Palm Beach Predator

by Tom Turner

  Crawford nodded.

  “Just like Mimi Taylor,” Ott said. “Her name’s Mattie Priest, works at Linda A. Gary Real Estate. She was found by a cleaning lady at just past ten thirty.”

  Crawford nodded and flicked his head in the direction of Medical Examiner Bob Hawes, who was hunched down over the body. “You talk to him yet?” Crawford asked.

  “Yeah, ‘carotid thrombosis’ in his lingo; ‘strangulation’ in ours.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Best guess is it happened upstairs, then she either fell or was thrown down the stairs. Pretty sure thrown.”

  There were four people clustered around Mattie Priest’s body: Hawes and three crime scene techs. Crawford decided to question them later, once they’d had time to gather more evidence.

  “You been upstairs?” Crawford asked.

  “Nah, just got here five minutes ago. I was about to go up.”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  Ott nodded and they stepped around Hawes and the techs and went up the stairs, keeping an eye out for clues along the way. Putting on vinyl gloves, they first went into a bedroom that appeared to be the master. It had his-and-her bathrooms and his-and-her walk-in closets. Nothing was in the closets or bathrooms. Everything was scrupulously clean and orderly and nothing caught Crawford’s or Ott’s eye. To be sure not to miss anything, Crawford crouched down and looked under the king-size bed.

  Nothing.

  Then they went into another bedroom. It was about half the size of the master and featured only one bath but an extra-large closet. Crawford walked over to the bed and pointed at the bedspread. It was rumpled and had a depression in it.

  Ott nodded. “Someone either sat or lay down on it.”

  Crawford nodded, walked around the bed and saw women’s clothes scattered on the carpet—a black silk skirt and a white collared shirt. On top of them were white panties and a white bra. Crawford crouched down and saw shoes just under the bed.

  Ott followed him and pulled out his iPhone. He took several shots from above, looking down, then several more from a lower angle.

  “If she was taking her clothes off, she would have put ‘em on that,” Crawford said, pointing to a beige-colored chaise just a few feet away.

  Ott nodded. “So, I’m guessing someone told her to strip, and she just dropped her clothes.”

  “But no obvious signs of consensual sex or rape,” Crawford said. “The bed would be more messed up.”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, I agree.” He took a few shots of the bed. “Unless it was a stand-up.”

  Crawford put his hand on his chin. “Looks like a guy was either with her or surprised her here. Told her to take her clothes off, strangled her, then threw her down the stairs. Seems like a pretty strange MO to me.”

  “I hear you, but I wouldn’t rule out rape so fast,” Ott said. “Just ’cause that wasn’t the case with Taylor.”

  “What do you think about a copycat?” Crawford asked.

  “I was thinking about that,” Ott said. “Thing is, we did a pretty good job keeping a lid on the Taylor scene. The Reclining Nude art thing never got into the papers or TV news, far as I know.”

  “Yeah, well, Red Noland knew about it. You know how it is…details like that never get totally suppressed. Somebody’s always telling somebody.”

  Ott nodded. “But in my experience, copycats are more Law & Order than real life. When was the last time you saw one?”

  “Good question. Back when I first started out, actually. Sixteen years ago, to be exact. Turned out, it wasn’t really a copycat. Just looked like one.”

  “I rest my case.”

  They went through the rest of the upstairs but didn’t find anything. Just a spotless house that probably had a cleaning person come every day.

  “Let’s go to her office,” Crawford said. “See if we can find out what her schedule was this morning.”

  They walked down the grand stairway, and Crawford caught Bob Hawes’s eye.

  “You gonna be here a while?” Crawford asked.

  “Couple of hours anyway,” Hawes said.

  “We’ll be back.”

  Hawes nodded.

  Crawford turned to Sheila Stallings, one of the CSEUs. “Her clothes are upstairs in the bedroom with blue wallpaper. We’re guessing that’s where she was strangled.”

  “Thanks,” Stallings said.

  The office for Linda A. Gary Real Estate was located at 201 Worth Avenue, just a short distance from where the Lowell Grey Gallery was soon to open.

