Palm Beach Predator

by Tom Turner

  “And?”

  “And instead they end up driving into the Breezy Shores mobile park up in Riviera Beach. Only thing is it’s not even on a shore but right next to a landfill. I let them park and go into their little aluminum chateau. Meantime, I’m getting really pissed for wasting three whole days. I storm up to the front door after they’ve gone inside and beat on the door. Darla opens it with a shocked look. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she says.”

  “Wait, I thought she was a mute?”

  Rose snickered and shook her head. “Only reason she didn’t ever talk is because she was Gail, the fictitious referral agent from our office up in Boston.”

  Crawford laughed. “Ho-ly shit, you gotta be kidding.”

  “No, the two were poor as church mice and just wanted to get a taste of the high life.”

  “That’s incredible,” Crawford said. “Definitely tops any other war story I heard today.”

  “I got more.”

  “But before you tell me,” Crawford said, “you were going to fill me in on Mimi Taylor’s most recent boyfriend.”

  “Let’s order first,” Rose said. “Telling you about the exploits of Hal and Darla worked up an appetite.”

  Crawford signaled for the waiter. He came over and they ordered.

  “I can see you’re champing at the bit,” Rose said.

  “It’s that obvious, huh?”

  Rose smiled and nodded. “Okay, so does the name Stark Stabler mean anything to you?”

  “Sure does. The tennis player. I’ve been calling him all day long.”

  “How’d you find out about him?”

  “Emails from Mimi Taylor’s computer,” Crawford said. “So, tell me what you were going to say.”

  “Well, he’s probably in his mid-fifties now and married to one of the Kittredge sisters—”

  “As in—”

  “Yup. As in those three-wheeled green-and-yellow tractors. As in, rich as hell but, poor thing, got smacked pretty hard with the ugly stick.”

  “Haven’t heard that expression in a while.”

  Rose laughed. “So Stabler was Mimi’s boyfriend. I’m guessing it had been going on for six months or so. And what I heard was Mimi was pressing him to divorce Sally Kittredge and marry her. And supposedly he said he would but never actually planned to.”

  Crawford put his glass down. “I’m going to make a wild guess here. Stark was reluctant to give up the Kittredge lifestyle.”

  She nodded. “That would be my guess.”

  “So let me go down the road a little further,” Crawford said.

  She gestured for him to proceed. “Be my guest.”

  “Scenario goes something like this: Mimi says to Stark, ‘If you don’t agree to marry me, I’m going to go to Sally and tell her about us.’”

  “I never thought of that, but yeah, it definitely makes sense. So you’re thinking that Stark, who’s not about to kill the golden goose, might have killed Mimi instead.”

  “It’s a little extreme but possible,” Crawford said. “I have another question for you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Stark and Mimi went back and forth with a bunch of emails which kept referring to the initials L.N. Got any clue what that might stand for?”

  Rose took a sip of her wine and thought for a second. “I’m drawing a blank.”

  “That’s so unlike you.”

  “But if I come up with something, I’ll let you know.”

  Crawford nodded as their dinners arrived.

  “As usual, keep this under your hat,” Crawford said.

  “Don’t worry.”

  They ate for a while, then Rose put down her fork and smiled her mischievous smile. “So, speaking of war stories, I have to tell you what happened this week.”

  “I’m all ears,” Crawford said, as he took a bite of his veal scaloppini.

  “I went to one of my listings on Clarke because I wanted to freshen the place up with a bouquet of flowers. I had a big showing there that afternoon. When I drove in I saw the pool guy’s truck but didn’t see him at the pool. So, I walked in and saw the cleaning lady’s cleaning supplies in the kitchen but didn’t see her.”

  “Stop,” Crawford said. “I already know where this is going.”

  “Just two clues and you’ve solved it. Well, I’m going to tell you the rest anyway. So I put the bouquet down on a table in the living room and hear a noise upstairs.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m going to guess. Springs from a bed?”

