Palm Beach Predator

by Tom Turner

  They got to Mimi Taylor’s condo building at 5:45. There was a man in a uniform just inside who gave them a welcoming smile. “Gentlemen, can I help you?”

  Crawford held up a key on a chain. “Going to Ms. Taylor’s apartment. We’re detectives, Palm Beach Police Department.”

  The man’s smile disappeared. “I heard about what happened. Terrible thing.”

  Crawford nodded. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Winston.”

  “Mind if we ask you a few questions?” Crawford asked. “I’m Detective Crawford and this is my partner, Detective Ott.”

  “Sure, fellas, ask away.”

  “How long you been workin’ here?” Crawford asked.

  “Fourteen years.”

  “Okay, so you’ve probably been here longer than Ms. Taylor?”

  “Yeah, I think she bought her place about four or five years ago.”

  A man and a woman walked in. Crawford nodded to them.

  “Welcome back,” Winston said to them.

  They waved, smiled, and proceeded to the elevator.

  Crawford waited until he had Winston’s attention again. “We’re interested in who visited Ms. Taylor here.”

  “Well, her mother every so often. And her friend…Carrie, I think her first name is. A couple of other women who worked with her, I think.”

  “We’re more interested in men friends,” Ott said.

  “Oh, gotcha. Well, a man by the name of Lowell used to stop by once in a while but not in the last six months or so.”

  “He was her boyfriend, then?” Ott asked.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “And did he spend the night?” Crawford asked.

  Winston nodded tentatively, like maybe he was uncomfortable with people knowing he noticed things like that.

  “So, he was her boyfriend?” Ott said. “But not anymore?”

  “That would be my guess,” Winston said. “Not like I really know for sure, though.”

  “We understand,” Crawford said. “But since Lowell Grey, no men friends?”

  Winston thought for a second. “No. Not on my shift.”

  “Were there ever any incidents…in the apartment?” Ott asked.

  “Incidents?”

  “You know, loud parties. Something the neighbors may have complained about? Anything at all out of the ordinary?”

  “Oh, God no,” Winston said. “Ms. Taylor was a perfect lady. Couldn’t ask to meet anyone nicer.”

  Ott took out a card and handed it to Winston. “Okay, well, thanks for your time,” he said. “You think of anything that might be helpful to us, give me a call.”

  “I will. I sure will,” Winston said with a smile.

  Crawford nodded and followed Ott to the elevator, which had a faint smell of suntan oil and perfume.

  Mimi Taylor’s condo was a one-bedroom on the eighteenth floor. Expensively decorated, though a little on the minimalist side. It had a spectacular view of the ocean.

  “How ’bout I do the bedroom and bath, and you do the living room and kitchen,” Crawford said.

  “You got it,” Ott said, taking out a pair of vinyl gloves from his jacket pocket.

  Crawford went into the bedroom. It was very white. From the wall color to the puffy comforter to a tufted chaise longue that looked more decorative than functional. Off to the side facing the ocean, a glass-topped desk had all of its contents neatly arranged. In the center was a MacBook Air computer with its cover up. Crawford walked over to it and put his vinyl gloves on. He looked down at the screen and saw that it was on. He thought he was the only one who never turned his computer off. It only had fifteen percent life left, so he plugged the charger in.

  He clicked the email icon and scanned down the received emails. He saw a lot of women’s names, then three emails in a row from someone named Stark Stabler.

  The name was a blast from the past. Stark Stabler was a professional tennis player whom Crawford had watched compete one summer at the U.S. Open, back when he was a kid. Stabler was a second-tier player but still really good. It had to be the same person. How many Stark Stablers could there be?

  He read the chain of emails, going from last to first.

  The latest from Stabler read: I agree. Tomorrow morning 10:00 at L.N.

  Based on the date, that would have been the morning Mimi Taylor had been murdered.

  Crawford scrolled back, eager to follow the thread of emails.

  He went to the Sent list and saw that Mimi Taylor had started the email conversation. Her first email was written about a half hour before Stabler’s last:

  Hi S,

  We need to talk about you-know-what.