  Crawford asked to speak to Linda Gary, but she was out showing a house, so he asked if there was an office manager on duty. There was. A woman by the name of Nancy Anselmo.

  She had a glass-walled office that looked out over the agents’ cubicles. A woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties, Anselmo had short blonde hair and a businesslike air about her. She also looked apprehensive about being visited by two Palm Beach Police detectives.

  Crawford and Ott remained standing in her office. “Let me get right to the point,” said Crawford. “I’m sorry to tell you, but your agent Mattie Priest was killed a few hours ago at 217 Dunbar Road.”

  Anselmo’s face blanched and she instinctively covered her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God,” she said again.

  “My partner and I both express our condolences,” Crawford said. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, we need to move as quick as possible to find the killer and have a few questions.”

  “Of course, I understand,” Anselmo said. “I just…I’m so shocked. And, oh God, less than a week after what happened to Mimi Taylor.”

  Crawford and Ott nodded. “Our first question is, is it possible to find out if Ms. Priest was showing the house on Dunbar this morning? And if so, to whom?”

  “We’re a pretty small shop, so I know how most of the agents handle their schedules,” Anselmo said. “I’m pretty sure Mattie had her showing schedule on her computer.”

  “Would it be possible to take a look at her computer?” Ott asked.

  “Sure,” Anselmo said, “if it’s on. But I don’t have her password or anything.”

  “Understand,” Crawford said. “Do you know whether Ms. Priest had a family?”

  “She was married. Oh, poor Ted… but she didn’t have kids.”

  “Does her husband work, do you know?”

  “Yes, he’s an attorney at Moulton Cohen,” Anselmo said.

  As Crawford continued to ask questions, Ott looked up the number of the law firm she mentioned.

  “So if you’d take us to Ms. Priest’s desk…” Crawford gestured with a tilt of his head.

  Anselmo nodded and led them out of her office, into the cubicle area.

  They caught a break in that Mattie Priest’s MacBook Air computer was not only on, but on her calendar page.

  Her first appointment of the day was at 9:00. It said simply Ann and Troy Price, no location. It also had a phone number next to it. Crawford recognized the area code as a Los Angeles one. Later in the day she had two more appointments: two o’clock at 230 Barton and four o’clock at 102 Caribbean.

  Obviously, she wouldn’t be making either one of those.

  Nineteen

  Before Crawford and Ott left the Linda A. Gary Real Estate office, they asked Nancy Anselmo whom Mattie Priest was closest to in the office. Anselmo gave them two names and explained that the woman who really knew her best was Sylvia McInerny, her partner.

  “You mean they worked together as a team?” Ott asked.

  “Exactly. They’ve been together as long as I can remember.”

  “Is she here now?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes, right over there,” Anselmo said, pointing to a woman who was on the phone and gesturing with one hand.

  Crawford asked Anselmo to request that Sylvia McInerny come into the conference room since there were so many agents sitting within a close radius of her. He felt that her reaction might set off a chain of shock and emotional reac
tions.

  After McInerny’s initial shocked reaction about her partner’s death, she collapsed into a chair and began to sob. She said over and over about how Mattie’s husband was going to be “devastated,” “crushed,” and “destroyed.” Nancy Anselmo helped calm her down, but it was clear Sylvia McInerny had lost a very dear friend.

  “Ms. McInerny,” Crawford, who remained standing, said, “could I ask what you know about Troy and Ann Price, the couple your partner was meeting at 217 Dunbar Road?”

  “Well, I knew them pretty well since Mattie and I have been working with them for about a year.”

  “Why so long?” Crawford asked.

  “That’s not even that long,” McInerny said. “Sometimes we work with buyers three or four years until they actually buy.”

  Nancy Anselmo nodded.

  “I noticed they have a Los Angeles phone number,” Crawford said.

  McInerny nodded. “You don’t recognize the name?”

  Crawford glanced at Ott, who showed no reaction. Ott was a lot more knowledgeable about pop culture and celebrities than he.

