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

by Tom Turner

  “Yeah, it gets worse all the time,” Crawford said.

  Cooper headed north and accelerated. “So, what’s the game plan?”

  “Best guess is, when they spot us, they’re gonna want to get to land. The longer this goes on, the more guys we’re gonna have surrounding them.”

  “Think they’ll pull up to a dock?” asked Cooper. “’Cause a boat that size’ll run aground real easy.”

  “Unless they find a deep-water inlet,” Crawford said.

  “If there even is one,” Ott said.

  Cooper nodded.

  Crawford dialed his iPhone and got put through to Rutledge again.

  “Got the guys down on the South Bridge,” said Rutledge.

  “Good,” Crawford said. “The boat may never get that far. May figure their chances are better on land.”

  “All right, well, they’re ready.”

  “Also, get a bunch of uniforms in cruisers headed south. As many as you can spare. Split ’em up, half on the west side of the Intracoastal, half on the east.”

  “Will do.”

  “If they beach the boat, I’ll call you with the location and they can close in.”

  “So, they definitely did Lalley?”

  “Yup, and probably another woman,” Crawford said and clicked off.

  “There they are,” Cooper said, pointing.

  Crawford saw the sun glinting off of the silver boat about a mile ahead.

  Cooper turned to Crawford. “What’s the play?”

  “Just follow ’em but stay back.”

  “When they make their move, we can tell the cars running along the Intracoastal where they are,” Ott shouted from the back.

  “Our boats coming south should be on ’em pretty soon,” Crawford said.

  Cooper nodded. “Land, sea and air, huh?”

  “Exactly,” said Crawford as Cooper slowed the helicopter, dogging the Pershing from a safe distance behind.

  Crawford pulled out a pair of binoculars from the console between Cooper and him and looked through them down at the boat. It seemed to be slowing down, too. Crawford looked farther up the Intracoastal and saw two boats side by side. He recognized the black hull of one as that of a police boat.

  He pointed. “Here they come.”

  Then he saw movement at the stern of the Pershing. And suddenly… almost like the big boat was giving birth, a small boat—a tender—squeezed out of the stern of the Pershing.

  “Jesus, look,” Crawford said, pointing, as the tender turned and shot forward.

  In seconds it looked to be at full speed.

  “Holy shit,” Ott said, as Crawford pulled out his iPhone. “Just like I told you.”

  “You still there, Norm?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Tell the guys in the boats, if they haven’t seen it yet, the target is now a ten-foot white inflatable that just exited the yacht. Two subjects in it—” he paused to confirm its course “headed south. We’re in pursuit.”

  “Roger that.”

  Cooper lowered the helicopter as the inflatable tender, now going almost as fast as the Pershing had been, aimed for an inlet that had two small docks on either side.

  “Subject on course to enter an inlet on the east side of the Intracoastal,” Crawford said, watching. “Just turned in now.” He turned to Cooper. “Get as close as you can.”

  Cooper brought the helicopter down, so it was thirty feet above the water and descending.

  “Subject’s slowed down, in the inlet now, but not stopping at a dock—”

  “Police boats have a visual,” Rutledge said. “Report they’re a half-mile from the inlet.”

  Crawford cocked his head. “Not sure they can get in.” Then to Ott, “What’s the draft on that inflatable?”

  “Oh, shit, six inches, max? A lot less than the police boats.”

  “Okay,” Crawford said, “then we probably have the best shot if the boats can’t fit in there.”

  “Looks that way,” Ott said, watching the inflatable speed past a few docks, as the helicopter descended to twenty feet above the water.

  Suddenly, the inflatable, which had abruptly slowed, took a hard right and ran aground onto an open space between two thickets of palm trees. Swain jumped out, grabbed Bemmert’s arms, pulled him out, and the two started running.

  “Get us down!” Crawford shouted to Cooper, but he didn’t have to say it, as the pilot dodged a tall pine and a wax palm, headed for a spot next to where the inflatable had run aground. “They’re on foot now,” Crawford warned Rutledge.

  Swain and Bemmert disappeared into a wooded area. “Okay,” he said into his phone, “I don’t know exactly where we are but we’re about to land and pursue on foot.” He looked over at Cooper, who was concentrating hard on landing. “Once Coop drops us, he’s going back up to try to spot ’em. Give you a location, too.”