  M

  To which Stabler responded:

  I’ve already said all I’m going to say on the subject.

  Only a minute went by before Taylor responded.

  If that’s your final answer, you’re forcing me to do what I really don’t want to do.

  Two minutes later, Stark Stabler shot back.

  Don’t threaten me Mimi.

  Five minutes went by before Taylor responded.

  Let’s be grown-ups and work it out at L.N.

  There it was again. L.N. It could have stood for a million different things.

  Crawford scrolled down, eagerly searching for more emails between Taylor and Stark Stabler that could help elucidate the murkiness of their most recent one.

  “Whatcha got?”

  Crawford was startled. He hadn’t heard Ott come in.

  “Jesus, you scared me.”

  “Big, strong guy like you jumpy?”

  Crawford turned to Ott. “Ever hear of a guy named Stark Stabler?”

  “No, who’s he?”

  “A tennis player from like twenty-five years ago.”

  “I didn’t grow up knowing guys who played country-club sports,” Ott said.

  “He’s a guy we need to talk to right away.”

  “First name Stark, huh? My sports heroes all had rugged American names like Bronko and Raw Dog” — Ott shook his head derisively and rolled his hand from side to side— “Stark’s a little…”

  Crawford ignored the comment and pointed down at the emails.

  Ott read through them quickly. “What the hell’s L. N. mean?”

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering. Seems like it’s a place,” Crawford said. “One of the many questions I have for this guy.”

  “Ten o’clock was about the time she got killed,” Ott noted.

  “I know.”

  Ott raised his arm and took a pull on a bottle of Heineken.

  Crawford hadn’t seen it before and gave Ott an astonished look. “What the hell you doin’?”

  “What’s it look like? Having a beer.”

  “I can see that,” Crawford said, shaking his head. “Why don’t you go see if she’s got a t-bone in the freezer. You can grill it up out on the balcony.”

  “Hey, man. What’s the big deal? It’s seven o’clock, been a long day, it’s cocktail hour, and I got thirsty.”

  Crawford just shook his head. “You find anything, besides her beer supply?”

  “I don’t really know,” Ott said. “They’re a couple of DVDs in there we might want to take a peek at. Kinda look like homemade jobs.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Six sets of keys,” Ott said. “I’m guessing probably for her real estate listings.”

  Crawford nodded. “Well, I’m going to take this computer. See what else I find in her emails or wherever else.”

  Ott nodded and took another sip of the Heineken, finishing it off.

  Crawford rolled his eyes.

  “What?” Ott said with a defiant shrug. “Not like she’s gonna miss it.”

  Four

  Crawford and Ott left Mimi Taylor’s condo building at 7:20 and drove the ten minutes back to the station to get Crawford’s car and call it quits for the day.

  Crawford was on his way to pick up Rose Clarke for dinner, when h
e got a call on his cell.

  “Hey, Charlie, it’s Red Noland.” Noland was a homicide detective with the West Palm Beach Police Department. “So I heard about your murder and wanted to talk to you about it. I might have some info for you.”

  “Yeah, sure, Red, where you now?”

  “At the station.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Crawford said.

  This took precedence over dinner, even though Rose would, no doubt, be able to provide useful info as well. Crawford didn’t like the idea of cancelling at the last minute and hoped she’d understand. She had once accused him of having his priorities messed up. How solving a murder was more important to him than anything in his personal life. He’d denied it but not very convincingly.

  Red Noland was known to be the best homicide detective on the West Palm Beach force. Crawford had worked with him and found his reputation to be well deserved. If Red wanted to talk, it would be worth listening to.

  Crawford called Rose and she answered. “Hi, Charlie.”

  “Hey, Rose, I apologize, but something came up on my case. Can we do a rain check?”

  Dramatic sigh. “Yes, Charlie, as long as you’re not cutting me loose for another woman.”

