Palm Beach Taboo (Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mysteries Book 10)

by Tom Turner

  Ott laughed. “No doubt.”

  Rutledge was in his office on the phone. “Got a bunch of redfish and tarpon—” pause “—Yeah, pompano, too. Hey, man, I gotta jump. Got a couple of my men here I gotta straighten out… yeah, later.”

  Rutledge clicked off and turned to Crawford and Ott.

  “Fishing the Intracoastal?” Ott asked.

  “How’d you know?” Rutledge asked.

  “Cause redfish, tarpon, and pompano are what you catch there.”

  “Very good,” Rutledge said. “If you’re such a good figurer-outer-of-shit, Ott, how come you haven’t figured out who did Lalley?”

  “Come on, Norm,” Crawford said. “Next you’re going to tell us murder’s not good for the Palm Beach ecosystem.”

  “Ecosystem?”

  Crawford glanced at Ott. “Maybe I’ve been hanging around Mensas too much.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. This is the point we usually get the speech,” Crawford said. “When a case is less than a week old and we haven’t solved it.”

  “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have to hear it if you caught the guy in the first forty-eight, like some guys.”

  “The first forty-eight’s overrated,” Ott said. “And do we need to remind you what our clearance is?”

  “I know. I know. So, make you a deal, and we’ll skip all the bullshit. Just catch me up on what you got.”

  For the next fifty minutes, Crawford and Ott filled him in.

  “So, you’ve basically zeroed in on it being someone in this outfit SOAR?” Rutledge asked.

  “Not sure I’d call it an outfit, but yeah,” Crawford said. “Take your pick: Crux, Peavy, Swain, Bemmert, a Chinese national named Xi Kiang, a billionaire brother-sister duo—for one thing, a lot of ’em had a lot to lose if Lalley went public on that bogus Whitmore thing. Which was Crux’s revenge on what happened to his old man… and some of ’em wanting to please Crux.”

  “Yeah, please the boss, something we always try to do,” Ott said with a grin.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Rutledge said stone-faced. “Okay, so I get that, and it makes sense, but what about something more basic?”

  “Basic?” Crawford said. “Like what?”

  “I mean, what if Christian Lalley was screwing someone’s wife. Or, I don’t know, he owed someone a bunch of money and wouldn’t pay. Guys get killed for shit like that every day of the week. Doesn’t have to be a SOAR thing, ya know.”

  Crawford did know and damned if Rutledge didn’t have a point—as hard as that was to admit.

  He looked at Ott, who nodded.

  “You know what, Norm? You’re absolutely right,” Crawford said, then to Ott, “We’ve been investigating everything but Lalley’s personal life. Time to dig down into the man’s past.”

  “Yeah, there’s gotta be something there,” Rutledge said

  “I agree,” Ott said, then turning to Crawford. “Maybe you talk to your friend Vega again. She seemed to know him pretty well.”

  Crawford nodded. “Anything else, Norm, while you’re on a roll?”

  “Nah, that’s all I got,” Rutledge said. “I’m just glad I could set you boys straight.”

  The man couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  A few minutes later they left his office. Crawford turned to Ott and smiled. “How’s that expression go? ‘Even blind squirrels—”

  “—find a nut every once in a while.’”

  The first thing Crawford did when he got back to this office was call Vega and ask to buy her a drink that night.

  “Stalled out on Christian’s murder, huh?” she said. “Need to pick my brain again.”

  “How’d you guess?” It was better than bullshitting her and saying he really missed her company.

  “Okay, sure…where and when?”

  “How ’bout I buy you a Grease Burger. Bet you’ve never had one before.”

  “A grease burger? That doesn’t sound too appetizing.”

  Crawford laughed. “It is, though. The Grease Burger on Clematis. You’re just gonna have to trust me on this. Best burger around. Beats your veggie wrap any day. I’ll pick you up. Seven good?”

