Palm Beach Predator

by Tom Turner

  “Well, then you’re the only one in this car who doesn’t,” Crawford said. “You see, me and my partner went through Ms. Taylor’s computer pretty thoroughly, and we found a few references to the L.N.”

  Ott took over. “The first one was back about five months ago, close to the beginning of your relationship. You emailed Ms. Taylor, ‘Meet me at the love nest at eight o’clock. I’ll have bubbly chilling on ice.’”

  “So the L.N. is the love nest, and bubbly is champagne,” Crawford said. “And we want to know exactly where the love nest is.”

  Stabler sighed again then mumbled something inaudible.

  “I didn’t hear you,” Ott said.

  “Three-two-seven Granada.”

  “In West Palm?”

  Stabler nodded.

  “Okay,” Crawford said. “Glad to see your memory came back. Back to the original email chain, your last one reads, ‘I agree. Tomorrow morning at 10.’”

  “Which would have been a few hours before Ms. Taylor was murdered,” Ott said.

  Stabler threw up his hands in protest. “Hold on, I had nothing to do with that. We met at that time, then she left and I left.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott to gauge his reaction. Ott looked dubious. “Okay, so what took place at that meeting, then? And don’t bullshit us anymore.”

  Stabler sighed again. The man was a world-class sigher. “We broke up, once and for all. You’re right, she had threatened to tell my wife, but I talked her out of it. More like I implored her” —he dropped his voice— “and offered to pay her some money.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott again.

  Ott smiled. “So, you ‘implored’ her with exactly how much money?”

  “A hundred thousand,” Stabler said. “I figure the whole thing worked out to about a thousand bucks per roll in the hay.”

  Crawford watched Ott roll his eyes in disgust.

  “So, the morning of Ms. Taylor’s death, when did you leave the love nest?”

  “About twenty minutes after we got there.”

  “So, ten twenty?” Ott asked.

  Stabler nodded.

  Crawford caught Ott’s eye and motioned with his head. “We’re gonna step outside for a few moments,” Crawford said, and he and Ott opened their car doors.

  They walked away from the car. “What’s your gut?” Crawford asked Ott.

  “Could be our guy or could have happened like he said.”

  Crawford nodded. “Yeah, I got no strong hunch yet.”

  “So, let’s turn up the heat,” Ott said.

  “I agree. Turn it up, play it like we’re convinced he did it.”

  Ott nodded and turned toward the car.

  “Hang on,” Crawford said. “Stay here a few minutes. See if we can’t get him a little more stressed out.”

  Ott smiled.

  For the next few minutes they talked about sports and a Netflix series Ott had been binging on then went back to the car, their expressions grim.

  “Mr. Stabler,” Crawford said, sliding back to the driver’s seat, “did you strangle Ms. Taylor at 327 Granada then take her to the house on North Lake Way?”

  “What?” Stabler said, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. “I told you I left there at ten twenty. Same time she did. She couldn’t have been more alive.”

  “She was going to tell your wife, wasn’t she?” Ott asked.

  “No. Christ, I told you.”

  “Yeah, just like you told us you didn’t know what the love nest was,” Ott said. “When, in fact, it was you who came up with the name in the first place.”

  “When you took Ms. Taylor’s body over to the house on North Lake Way, was someone else there?” Crawford asked.

  Stabler started to speak, but Ott cut him off. “Did you see a car in the driveway, a man cleaning the windows, then did you drive around for a while, then come back?”

  Stabler shook his head violently. “I went to the Poinciana and played golf at twelve thirty.”

  “And you’ve got people who can say they saw you there?” Crawford asked.

  Stabler nodded.

  “So that still leaves a two-hour gap,” Ott said, “between approximately ten thirty and twelve thirty.”

  “Before I played, I hit some balls on the range,” Stabler said. “Putted for a while too.”

  “For two hours?” Crawford asked skeptically. “When you played, were you in a foursome?”

  “No, I played alone.”

  “When did you finish up?”