  “Who are they?” Crawford asked.

  McInerny leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Troy Price was head of Sunset Studio. He quit after he was charged with harassment and sexual assault. It was a big story right after Harvey Weinstein.”

  Ott nodded. “I remember. The woman who accused him was the daughter of a famous actor, right?”

  McInerny nodded.

  Crawford glanced over at Ott, who was working his iPhone, Googling Troy Price, no doubt.

  “On another subject, did Ms. Priest ever express any fears about anyone? Or mention anyone she might have had a run-in with before?”

  McInerny’s eyes shot to Anselmo’s. “Mattie? Never. Everyone loved Mattie. I doubt she ever had a real enemy in her entire life.”

  Nancy Anselmo nodded. “Some people in this business create enemies. Mattie would have rather lost a deal than antagonize someone. She was also scrupulously honest, which I can’t say about everyone in real estate.”

  “I have to ask this, though it may be uncomfortable,” Crawford said. “Were you aware of any extramarital affairs or anything at all like that? Especially anything recent or within the last couple of years?”

  “Mattie and I have been partners for fourteen years, and I can guarantee you she never strayed once,” McInerny said. “And because she was pretty, there were plenty of men who made advances. But she never showed the slightest interest.”

  “Did she ever happen to mention that Troy Price might have…made advances?”

  McInerny hesitated. “Well, as a matter of fact, she did,” she said softly. “It was before the whole thing came out in the news about him. Mattie had had lunch with Troy and Ann—Ta-boo, I seem to remember—and they had a bottle or two of wine, then went and looked at houses. She told me Ann was in the kitchen and she and Troy had just walked into the master bedroom. Mattie told me he said to her, ‘If I buy this place, how ‘bout joining me here when Ann’s on the golf course?’”

  “Really?” Crawford said. “Was that the only time?”

  McInerny sighed. “No, there were others. But Mattie just kept ignoring him or else laughed it off.”

  “Like, what else did he say?”

  “One time he got pretty graphic.”

  “About what?”

  McInerny’s face flushed to a matador-cape red, then she glanced at Nancy Anselmo. “I’d rather not say.”

  Ott handed her a card. “How about this, just email what he said, would you?”

  McInerny looked relieved. “Okay,” she said, as she wrote some numbers on the back of her card. “Here’s Troy’s number.”

  “Thanks, “Crawford said. “Ladies, I think that will do it for now. Again, our deepest condolences for your loss. She sounds like she was a really nice woman.”

  “She was,” McInerny said, and Anselmo nodded.

  Crawford and Ott walked out of the conference room with the two women. Crawford could see by the looks of the other agents that they knew something was up.

  Crawford walked out the front door onto the Worth Avenue sidewalk. “This guy Price sounds like a real sleazebag.”

  Ott waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s go find out.”

  Twenty

  On the way back to the station, Crawford dialed Troy Price’s number.

  He got a recording. “This is Troy. I’m either on the golf course or shooting a picture and can’t be bothered. Leave a message.”

  Another reason not to like the guy, Crawford thought. “Call me please, Mr. Price. This is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police.” He left his phone number and turned to Ott. “Sounds like another all-star asshole.”

  “Why? What—”

  “Just listen,” Crawford hit redial and handed Ott his phone.

  Ott listened, then started shaking his head. “Yup,” he concurred.

  It was Ott’s turn to do the death notification. He and Crawford were headed in different directions and would be leaving the station in separate cars — Ott on his way to the law firm where Mattie Priest’s husband worked and Crawford back up to the crime scene on Dunbar Road.

  Ott walked up to the reception desk at the Moulton Cohen law firm, ID’d himself, and said he needed to see Ted Priest right away. The receptionist looked alarmed and said he was meeting with a client. Ott said it was critical that he see him as soon as possible.

  The receptionist called Priest, spoke to him, then told Ott she’d lead him back to Priest’s office.

  Priest, a nice-looking man in a grey, pin-striped suit looked uneasy. It was a look Ott had seen too many times before. The look of someone who could only imagine the worst reasons why a detective had suddenly shown up out of nowhere in his life.

