Palm Beach Pretenders

by Tom Turner

  Figueroa yanked hard right on the Bentley wheel and the car hurtled off the road, through a barbed-wire fence, and into an open field where cows were grazing. Still going more than sixty, the Bentley clipped one of the cows then plowed into a shallow pond.

  “Ho-ly shit,” Ott said.

  He and Crawford had watched it all play out from twenty yards behind the semi truck.

  Seeing what had happened, the driver of the truck pulled over to the shoulder of the road and scrambled out.

  Ott slowed down and pulled over behind the big truck.

  Ott and Crawford jumped out of the Vic and ran toward the Bentley, which was smoking in water up to its bumper, stuck in a pond covered with a layer of green scum.

  The truck driver, Ott and Crawford were neck-and-neck as they ran past the toppled cow. One look was all Crawford needed: it was a dead heifer.

  “Never knew what hit him,” the truck driver said, breathing hard as he glanced over at Crawford.

  Thinking about the Glock that George Figueroa had taken with him, Crawford drew his Sig Sauer P226 pistol. Ott already had his in hand.

  Off in the distance, Crawford saw Janice Figueroa push the car door open, step into the two-foot deep pond, and slosh to dry land. Then she started to run as best as she could in a skirt and flats. But she seemed barely capable of outrunning the dead cow.

  “Okay, Mrs. Figueroa,” Crawford shouted to her, fifty yards ahead of him, “stop and put your hands up.”

  She slowed then stopped as Crawford ran past the Bentley, noticing Geoerge Figueroa pinned behind the airbag. No way he could reach his Glock, given the position he was in.

  Ott and the truck driver stopped at the Bentley, waded into the pond, and approached Figueroa, while Crawford kept running toward Janice.

  As he neared her, Crawford stopped and read her her rights. Then he said, “I’m placing you under arrest for suspicion of murder in the death of Paul Pawlichuk and Carla Carton.”

  “George did it! He killed them. Carla, just ‘cause she was there,” Janice couldn’t rat out her husband fast enough. “I was nowhere near that pool. He stole the money from my parents’ account too.”

  It came as no big surprise: Janice was not only a whiner and a complainer but also couldn’t put her husband’s head in a noose fast enough.

  “Okay, let’s go back to the car.”

  As they approached the Bentley, Crawford watched as Ott helped Geoerge Figueroa slide out from behind the airbag.

  Ott read Figueroa, covered in white powder from the airbag, his rights and charged him with murder and grand larceny. Then, looking back at the dead cow, he added, “And, also, violating the Florida Cruelty to Animals Statue. Killing a…what kind is it, Charlie?”

  “A black angus, I think,” Crawford said looking back at the lifeless mound.

  “No, man, definitely not,” said the truck driver, “that’s a Florida Cracker cow.”

  Crawford shrugged. “I could be wrong.”

  Ott cuffed Janice and George Figueroa, while Crawford eyed George. “Why’d you do it?” Crawford asked as George shot Janice a nasty glance. “She told me,” Crawford explained.

  Figueroa shook his head. “Guy was a controlling, obnoxious son-of-a-bitch. Cheap bastard too…but Mindy put me up to it. Said she’d forgive what we took. And give us another five million.”

  Janice didn’t deny it.

  Crawford glanced at Ott, whose mouth was agape. ‘No shit,’ he mouthed to Crawford. Their least likely suspect.

  “And did you use that pistol in the safe?” Crawford asked.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Janice said.

  “I have nothing more to say,” Figueroa said.

  Crawford and Ott led them over to the Crown Vic and put them in the back seat.

  “Mild-mannered Mindy,” Ott said to Crawford. “Who’d-a-thunk?”

  The truck driver was down in a crouch in the front of the Bentley, staring admiringly at its grill.

  Crawford walked up to him. “Want to have a look?” He asked. Then to Ott, “Pop the bonnet, will you?”

  Ott chuckled at Crawford’s use of the British name for hood. He opened the front door and hit a button. Crawford lifted the hood and the three men examined the engine.

  “Holy shit,” said the truck driver.

