by Tom Turner
It turned out that information was in another office, but after a while they were able to locate it.
Luna Jacobs’s address was 1522 Spruce Road in Melbourne.
“If she moved away, she probably sold the place,” Bostwick said. “Or maybe she leased it and the lease expired.”
“If she moved away. Want to take a little drive, Henry?”
“Let’s go.”
They drove in separate cars to the beige, ranch-style house on Spruce Road. There was a black Taurus in the driveway that clearly hadn’t been washed in a while. It had leaves all over it and a dead palm frond on the trunk.
Bostwick pulled in behind the car. Crawford parked on the street and walked up to Bostwick.
“You don’t happen to know what Luna Jacobs drove, do you?” Crawford asked.
Bostwick shook his head. “No clue.”
They walked up to the front porch and Bostwick pressed the doorbell.
They waited a minute and he pressed it again.
Still nobody came.
Crawford walked up to a window, shaded his eyes, and looked in. It was a small, neat living room. All four walls were covered with art. It was like Jack Lamb’s tattooed face, except with watercolors, charcoal sketches, pen-and-ink drawings, and oils everywhere you looked.
“I don’t see anything,” Crawford said. He stepped off the porch and went to the house’s mailbox. It was stuffed with letters, flyers, and a few magazines and had no room left to squeeze anything else in it. He figured the mailman had given up.
Crawford walked around the side of the house as Bostwick pounded on the door again.
Crawford was looking for a window that wasn’t locked but found none. He went around the back. No luck. Then he went to the last side of the house and found a window that hadn’t been locked.
He pulled out a pair of vinyl gloves from his pocket and pushed the window up. It stuck stubbornly, but he finally forced it up an inch or two. Then he put both hands under it and shoved it up a foot.
The stench that came pouring out almost knocked Crawford off his feet.
Thirty-Two
Henry Bostwick didn’t step foot into the house because of the stench. In terms of grisliness, it was a close runner-up to a homicide Crawford had caught back in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen. There, a body was found in an abandoned building where it had been festering for months, the man’s pet dog’s remains next to him. A noose hung from a rafter above what was left of the man.
The only way the authorities could confirm that the badly decomposed body was Luna Jacobs was because her sister, who lived in Orlando and drove down later that day, ID’d her. She recognized an old family ring and a watch that she and her husband had given her sister as a Christmas present a few years back.
Crawford stuck around long enough to find out from the Melbourne medical examiner what he already suspected, that there was absolutely no way to determine the cause of death. He called both Sasha Estes and Martin Sanchez and gave them the news. Sasha was particularly broken up. “Oh my God, no wonder she never called back. I feel so terrible now, never checking her house. It just never dawned on me.”
Crawford consoled her as best as he could. Then he spoke to the local homicide detectives and told them what he knew, that his primary suspect in the death of Luna Jacobs was a former inmate at Malpaso named Johnny Cotton. The same day Cotton was released was almost surely the same day he killed Jacobs.
Crawford was less than impressed by the reaction of the two local detectives. One of them introduced himself as Glen Steyer, but neither seemed interested in Crawford’s conclusions on the case. In fact, they seemed like types who talked more than they listened and who assumed they were five steps ahead of him.
Crawford went to the neighbors on either side of Jacobs’s house and to three houses across the street and showed them his photo of Cotton. He asked them if they had seen the man in the picture approximately a month ago. None of them had. There was nothing more he could do. He went back into Luna Jacobs’s house and suggested to one of the homicide detectives that he check to see if a security camera in a nearby commercial area had picked up an image of Cotton at the time of Luna Jacobs’s death. The detective thanked him, but Crawford got the sense he’d never bother.
Crawford called Ott and told him the whole story.
“You had yourself a productive day, Charlie.”
“Productive, but nothing that’s gonna hang Cotton.”
“You want me to pick him up?”
“For what?”
