Palm Beach Predator

by Tom Turner

  They followed her in, through the large foyer, into the living room.

  She sat down in a beige wingback chair, and Crawford and Ott sat on a couch opposite her.

  Crawford thought he knew why she had asked them to come to her house in a half hour instead of straight there. Clearly, she had wanted to spend time in front of the mirror doing her face. He noticed a not-so-subtle shade of rouge on her cheeks, her eyebrows were flawlessly penciled and her hair…not a strand out of place.

  “First, can I get either of you something to drink?”

  “Thank you, Ms. Pine,” Crawford said, glancing at Ott, who shook his head, “but we’re fine.”

  “Are you originally from around here?” she asked, looking at Crawford. “You know how they say all Floridians are from somewhere else.”

  “Originally from New York,” Crawford said, getting impatient. “My partner’s from Cleveland.”

  “Oh, really, where in New York? That’s where I’m from too.”

  “New York City. Ms. Pine, if you could tell us—”

  “I’m from Oyster Bay. Know where that is?”

  “Sure. On Long Island,” Crawford said. “Ms. Pine, if you could tell us what you called us about, please?”

  Holly Pine leaned forward and dropped her voice, like she suspected there might be a spy behind her curtains. “Mimi had a boyfriend who was married.”

  On the off chance she might be referring to someone other than Stark Stabler, Crawford whispered back, “And what do you know about this man?”

  “I heard he used to be a professional athlete. A golfer, I think, and that his wife is very rich.”

  “Thank you,” Crawford said starting to get to his feet. “Was there anything else you heard?”

  Yet another waste of time, Crawford thought. Plus, he’d had to scarf down a Krystal burger while they waited for Holly Pine to powder her nose.

  “No, that’s it,” Pine said. “Sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

  Crawford got to his feet, Ott right behind him.

  “No, thank you very much, Ms. Pine,” Crawford said, “but we have another appointment we have to get to.”

  Which was news to Ott.

  “Christ,” Crawford said behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, “we could have had a nice relaxed lunch at Green’s.” That was the combination luncheonette-general store-pharmacy on North County Road where they ate lunch when they weren’t in a hurry.

  “If you asked ol’ Holly whether I was tall, short, fat or skinny,” Ott said, “she wouldn’t have a clue.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She got all dolled up for you, Charlie. What do you think I’m talking about?”

  Crawford just shook his head and looked at this watch. “We’re meeting with Mrs. Taylor in forty-five minutes, and then we’re going to Stabler’s house and break the goddamn door down, if we have to.”

  Crawford had first spoken with Corinne Taylor two days before, on the day of her daughter’s murder. It was one of the more difficult notification calls he had ever made, not that they were ever easy. She had kept sobbing uncontrollably, which was understandable. Crawford suggested he and Ott come up and visit her in Vero Beach, but she volunteered to come to Palm Beach. She said that was where her daughter would probably like to be buried, since she had lived there so long.

  They went back to the station and scrolled down the remaining names on Red Nolan’s suspect list.

  A little while later, Crawford got a call on his cell. He looked at his watch. It was 2:35.

  “Hello.”

  “A Mrs. Taylor out here to see you, Charlie,” Roberta, the receptionist, said.

  “Thanks, be right there.” He swung by Ott’s cubicle on the way up front.

  “She here?” Ott asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll bring her back to my office,” Crawford said, walking out to the reception area in front. “Meet you there.”

  Corinne Taylor, standing at the receptionist’s area, had ramrod straight posture, round, frameless glasses, and a sad, faraway look that she probably had before the death of her daughter, Mimi, but which appeared more intense now. She looked to be in her mid- to- late-sixties.

  Crawford approached her. “Hello, Mrs. Taylor, I’m Detective Crawford. Again, I’m so sorry about your loss.”

  “Thank you, Detective. I appreciate it.”

  “If you would follow me back to my office, please.”

  “Of course.”

  They walked back to his office, and Crawford introduced her to Ott, who also expressed his condolences.

