by Tom Turner
Crawford laughed. “He’s right. You got to throw everything you got at him. Insult him. Piss him off. Question his masculinity. I look at him and I see a guy who’s got an explosive temper. Trick is to get him to lose it, say something he regrets.”
Ott nodded and downed the rest of his beer.
“I think you got it in you, Mort,” Scarpa said.
Ott turned to Crawford. “I just worry about Rutledge getting wind of it.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” Crawford said. “But if it works, we’re good.”
“And if it doesn’t, we’re fucked.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Scarpa said putting up a hand. “Haven’t you guys figured out the genius of Norm Rutledge yet?”
“What the fuck you talking about?” Ott asked, raising his hand for the bartender. “Guy’s as much a genius as my fuckin’ goldfish.”
Scarpa put his hand or Ott’s shoulder. “You think Rutledge is a clueless fuck, right?”
“Most of the time,” Ott said.
“Almost always,” Crawford concurred.
“Well, you’re wrong,” Scarpa said. “You notice how he lets his good cops run with it?”
“What do you mean?” Ott asked.
“Just what I said. Like you guys. And the way he used to be with me,” Scarpa said. “He figured out early on you guys know what you’re doing. And gives you a lot of space.”
Crawford narrowed his eyes. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“He rides our asses pretty good,” Ott added.
“Yeah, okay, but—trust me on this—he’s got a sense when you’re about to crack a case and that’s when he stops asking questions and starts giving you room. I know, ‘cause, like I said, that’s how he played it with me. One thing about good detectives, they wander off the reservation from time to time.”
“Yeah, but we wander off so far we’re in fuckin’ Europe.”
Scarpa laughed. “Which is exactly the point. Your past cases have shown Rutledge that when you guys wander, you solve cases. And, if the whole thing blows up, then it’s all on you. He can just throw up his hands and say, ‘Those assholes never told me what they were up to.’”
The bartender poured them all fresh drafts.
Ott caught Crawford’s eye. “Kind of makes sense.”
Crawford shrugged, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess. Just something about the phrase, ‘the genius of Norm Rutledge’ that sticks in my craw.”
Thirty-Nine
Ott was driving back to the station, Crawford riding shotgun.
“Fuckin’ Scarpa. Gotta hand it to him sometimes,” Ott said.
“I know,” Crawford said. “So, you gonna stay up and watch some more mafia movies tonight? Get into character?”
“I don’t know. Which ones are left?”
“Plenty. You got the Boston mob in The Departed. Then there’s Goodfellas. Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci. A classic.”
“DeNiro’s in it too.”
“Yup. And Mean Streets.”
“DeNiro again. Not a lot of mafia movies that he wasn’t in, when you think about it.” Ott shook his head ruefully. “But then he went off and did those fucking Focker movies.”
“The what?”
“You know, Meet the Fockers, Little Fockers…there was another one.”
“Yeah, what did he do that shit for?”
“Money.”
“I guess.”
“It’s like if Meryl Streep went off and played the lead in Spongebob Squarepants.”
“Except SpongeBob’s a guy and it’s a cartoon.”
“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”
“What else is there?” Crawford asked as they pulled into the station.
“Well, let’s see, there was Donnie Brasco,” Ott said as he turned off the ignition. “Al Pacino and that guy I can’t stand.”
“Who?”
“You know the guy in the pirate movies who’s got all the tats and earrings and shit.”
“Johnny Depp?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Speaking of Al Pacino. Did you see Carlito’s Way?”
Ott nodded. “Yeah, but that was hardly a mafia movie.”
Crawford heard a door close behind him. “Sure, it was.”
“Bullshit. Pacino played that little Puerto Rican dude.”
“Gotta hand it to you,” Crawford said. “You know your stuff.”
“That other whack job I can’t stand was in it too.”
“Who was that?”
“Sean Penn. What did Madonna ever see in that loser?”