“Suspicion of murder. Four to be exact,” Ott said. “Then we sit him down and good-cop/bad-cop the shit out of him. Drag a confession out of him. I don’t give a fuck if it takes ten hours.”
“It’s a good thought, but this guy is gonna be a tough one to crack, guarantee you.”
“Yeah, but we got him lying to us. Not telling us about his little forty-five-minute coffee break.”
“Yeah? So? He just tells us, ‘Oops, sorry, I forgot.’”
Ott was quiet for a few moments. “I don’t know…there’s got to be something we can do.”
“I know what you mean, but my sense is we don’t take him in ’til we got him dead to rights. What we definitely gotta do, though, is put a tail on him. Make sure he doesn’t kill again.”
“If we can find him.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Might be a big if.”
“Could be.”
Ott sighed. “Okay, man, where you at now?”
“About ready to hit the road.”
“You gonna be ridin’ with Neil again?” Ott asked.
Shortly after Crawford and Ott teamed up, they had taken a road trip on a case, and Crawford had slipped in a CD of Neil Young’s greatest hits.
“You like the whiner, huh?” Ott had asked at the time.
“The whiner? What are you talking about?”
“Half his songs, sound like he’s whining instead of singing.”
“I’m guessing you’re not a fan?”
“No, I’m actually a huge fan,” Ott had said with a shrug.
“So I guess you like whining, then?”
“I guess I do.”
They had just listened for a while until the song “Old Man” came on.
After it was over, Ott turned to Crawford. “You know the story on that song?”
“Yeah, something about a guy at a ranch Neil bought.”
“Close,” Ott said. “So, Neil, at the tender age of twenty-four bought this ranch and inherited this guy as its caretaker. He’s the old man in the song. I think the guy was, max, forty years old.”
They listened to a few more songs as they motored north on the turnpike.
Then came Young’s “Heart of Gold.”
“What’s his obsession with age, anyway?” Ott asked.
“You mean the refrain?”
“Yeah, ‘…and I’m gettin’ old.’ I mean, dude was twenty-seven when he wrote that. Fuck, when I was twenty-seven, I had just started shaving.”
Thirty-Three
The meeting with the three people from the Board of Realtors was scheduled to take place in Norm Rutledge’s office. Crawford swung by Ott’s cubicle about ten minutes late.
“We really don’t need this distraction,” Crawford mumbled.
“I hear you. Not with Cotton on the loose.”
They went into Rutledge’s office. Two men and a woman were waiting for them. The woman he knew well. Surprise, surprise, it was none other than Rose Clarke.
Crawford smiled and nodded at Rose, who smiled back.
Rutledge made an ostentatious show of looking at this watch and casting a frown at Crawford.
“Sorry we’re late,” Crawford said.
Rutledge looked at one of the men, then gestured at his detectives. “So, this is Detective Crawford and Detective Ott. And fellas, this is Dennis Shaw, head of the Board of Realtors, and David Crane and—I think you know—Ms. Clarke.”
A lot of noddin
g, shaking hands, and nice to meet you’s. Just for the hell of it, Crawford shook Rose’s hand.
“This is a first,” Rose said under her breath.
Crawford smiled.
Rutledge had brought extra chairs into his office for the meeting. They all sat down. “All right,” he said. “At this point I’m just going to turn the meeting over to Mr. Shaw.”
Shaw, a balding man with a drooping blue bow tie, nodded at Rutledge. “Thank you. So, gentlemen, and Rose, we all know why we’re here today. We’ve got a crisis of epic proportions in Palm Beach. Customers who are canceling appointments, agents who are fearing for their lives, and a market which right now is dead in the water. And because of that we are here now to ask you what you’re doing about it. More specifically, when you’re going to catch the murderer.”
Crawford glanced at Ott, then Rutledge, then Shaw. “Well, Mr. Shaw, of course there’s no answer to that. My partner and I have been focused exclusively on the case since Mimi Taylor’s murder as have numerous crime scene techs and many others.”