  “About four. I went around pretty fast.”

  Crawford scratched the side of his face. “It would have been possible to play the first hole or two, get seen by a bunch of people, then go get in your car, drive up to North Lake Way, and kill Mimi Taylor. Then come back and finish up the last couple holes.”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t take that long to strangle someone,” Ott said.

  Stabler rubbed his face with both hands for a long moment then threw his head back. “For Chrissakes, that never happened. I played eighteen holes, went to the bar, had a drink, then went home.”

  “That’s your story,” Ott said, glancing at Crawford.

  “I want you to give us a list of people who saw you? On the range, on the course, in the bar, wherever,” Crawford said. “We’ll see whether it checks out.”

  Stabler nodded. “Fine. Are we done here?”

  “No,” Crawford said. “So, if you gave Ms. Taylor a hundred-thousand-dollar check at 327 Granada, that would have helped your case. We’d have found it in her purse, and it would prove you paid her off so she wouldn’t say anything to your wife. But, the problem is we didn’t.”

  “I was going to give it to her,” Stabler said. “I don’t carry my checkbook around with me.”

  “That’s too bad,” Ott said. “Sure woulda helped your cause.”

  Crawford pulled out his wallet, took out a card, and handed it to Stabler.

  “Send me that list of people at the Poinciana to the email there.”

  Stabler took the card and nodded.

  “One final question,” Crawford said, figuring—what the hell— might as well try to leave things on a good note.

  Stabler looked wary.

  “Still got that topspin backhand?”

  Ten

  It turned out Stark Stabler didn’t play tennis anymore. Like so many professional athletes after retirement, he ended up being a golfer.

  “So?” Crawford said to Ott on the ride back to the station. “What’s your take?”

  “Best guy so far,” Ott said. “He could have made that whole thing up about the hundred-grand payoff. Killed her at the love nest, took her body up to the house on North Lake Way, then left it there.”

  “But why? Why bother taking the body up to the house?”

  Ott shrugged. “I don’t know. Good question,” he said. “I still like your scenario. The two of ’em left the love nest, then Stabler started to think twice about the whole thing. She mentioned she was going up to the house, so he started to play the Poinciana just to be seen, then cut it short, went up to North Lake Way, killed her, then went back out on the course at the Poinciana to alibi himself again.”

  Crawford nodded. “Definitely coulda happened.”

  His cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Charlie, it’s Red Noland. Got a few minutes?”

  “Yeah, sure, what’s up?”

  “I mean, can you come to the station. I got a live one here.”

  “Me and my partner will be there in ten.” He clicked off, then turned to Ott. “West Palm police station on Banyan. Red Noland says he’s got a live one there.”

  “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

  Crawford thought for a second. “Umm…not a dead one?”

  They walked into the West Palm Beach station on Banyan, and the receptionist directed them back to Red Noland, who was waiting in a room with no windows and no amenities. The door was locked, and Noland was seated at a table with a m
an who had a pock-marked face, splayed teeth, and, as they soon found out, a major attitude.

  Crawford rapped on the door. Noland saw his face through the glass and let them in.

  “Hey, Red,” Crawford said. “This is my partner, Mort Ott.”

  “I heard of you, Mort,” Noland said.

  “That can’t be good,” Ott said.

  “A regular at Mookie’s, right?”

  “Had a few beers there, yeah.”

  The three turned to the unsmiling man.

  “Got a fella here with a bad memory,” Noland said. “Johnny Cotton meet Detective Crawford and Detective Ott.”

  “Hello, Johnny,” Crawford said.

  “Johnny,” Ott said.

  Cotton didn’t say a word.

  “So, here’s what I got on Johnny,” Noland said. “Five years back, he took a little trip up to Redfern Correctional for manslaughter, which got pled down from murder one. What happened was—” Noland glanced at Cotton “—you want to tell ’em, Johnny?”

  Cotton didn’t say a word.