“What are you talkin’ about, he’s a good actor.”
“Bullshit. The only good movie he was ever in was Fast Times at Ridgemont High.”
“What about…”
“What?”
“That one…Mystic River. Or Reservoir Dogs?”
Ott laughed. “Reservoir Dogs, my misguided friend, was his brother Chris. His ex-brother, Chris, that would be. And okay, Mystic River was pretty good, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you.”
There was a tap on Crawford’s window. He looked up and saw Norm Rutledge. He hit the window button. “Hello, Norm, we were just talking about you.”
Rutledge chuckled. “Bet you had a lot of nice things to say.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I been listening to you bozos,” Rutledge said, shaking his head. “Is this what you do when you ain’t got shit on a high-profile murder case? Sit around in the parking lot talking movies.”
Ott ducked down so he could see Rutledge’s face. “Sometimes you just gotta have a few beers, take your mind off business, Norm.”
“Oh, so you been at your dive bar?”
“Yeah, we were,” Ott said. “Hey, out of curiosity what do you think of Sean Penn?”
“Who?”
“Yup. Just as I expected.”
Forty
Before they went their separate ways home, Crawford and Ott agreed to meet at eight the next morning. Then Ott would head over to Robert Polk’s office.
As Crawford was crossing the bridge to West Palm Beach, his cell phone rang.
It was Rose Clarke.
“Hey, Rose. What’s up?”
“Hi, Charlie,” Rose said. “Ready for another scoop?”
“I hope you got a good one, because we could use something,” Crawford said.
“But you solved Pawlichuk.”
“Yeah, but this other one’s a lot tougher.”
“Well, I don’t know whether it will help or not. You be the judge,” Rose said. “So, word is, Lorinda Polk has a thing going with the trumpet player in Peter Duchin’s band.”
“Who’s Peter Duchin?”
“This society bandleader,” Rose said. “Word is they’re madly in love and she’d divorce the skinflint—that’s Robert Polk, in case you forgot—in a second. Problem is she’s got a bad pre-nup.”
Crawford thought for a second, but didn’t see much there. “Thanks, Rose, I appreciate it.”
“Just trying to get another dinner out of you, Charlie.”
“I already owe you one.”
“I’m ready,” she said. “Hope that helps.”
But Crawford couldn’t really see how it did.
He pulled into his condo building parking lot, turned off the ignition, then just sat there.
Twenty minutes later, he was still sitting there.
Feeling guilty, for one thing. Rose wanted something that was never going to happen. Particularly now that he had gotten serious again with Dominica. But what was he supposed to do? A few more minutes passed. Damned if he knew…he made a much better detective than boyfriend.
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Rose.
“Hey.”
“Hey. When you were hearing about Lorinda Polk, did anything come up about her kids?”
“What kids? She doesn’t have any.”
“Really? How ‘bout…step-kids maybe?”
“No. I would have heard.�
�
“Okay. Well, thanks.”
“Sure. Sorry, I couldn’t help.”
“Oh, trust me, you did.”
Crawford clicked off and called a friend who was a lawyer.
“Hey, Tim, sorry to call so late,” he said, “but I want to ask how to break a pre-nuptial agreement.”
“What? I didn’t know you were married, Charlie.”
* * *
Ott walked into Crawford’s office the next morning with a psyched-up look on his face.
“So, coach, you got any last-minute advice for the big game?”
Crawford motioned for him to have a seat. “I had a couple of interesting conversations last night. First one was Rose. She told me Lorinda Polk has a hot and heavy thing with some musician. How she’d bail on Polk in a heartbeat if she didn’t have such a shitty pre-nup.”
Ott shook his head. “Jesus, these people,” he said. “Does Polk know about it?”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” Crawford said. “But it gave me an idea. I called up Tim Sampson.”
“Your lawyer friend?”
“Yeah. He filled me in on different ways to kill a pre-nup.”
Ott leaned forward. “I’m not with you.”