  “Mrs. Taylor, if we could ask you some questions about Mimi, please?” Crawford said.

  “Yes, of course, go right ahead.”

  “How long had your daughter lived in Palm Beach?”

  “Just about twenty years. She moved here right after graduating from college.”

  “Where did she go to college?” Ott asked.

  “Rollins. Up in Winter Park.”

  “Oh, sure,” Crawford said. “Good school. And she was there the full four years?”

  “Yes, though she did her junior year abroad.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Italy. She could speak enough Italian to get by.”

  Crawford tapped a pen on his desk as Ott took notes in his well-worn leather-bound pad.

  “Mrs. Taylor, we’re most interested in your daughter’s relationships with men. We feel that might advance the case,” Crawford said. “If you would start with what you know about her most recent relationship and go backwards, please.”

  Corinne sighed and looked down. “I think it’s safe to say Mimi was not the best picker of boyfriends.”

  Crawford raised a hand. “Could you expand on that a little, please?”

  “She’d talk to me about them a little. Kind of bemoan her lack of luck with men. I always listened carefully and tried to give her the best advice I could, but what could I really do? I mean, I couldn’t pick them for her.”

  “Of course.”

  She exhaled slowly and frowned. “So, all I know about the last man was that he was married.”

  “She never told you his name?”

  “No, because the conversation never went anywhere. I mean, I told her right off the bat that a relationship with a married man was just…well, just plain folly.”

  “And before him?”

  “A man named Lowell Grey. At least he was single.” Corinne sighed again. “In the old days, he would have been called a playboy. Maybe they still call ’em that. Anyway, he was a man who never worked, had a lot of fancy cars, played polo, getting the picture?”

  Crawford nodded. “How long did they go out for?”

  “Um, maybe two or three years,” Corinne said. “The problem was, Lowell seemed to have girlfriends the way he had polo ponies. Lots of both.”

  “I understand,” Crawford said. “And before Grey?”

  “It gets a little blurry,” Corinne said. “There was a man I liked who seemed very stable. He ran a stock fund up in New York. Mimi brought him to meet me in Vero, and I thought, ‘Finally, this is the man.’ Bu-ut, it turned out his fund was just one big Ponzi scheme. I’m pretty sure he’s still in jail now. The government wanted to make an example of him, Mimi told me.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Ott said, and Crawford nodded.

  “Then there was a real estate agent she worked with, but that lasted about a minute and a half,” Corinne said then smiled. “I think the love of her life was a man she met in Italy.”

  “While she was there for her junior year abroad?”

  “Yes, he was older. An architect. He ended up moving here—well, not here but Miami. His firm did a lot of office and condo buildings there. Very sleek and ultramodern. Mimi showed me pictures of them in magazines like Architectural Digest. I really liked them.”

  “So, what happened?” Crawford asked. “To that relationship?”

  Corinne’s face slowly morphed into a frown. “That�
�s a very good question. Mimi never told me.”

  “So this took place in her early twenties?” Ott asked.

  “Yes, early to mid,” Corinne said with a sigh. “He may have been the one that got away.”

  Crawford and Ott both nodded.

  “Then when she was in her late twenties, I think it was, along came the psycho.”

  Ott’s head jerked up from his note-taking. “The psycho?”

  Corinne nodded. “That was my nickname, which, needless to say, I didn’t share with my daughter. He’s a man by the name of Hardy Johnson, who was the most hyper man I’ve ever met. Literally could not stand still. Which was, I guess, why he raced speedboats and motorcycles. There was a part of Mimi that seemed drawn to wild, reckless men like him. Men who liked to live in the fast lane,” she said, using finger quotes then shrugged. “Me? I don’t get it. They’re always so unstable.”

  “So how long did that last for?” Crawford asked.

  “A year maybe,” Corinne said. “He lives down near Mar-a-Lago. Supposedly he’s toned down a little, Mimi told me.”

  “Who else was there, Mrs. Taylor?” Crawford asked.

  “Oh my God, isn’t that enough?”