“I can also volunteer this,” Rutledge said. “In the four years that Detective Crawford and Detective Ott have led our homicide division, they have solved every case they have worked on.”
“Thank you, Chief and Detective Crawford. That’s all very reassuring, but all we care about is the last two. The ones that involve our slain agents.”
“I understand that, Mr. Shaw,” Crawford said, “and at this point we have a number of solid suspects.”
“Well, if you do,” Shaw said, “why don’t you go and arrest the one who did it and make our community safe again?”
Crawford glanced over at Ott. “The reason is that we don’t have enough evidence to do that. We’re confident we’ll get to that point, but we haven’t gotten there yet.”
Everyone had spoken except Rose. “I’m in a funny position here,” she said, “because on one hand I represent the board, but on the other hand Detective Crawford and Detective Ott are good friends of mine. I know very well how professional they always are and how hard they work at their jobs” —she caught Crawford’s eye, then Ott’s— “and I’m just hoping you guys are close to taking someone in. I’ve never seen it this bad out there.”
Crawford and Ott both nodded.
Crane, a man with a double chin and sweat on his forehead, tapped his fingers on Rutledge’s desk. “Rose, that nice little declaration of support for the detectives is all very good, but is it possible that it is motivated by personal feelings?”
Everybody in the office knew what he meant.
Rose gave him a look like she wanted to give him a toe to the nuts. Her mouth opened as if she were ready to light into him. But—just like that—she changed her expression and smiled ear to ear. “Thank you, David, but everyone here except for you, and possibly Chief Rutledge, knows me well enough to know that I would never let a personal friendship get in the way of doing my job.”
“Well,” Shaw said to Crawford, “I don’t think we need to belabor this. We’ve expressed our feelings, and I just hope you’re not treating our concerns lightly.”
“Mr. Shaw, let me say this,” Rutledge said, his hands joined as if in prayer, “we recognize that the real estate industry is one of the primary engines of commerce in Palm Beach and, because of that, it’s critical that we work together harmoniously.”
Crawford suppressed a groan, hearing for the umpteenth time the world-champion suck-up side of Rutledge.
With nothing left to be said, everyone shook hands again and said their goodbyes. Rose, however, who could get away with whatever she wanted, since she was indisputably the best in the business, gave Ott a kiss on the check and Crawford a kiss on the lips and made sure David Crane saw it.
Thirty-Four
“Fucking asshole,” Rose said under her breath, referring to her colleague David Crane.
Shaw and Crane had left Rutledge’s office and Rose, Crawford and Ott were walking back to Crawford’s office.
“Why, Rose,” Crawford said, his hand covering his mouth in faux shock, “that’s so unladylike of you.”
“Yeah, well, that dipshit deserves it.”
“Know what I always say?” Ott said.
“What’s that?” Rose asked.
“Don’t ever trust a guy in a blue bow tie.”
“Or any bow tie,” Rose said.
Ott bumped fists with her as they sat in Crawford’s office.
Crawford put a foot up on his desk. Then Ott did. Then Rose did.
All three laughed.
“So, it’s really that bad out there?” Crawford asked.
Rose nodded. “Yeah, it really is.”
Crawford nodded. “I get it.”
She leaned forward. “So, are you close?”
“You know we can’t go into specifics. But I hope so.”
Rose sighed. “That makes two of us.”
Crawford’s cell phone rang. He looked down at the display. It was Dominica.
He looked up at Rose. “Your friend Dominica.”
“Give her my love.”
Crawford clicked on. “Rose says to give you her love.”
“What, are you two having a nooner or something?”
“Very funny. What’s up?”
“It’s a positive match,” Dominica said. “One of those prints from the Kawama house kitchen matched Johnny Cotton’s.”
Crawford’s leg slid off his desk, and he sat upright. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. No question about it.”
He turned to Ott. “Positive ID on Cotton with the fingerprints at the Kawama house.”
Ott stood. “So, let’s go get the bastard.”