  “That would never happen, Rose,” Crawford said. Unless, of course, it’s Dominica McCarthy, he refrained from saying. “I just got a call from a West Palm detective about the Taylor homicide. He’s got something to tell me and it might take a while. Maybe tomorrow or the next day?”

  “I understand. Tomorrow’s good but not Thursday.”

  “Let’s do it tomorrow. Sorry, again.”

  “It’s okay, I understand. Bye, Charlie.”

  Crawford pulled up to 600 Banyan Boulevard in West Palm, the headquarters of West Palm Beach Police Department, and parked on the side street.

  He walked inside and asked for Red Noland. Noland, less than average height, stoop-shouldered and, no surprise, flaming red hair, came out and got him and they went back to his office.

  “So, I heard bits and pieces about your murder up on North Lake Way,” Noland said.

  “Yeah, just when I was beginning to think Palm Beach was the safest place in the universe again,” Crawford said, sliding into the hard, wooden chair opposite Noland’s desk.

  “Compared to West Palm it sure as hell is. Twenty-seven homicides last year,” Noland said. “You could always come over here and help us out.”

  West Palm Beach had roughly ten times the population of Palm Beach and, therefore, ten times as many homicide cops. But it still wasn’t enough.

  “I’d miss my partner too much,” Crawford said.

  “Bring him along,” Noland said with a grin.

  “Thanks, but we’re pretty happy where we are. So, whatcha got?”

  Noland leaned back in his chair and put his hand on his chin. “I got two homicides that may have some similarities to yours.”

  Crawford leaned toward him. “Really? Tell me about ’em.”

  “Okay, the first one took place on a boat at Palm Beach Yacht Club on the Intracoastal six weeks ago. A woman who had just gotten separated from her husband was strangled in her cabin. A friend found her naked about eight to ten hours after the ME figured it happened.”

  “Anything weird like mine? I mean, any message left behind or something?”

  “That thing with the toothpaste? Nah, just naked in bed, but, like yours, there was no rape.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Forty-one. She worked at a bank. Pretty high up,” Noland said. “Apparently she had been staying on the boat for about a week. The husband was staying in their house.”

  “Okay, and the second one?”

  “Just last week,” Noland said. “A woman, mid-thirties. She had been working late at the library on Okeechobee. The library had officially closed, and another woman who worked with her had locked up and gone home. We’re guessing someone rang the buzzer and the vic opened up—probably figuring it was a coworker. Anyway, she was found naked in one of the back rooms—but again, not raped.”

  “But strangled?”

  “Yup, just like the one on the boat and yours.”

  Crawford nodded but didn’t say anything, thinking, Realtor. Banker. Librarian…

  “It struck me as kind of strange,” Noland said.

  “What did?”

  “Taking a woman’s clothes off, then not…assaulting her.”

  Crawford nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “So, you thinking serial killer?”

  Noland shrugged. “I don’t know what the official definition is, or how many it’s gotta be, but, yeah, maybe.”

  Crawford nodded.

  “But yours has that extra wrinkle,” Noland said.

  “You mean the message left behind?”

  “Yeah. Not being much of an art guy, I looked it up. Pablo Picasso and somebody Modigliani had paintings named that, right?”

  Crawford nodded.

  “Got any clue what it’s supposed to mean?”

  “Nope. Maybe nothing,” Crawford said. “I had a case up in New York where the killer left chicken bones around a corpse. Papers called him the Chicken Bone Killer, and me and my partner kept trying to come up with the significance of chicken bones. We finally brought him in, and he just said he was hungry, had a box of KFC with him.”

  Noland looked at his watch. It was already past eight. “You got me hungry, Charlie. You eaten yet?”

  “Nah, let’s go get a bite.”

  They were at Rocco’s Tacos on Clematis Street, a high-quality, low-rent joint that Red Noland summed up thusly, “Margaritas and tacos…is there anything better?”

  Crawford nodded and took a pull on his margarita. He planned to switch over to water after one. Maybe two.