  “Do you happen to know…did any of these men ever threaten your daughter? Ever say anything that made her fear for her life? Anything like that at all?”

  Corinne thought for a second. “Not that I know of. But I’m not sure she would have ever told me something like that. You know, wouldn’t want me to worry.”

  “In the days before your daughter’s death, did you see her or speak to her?” Ott asked.

  “No, but she planned to come up here for Mother’s Day.”

  That was a month off.

  “So, no communication with her in the last week?” Crawford asked.

  Corinne shook her head.

  “What about…do you know if any of these men were art enthusiasts, by any chance?” Crawford asked.

  Corinne frowned. “That’s an odd question. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just something we found in the bathroom where Mimi’s body was discovered.”

  Corinne Taylor’s eyes got suddenly misty, and she started to sob for the first time.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Taylor,” Crawford said, realizing he had gotten a little clumsy at the mention of her daughter’s body.

  Corinne held up a hand. “It’s okay. No, I don’t remember any of them being art enthusiasts.”

  “Okay, well, thank you.”

  Corinne looked at Crawford then Ott. “What do you think happened?” she asked. “You’ve had two days to look into it.”

  Crawford exhaled. “To be perfectly honest with you, Mrs. Taylor, as much as we’d like to, we don’t have a theory or a prime suspect at this time.”

  Ott nodded. “But we will.”

  Corinne’s eyes suddenly turned steely behind her glasses, and she seemed to stare straight into Ott’s soul.

  “You have to…you must.”

  Nine

  This time, Ott was behind the wheel. He normally did the driving because both he and Crawford knew he was the better driver. And every once in a while, they’d need to drive extremely fast—like when a killer was trying to escape from them. On those occasions, both preferred that Ott be in the driver’s seat. Ott had once let Crawford off the hook about his mediocre driving by pointing out that the driving he had previously done had mostly been in New York City, so how could he possibly be expected to pursue a perp without ramming a garbage truck or a yellow cab?

  It was now a few minutes past three, and Crawford and Ott were headed to Stark Stabler’s house on El Brillo Way.

  “I felt bad hearing about Mimi Taylor’s love life,” Ott said. “Seems like she went out with every shit-bum loser between here and Jacksonville.”

  “I know, and this guy Stabler seems like the last in a long line of ’em.”

  Ott shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up liking him. One of your boyhood sports heroes and all.”

  “Not exactly. Like you, most of my boyhood sports heroes were football players. With a few hoopsters thrown in.”

  “Like who?”

  “The hoopsters?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there was a long line of big-time Knicks like Willis Reed, Patrick Ewing, Bob Bradley, Earl Monroe, Dave DeBusschere, Walt Frazier, Bernard King… Who were yours?”

  Ott didn’t hesitate. “LeBron.”

  “Yeah, and who else?”

  “That’s it. Unless you want to count Foots Walker.”

  “Who the hell is—”

  Ott nodded. “Exactly. So just LeBron,” he said as he rolled into the driveway of the big Mediterranean house on El Brillo.

  Ott whistled as he eyeballed the castle-like house. “Tennis has been very good to Stark.”

  Crawford shook his head. “Don’t kid yourself. His heiress-wife has been very good to him.”

  They both got out of the Crown Vic and walked to the front door.

  “Who’s the wife again?” Ott asked.

  “You know those green-and-yellow farm vehicles?”

  “Sure do,” Ott said. “Company started out in some backwater in Iowa. What I love is how a few generations later, the great-grandsons or great-granddaughters of these hardworking Midwest burghers find their way to Palm Beach and end up never doing shit.”

  “I know what you mean,” Crawford said, as Ott pressed the doorbell.

  An Asian woman in a light-blue uniform came to the door. “Yes, may I help you?”

  Crawford thought about saying, “Yes, we want to talk to the man of the house about a murder” but made do with, “Detectives Crawford and Ott to see Mr. Stabler, please.”

  “Ah, I’ll go see if he’s available.”

  “If he’s here,” Ott said with a smile, “he’s available.”