  Ott asked Ted Priest to sit down, then seated himself and told him what had happened. Oh my God was the most frequent reaction when a loved one got the news, followed closely by disbelief: No, that can’t be. Ted Priest said both things in the same sentence. Ott told him how sorry he was for his loss a second time, then went quiet for a few moments. As Priest held his face in his hands, Ott decided to ask him a soft question. Whether his wife, or he, had any enemies or anyone who he thought might do harm to either of them. Priest’s answer was even more emphatic than Nancy Anselmo’s and Sylvia McInerny’s. ‘No, Mattie was incapable of getting anyone angry at her, let alone making enemies.’

  Ott gave Priest a card, asked for his number, and said either he or his partner would be in touch. He didn’t want to burden the poor man with a million questions now. It was time for him to be allowed to start grieving. Police questions could wait a day or two.

  But Priest had his own questions. He asked Ott if he thought it was the same killer as the one who murdered the real estate agent the week before. Ott said it was too early to tell but that it was probably a good chance it was the same person.

  Ted Priest looked out his window for a few moments and didn’t say anything. Finally, he volunteered that he had a premonition that morning that something bad was going to happen. He cut himself shaving, he said, then he bumped his coffee mug with his elbow while he was reading the newspaper and it shattered on the floor. He hadn’t had a day start out like that in a long time.

  Ott knew it was time to go.

  Crawford took the short drive over to Dunbar Road and again noticed the discreet sign. Linda A. Gary Real Estate. Below it was the name, Mattie Priest, then her number.

  Crawford flashed to Rose Clarke and felt a rare spike of fear chill his spine. He needed to warn her after this visit, tell her she should not only be very careful about being alone in houses but also carry a can of pepper spray at all times. Maybe even get a pistol. But then he remembered her going off on an anti-gun diatribe and lighting into the NRA after the mass school shooting in Parkland, just down the road.

  He walked into the house and saw that nothing much had changed except Bob Hawes had stripped down to a white T-shirt that was sweat-st
ained and gamey-looking. Mattie Priest also had a sheet that covered everything but her face.

  “You get him yet?” Hawes asked Crawford.

  “Not yet,” Crawford answered. “Was it rape this time?”

  Hawes shook his head. “Which leads me to believe the same guy did both.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s the art thing too,” Crawford said.

  “The art thing, the no-rape thing, the real estate-agent thing,” Hawes said. “Hey, by the way, Charlie, I’m impressed you parlez-vous the français.”

  Crawford just glanced over at Sheila Stallings. “Anything upstairs? You get anything from her clothes?”

  “Nope,” Stallings said. “But the lipstick in her purse matches the writing on her body.”

  Crawford nodded. “Figures.”

  “You didn’t think the guy brought his own?” That was Hawes humor. Almost as lame as Norm Rutledge’s.

  Crawford ignored him and saw Stallings do a quick eye roll.

  “All right, you’ll let me know if you find something else?” Crawford said.

  Hawes and Stallings both nodded.

  Crawford was eager to talk to Troy Price. As well as reinterview numbers two, three, four, and five on his suspect list: Stark Stabler, Lowell Grey, Johnny Cotton, and Art Nunan. The question was, would they have better alibis than the last time?

  He called Mattie Priest’s partner, Sylvia McInerny, who answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, Ms. McInerny, it’s Detective Crawford again. I was wondering if you knew where Mr. and Mrs. Price stay when they’re here in Palm Beach?”

  “The Chesterfield,” McInerny said. “They always get a suite. He always says it’s got this ‘old Hollywood retro’ feel to it. I never really understood what he meant by that. Or how he even knows anything about old Hollywood. I mean, he’s like, forty.”

  The Chesterfield was all the answer Crawford needed.

  He thanked her and headed to the hotel at 363 Cocoanut Row.

  The man at the desk told him that Mr. and Mrs. Price had just taken their dog for a walk down by the marina. Probably wouldn’t be long, he added.