  Rose laughed and shook her head. “I didn’t know what it was, so I went up the stairs and it got louder.”

  “Moaning?”

  Rose shook her head again. “I still didn’t know. But, curious girl that I am, I just had to find out.”

  “Of course.”

  “So I go into the master bedroom, where it seems to be coming from. It was a sound I’d heard before but couldn’t quite identify.”

  “And?”

  “The noise gets louder, but they’re not there, so I go a little further, and I see in a mirror in the master bath the cleaning lady leaning over the sink—buck naked—and the pool guy is right behind her thrusting away…and then it dawns on me. They’re both a little on the chubby side, and you know that distinctive sound of flab on flab—”

  “Okay, okay.” Crawford held up his hand like a traffic cop halting traffic, laughing despite himself. “Speaking of initials, you ever heard of TMI?”

  Seven

  Crawford got a call from Dominica McCarthy, crime scene tech and special friend, the next morning. The gist of it was she had lifted twenty-two different fingerprints from the master bathroom of the house on North Lake Way. Sometimes more is less, thought Crawford, as Dominica added that she was unable to get a good print from the toothpaste tube.

  An hour later, Crawford was looking across his desk at Art Nunan, or Big A, as he’d referred to himself on his outgoing voicemail message. But the fact of the matter was, he wasn’t big, he wasn’t tall, he wasn’t even fat. He was just…average.

  Ott was there too and looking at Nunan askance. “So, Big A, where were you the day before yesterday from noon until two thirty?”

  “At the pound,” Nunan said.

  Ott’s brow furrowed. “The one on South Dixie?”

  “What?” Nunan said quizzically. “I’m talking about the dog track. What are you talking about?”

  “Thought you meant animal rescue. Come on, man, gotta be more specific.”

  “What were you doing at the dog track?” Crawford asked.

  “Playing poker,” Nunan said. Then proudly, “I’m a professional gambler.”

  “I thought they just had nickel-dime games there,” Ott said.

  Nunan frowned. “They got the Tenth Annual Butch Jones Poker Classic goin’ on now.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Twenty grand in cash prizes if you win,” Nunan said. “Can’t believe you never heard of it. Named after one of your fallen compadres.”

  Ott nodded. “You got people who can confirm you were there?”

  “Yeah, the boys that hang out there.”

  “Tell us about a woman named Louise Hyam,” Crawford said to Nunan. She was the woman who had been strangled to death after Nunan had apparently done work for her and had a financial dispute.

  Nunan looked out the window then back at Crawford. “I had nothin’ to do with that.”

  “That’s not what your friend Duane had to say.”

  “Duane’s not a friend. He’s a scumbag.”

  “What happened at Louise Hyam’s house?” Crawford asked.

  Nunan sighed and shook his head. “I went there to shampoo her carpets. Three rooms. Because I couldn’t get a dog shit stain out in this one bedroom, she was only gonna pay me for two rooms. I told her it was a permanent stain. So, she got all bent out of shape and told me to leave. She was gonna stiff me on the whole job.”

  “Yeah, and that was it?” Ott asked.

&nbs
p; “She called the cops, said I threatened her.”

  “Did you?”

  “Fuck no. I was gonna take her to small claims.”

  “And later that day she was found strangled to death.”

  Nunan held up his hands. “Don’t look at me.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Ott said. “Give us the names of your poker buddies who saw you there day before yesterday. Guys who work there, too, if you know them. While you’re at it, you parked there, right?”

  Nunan nodded.

  “Show us your parking stub.”

  “I never keep shit like that.”

  Crawford shook his head and asked a question he felt he needed to ask every suspect on the case. “You have any interest in art…Art?”

  Nunan frowned. “What the hell kind of a question is that?”

  “Hey, don’t get your nose out of joint,” Crawford said. “Do you?”

  “You mean, like paintings and shit?”