  The woman gave him a nasty look, harrumphed off, and Crawford and Ott cooled their heels for a few minutes, which did little to improve their moods.

  Finally, a figure appeared in the doorway. Crawford recognized him as a stouter, shorter, balder version of the man he had seen at the U.S. Open. He had a pencil-thin mustache that Crawford wanted to tell him worked okay on old matinee idols but not on him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” Stabler said. “I’ve just been terribly busy.”

  “I’m Detective Crawford and this is my partner, Detective Ott,” Crawford said. “Is your wife here, Mr. Stabler?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “A big one,” Ott said. “Is she?”

  “Yes,” Stabler said.

  “Then, for your sake, I suggest we conduct this interview out in our car,” Crawford said.

  “O-kay,” Stabler said. “This won’t take long, will it?”

  “It’ll take as long as it takes,” Crawford said.

  “That’s not really an answer,” Stabler said.

  “I’m aware of that,” Crawford said. “Follow us, please.”

  They turned and walked down the steps as Stabler followed them to the Crown Vic.

  “What is this about?”

  “I’m sure you’ve guessed already,” Crawford said.

  Ott opened the front passenger door for Stabler.

  Stabler grimaced at the sight of the Vic’s crusty, well-worn exterior then got in.

  Ott sat in the seat behind him, then slid over so he could see Stabler’s face. Crawford opened the driver’s side door and slid in.

  “So, Mr. Stabler,” Crawford said, “we’re investigating the murder of Mimi Taylor. And, please, don’t say ‘Who?’”

  Stabler sighed and lowered his voice. “I know Mimi.”

  “Yes, very well, in fact,” Ott said.

  Stabler didn’t answer.

  “You were having an affair with her,” Crawford said.

  “Where’d you get that from?” Stabler protested.

  “Front-page headline in the Glossy,” Ott said, referring to the local Palm Beach pape
r. “Come on, doesn’t matter where we got it, just that it’s a fact.”

  Stabler shook his head and cast his eyes down like he was being picked on.

  “Let me ask you this, Mr. Stabler, would you prefer we have this conversation in your living room?” Crawford asked.

  “Within earshot of the missus,” Ott added.

  “O-kay, o-kay,” Stabler said. “I was getting ready to end the whole thing with Mimi.”

  “Why was that?” Crawford asked.

  “She was a very needy woman.”

  Crawford had already developed a strong aversion to the man. “Seems you needed a thing or two yourself.”

  Stabler shot him the double stink-eye.

  “We know you were in a relationship with Ms. Taylor for a number of months until the time of her death.” Crawford said, turning to Ott, “Hand me that computer, will you, Mort?”

  Ott handed him Mimi Taylor’s computer, next to him on the back seat. Crawford opened it and pressed the email icon. He scrolled down to the email conversation between Mimi and Stabler three days ago.

  “In this first email, Ms. Taylor said she wanted to talk to you about ‘you know what’ three days ago. What is ‘you know what,’ Mr. Stabler?”

  Stabler sighed. “I was in the process of breaking up with her.”

  “So that’s ‘you know what’?” Ott asked.

  Stabler nodded.

  “I’m not buying it,” Crawford said, “’cause a few minutes later you say, ‘I’ve already said all I’m going to say on the subject.’ Then a minute later Ms. Taylor says, ‘If that’s your final statement, you’re forcing me to do what I really don’t want to do.’ What is she referring to, Mr. Stabler?”

  Stabler looked like a trapped animal. “I-I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do,” Crawford said. “She’s threatening to tell your wife about your affair.”

  “Isn’t that right, Mr. Stabler?” Ott chimed in.

  Stabler said nothing.

  “Next you email her, ‘Don’t threaten me Mimi,’ and she responds, “Let’s be grown-ups and work it out at the L.N.’ What is the L.N., Mr. Stabler?”

  There were beads of sweat on Stabler’s forehead now. He shrugged.

  “You don’t know what she means, the L.N.?”

  Stabler shook his head nervously.