Palm Beach Predator

by Tom Turner

  The running toilet that Vera had told her about was off of the fourth bedroom on the second floor. Being handy by necessity, Rose had taken off the top of the tank and rested it on the floor. Next, she flushed the toilet as she looked for a fill-valve leak.

  Her cell phone rang. It was across the master bathroom from her, on the white Carrera vanity top. Charlie probably. Could the man’s timing possibly be any worse? She continued performing her function as plumber and let the call go to voicemail.

  She lifted up the float arm while the tank filled to see if the water had stopped. She bent the float arm slightly so the tank stopped filling an inch below the overflow pipe.

  Problem solved. Whoever thought the real estate business was even remotely glamorous, Rose chuckled to herself, failed to take into account toilet-fixing and dead-insect-removing duties. She turned to exit the bathroom, planning to head for her next house on Palmo Way.

  As she walked into the bedroom from the bathroom, she heard a sharp noise behind her, then as she turned, felt an arm around her neck. Suddenly she felt something swipe across her mouth. Whatever it was, it prevented her from screaming or emitting anything other than a muffled cry, which she knew couldn’t be heard outside of the room. But Rose was a gym rat and could do long sets of barbell back squats . Feeling two hands around her neck, she raised her right arm, then thrust it back and into the ribs of the person behind her. He groaned, his hands loosened around her neck, and she ran for the stairway. She heard him right behind her as she started running down the steps of the stairway. She took them two at a time, but her attacker was only a step or two behind. She got to the bottom and sprinted for the front door. But then she felt his hands around her thighs and knew he had dived to tackle her. She went down, knees first, with a painful thud on the hardwood floor. She felt his hand around her mouth.

  Facedown and unable to scream, she felt both his hands around her neck again. She heard him panting for breath as the hands tightened, cutting off the flow of oxygen.

  “Now we’re going to have some fun,” the man said, loosening his grip from around her neck, but his knee up to her neck. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of duct tape being ripped and felt it being wrapped tight around her wrists.

  “Stand up,” the voice said.

  She struggled to get to her feet.

  “Okay, now back up the stairs.”

  “Please,” Rose said, “I have six hundred dollars in cash in my purse.”

  He slapped her on the back of the head and laughed. “Think I’m a cheap date or something? Come on, up the stairs, bitch.”

  She smelled his dank, foul breath as he pushed her toward the stairs. “I can get you as much as you want,” Rose said as she climbed the stairs.

  He pushed her. “It ain’t about the money, girlfriend.”

  Rose’s mind amped up. “What do you want?”

  “I want to see you in a pink negligee…Josephine.”

  She reached the landing. “You got the wrong woman, my name’s not—”

  He whacked her on the back of the head again. “It is now.”

  He pushed her hard into a bedroom. She stumbled but kept her balance.

  “Come on,” he said and pushed her again.

  She went through the door.

  “Okay, on the bed. Face down.”

  She hesitated. He kicked her hard in the butt. “Do it,” he shouted.

  She tried to scream, but it was just a muffled nothing.

  He shoved her hard, and she flopped onto the bed, her hands behind her back. Then he put his knee on her upper back so she couldn’t get up. “Okay, I’m gonna take off the tape and want you to make your hair into a bun. Get all pretty for me. Then you’re gonna take your clothes off and get into this nice little negligee I brought you.”

  She didn’t move but felt his hands peeling off the tape. Then her hands were free, but he still had his knee pressed into her back. Now was her only chance, even though she was at a huge disadvantage, to roll quickly so she wasn’t pinned by his knee, and either fight him with all she had left or run again and, this time, get away.

  Just as she was about to make her move she heard a nearby sound. A footstep maybe. Then another one. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man above her turn his head toward the door.

  A voice rang out. “Get your hands off her!”

  It was a voice she knew well.

  She looked to her right. Charlie Crawford was pointing his pistol at the man above her. Never had a gun looked so beautiful. “You okay, honey?”