  “What happened was,” Noland went on, “Johnny had himself an eighteen-year-old girl in his apartment and, according to the testimony, he and the girl got amorous and Johnny ended up strangling her to death. But Johnny’s attorney was able to convince the judge that it was in the act of having sex.”

  “Wait,” Ott said. “Don’t tell me. The old erotic asphyxiation gambit?”

  “Bingo. You heard that one before, huh?”

  Ott nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

  “So, lo and behold, we catch Johnny on a camera at the Palm Beach Marina two weeks ago—”

  “Which turns out to be the same night that woman was strangled on her boat, I’m guessing?” Crawford said.

  Noland nodded. “You got it. But then we got something even better. I tracked down Johnny here working for a landscaper. Guess where?”

  “Palm Beach, maybe?” Crawford said.

  “Not only Palm Beach, but last Tuesday he was at a house three doors down from that one on North Lake Way where your reclining nude was found. And” —Noland held up a hand— “it gets better.”

  Cotton took a sip of a Coke that Noland had provided.

  “What happens is,” Noland continued, “the rest of the crew go to buy something for lunch, but Johnny’s brought a sandwich with him and stays right where they’ve been working.”

  “Three doors away from our murder house?”

  Noland nodded. “Yup. And the other boys come back twenty five minutes later and ’ol Johnny’s right where they left him.”

  “So, the question is, did he take a little walk to the house three doors away?” Ott said.

  “That is the question. Well, did ya, Johnny?” Noland asked as all three eyed Cotton.

  “No, I didn’t,” Cotton said in a gravelly voice, just north of a growl. “And since when is it illegal to walk around in a marina looking at boats.”

  “Since never,” Noland said. “But it’s all about your timing.”

  “At both places,” Crawford added.

  Noland nodded.

  “How long you been out of Redfern, Johnny?” Ott asked.

  “A month or so.”

  “And what exactly were you doing that night at the marina?” Ott asked, slipping into his easygoing let’s-have-a-beer-and-shoot-the-shit persona.

  “Just walking around,” Cotton said. “I was at CityPlace before. Just looking at stuff.”

  “Were ya now?” Ott said, nodding. “You buy anything there?”

  “Nah, on a landscaper’s salary you can’t afford much in that place.”

  Ott nodded. “Did you talk to anybody at either CityPlace or the marina?”

  “Asked a few questions in one of the stores.”

  “Was it a woman you spoke to?”

  Cotton nodded.

  “And what about at the marina. You talk to anybody there?”

  “What you tryin’ to get at?”

  “Were you looking to meet women by any chance, Johnny?” Ott asked. Then, with a smile, “’Cause I sure as hell would be if I just got out of the joint.”

  Cotton frowned. “Told you. I was just walkin’ around lookin’ at the boats.”

  “Did you happen to see any women on any of the boats?” Ott asked.

  “Goddamn dog with a bone, man,” Cotton answered quickly. “I wasn’t paying any attention to the people on the boats. Just the boats.”

  “So you never saw a good-looking woman on a boat called—” Ott turned to Noland, “What was it, Red?”

  “The Seabreeze.”

  “Yeah, on a boat called the Seabreeze?”

  “Nope.”

  Ott nodded.

  Crawford cocked his head to one side, then the other. “Let me ask you about something else,” he said. “You look like a man of culture. You like art at all?”

  Cotton smiled for the first time. “Oh, yeah, man, when I’m not picking weeds and mowing grass, you’ll be sure to find me in an art gallery.”

  Crawford chuckled. “Sense of humor, huh?”

  “No,” Cotton said. “You got the sense of humor. Art? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

  Crawford glanced over at Ott, who had a smirk on his face.

  “Johnny,” it was Ott’s turn, “you said a couple of times how you like to walk around.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “When you were working at that house on North Lake in Palm Beach day before yesterday, you take a little walk on your lunch break?”

  Cotton shook his head. “Nope. Ate my sandwich and nodded off for a half hour. I was tired, picking all those weeds and shit.”