  “Okay, I trust you… I guess. Even though you are the man who likes sardines.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” he said. “Hey, I have a quick question. My partner’s been trying to get in touch with Lorinda Lalley, Christian’s ex, but having no luck. You wouldn’t know how to reach her, would you?”

  “Hang on a sec, I used to have her cell.”

  Crawford waited as her heard her clicking on her iPhone.

  “Here you go…” and she gave him her number.

  “Thanks. Do you know where she lives?”

  “Palm Beach Gardens. I think she might be remarried. Wait, come to think of it, no, that fell through.”

  “Did Christian tell you that?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Okay, see you at seven.”

  Crawford clicked off and dialed Lorinda Lalley’s number. A woman answered.

  “Hi, Mrs. Lalley, my name is Detective Crawford, the lead detective on the murder case of your former husband. I’m sorry about what happened to Mr. Lalley but wondered if I could ask you some questions.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “I was hoping I could meet you in person.”

  “That’s fine. How ’bout right now?”

  It was extremely rare when he found someone so readily available. Was she lonely or bored? “I can be there in about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave your name at the gate. They’ll let you in. Crawford, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, see you in a little while.” And she gave him her address.

  It was a typical Florida housing complex and a typical Florida house. First thing you saw was the two-car garage, then a sidewalk to a cramped front entrance that tried to jam together too many architectural elements: two skinny Corinthian columns, scrawny acanthus leaves, a triangular pediment with an undersized dentil, and an oversized front door. Palm Beach Gardens had tons of high-end houses and condominiums; this was mid-level. Nice enough but basically plain vanilla, with a view of a skinny, black lagoon in back.

  Lorinda Lalley, tall, broad-shouldered and a bottle blonde, offered Crawford the requisite bottle of water. He smiled, said no thanks, and they sat down in a low-ceilinged living room that had Fox News muted on a big Samsung screen behind Lorinda.

  He didn’t know how Lorinda felt about the death of her ex, so he led off with the usual. “As I said, I’m sorry about what happened to your ex-husband, Mrs. Lalley, and assure you my partner and I are doing everything we can to find his killer.”

  “Thank you, detective. I appreciate it,” she said, like it wasn’t all that high on her list of priorities. “Do you have any suspects at this point?”

  “We have a lot of people we’re talking to and I’d appreciate any thoughts you might have on that subject. You know, people you think we should speak to. People that Mr. Lalley may have mentioned who might have threatened him or whom he may have had a disagreement or dispute with. Anybody come to mind?”

  Lorinda shifted in her chair. “Well, of course, I’ve given it some thought since it happened and there’s only one person I can think of. A man named Ray Gerster.”

  Crawford nodded. “Tell me about him, please.”

  “Well, as I’m sure you know by now, before SOAR, Chris was a CPA. A good one, too. Ray Gerster was one of his clients. I remember Chris telling me that Gerster played fast and loose with the IRS. He apparently ran some sort of a fund which turned out to essentially be a Ponzi scheme. Tell you the truth, I don’t exactly know what a Ponzi scheme is except he wanted Chris to sign his tax return and when Chris saw a bunch of phony numbers on it, he refused.”

  “How long ago was this, Mrs. Lalley? Approximately.”

  “Ah, I’m guessing about three years ago.”

  “Okay, so what happened next?”


  “A few months later, maybe like six months, Gerster was arrested for fraud, income tax evasion, and a bunch of other stuff. And Chris testified against him. He didn’t really want to but the government put heavy pressure on him. Threatened to turn his life upside down if he didn’t.” Lorinda ran her hand across her mouth, then took a deep breath. “So anyway, when the case began, Gerster called Chris and threatened to kill him if he testified.”

  “Really? To kill him?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure how seriously Chris took it, ’cause he told me he didn’t think Gerster was really the violent type or, you know, a mafia kind of person.”

  “But he did threaten to kill him?”

  “He sure did, according to Chris anyway,” Lorinda said. “But Chris went ahead and testified anyway.”

  “Against Gerster?”

  She nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “Gerster got convicted and went to jail.”

  “Do you know for how long?”