  She nodded, thinking, inanely, He never called me honey before.

  Crawford reached down with his left hand, still covering the man behind her with his gun, and slowly peeled the duct tape off of her mouth.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” she said, trying to muster a smile. “’Bout time you showed up.”

  He helped her to her feet. “Sure you’re okay?”

  “Knee’s a little sore, so’s my head,” Rose said, turning to glare at Johnny Cotton. “I hope you get a chance to sit in Old Sparky’s lap, you son of a bitch,” Rose said, referring to the electric chair.

  “Get up,” Crawford told Cotton.

  Cotton put a hand on the floor and, one knee cracking, got to his feet. “Hands up,” Crawford said. “Take that thing off.”

  Cotton pulled the nylon stocking up over his face and off his head.

  “So, this is the guy?” Rose said to Crawford. “He looked a whole lot better with that thing on his face.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Rose decided not to share her theory about the killer being on his way down to Miami with Crawford.

  Dennis Shaw, head of the Board of Realtors, had called and requested a meeting with Norm Rutledge. He hadn’t told Rutledge what the meeting was going to be about but Rutledge accepted anyway, thinking how could it possibly be bad? They’d scheduled it for four thirty in the afternoon.

  This time Crawford and Ott were on time as Shaw, David Crane, and Rose Clarke filed into Rutledge’s office. Rose snuck a wink at Crawford, who smiled back at her. Dennis Shaw was carrying an old-fashioned leather briefcase with the handle on top. Exactly like the one Crawford remembered his father carrying as he humped into New York every day on his way down to Wall Street.

  “So, welcome back, gentlemen,” Rutledge said with a jaunty smile. “What can we do for you today?”

  “As head of the board,” Shaw broke into a wide smile, “this time it’s all about what we can do for you. So, on behalf of David and Rose—” he glanced at his colleagues— “and all of the other Realtors in Palm Beach, I would like to express my gratitude for a job well done. You have made it safe again for agents to go about their business without fear for their lives. And, for that, we’re all eternally grateful.”

  “Well, thank you,” Rutledge said, never one to shy away from an opportunity to take credit for something he had absolutely nothing to do with. “I’d just like to say that it’s been a pleasure meeting you three, and if we can ever do anything for you again, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” Dennis Shaw reached into his leather briefcase. “And as a demonstration of our appreciation for solving the tragic murders of our two beloved agents, I would like to present you with these.” The objects were two-foot-high gold keys mounted on mahogany stands. “They’re what we call Golden Keys, which symbolically represent the real estate industry and are awarded to those individuals who contribute positively to our community and make it a better place to live and work. In the past, recipients of Golden Keys have included the governor of the state of Florida, astronaut Nancy Steadman, and Miami Dolphins star linebacker Rich Pawlichuk, among other prominent individuals.”

  Crawford could see Rose trying to suppress a chuckle.

  “So, to you, Detective Crawford and Detective Ott,” Shaw stood up and held golden keys in both hands, “I would like to present you with the highest honor we have in our industry.”

  Crawford stood a
nd took the golden key from Shaw’s outstretched hand, and Ott did the same with the other.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Shaw, I am honored,” Crawford said simply.

  “Yes,” Ott said. “I appreciate it.”

  Rutledge’s expression was somewhere between bewilderment and a frown, clearly wondering where his golden key was.

  “I’d just like to add my own personal thanks,” David Crane said. “As a close personal friend and coworker of Mimi Taylor, I’m sure I speak for her family and friends along with those of Mattie Priest in thanking you fellas for your diligence, skill, and resourcefulness in bringing this cold-blooded killer to justice.”

  “Yes, great job, guys,” Rose said, knowing that at least a few words were expected of her.

  Rutledge leaned back in his chair. “Well, again, we thank all of you.” He had apparently gotten past the snub. “And we certainly appreciate your recognition.”

  Crawford felt as though they had been thanked, thanked again, and re-thanked. It was time for this meeting to end.

