knocked one in the water and scored a snowman,” Ott said, referring to an eight.
Crawford held up his hand as he heard Figueroa speaking on the headset.
“Hey, honey,” Figueroa said. “The day we talked about is here. Those Palm Beach detectives just came by the office. They wanted to see the statements on your parents’ account, so I showed ‘em. But now they want to talk to Sun Trust, confirm the money’s there.”
“So we’re fucked,” Crawford strained to hear Janice Figueroa say. “Come home right now.”
She clicked off.
“Turn around and go back,” Crawford said, “they’re taking off.”
“No shit,” Ott said, flicking his blinker.
He executed a skidding U-turn and stomped on the accelerator.
At a red light, he looked both ways, waited for a few cars and floored it.
He had the Vic up to seventy in ten seconds. “Question is, where are they going?”
“My guess is out of the country.”
Crawford was scrolling on his iPhone.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking up their home address,” Crawford said. “Sounded like George left the office.”
“We’ll soon find out,” Ott said, burning rubber as he took a corner hard.
A minute later Ott skidded up to the front of Figueroa’s office. Crawford threw open his door, got out and started running before Ott had even come to a stop.
The door to Figueroa’s office was open. Crawford ran inside. No one there.
He ran back out as Ott was coming in. “He didn’t even bother to lock up,” Crawford said. “Including the safe. Took the Glock, though.”
They ran back to the car and got in. “We’ll get ‘em,” Crawford said.
“Headed to the airport, I bet,” Ott said.
“Miami’s my guess. More flights out of the country,” Crawford started dialing his phone.
“Who you calling?” Ott asked.
“I can’t find their address. Trying Mindy Pawlichuk.” A few seconds went by. “Shit. Voicemail.”
Crawford looked up another number and dialed it. “Yeah, hey, Rich, Detective Crawford. Call me right away. I need your sister’s address.”
Crawford glanced over at Ott, who was looking extremely twitchy.
A long minute went by.
Crawford’s phone rang. It was Rich Pawlichuk.
“Hey, Detective. My sister lives at 342 Eagle’s Nest at Windward Farms”—Ott was plugging the address into his GPS— “off of Indiantown, a mile or two east of 95. Why do you—”
The squealing rubber of Ott accelerating drowned out Rich Pawlichuk.
“You know where it is?” Crawford asked, glancing at the speedometer.
Ott already had them up to sixty-five.
“Got a rough idea,” Ott said. “Fasten your seat belt, Charlie. It’s about ten minutes…fifteen if you were at the wheel.”
Crawford would readily admit that there were quite a few things Ott did better than him.
One thing Ott had done was pay big money for what was billed as the “Richard Petty Experience,” named after the legendary NASCAR driver. It took place at Daytona Motor Speedway, three hours north of Palm Beach. It cost more than a thousand dollars and Petty (aka “the King”) was supposed to give you tips as you drove three eight-minute sessions in a real NASCAR car. But Petty was out with the flu that day so his substitute, a guy whose brother and uncle were cops, gave Ott extra time and let him get the car up to 130 MPH. Afterward, the two went and had a few beers together and the man asked Ott if he wanted to come back for another session the next day. By the time Ott headed back down to Palm Beach at the end of the next day, he felt he was ready for the Daytona 500 itself.
Windward Farms, a high-end development on Indiantown Road, had an elaborate gate house manned by a uniformed guard. Ott pulled up, jammed on his brakes, and thrust out his ID to the man at the window. “Going to the Figueroa house at 34 Eagles Nest.”
“Yes, sir.” The man raised the gate.
As he did, Ott looked to his left and saw George Figueroa at the wheel of his Bentley. He was about to pull out with Janice in the passenger seat. Figueroa glanced over, spotted them and floored it.
“Hey,” Ott said, flicking his head, “it’s them.”
Crawford swiveled in his seat and saw the car pull away and go out the gate.
Ott jammed the Crown Vic into reverse, hit the brakes and floored it, but the Bentley was already a hundred yards ahead of them and picking up speed by the time they were on the road.
“Probably gonna get on 95,” Crawford said, referring to the interstate that ran north and south from Maine to Florida.
“We’re never gonna catch him if he does,” Ott said.
“Why not?”
“That thing’s got a top end of 190 miles an hour,” Ott said. ”Five hundred thirty horsepower. Twin-turbo V-8. Zero to sixty in five point one. That’s why.”
“Okay, I’ll try to contact staties north and south,” Crawford said, referring to state troopers who were north and south of the Indiantown Road exit to I-95.
The Bentley slowed to a stop at a light up ahead. Ott had his foot to the floor.
Figueroa, apparently seeing them catching up, thought better about stopping and blew through the light.
Ott slowed enough to be safe, saw no one coming, and sailed through. They could see the hump up ahead where Indiantown Road went over the six lanes of I-95.
They watched to see whether Figueroa was going to go north or south on 95.
Instead he went straight.
“Gotta be going a hundred,” Ott said, both hands gripped tight on the wheel.
“Stay with him, man.”
“No fuckin’ way. Our best shot is get someone to throw down stop sticks up ahead.”
Crawford got on the phone with a dispatcher to try to locate a nearby uniform who had one of the long ropes of spikes that blew out car tires.
The Bentley was now three hundred yards ahead and gaining speed. “He’s losing me,” Ott said.
A school bus came into sight in front of the Bentley.
“Got traffic ahead of him,” Crawford said. “Both ways.”
The Bentley slowed down behind the school bus as a line of cars passed coming in the opposite direction.
Ott got to within a football field of the Bentley, when, in a puff of smoke, the Bentley accelerated and roared past the school bus, just missing a UPS truck coming in the opposite direction.
“Close, man,” Ott said. Seeing that nothing was coming, he floored the Vic and went flying past the bus.
Up ahead, the Bentley had another obstacle. An eighteen-wheel truck and trailer.
Figueroa nudged the Bentley over to the other lane to see if anything was coming.
Three cars were. Despite that, he gunned it and flew past the semi. The first car coming toward the Bentley pulled over to the side of the road to avoid a head-on collision. But the second one apparently hadn’t seen the Bentley, and they came within 20 feet of having a head-on collision.