  “Sorry, I don’t,” Lorinda said. “I just know Chris felt kind of bad about it."

  “Why? It wasn’t his fault if his client was a crook.”

  “Yeah, I know. But he just… did.”

  “As far as you know, did Gerster just threaten him the one time?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you,” Lorinda said earnestly. “Isn’t once enough?”

  Crawford nodded. Now, he wanted to dig up everything he possibly could on Gerster. “Do you remember the name of Gerster’s company? Or his fund?”

  “I do, ’cause it was really simple: Go Fund!—with an exclamation point.”

  Crawford wrote Go Fund! down on his iPhone. “And do you have any idea who his lawyer was, or who the prosecutor in the case was, by any chance?”

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “Or where the trial took place?”

  “Sorry.” She shrugged. “Around here somewhere, I assume.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lalley, that’s very helpful. Now on the subject of SOAR—”

  She quickly held up her hands. “That’s a subject I don’t talk about. Never. Period. End of story.”

  He could see there was no way in hell he’d be able to talk her into answering any questions even remotely SOAR-related.

  He got to his feet and reached for his wallet and a card. “Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Lalley, you’ve been very helpful.” He handed her a card. “If you think of anything else that might help me find your ex-husband’s killer, please give me a call.”

  “I sure will.”

  Crawford walked to the door, opened it, and walked down the steps to his car.

  Ray Gerster might just be the man he was looking for and he had to give Norm Rutledge full credit for steering him in this direction.

  Jesus, would wonders never cease.

  Seventeen

  Crawford got a call on his cell phone on his way back to the station.

  “Hello?”

  “Detective Crawford. It’s Leo Peavy. You’ve left me a few messages.”

  Like five. Maybe six.

  “Yes, Mr. Peavy, we met the other day at Elysium, and as you know I’m the lead detective on the Christian Lall—”

  “I know, and you want to pick my brain.”

  “Well, yes. Ask you a few questions.”

  “Come on by.”

  “Right now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “You’re up at Elysium?”

  “Yup.”

  “See you in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Wow, two in a row, Crawford thought. People who actually wanted to be questioned by him right away. He was accustomed to being the least popular man in town who no one wanted to talk to. This was a nice change. He felt like Sally Field…they like me, they actually like me… or whatever it was she had said.

  He dialed Ott, who picked up right away.

  “You doin’ anything right now?” Crawford asked.

  “Nah, whatcha got?”

  “Leo Peavy in fifteen. At Elysium.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Crawford was even more aware the second time around that Leo Peavy was one of the oddest-looking ducks he had ever laid eyes on. The same rheumy, yellow-tinged eyes, the same thick Neil Young muttonchops sideburns…and something he hadn’t noticed last time: the man had about the skinniest legs Crawford had ever seen. He knew that because Peavy was wearing madras shorts that he had probably bought on the three-dollar rack at Salvation Army twenty years ago. Peavy also had the largest, bulkiest, ugliest watch in creation. As thick as a hamburger, the sucker had to weigh close to three pounds.

  Crawford, Ott, and Peavy were sitting in the library at Elysium. Crawford was in the same comfortable club chair from which he’d interviewed half of SOAR’s congregants two days before.

  Peavy beat Crawford to the punch in the interrogation. “So, you must be about the first Ivy Leaguer to end up a homicide cop. How in God’s name did that happen?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “So All-American in lacrosse at Dartmouth, not too shabby a running back on the football team.”

  The guy was a Mensa, what did Crawford expect?

  “And then after Dartmouth, Charlie, you ended up in the Apple. Went out with that foxy actress, Gwendolyn Hyde, as I recall?”

  “Briefly,” Crawford said, barely audibly.

  Ott glanced at Crawford and smiled. He had razzed Crawford about that on more than one occasion. He had always been more than a little envious.

  “Mr. Peavy, you mind if we ask the questions here?” Crawford asked.

  “Not at all, just making a little small talk,” Peavy said. “I also heard something about you and Dominica McCarthy. Gorgeous specimen, that one. And Rose—”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe you should write my biography.”