  Rutledge stood up and put his hand out to Shaw. Seemed like he agreed. Everyone shook hands, and Shaw and Crane left.

  Rose, Crawford, Ott, and their Golden Keys went back to Crawford’s office.

  Rose and Ott sat across from Crawford. Ott hefted his Golden Key. “Got a spot between my bowling trophies for this little beauty.”

  Rose and Crawford laughed.

  She looked at her watch. “You boys done for the day?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Crawford said. “We’re done.”

  “Feel like a drink?”

  “Several,” Ott said.

  “How ’bout this?” Crawford said. “A couple pops at Mookie’s. Then the Palm Beach Police Department buys us dinner at the restaurant of our choice.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Ott said. “You available, Rose?”

  “Of course. Dinner with you two studs? What girl would ever pass that up?”

  Crawford asked Red Noland to join them at Mookie’s.

  The four of them were sitting at a table in the back, Rose being one of only three women in the less-than-elegant cop bar. A few cops had bought them drinks for having busted the killer, so they were on round three.

  “I got a feeling Cotton’s got Ted Bundy, Aileen Wuornos, and Gerard Schaefer kind of numbers,” Noland said to the group.

  “What do you mean?” Rose asked.

  “Florida serial killers,” Noland said. “They killed a hell of a lot of people between them.”

  “Who’s Gerard Schaefer?” Ott asked. “Never heard of him.”

  “Oh, Christ, he mighta had the most of all,” Noland said. “He was a sheriff’s deputy up in Martin Country who moonlighted as a mutt who got his jollies dismembering young girls. They think he may have done thirty or more. A relative of one of ’em took him out in prison.”

  Rose shook her head. “What’s with this state, anyway? So many murderers.”

  “Simple,” Ott said. “Killers like nice weather.”

  “I guess,” Rose said.

  “So, Rose,” Ott said, “when that guy came after you, what did you think?”

  “Come on, Mort,” Crawford said. “She doesn’t want to talk about that.”

  Ott put his hands up. “I was just—”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Rose cut in. “Tell you the truth, I was just trying to figure out how I could twist around and knee him in the balls.”

  The decided on a restaurant in CityPlace in West Palm called Shell. It was a place that some friends of Rose’s had said had fabulous seafood. They asked Red Noland along, told him it was on Palm Beach PD’s tab, but he said he had to get home. The restaurant was on the second level at CityPlace, two doors down from the AMC movie theater.

  Since they didn’t have a reservation, the only table they could get was all the way back next to the entrance to the kitchen. But after having had three drinks apiece, they didn’t much care.

  They sat and ordered a bottle of wine.

  “Turn slowly to your right,” Rose whispered to Crawford.

  Crawford did. Sitting at a nearby table, wearing sunglasses and a stereo headset complete with mike, was Stark Stabler. And a woman, who Crawford knew was way too good-looking to be bitchy Sally Stabler.

  “Did you ever hear of a model named Lola Sandwood?” Rose asked in a hushed tone.

  Crawford and Ott shook their heads.

  “Well, she was very big at one time,” Rose said. “Did ads for Gucci, Bulgari, Jimmy Choo, you name it.”

  “Well, I’ve heard of Gucci anyway,” Ott said.

  Rose laughed. “Sorry, I know fashion isn’t exactly your wheelhouse, Mort. Anyway, that’s who that is.”

  “What’s she doing with that slimeball?” Ott asked.

  “I heard she’s had a hard time of it,” Rose said. “Most models have the shelf life of professional athletes. I think she went from making a fortune to nada. As I remember, she had a drug problem too. Declared bankruptcy. Ended up down here, trying to marry a rich man.”

  “Well, then, what’s she doing with him?” Crawford asked. “He’s only rich because his wife is. And something tells me his wife’s got an airtight prenup.”

  “Something tells me you’re right,” Rose said.

  “Wonder if they’re headed over to the L.N. after?” Ott asked Crawford, raising his eyebrows.

  Crawford laughed.