  “Yeah, like paintings and shit.”

  Nunan scratched his chest. “No.”

  Crawford shrugged. “Okay.”

  Nunan was still eyeing him suspiciously.

  “We’re done,” Crawford said. “You can go, but do yourself a favor and come up with a convincing list of witnesses who can alibi you so you’re not our number one suspect anymore.”

  Art Nunan was only their number one suspect because they didn’t have anyone else, though Stark Stabler was certainly a person of interest. It seemed that Nunan probably was not their man, assuming he was at the West Palm Beach dog track at the time Mimi Taylor was murdered.

  Crawford and Ott were on their way to an address that Red Noland had provided. It was in Lake Park, which was north of Palm Beach, and the home of convicted murderer Buddy Lester. Crawford had not been able to reach Lester by phone, so they had decided just to show up on his doorstep.

  They walked up the four steps to the door of the tidy white-brick ranch. The doormat said, “Hi, I’m Mat.” Ott pressed the doorbell.

  A few moments later, a woman in a platinum blonde wig and a hooded housecoat opened the door.

  “Morning,” Crawford said. “Detectives Crawford and Ott to speak to Buddy.”

  The woman shaded her eyes. “He do something?”

  “That’s the question,” Ott said. He had his hand around his pistol butt inside his pocket, just in case.

  The woman turned back inside. “Buddy!”

  A few moments later, a balding man in a strappy T-shirt and grey cargo shorts appeared.

  “Who are you?”

  “Detective Crawford and Detective Ott,” Crawford said. “We’re looking into a homicide took place in Palm Beach.”

  Lester smiled. “I’ve never been there in my entire life.”

  “Ten miles away and you’ve never been there?” Ott asked.

  “Never. Why would I want to go see a bunch of big houses and fancy cars? Just make me feel inadequate.”

  Crawford kind of knew what he meant. “Where were you the day before yesterday between twelve noon and two o’clock?”

  Lester looked at the woman. “Was that when we went to Costco?”

  She nodded. “We went to the Dollar Store first. Then spent over an hour at Costco. I had to wait in line for two prescriptions.”

  “We like the meats there,” Lester said. “Got cheap gas too. Cheaper than any other place around.”

  “So you have receipts for all this?” Ott asked.

  “I save all my receipts for a month,” the woman said. “So, yeah, I do.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ott said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Can you get them, please?” Crawford asked.

  “But I told you I’ve never been to Palm Beach,” Lester said.

  Crawford smiled at Lester. “You’d be surprised, but not everyone tells us the truth.”

  The woman walked back into the house.

  “They got good wines too,” Lester added.

  “So I hear,” Crawford said then cocked his head, figuring if Buddy Lester was interested in wine, maybe he had a thing for art. “You got any interest in art, Buddy?”

  He got the same perplexed look Arthur Nunan had given him.

  “Not really, why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, you just look kind of cultured.”

  Ott chuckled.

  “Whatever,” Buddy said with a shrug.

  The woman came back with two receipts. “The detective here thought I might be into art,” Buddy said to her.

  She chuckled louder than Ott had. “Oh, yeah, opera and ballet too.”

  Lester smiled at her.

  “So, I guess not,” Crawford said, as the woman handed him the receipts.

  He looked at the times on the Costco receipts. The one for the main store said 12:57, and the one for the gas station there said 1:25. The one for the Dollar Store said 12:13.

  They were in the clear.

  “Thank you,” Crawford said. “See how easy that was?”

  Lester smiled back at him. “Yeah, but it kinda hurts, you not believin’ me in the first place.”

  Eight

  Ott shook his head as he got into the car. “Well, that was a big fuckin’ waste of time.”

  “Hey, news flash, half this job is,” Crawford said. “So, we gotta bear down on Stabler and that guy Lowell Grey.”

  “Yeah, and find out what the hell L.N. stands for.”

