Palm Beach Predator
Page 18
Glen Steyer took a step toward them.
Crawford put up a hand. “Not you.”
Steyer looked dissed as Crawford and Ott retreated.
“We ain’t got shit here, you know,” Crawford said quietly.
“Yeah, but talk about circumstantial. I mean, the fact that he was working a few doors down from where Mimi Taylor got killed. The fact he got out of prison the same day the art teacher got killed. His fingerprints at the house where Holly Pine got assaulted.”
Crawford pondered for a second then shook his head. “Prosecutor wouldn’t touch it. Not enough meat for a jury.”
“You don’t think so?”
Crawford shook his head.
Ott sighed then muttered, “Motherfucker.”
Crawford turned and went over to Glen Steyer. “You can take him in, but he’ll be out in five minutes.”
Steyer was silent. He’d clearly reached the same conclusion.
Crawford turned to Cotton. “Sorry to bother you, Johnny. You can go back to picking weeds.”
Thirty-Five
Before the day was over, Crawford and Ott, not to mention the Palm Beach Police Department, were sued for a million dollars.
What happened was the owner of the house on Seminole Avenue called up Luxury Landscaping and complained that they had in their employ someone who was either a criminal or a “person of interest.” (She actually used that phrase, apparently being a CSI or Law and Order fan.) The woman was then connected to the manager, who, in order not to lose a customer, said he’d immediately take the man off the job. The manager then drove over to the house on Seminole and, on the spot, fired Johnny Cotton.
Cotton went straight to a law firm, his contention being that he was constantly being harassed and that, because of certain cops’ actions, had lost his job. An ambitious young lawyer decided to take the case. He arrived at the million-dollar lawsuit figure by computing what Johnny Cotton would lose in wages if he never worked again, plus court costs. Not only that, he was well aware of the fact that the town of Palm Beach had a lot of money in its coffers.
So, by the end of the day, Crawford and Ott had both been served.
Crawford shook his head. “This guy doesn’t know when to quit,” he said to Ott, who was sitting in his office.
Crawford heard the unmistakable thudding footsteps of Norm Rutledge getting closer. “Oh, fuck.”
And then, there he was in all his sartorial splendor. A shiny brown suit from either the Dacron or rayon family, paired with a resplendent orange-and-avocado-green tie.
“What the fuck is going on?” Rutledge bellowed, his eyes going from Crawford to Ott.
“That bullshit lawsuit, you mean?” Crawford asked.
“Yeah, of course that’s what I mean. And lemme tell ya, the mayor doesn’t think it’s bullshit. He ran it by the town attorney, who thinks the guy’s got a case.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Crawford said. “It’ll go away when we take the guy in.”
“And just when is that gonna happen?”
“Soon.”
Rutledge never sat down when he stopped by on his surprise visits. He just paced, dropped his bombs, and left.
“And there’s another thing.” Rutledge apparently had multiple warheads.
“What’s that?” Ott asked, his tone leery.
“You’re off the hook on this one, Ott,” Rutledge said, turning to Crawford with a glare. “What’s with that real estate agent who got assaulted? Asking you to go with her ’cause she had a customer she was worried about?”
“Where’d you hear that?” Crawford asked
“Where do you think?” Rutledge said. “It seems we didn’t impress Shaw and Crane of the Board of Realtors. They don’t think we’re doing everything in our power to get the killer. That guy Shaw said that the local news might want to know how we” —his eyes drilling into Crawford’s— “meaning you, failed to protect a woman who specifically requested help.”
“That’s such bullshit,” Ott leapt to Crawford’s defense. “We all agreed there was no way in hell we could run around to every house showing without hiring a hundred new guys.”
“That seems to be your mantra these days, Ott. Bullshit this, bullshit that.” Rutledge turned back to Crawford. “I suggest you talk to that guy Shaw. Try to appease him,”
“What do you want me to do, Norm? Get down on my hands and knees and beg him not to go to the media?” Crawford asked.
“Actually, that’s the first good idea you’ve had all week. You don’t seem to be taking this seriously enough for what it can do to us—i.e., give us a huge black eye. How ’bout getting a little proactive, head this thing off at the pass.”
Crawford did his variation on counting to ten, which he had used in the past with Rutledge. He glanced out his window and counted the birds sitting on a limb of a big banyan tree.
Then he shot Rutledge a look. “Okay, Norm, duly noted.”
“What the hell’s that mean?”
“I’ll do something about it. What the hell else do you want me to say?”
Rutledge nodded, smiled, and headed to the door. “In case I haven’t made myself clear, Crawford, that’s an order.”
He walked out without another word.
Crawford took out his cell phone and started dialing.
“Who you calling?”
“Rose.”
She answered. “Hello, Charlie.”
“We need to talk. How ’bout lunch?”
“You’re on.”
They decided on a place and time and Crawford clicked off.
“Let me guess,” Ott said. “You’re going to get her to exercise her feminine wiles to, as Rutledge would say, ‘head this off at the pass.’”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, I really don’t need the local press up my ass. Remember how much it distracted us on Ward Jaynes,” he said, referring to their first case together in Palm Beach.