  Crawford crossed his arms on his chest. “Yeah, twin turbo-charged V8 engine. Five hundred horses. Top end a hundred-ninety.”

  “How fast off the line?”

  “If you stand on it, zero to sixty in five seconds,” Crawford said, giving Ott a wink.

  “Wow,” the truck driver said. “You don’t know shit about cows but plenty about cars.”

  Thirty-Five

  Crawford was a man of his word. It had been a long and productive day but now it was time to kick back for the night. He’d called Dominica and apologized for it being last-minute but said he was on his way to his butcher shop to get two 3-inch steaks and he wouldn’t accept no for an answer. She said yes and told him the last time he cooked for her it had been Spaghettie alla Crawfordo and was delicious, but this sounded even better.

  Trust me, he said.

  They were on his balcony, Dominica in black pants and a soft-looking, silk blouse. There was the suggestion of cleavage, but nothing brazen. Her thick, dark hair was suitably lustrous, her emerald eyes were beautiful, and her big red lips looked eminently kissable. So he put down his wine glass and did just that. For as long as it took the sound of a nearby fire engine siren to fade off into the distance.

  He finally pulled back and looked out at the view of the Publix parking lot. Rows and rows of cars, people pushing shopping carts, a man with his arm around a woman walking into the main entrance.

  “You have to use your imagination,” he said, visualizing Rose Clarke’s ocean view. “Far off in the distance, there is a cruise ship chugging across the horizon. Off to the right, three surfers are catching six-foot waves, and on the beach a little old lady is adding to her vast collection of shark’s teeth.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been to Rose’s house recently, huh, Charlie?”

  Caught, red-handed.

  He tried to look innocent. “Nah, that’s just a generic beach scene.”

  Dominica flashed her I’m not buyin’ it smile. “Oh, is it now?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a vivid imagination,” he said. “I’d really love to have that view, but I like my apartment, particularly my kitchen, so I overlook the view I…overlook.”

  Dominica patted his arm. “It could be worse. I like your master bath too,” she leaned toward him. “Come on. More kissing.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Of course, they ended up in bed and didn’t get around to dinner until ten o’clock.

  Crawford grilled the steaks out on the balcony with his Weber Spirit Grill and they were almost perfect—maybe just a tad too red in the center. He also grilled corn on the cob with tin foil and baked potatoes.

  “I’m stuffed,” Dominica said, putting down her plate and snuggling up to Crawford. “It’s easier to picture the ocean and that cruise ship off in the distance when it’s dark like this.”

  “Yeah, the surfers are all in bed now and the lady looking for shark’s teeth found her quota.”

  They kissed again, then Dominica pulled back. “Hey, I keep meaning to ask you, how’s your brother doing?”

  “He’s actually doing great,” Crawford said. “He’s completely off the sauce. Does his meetings religiously. He’s got a girlfriend who’s the daughter of one of the guys who was with him at the rehab place.”

  “What about Avril Ensor?” She was referring to the movie star who had been with Charlie’s brother Cam at the same ritzy rehab facility in Connecticut.

  “Yeah, he sees her a lot. They got to be good friends. She lives in New York now that she’s got that hit show on Broadway. Cam told me she’s got a big starring role in a movie coming up too. With Ryan Tatum or Channing Gosling, I forget which.”

&nbs
p; “I think you mean Ryan Gosling or Channing Tatum.”

  “Yeah, can’t keep ‘em straight,” Crawford said. “Just a couple of pretty faces.”

  “What’s the name of the rehab place again?”

  “Clairmount. In a little town in Connecticut.”

  “And why was she there?”

  “She had really bad bouts of depression apparently. Then throw in booze and drugs…”

  “Well, I’m glad they’re both doing well,” Dominica said, “’cause you always hear about relapses and how hard it is to beat it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Crawford said. “I told you about Cam falling off the wagon when he was at the place. Ended up on a bender in New York City and almost got tossed.”

  “Yeah, I remember. That was pretty bad. How long’s it been since he had a drink?”