  “You never told me what that stands for,” Rose said to Crawford.

  “A place you’ll never go,” Crawford said.

  Ott flicked his head in the direction of Stabler. “Look at that guy,” he said. “Dude looks like an airplane pilot.” Ott rolled his eyes. “Like he’s about to bounce a 747 off a runway or something.”

  Crawford shot a quick look over at Stabler. “Guys who wear those things always strike me as wanting people to look at them.”

  “Yeah,” Rose said. “And always talk really loud on them. Like they want you to think they’re making a business deal you’re going to read about in Forbes next month.”

  Crawford turned away from Stabler and his date and sighed. “Mimi Taylor’s body’s not even cold, and this guy’s already on to the next. I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “So, back to the subject of models,” he said to Rose. “I have a question.”

  “Okay, fire away. I didn’t realize that was something that interested you much.”

  “Well, I mean, what guy doesn’t like to look. Fantasize a little,” Crawford said. “Anyway, I was in my doctor’s office and there was this Vanity Fair magazine there. So, never having been lucky enough to read a Vanity Fair magazine before, I started turning the pages. And I gotta tell you, the models in that thing were complete turnoffs. I mean, the clothes they were wearing were bad enough, but the women themselves…you ever hear that expression from hunger? Like there was this Gucci ad with three models who had hairdos out of a really bad prom night back in the fifties. And the clothes…made Norm Rutledge look stylish. Whatever happened to the Lauren Huttons and the Cheryl Tiegs, the women who rocked my world when my hormones were just starting to rage?”

  Ott was eyeing Crawford with complete disbelief. “Will you listen to yourself, Crawford? You’re talking about hairdos and models. I can’t believe my friggin’ ears.”

  Crawford raised his hands in protest. “All I’m saying is I got three-quarters through the magazine before there was something to actually read…instead of ads for things you’d expect to find at Salvation Army.”

  “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.” Ott spoke as if scolding a child. “Fortunately, when I remind you of this conversation tomorrow morning, you can blame it on the fact that you’d been drinking heavily and had no idea what was coming out of your mouth.”

  Forty

  They finished that bottle of wine and had another one while they ate. Crawford had swordfish, Ott had yellowfin tuna, Rose had salmon, and everyone was happy. All of them ignoring Stabler at the next table. But it became particularly hard not
to stare when he moved his chair closer to the model, put his arm around her, and started kissing her—more like slobbering on her—without restraint. He didn’t even take off his sunglasses or the headset.

  At a little past ten thirty, Crawford, Rose, and Ott got up and left. They had jointly decided that it would be an Uber night, that they’d leave their cars in the parking garage. They peeled off in separate directions, Ott by himself, Crawford saying he was going to take Rose to meet her Uber then find his.

  But Ott was no fool. He knew the drill. Crawford was actually going to slip his Uber driver a fiver, then hop in with Rose and head over to Palm Beach. The giveaway would be when Crawford rolled into the station the next morning smelling like Jean Patou Joy. Even after a shower, the scent lingered.

  “You think Mort knew?” Rose asked.

  “He is a detective,” Crawford said. “So, my guess is…he suspected.”

  “I’m just glad we don’t have to look at Stabler anymore,” Rose said. “Poor Lola. How the mighty have fallen.”

  “What would she possibly see in him? I mean, she’s still attractive. He’s like this worthless, has-been tennis player. Actually, more like a never-was.”

  They decided just before they got to Rose’s house that it was a perfect night for a skinny-dip. A full moon shone above, and it was about seventy-five degrees. The thought crossed Crawford’s mind because that’s the way his mind worked, that they could make love in the pool. Or maybe in the two-person chaise longue next to the pool—which Rose referred to as her “double-wide.” Or in her king-size bed with the crisp, 1,000-count Egyptian sheets. Or, if they couldn’t make it to her bedroom because they were so overwhelmed with passion and lust, the sofa in the living room with the little buttons that had once left a mark on Rose’s perfect, round ass.