Crawford was looking at Rose as he spoke into the phone. “Thanks, you’re my hero.”
Rose shrugged. “What did I do?”
“No, I meant Dominica,” Crawford mouthed.
“Nice,” Dominica said in his ear. “You can’t tell us apart now.”
“It’s a little confusing,” he said.
“Okay, well, I gotta go,” Dominica said. “You and Rose have fun.”
“It’s business,” Crawford said.
“Yeah, your favorite kind, monkey business.” She hung up.
Crawford stood and smiled at Rose. “Okay, we gotta run.”
She cocked her head. “Sure you’re straight on who I am?”
“Very funny. And, yes, I’m sure.”
Ott had called Luxury Landscaping to find out where Johnny Cotton’s crew was working. It was either at a house on Seminole or Emerald, according to the woman answering the company phone.
It turned out to be Seminole. Ott drove them to the address and found three cars parked there. One of them, a white Caprice, looked familiar to Crawford. Then he realized it was the same car one of the Melbourne homicide cops was driving.
“Might have a clusterfuck here,” Crawford warned.
“What do you mean?” Ott asked as they exited the car.
“I think that’s a guy from Melbourne PD.”
“Oh, shit,” Ott said as they walked around the house to the backyard.
Crawford groaned when he saw the Melbourne homicide detective Glen Steyer getting in Johnny Cotton’s face and, no doubt, playing tough cop. The other three landscapers were off in a corner of the backyard, blowing leaves and pruning trees, trying not to stare but doing a poor job of it.
Crawford and Ott walked up to Steyer, who glanced over at them. “Hey, Glen, what are you doing down here?”
“What do you think? Asking my suspect here a few questions.”
“And what do you think of his answers?”
Steyer gave a sarcastic laugh. “He says he has no idea where Luna Jacobs lived. That he never saw her except when he was in art class at Malpaso.”
“Did you expect him to say he went to her house on Spruce Street and strangled her?”
“Think this shit is funny?” Steyer said.
“No, but I think you driving down here was a bi
g waste of time. Where’d he say he went after he got out of Malpaso?”
“Some restaurant. Had himself a nice steak dinner.”
At that moment, a woman came out of a door in the back of the house; her eyes went from cop to cop to cop to ex-con. “What’s going on back here? Who are all you people?”
“We’re police, ma’am. Palm Beach Police Department,” Crawford said. “We won’t be here long.”
“Police? Why?”
Ott gave her his best smile in an attempt to appease her. “It relates to a case of ours, ma’am.”
She wasn’t appeased. “Well, make it quick. I’m about to have friends over for lunch.”
The three cops nodded, and the woman walked away.
Glen Steyer took a step toward Johnny Cotton. “I’m taking you in.”
“For what?” Cotton shot back.
“Suspicion of murder.”
Crawford moved closer to Steyer and lowered his voice. “Don’t be an idiot, Glen, You got nothin’.” Before Steyer could speak, Crawford turned to Cotton. “What were you doing at 207 Kawama Road the other night?”
“I wasn’t at 207 Kawama Road the other night,” Cotton said.
“Then how come a fingerprint of yours was there?”
Cotton cocked his head. “Since when do fingerprints have time stamps on them? I probably went there for an open house or something.”
Ott laughed. “You make it a habit of going to open houses in Palm Beach?”
“Matter of fact, I do. You got a problem with that, Detective? There any law says I can’t go to open houses here?”
Ott took a step closer to Cotton. “Don’t fuck with us, Cotton. What were you doing there?”
Cotton shrugged. “Just seeing how the other half lives. Hey, you never know when you’re gonna hit the lotto. I want to be ready to spend my millions when my ship comes in.”
Ott glanced at Crawford then back to Cotton. “Guess you think you’re a pretty slick act, don’t you?”
“I just think I’m a simple landscaper trying to do my job. But you cops keep coming around, harassing the shit out of me.”
Crawford motioned to Ott to step away from Cotton, out of earshot.