“I asked him if a guy having a child out of wedlock would do it,” Crawford said. “He said yes.”
Ott got it. “So you don’t think Lorinda Polk knows about Alex?”
“I don’t think anybody but Jaclyn Puckett, Polk, and Carla knew.”
“Wow,” was all Ott said.
Crawford stroked his chin. “So how do you think your friend, Mr. Polk, would feel if he had to give half his money to his wife so she could go hook up with a horn blower?”
“Uh, offhand I’d say he wouldn’t be happy.”
Crawford nodded. “Good. So, go make him unhappy.”
* * *
Ott parked in the underground garage of the Phillips Point office building, took the elevator up to his Polk’s office, dialed Crawford’s number and put his cell phone in his pocket.
He felt a little like a boxer going back into the ring after a knockdown in the previous round. Apprehensive but pumped.
When Ott walked into the offices of Polk Global, the receptionist frowned at the sight of him. Like it was way too early in the day to deal with the likes of him.
“Not again,” she muttered.
“Don’t worry, Jeanette, I’m pretty sure this will be the last time you’ll ever see me,” he said. “Unless, of course, you’d like to go out on a date one night.”
Jeanette just frowned and shook her head.
“Is that any way to start your day?” Ott. said. “That big ol’ frown on your face.”
“What do you want?”
“What do you think? An audience with big Bob.”
She sighed and went back to Polk’s office.
She came back a few minutes later. “Follow me.”
“Thanks, but I know the way.” Ott brushed past her and into Polk’s office.
Polk, sitting in the big leather chair behind his desk, made no move to get up.
Ott sat down opposite him. “So, you got a twenty-million-dollar check for me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, that’s good, ‘cause I want a lot more than that.”
Polk leaned across his desk. “Look. I’m going to make this short. I’ll pay you $5 million for that tape and you’re getting nothing else since I had nothing to do with what happened to Xavier Duke. Take it or leave it.”
Ott ignored his last statement. “What was it that Xavier said that made you shoot him? I been askin’ myself that. Did he tell you he was gonna make you his bitch? Keep hittin’ you up every time he needed some cash? Was that what got to you? Knowing you were gonna always be his bitch?”
Polk scowled but said nothing.
“Or was it maybe he asked if you chased little girls too. You know what they say, like father like son. I think the word for it is child molester. Was it something like that that pushed you over the edge—”
“All right, we’re done here,” said Polk, glaring with his rattlesnake eyes.
He reached into the front drawer of his desk and pulled out a three-ring binder checkbook and opened it up. He scribbled out a check, stood and flipped it in the direction of Ott.
Ott caught it in mid-air, glanced at it and tore it up into little pieces. Then he gave Polk a little chin-up nod. “Forgot to tell you something. I plan to go see Lorinda if I don’t get what I want.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tell your wife about Alex. She doesn’t know about him, does she? And when she does, you can kiss that pre-nup goodbye. A lawyer friend told me that having a kid out of wedlock qualifies as ‘creating irreparable harm’ to a marriage. Blows up even the tightest pre-nup. Oh, and if you want to deny he’s your son, that’s why they have DNA tests.”
Polk’s face blanched. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“So, bottom line, I’m going to be needing a check for a hundred million. Or else I go see Lorinda. Meaning she gets half your money and goes off with her musician. You do know about him, right?”
Ott held out his hand, palm up.
Polk slapped it away.
Ott smiled. “Look, man, let’s recap here. I got a fourteen-year-old girl ready to get real specific about her night with Alex. And I got proof that Alex’s your kid,” Ott put his palm out again. “So pull that check book out again and start writing.”
Polk’s nasty, beady eyes drilled into Ott. Then he sighed deeply and opened the desk drawer.
He reached in, but instead of his check book, pulled out an automatic pistol. He aimed it at Ott. “You’ve gotten really irritating. Let’s you, me and Heckler & Koch take a little walk”—Polk gestured toward a door in the far corner of his office— “to my private elevator.”