  “Maybe I should,” he said. “I have a feeling it’d be pretty colorful.” He turned to Ott “And you, Mort: Cuyahoga Community College, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Ott nodded. “Go Muskrats.”

  “Was that your mascot?”

  Ott thought for a moment. “Either that or a gerbil. Mr. Peavy, we really need to move on and—”

  Peavy smiled. “Laura Shearer, right?”

  “What?” Ott said, his eyes narrowing.

  “The woman you’ve been seeing.”

  Ott sighed. “Hey, listen…. we’ve got a lot of questions to get to.”

  Peavy patted the arm of his chair. “Okay. So, ask away.”

  Crawford glanced over at Ott, who looked somewhere between bemused and agitated. “How well did you know Christian Lalley?”

  “Pretty well,” Peavy said. “Christian used to live here in Elysium. We’d talk a fair amount.”

  “Talk about what,” Crawford asked, “if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Quantum physics, Sudoku, the New York Yankees, to name three. We both grew up in New York and were Yankee fans. You were a Red Sox fan, right, Charlie? Growing up in Connecticut and all? Even though I guess half the state are Yankee fans.”

  Crawford nodded and cut to it. “Who do you think killed Lalley?”

  “Wow. Talk about direct questions.” Peavy shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea. Who do you think did?”

  “You’re making this shit up,” Crawford said.

  “Here’s the thing,” Peavy said. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Christian allegedly paid off those boys to implicate that guy Holmes Whitmore, so you’re probably thinking Crux is behind it. Because of his father and mother’s history with Whitmore. In reality, Christian paid them that money for a totally different reason.”

  “Oh yeah, what was that?” Crawford asked.

  Peavy glanced away from Crawford, then his rheumy yellow eyes slowly wandered back to him. “See, I don’t know if you know much about what we do here, but a big part of it is mentoring kids. Trying to help young people out, ones who aren’t going anywhere, get ’em into professions where
they can make a go of it.” Crawford remembered what Fannie Melhado had told him; this seemed to echo that. “One of our members used to be, basically, a high-end electrician. ‘High-end’ meaning he used to do lots of jobs for corporate headquarters, mainly in the Atlanta area. Well, he sold the company for pretty big money and joined SOAR. What he does now is hire out as an electrician, mainly small jobs, the purpose being to take kids along with him on those jobs to be his apprentices, teach them the ropes. Well, I guess, in this case, it would be, the wires.”

  Despite his looks, Peavy had an engaging way about him.

  “So, let me make sure I got this straight,” Crawford said. “He’d get paid for the jobs, then Christian Lalley would pay the kids for their share of the work?”

  Peavy smiled and pointed a finger at Crawford. “Very good, Charlie,” he said. “You’re just as advertised. But then, I’d expect nothing less from a Dartmouth man.”

  “But, as you mentioned, you’re aware of the other story going around,” said Ott. “Which seems pretty credible, too.”

  “Yes, that those boys were being photographed at Holmes Whitmore’s house so it would look like he was a pedophile. And Crux being behind the whole thing. That would mean that Crux was a very vengeful man. Which, I can guarantee you, he isn’t. And besides, can you imagine carrying around a grudge like that for—whatever it was—twenty or thirty years, then finally delivering on it?” He paused. “Because I sure as hell can’t.”

  “You know him better than we do,” Crawford said. “One thing I’ve noticed is you’re very adept at changing the subject, taking the focus off you.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a compliment,” Crawford said. “Where were you when Christian Lalley was murdered? Meaning last Wednesday at one in the morning?”

  “Sound asleep here at Elysium.”

  “Do you have a key to Lalley’s house at 1450 North Lake Way?”

  “No, only one for here.”

  Crawford nodded. “How well did you know Simon Petrie?”

  “Simon…? Ah, not that well. He kept to himself most of the time.”

  Ott jumped in. “And where were you on the night of Thursday the 8th at 11:30?”