“Yeah, sure do. Every time they stuck their noses in, we made news we didn’t wanna make.”
Crawford nodded. “I gotta get this behind us so we can quit fuckin’ around and concentrate on Cotton.”
“Amen.”
Crawford had two go-to’s. One, of course, was Mookie’s, the cop bar in a seedy side of West Palm Beach, where no self-respecting Palm Beach cop would ever think to plop his ass down on a barstool. The other was Green’s Pharmacy, which, despite the name, served the best hamburger in Palm Beach, not to mention six or seven things on its breakfast menu, which—as the cliché goes—were to die for.
He was on his way to Green’s at 151 North County Road. It wasn’t far from the station, but there were a few rights and lefts on the way there. And every time he made a turn, he noticed a small black Japanese car—he wasn’t sure whether it was a Toyota or a Honda—made the same turn. It was one of those high performance little cars that was hopped-up to go a million miles an hour. So, he pulled over to the side, and, sure enough, the little black car pulled over to the side fifty feet behind him. After a few moments, he accelerated, and the little black car accelerated. He thought about doing a U-turn to get a look at the driver but vetoed it because the car’s windshield was tinted coal-mine black; no doubt the side windows would be too.
As he approached Green’s, he pulled into a metered space without hitting his blinker and glanced over at the little black car. It kept going straight; as he suspected, its side windows were as black as its rear window. He wondered how the driver could see the road, or anything else for that matter.
He walked into Green’s as he watched the car continue up North County.
Rose was at one end of the luncheonette, chatting up a waitress named Millie.
The waitress winked at him as he approached. “Hey, lover boy.”
Crawford was in a cranky mood. Mainly because of Norm Rutledge but also because of the sudden appearance of the mysterious Japanese car. “Why do you call me that?” he asked Millie wearily.
“Oh, you know,” she said.
“Hello, lover boy,” Rose chimed in.
Crawford shook his head and scowled. “How ’bout Charlie?” he fumed. “That’s my name. Charlie.”
Millie smiled and glanced back at Rose. “The lo-cal platter?”
Rose nodded. “Pretty predictable, huh?”
Millie looked at Crawford. “I’m guessing a bacon cheeseburger and a mushroom burger?”
He nodded. “Yup.”
“Why don’t you get that all in one?” Rose asked.
“I’ll tell you why. Because I’m a growing boy, and I need my three thousand calories a day.”
“Three? You’re supposed to only have two thousand.”
“What’s a thousand measly calories?”
Rose nodded. “Okay, Charlie, what is it you need to know?”
“I need to know a lot, but that’s not what I need most,” Crawford said. “I need you to rein in that dipshit Shaw.”
“What did he do now?”
“It’s not what he did yet, it’s what he’s threatening to do. Did you hear about Holly Pine asking me to—”
“Go along with her on a showing?” Rose cut in.
“Yes, exactly. Then what happened, unfortunately happened. So Shaw, who apparently thinks me and Ott are sitting on our hands, threatened to go to the Post and tell them about the incident. He seems to think that threats will get us to work harder. Like if we don’t have the killer in jail five minutes from now—”
Rose put a hand on Crawford’s hand. “I can get him to chill.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, or at least buy you some time. He prides himself on being a ‘man of action’ and sometimes does stuff before thinking it through. I’ll take care of it.”
Crawford put his hand on hers. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I really don’t need that distraction.”
He looked out the window onto North County Road and saw the little black Japanese car double-parked in front of the front door of Green’s. His first instinct was to run outside and confront whoever it was.
Rose looked to where he was still looking. “What are you looking at?”
He kept his eyes on the car. “A guy who I think’s been following me.”
“You mean, like a tail?”
He glanced at Rose and chuckled. “Yeah, exactly.”
“Well, why don’t you run the plate, find out who it is?”
“I love it when you do cop-talk.”
She leaned across the table and kissed his cheek.
Crawford pulled out his iPhone and scrolled down to where he had already written down the license plate number. “Just for the record, it’s Florida number REM441.”
Rose smiled. “Oh, you already got it?”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, despite what your compadre Dennis Shaw thinks, I been doin’ this a while.”
Thirty-Six
Crawford was not surprised to find that the license plate belonged to one John R. Cotton. He knew that if he had gone after him he probably wouldn’t have caught him. In addition to running the plate with the DMV, he asked for and received Cotton’s latest home address. He lived in Lake Worth. Crawford decided to pay him an immediate visit.
He filled in Ott, and together they headed down to the town some called Lake Worthless. Cotton’s house was on a street by the name of Royal Palm Drive. The street name was a lot fancier than the small ranch with yellow shutters, one of which was hanging on for dear life. The house didn’t have a garage and there was no car in the driveway.
Ott pulled in the driveway and Crawford noticed something on the yellow front door.
He and Ott got out of the Crown Vic. “Two shades of yellow,” Ott said. “Not a good look.”