Hearing Polk, Crawford sprang to his feet, grabbed his jacket from behind the door, and ran out of his office. He had no idea where he was going, just that he was.
Polk followed Ott out of the elevator into the underground garage. “That silver Mercedes over there,” Polk said, hitting the clicker in his pocket. The Mercedes’s lights flickered and the door locks popped open.
“You drive,” Polk said, gesturing with the pistol.
Ott opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, just hoping Crawford was tuned in.
Polk opened the back door behind Ott. He got in and put the Heckler & Koch VP9 up to Ott’s head.
“Suddenly you’re a lot quieter,” Polk said.
Ott pushed the Mercedes ignition button. “Where we goin’, chief?”
“To a secluded little spot where there’s nothing but alligators and snakes,” Polk said. “Take a right out of here and get on Okeechobee going west.”
Crawford, listening on his cell phone, ran out of the station house, slid into the Crown Vic, and headed toward the middle bridge.
Ott pulled out of the underground parking lot and got onto Okeechobee just as Crawford hit the gas on the Crown Vic, taking the turn off of South County onto Royal Palm Way.
“So why’d you do it, Bob?”
“Why’d I do what?”
“Kill Duke.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” Ott said. “I’m just dying of curiosity.”
“You’re dying all right,” Polk said. “But not of curiosity.”
“It was because you knew he’d keep coming back, wasn’t it? Be his bitch forever.”
Polk sighed. “No, it was because he was a bottom-feeding, lowlife sleaze. When he came to my office it took days before the stench went away. I did the world a favor by exterminating him.”
“And while you were doing the world that favor, did you use that gun?”
“Yup. German technology. Can’t beat it.”
Ott was approaching the Kravis Center on Okeechobee Boulevard.
“The Kravis Center,” Ott
said, notifying Crawford where he was. “You ever go there?”
“Just keep driving,” Polk pressed the semi-automatic against Ott’s head.
Ott looked in the rearview mirror for Crawford but didn’t see him.
“Pick up the pace,” Polk said a few minutes later. Ott was going less than the speed limit.
“What’s the rush?” Ott said.
“I’ve got a lot more important things to do today than dumping you in a swamp,” Polk said.
“Oh, yeah, like what?”
“Well, let’s see, I have a golf game at three,” Polk said. “Spend a little time with my girlfriend after that.”
“What a life,” Ott said, looking back and seeing the white Crown Vic. “Where are you planning on spending the night tonight?” Ott asked as Crawford pulled up beside them.
“What kind of half-assed question is that?” Polk said, looking through the front windshield and seeing the traffic stopped ahead.
“Because it ain’t gonna be at home,” Ott said, seeing five unmarked cars blocking the road.
He saw another unmarked Crown Vic pull up on the other side of him.
Polk looked to his left and saw Crawford with his gun aimed at him. Then he looked to his right and saw a man pointing a shotgun at him out the window of the back seat of an unmarked car. He swung around behind him and saw three police cars, their lights going, no sirens. Up ahead, the traffic had come to a dead halt.
“What do you think, Bob?” asked Ott. “Looks like the party’s over.”
Forty-One
Crawford and Dominica were at Mookie’s with Ott and his girlfriend Rebecca. Don Scarpa had pulled up a chair with the double-daters and, exercising great self-control, had not lit up a Winston.
“Works every time, right, Charlie?” Scarpa said.
“What’s that?”
“You listen to ‘the Shoe’ and you get your man.”
“Every time.”
“Wait a minute,” Dominica said. “Don’t I get any credit?”
“What did you do?” Scarpa asked.
“Recon mission into the belly of the beast,” Ott said. “Spotted the cameras at Xavier Duke’s house.”
Crawford raised his glass to Dominica. “We’d still be knockin’ on doors and pounding the pavement if it wasn’t for you.”