  Crawford nodded. “I’m not waiting around for Stabler anymore—let’s go to his house,” Crawford said. “South Ocean, number 411.”

  As Crawford had found in his two and a half years in Palm Beach, most people were about as eager to get back to a detective as they were to call back a collections agent.

  Ott’s cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Detective Crawford?”

  “No, this is Ott. You want Crawford?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Ott handed Crawford his cell phone and whispered, “Some babe.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Detective Crawford,” the voice said. “My name is Holly Pine. I’m a real estate agent at the Fite Group and wondered if I could talk to you.”

  “Sure, absolutely,” Crawford said. “About Mimi Taylor’s murder?”

  A hesitation. “Well, yes.”

  “Sure, shall I come by your office?”

  “Well, see, I hardly ever go there. I pretty much just operate out of my home office.

  So—”

  “I’d be happy to come there. I just need your address.”

  “I’m on Coral Lane…231 Coral Lane.”

  “Could I come right over. Say, in fifteen minutes?”

  “Uh, sure, make it a half hour, though, would you?”

  “Sure, see you then, Ms. Pine.”

  Crawford clicked off and handed Ott his phone.

  “Jesus, Charlie. You’re one eager beaver.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mort, we don’t have much goin’ on at the moment.”

  “Yeah, I know, but we still got a lot of names on Red Noland’s list to go through.”

  “I know.”

  “So what do you wanna do? Drop me at the station and go see this real estate chick?”

  Crawford looked at his watch. It was 12:15. “She’s ten minutes away. Might as well get a quick lunch. I’ll flip you for where we go.”

  For something quick, it was always between Krystal’s, Ott’s choice, or Burger King, Crawford’s choice.

  “You flip,” Crawford said.

  “You can’t multitask?”

  “Flipping a coin, catching it, then turning it over, and putting it on my wrist is pretty tough when I’m driving.”

  Ott took a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it up in the air. “Call it.”

  “Heads.”

  Ott caught it and put it on his wrist.

  “Tails,” Ott said.

  “Shit,” Crawford said, shaking his head. “You know, I went to Krystal
’s website once, and their burgers looked bad even there.”

  “Is that what you do with your spare time? Go to fast-food websites?”

  “I wanted to see if they admit to making their burgers out of roadkill.”

  Ott laughed. “Krystal’s fries beat the King’s fries, any day of the week.”

  “They’re so greasy they slip out of my fingers.”

  “Use a fork,” Ott said. “Hey, by the way, I checked that Bacon King you always have.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Eleven hundred thirty calories,” Ott said. “And you have two of ’em.”

  Crawford reached over and gave Ott a pat on his ample gut. “You busting me for my eating habits…Slim?”

  Ott laughed. “Not much credibility on that subject, huh?”

  Crawford rolled into the driveway at 231 Coral Lane at 12:45, well nourished, even though he wouldn’t admit it.

  “What do you suppose she’s going to tell us?” Ott asked as he opened the car door and got out.

  “Who knows? Hopefully something that gets our asses in gear,” Crawford said, scoping out the well-tended, two-story stucco house.

  They walked up the steps and Crawford pressed the buzzer. Holly Pine’s doormat said simply Welcome.

  A woman who was no stranger to the makeup brush and who appeared to be in her late thirties opened the door. Her eyes lit up when she saw Crawford then dropped to the floor in apparent disappointment at seeing Ott off to the right.

  “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t realize both of you…”

  Crawford immediately noticed a few things were off about Holly Pine. For one, the buttons on her shirt were not lined up right. The top button was unbuttoned, but the second one down was in the third buttonhole. So, Crawford’s first impression of her was that she was slightly lopsided. His second observation was that the lipstick on her upper lip had strayed off course a quarter inch or so.

  “Hello, Ms. Pine, I’m Detective Crawford, and this is my partner, Detective Ott. Thank you for calling and, if you would, tell us why you called.”

  “Come on in, and I’ll explain.”