He was right. The shutters were bright yellow and the door a more neon yellow. As they approached the front door, Crawford could see there was a note scotch-taped to it. It said in neat penmanship:
Dear Detective Crawford and chubby sidekick (didn’t catch your name),
Sorry, I missed you boys and sorry I had to sue you but you were turning into real pains in the ass, if you’ll excuse my French. Anyway, I had to move since you and that genius from Melbourne were getting too close for comfort. Good luck trying to catch me as I think you’ll find I’m slippery as an eel.
Sincerely,
John Reynolds Cotton the third
“What the fuck?” Ott said, as Crawford noticed a man cross the street walking toward them.
“Like he’s playing a little cat and mouse game,” Crawford said, as the man walked up the path of Cotton’s house. Or former house, it would seem.
“You lookin’ for him?” the man asked.
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, we are. We’re Palm Beach Police.”
“He just moved out this morning,” the man said. “Good riddance, I say.”
“Why?” Ott asked. “What did he do?”
“Shot squirrels with an automatic pistol for one thing. I called the Lake Worth cops but they never came. Had hookers over, for another.”
Crawford put his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun. “How do you know they were hookers?”
“Everybody knows what hookers look like,” the man said. “I’m Wesley, by the way.”
“Well, thank you for the information, Wesley,” Crawford said. “You said he moved out…did a moving van come?”
“Nah, just a big pickup. He and another guy filled it up, took it away, then came back later and took another load.”
Ott glanced over at Crawford. “So, he can’t have moved too far away.”
Crawford nodded. “The pickup…can you describe it? Did it say anything on it?”
Wesley shook his head. “No, just a white Ford 150. Florida plates, I’m pretty sure. Nothing really stood out about it.”
“Do you remember anything at all about it that caught your attention?” Crawford asked,
Wesley thought for a second. “Um, it had a gun rack but no gun. And a red Marines decal.”
“Where was the decal?”
“Rear window.”
“Anything else?”
“Couple dents on the passenger side.”
“Where?”
“Down low on the door, I think.”
“That it?”
“All I ’member.”
“Thanks,” Crawford said. “That helps.”
“And after these two took off with the first load, how much later did they come back?” Ott asked.
“I’d say an hour and a half.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause I just hang out on my porch all day long and watch shit.” Wesley chuckled. “Pretty exciting life.”
Crawford smiled. “And how long would you guess it would take them to unload the truck?”
“An hour, maybe a little more.”
Crawford nodded.
“So he wasn’t the dream neighbor?” Ott said.
“Not unless your idea of a dream neighbor is a guy shooting guns, doin’ hookers, and playing loud music.”
Crawford and Ott nodded. “Well, thank you for the information,” Crawford said, reaching for his wallet. “If he comes back or you see him anywhere, give me a call right away, will you?”
He handed Wesley a card.
“You got it. What’d he do, anyway?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Crawford said. “It’s important we find him, though.”
“Okay, well, good luck.” Wesley turned and walked away.
“Shooting squirrels with an automatic,” Ott said. “Can you imagine if someone did that in Palm Beach?”
“There’d be a SWAT team there in five minutes.”
Ott nodded. “What do we do now?”
Crawford shrugged. “Find the guy. Seems like he couldn’t have moved more than fifteen, twenty minutes from here. Half hour max. We figure out a perimeter and start looking.”
Ott groaned. “Fuuu-ck. That’s a big area, man.”
“You got a better
idea? We get Rutledge to requisition a bunch of uniforms to find a person of interest who’s driving a little black car and a guy driving a white Ford 150 with dents, a Marine decal and an empty gun rack.”
“Yeah, but there must be hundreds of little black shitboxes and white Ford 150’s within a fifteen-minute radius of here.”
“Yeah, but only one little black shitbox with the plate REM441.” Crawford started walking toward the Crown Vic. “Come on, let’s start cruising.”
They didn’t have any luck crisscrossing the section of Lake Worth that they covered but had better luck with Norm Rutledge.
Crawford spent ten minutes filling Rutledge in on John Reynolds Cotton III.
“It’s like the guy’s playing with you,” Rutledge said.
Crawford didn’t disagree.
“I’ll let you have every uniform in the department.” Which was thirty-one. “In case I haven’t made it clear, this is about the highest priority case we’ve ever had.”
“You made it clear. I just wasn’t sure how many you could spare,” Crawford said. “I’ll get you a map that shows the area they need to cover, then you can deploy ’em. How’s that?”
Crawford knew Rutledge was pretty decent at organization. Maybe his best skill. Maybe his only one.
“All right,” Rutledge said. “Get that map to me as soon as you can. I’ll do a grid.”
“You’ll have it in fifteen minutes.”
“And I’ll get the guys on the streets in an hour.”
The first thing Johnny Cotton did after following Crawford around Palm Beach and watching him walk out of Green’s Pharmacy with the hot blonde was swap the black Honda’s license plate for one from another car in the Walmart parking lot. Took him about thirty seconds to exchange the two. He picked a car that looked very similar to his, a black Corolla with darkened window and tires that were a few hundred miles from being completely bald. The second thing he did was buy 200 rounds of 115 grain FMJ 9mm ammo for his Glock. And it wasn’t because his new neighborhood had a lot more squirrels than his old one.