  “Oh, God, it’s got to be close to six months,” Crawford said. “He ended up leaving the firm where he used to work. I told you he and my older brother used to work together? Cam’s definitely better off on his own. He started his own shop. He’s the star of the three Crawford brothers.”

  “Bet he says that about you,”

  “Are you kidding? Charlie the lowly cop?”

  “Charlie the hero cop. Charlie the cop who always gets his man.”

  “Okay, enough of the Crawford family,” he leaned into her and kissed her. “What’s new with the McCarthy brood?”

  “Well, three out of four are doing fine. My brother the dentist is still pulling teeth. My brother the fireman is still putting out fires and pumping out nieces and nephews. My sister the claims adjuster is still doing whatever the hell it is claims adjusters do.”

  “A wild guess…adjust claims?”

  “I’ll buy that,” Dominica said, taking a sip of her pinot grigio. “And my sister the drug addict is still having a tough go of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Crawford said. “Mainly oxy, right?”

  “Mainly whatever she can get her hands on,” Dominica said. “Plus my poor mother is just heartsick. She thinks Carol’s working for an escort service in Miami to get money. And she might be right.”

  Crawford put his arm around Dominica. “I’m really sorry. Your poor mother.”

  “Poor Carol, too.” Dominica choked up, wiped her eyes with a napkin.

  Crawford squeezed her shoulder.

  “She just never figured out what she wanted to do,” Dominica said. “I remember in high school, she was A.D.D. to the max. Did I ever tell you she had a kid?”

  “No, really?”

  Dominica nodded and took another long sip. “Yup, my brother James and his wife are raising him. The boy thinks they’re his parents. No way in hell could Carol ever take care of a kid. His name is Dmitri”—Dominca laughed—“I mean, far be it from Carol to give him a normal Bob, Sam, Bill-type name. No, it had to be Dmitri. I remember her telling me it was between Dmitri or Nigel.” Dominica threw up her hands. “I mean fuuu-ccckkk!”

  Crawford leaned in and kissed her again. “Okay, that’s enough family for a while. Actually, you know what? That’s enough talk period.”

  He moved his hand around to her back and deftly unclipped her bra while unbuttoning her blouse button with the other hand. He could multi-task with the best of them.

  Thirty-Six

  Crawford had just flipped Dominica’s swiss-cheese omelette. He waited a minute before he slid the spatula under it and dropped it onto her plate, right next to two, big, sweaty-looking sausages that tasted way better than they looked. He put the plate on a wicker tray that had a glass of orange juice on it, then poured her a mug of coffee. He put the mug on the tray and picked it up.

  One of Dominica’s favorite things was breakfast in bed.

  “Hey, Charlie, check this out,” he heard her say from the bedroom.

  He walked in with the tray.

  Dominica had her computer propped up in her lap.

  “Whatcha got?” he asked.

  She lifted up her MacBook Air and turned it toward him. She was on the Access Hollywood site.

  “Carla Carton’s funeral yesterday,” she said. “A star-studded cast of mourners.”

  Crawford looked down at the screen and almost dropped the tray.

  The lead pallbearer was the boy who’d been filmed in bed at Xavier Duke’s house.

  The boy whose initials were AC.

  * * *

  Crawford wasted no time calling Ott.

  “AC,” Ott said. “So the C must stand for Carton?”

  “Yup,” Crawford said. “My guess is neither Carla or Polk wanted anyone to know. So the last thing they were going to do was name him Polk.”

  “Guarantee you Duke hit up Polk for way more than a million bucks.”

  “No doubt about it, especially since the girl looked underage,” Crawford said.

  “So, Polk did Xavier.”

  “Or hired a guy,” Crawford said.

  “So what do we do about Polk?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Maybe it’s time to pay a visit to the House of Cogitation,” Ott said. “Talk things over. Come up with a plan.”

  “Jesus, it’s ten in the morning.”

  The House of Cogitation was one of their nicknames for Mookie’s, a downscale cop bar in West Palm Beach.

  “Yeah, so? They’re open.”

  Crawford flashed to an image of inebriated cops knocking back shots, shooting pool and rambling incoherently. “I know they’re open. Too many distractions.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “Let’s meet in my office,” Crawford said, “I’ll be there in half an hour. That’ll give you lots of time to think about how to nail this guy.”