  “So, if we went around and showed your picture to the neighbors, none of them would have seen you, right?”

  Cotton thought for a second. “Well, they might have seen me working at the house.”

  “But not walking along the road or going into the driveway of that house where the woman was killed?”

  “Or coming out of it?” Ott asked.

  “Hell, no.”

  “Okay,” Crawford said, taking his iPhone out of his jacket. “So, you won’t have a problem if I take your picture and go show it to the neighbors, will you?”

  Cotton’s eyes narrowed. Like, he indeed might have a problem with that. “Yeah, I would actually. ’Cause this guy up in Redfern was in for twenty years before they found out it was mistaken identity. Don’t take my picture, man.”

  Crawford had an idea. “We found a mailman who saw a guy come out of the house in question. Got a decent look at him, too. So this would be your chance to get off the hook, since you’re saying it wasn’t you.”

  “Still don’t want you taking my picture.”

  “You realize,” Ott said, “you’re getting us all a little suspicious.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t give a fuck what you are.”

  Ott shrugged and looked at Crawford.

  Crawford stood up. “Okay, Johnny, nice talking to you. Guess we’re just going to have to use your mug shot from five years ago to show that mailman.”

  “It would be nice if there really was a mailman,” Ott said as they drove over the north bridge to the station.

  Crawford nodded. “Yeah, no kiddin’. So, what’s your take on Cotton?”

  Ott thought a few moments. “I don’t know, man. The guy was right there where it happened. But if it was him he would have grabbed the purse. And the art thing…I’m not sure he’d even know how to spell ‘reclining.’”

  “Unless he was playing us.”

  Ott shrugged.

  Crawford’s cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Charlie, it’s Glenna.” The receptionist at the station.

  “Hey, Glen, why are you whispering?”

  “’Cause I got a wack-a-doodle here who wants to see you.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s his or her name?”

  “Holly Pine.”

  The real estate babe who went heavy with the makeup brush.

  “She sa
y what she wants?”

  “Just that she wants to talk to you.”

  Crawford sighed. “All right, we’re on our way back.”

  “She just wants to talk to you. Not Mort.”

  “Aw, he’ll be hurt,” Crawford said, clicking off.

  “You talking about me?” Ott asked.

  “Holly Pine, that agent at Fite, is at the station. She wants a private audience with me.”

  Ott frowned. “I am a little hurt.”

  Ten minutes later Crawford and Ott walked into the station. Ott kept walking back to the serenity of his cubicle, while Crawford went over to Holly Pine, who was reading a year-old Time magazine.

  “Hi, Ms. Pine,” he said and she looked up and beamed.

  “Oh, hi, Charlie,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you Charlie. Detective is such a mouthful.”

  Crawford noticed two things. One was Glenna smirking behind the reception desk and the second was that somehow Holly Pine had gotten a deep, dark tan since he saw her last. Then he realized it stopped halfway down her neck. It was clearly something that came in a tube, not from the sun.

  “Charlie’s fine,” he said.

  “You can call me Holly.”

  Another silent smirk from Glenna, who was pretending not to listen.

  Crawford sat down across from Holly and waited for her to volunteer something. But she just kept smiling her goofy smile.

  Finally, he asked, “So, did you think of something else? I mean, about the murder of Mimi Taylor?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact…” She lowered her voice.

  Crawford leaned closer. “As a matter of fact…what?”

  “I did some detective work.” She smiled broadly. “The man she was having an affair with is named Stark Stabler.”

  Crawford barely reacted. “Well, thank you, Ms. Pine.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?” Holly elbowed him playfully. “Maybe I get some reward money?”

  It was her little ha-ha.

  Crawford shook his head. “Sorry, there’s no reward money.”

  She smiled. “I was just kidding.”

  “And, Ms. Pine, we actually know about Mr. Stabler” —her face dropped— “but thanks anyway.”

  She frowned, and Crawford saw her tube tan crack a hair. “Well, I guess I wasn’t too helpful.”