  Noland was telling him that he and his partner had been on the two West Palm murders 24/7 and so far, had come up dry. “We’ve interviewed every mutt within a hundred miles. Thought we were getting somewhere with this one sketchy-looking dude we caught on camera near the library, but he was with a woman who alibied him.”

  “Your two vics,” Crawford asked. “They got anything in common?”

  “Not really. Just that they were attractive women who seem to have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “But they didn’t have any connections? Mutual friends? Worked together? Anything at all like that?”

  “Not that we’ve found out.”

  “So you think it was random?” Crawford asked. “No pattern and they weren’t specifically targeted?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking today, but ask me tomorrow and it may be different.” Noland licked the salt from the rim of his glass. “The woman on the boat apparently was going through a real knock-down-drag-out divorce with her husband, a rich doctor.”

  “So I assume you got in his face pretty good?”

  “Yeah, my first thought was he might have hired a hitter. Took the wife out so she couldn’t take him to the cleaners. But he didn’t crack at all when we put him in a room,” Noland said. “The other woman was a divorcée who moved down from Cincinnati about a year ago. She wasn’t in a relationship, just seemed to live a quiet life.”

  “Yeah, that seemed to be the case with my vic. Except she had a couple of relationships we’re looking into. Including one with a married guy.”

  “That’s not real unusual over there, is it?” Noland asked, referring to Palm Beach.

  “I don’t keep track.” Crawford took another pull on his margarita and set it down. “There’s this other thing…” And Crawford proceeded to tell Noland about the back-and-forth emails between Mimi Taylor and Stark Stabler. And about the mysterious L.N.

  “But you got no clue what it stands for?” Noland asked.

  “No, just that it seems like it’s a place.”

  Noland shrugged.

  “So, how ’bout a look at your suspect list.”

  Noland reached into his pocket. “Right here.” He pulled out two pages an
d held them up. “Thirty-seven of the baddest bowwows in Palm Beach County.”

  Noland handed the list to Crawford.

  Crawford looked down the list of names and the crimes they were convicted of and smiled. “Burglars, arsonists, rapists, murderers…my kind of guys. Can’t wait to meet ’em.”

  Five

  Crawford looked up Stark Stabler’s number and called him from his office at eight a.m. He got Stabler’s voicemail and asked him to call back ASAP. Then he started calling real estate offices. By the time he and Ott left for their ten o’clock at Sotheby’s, he had three other meetings scheduled for later in the day. When Crawford called Sotheby’s to confirm that Ott and he would arrive at ten, office manager Arthur Lang told him that Sotheby’s had eighty agents, but many of them were part-time and he expected around three-quarters of that number to be in attendance.

  Crawford and Ott walked into the office at 10:05. Arthur Lang, a nattily dressed, short man with sunny blonde hair, a color he hadn’t been born with, was waiting for them in the reception area. He led them back to a large open space divided into cubicles. Faces looked up expectantly as the three came into the room.

  Lang led Crawford and Ott to a corner of the room and turned toward the Sotheby’s agents.

  “Okay, guys,” Lang said. “As I told you, we have two detectives from the Palm Beach Police Department with us today, and I urge you to give them as much help as possible so they can solve Mimi’s tragic death as quick as they can. So with that I’m just going to turn it over to them” —Lang opened his hand toward Crawford and Ott— “this is Detective Crawford and Detective Ott.”

  Crawford nodded to the assembled agents. “Thank you, Mr. Lang. My name is Charlie Crawford.” He looked out at the agents, the majority of whom were women, and realized he hadn’t seen as much bling and expensive-looking clothes since Dominica forced him to watch ten minutes of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills one night. Granted, these women were way less flashy, but they weren’t wearing your average work clothes either. Not by a long shot.

  “First of all, I would just like to say how sorry my partner and I are about the loss of your coworker Miss Taylor. We know she was a good friend to many of you and we are, of course, eager to solve this right away. And second, we’d just like to open it up to you folks. Maybe you know something, or saw something, or can volunteer something that might be helpful to us. And anything at all would be appreciated.”