  “I’ll put on my thinking cap.”

  * * *

  Ott swung his legs off Crawford’s desk and leaned toward him. “So, I had a few bad ideas, then, as usual, I had a brainstorm. Decided it’s time to do one of the things we do best.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make shit up.”

  Crawford chuckled. “Okay, I’m not opposed to that, but you gotta be a little more specific.”

  “So, I was thinking about Xavier Duke and the first time I heard his name. It was ‘Xavier Duke the porn guy in bed with the mafia.’ The second time it was the ‘porn king and general all-around sleazebag Xavier Duke, financed by the Miami mafia.’ So, I decided maybe it’s about time the mafia paid a visit to Robert Polk.”

  “You got a friend in the mafia you haven’t told me about, Mort?”

  Ott pointed a finger at himself. “You’re looking at him. They call me ‘Squat Tony,’ who’s never had the privilege of meeting Polk before.”

  Crawford’s smile was a mile wide. “Okay, Squat Tony, and what exactly did you intend to talk to Polk about?”

  “Tell him I’m in possession of a video which his son is featured in, for starters.”

  Crawford was nodding. “And maybe you want to suggest that you’re relieved that he—Polk—offed Xavier because it was something you were going to have to do and it saved you the trouble.”

  Ott scratched the back of his head. “Damn good idea, Charlie…but why exactly was I going to do it?”

  “Simple. You were involved in financing and distributing Duke’s porn flicks. Making a shitload of money at it. Then, when Duke stopped making ’em, it left you with one less income stream. And a big income stream it was.”

  Ott started nodding vigorously. “Yeah, so Duke told me he was sorry, but he decided he wanted to get out of the business. Retire. So, a little time goes by and I found out he hadn’t retired at all, just got into a new thing: making a million bucks for each fifteen-minute film.”

  “And all he had to do was sell one…to the father of the girl in it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Crawford started nodding too. “So, of course, you, Squat Tony, wanted in on it. But Xavier tells you he doesn’t need you to either finance or distribute them. In fact, he doesn’t need you for anything
, ‘cause he’s doing just fine by himself.”

  Ott was nodding. “To which, I say to him, ‘Xavier, old buddy, where I come from, here’s how it works. Once my partner, always my partner.’”

  Crawford nodded. “So Xavier thinks for a minute and says something like, ‘Tell you what, how ’bout I give you a hundred grand to go away. That’s a hundred grand you don’t have to do a goddamn thing for. Kinda like found money.’”

  “And I tell him thanks but no thanks, I’m gonna be his 50/50 partner.”

  “To which, Xavier thinks ‘fuck that’ but doesn’t say it. Meantime, he’s in the process of shaking down Polk for a shitload of money. Or so he thinks. But what happens is Polk beats Squat Tony to it and caps Duke. So now you’re thinking, ‘Perfect, I can take over Xavier’s racket now.’ And that’s when you go to Polk. After you find out Alex is Polk’s kid and the last thing Polk wants is that DVD to go viral. So, you up the ante big-time, tell Polk it’s gonna cost him ten—no, make it twenty million to burn the film.”

  Ott nodded. “And while all this back and forth is going on, Squat Tony gets Polk to admit he capped the X-Man.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” Crawford said, shaking his head. “But that’s gonna be the hard part.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ott said. “The reality is, none of this is gonna be easy.”

  Crawford sank back into his chair and thought for a second. “If we’re going to go this far off of the reservation, we gotta get the okay from Rutledge.”

  Ott sighed, nodded, and didn’t say anything.

  “Except,” Crawford said after a few moments, “that whole thing we ginned up with Ward Jaynes was just about as far off it as this.” He was referring to a case where they had improvised on the fly. “Maybe even farther.”

  “Yeah, and Rutledge couldn’t bust our balls since everyone was congratulating him for solving it.”

  “Even though he had nothing to do with it,” Crawford said. “So, I guess the moral of the story is simple: We can wander off the reservation as long as we solve the crime. If we don’t, we’re fucked.”