  Cooper nodded as the helicopter skids touched down on terra firma.

  Crawford, who had his Sig Sauer drawn, jumped out of the helicopter, and started running toward the wooded area.

  “Right behind ya!” Ott shouted as he exited the helicopter, Glock in hand.

  Crawford was the first to reach the wooded area but could hear Ott only a few steps behind him. He plunged in. It was swampy and his feet sank with every step. Perfect location for snakes, he thought…one of several fears he had that regularly tormented him since childhood. He heard a branch break behind him and heard Ott shout, “Motherfucker!” He didn’t look back but kept scanning the woods ahead for Swain and Bemmert. The mud was getting thicker and deeper. Ahead, he spotted a blue, lace-less sneaker stuck in the mud.

  He saw something off to his left. It was yellow and it was moving.

  Bemmert.

  He turned to Ott, still a few steps behind. “Pretty sure that’s Bemmert.”

  “Yup, I saw. Want me to take him?”

  “Yeah. I’ll keep goin’. Try to run down Swain.”

  They ran another fifty yards and Bemmert was now only twenty ahead of them. Crawford could hear him panting for breath. Not stopping, he aimed his Sig. “Hands in the air, Bemmert! We got two guns on you.”

  Bemmert shouted something unintelligible.

  “Hands in the fucking air!” Ott shouted. “Or you’ll get one up the ass.”

  Bemmert raised his hands, then bent over, gasping for air.

  As Crawford raced past Bemmert, he saw a cut on his face that was dripping blood onto his yellow T-shirt, which was already soaked through with sweat. He was only wearing one sneaker.

  Ott came up behind him. “Okay, hands behind your back.”

  Bemmert did as he was ordered, and Ott cuffed him.

  Ott turned him around and gave him a hard stare. “One down, one to go.”

  The woods had gone from muddy to swampy to ankle-deep muck, slowing Crawford considerably. He stopped to see if he could hear Swain ahead, but all he caught was the whir of helicopters blades above.

  He mopped his sweaty brow with his shirt sleeve, then started running again. He wasn’t at all sure he was even headed in the right direction.

  The sudden crack of three gunshots in rapid succession told him he was. Another burst thunked heavily into a pygmy palm next to him. He dropped to the muck and aimed his Sig in the direction where the shots came from.

  “Swain!” Crawford shouted. “You got no chance! I got cops in cars, boats, and choppers surrounding you. You got no way out, and you don’t want to die in the middle of this swamp.”

  Another burst of gunfire was Swain’s answer. Crawford heard one bullet slam into the tall grass a few feet away.

  To make it clear to Swain he had no intention of dying in the swamp, he fired off a burst of three shots in the direction where he thought Swain was hunkered down. He had fourteen more bullets in his magazine, plus two seventeen-shot mags in his belt, so he wouldn’t be running out of rounds anytime soon.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “I can just stay here and wait
you out, Swain! I got the cavalry coming, while you got nothing. Plus, we got Bemmert.”

  He heard what sounded like a branch snap. Swain was either running away or coming toward him. Crawford didn’t see any movement ahead. But then he did. It was on the ground and it was one of his worst fears. A shiny, black snake with white and yellow bands. It was long—he guessed about six feet— and it was writhing…away from him, fortunately. Still, his first instinct was to unload a few rounds into the slimy bastard.

  Calm, he told himself. It wants no part of you….

  He looked up through the branches in front of him. He heard what sounded like another branch breaking, but this time farther away. Crouching low, he duck-walked forward, holding his Sig in both hands and leaving his slithering friend behind. He kept going for another fifty yards and saw and heard nothing. He was regretting not having shot his Sig in over a year, ignoring memo after memo reminding him about practicing at the range.

  And then, there Swain was, in a clearing twenty-five to thirty yards ahead. He was wearing a camo shirt—how appropriate—and black jeans coated with mud up to his knees.

  Crawford crouched down and aimed at his chest—center-mass—then shouted as loud as he could. “Drop your gun, Swain!”

  Instinctively, Swain turned and squeezed off a burst. But Crawford had him sighted in and fired a single shot. It hit Swain in the upper chest below his shoulder.

  Swain went down with a groan. Crawford feared the ex-biker becoming a desperate, wounded animal.

  Still in a crouch, pistol in both hands, Crawford shouted again. “Toss your gun!”

  No response.

  He edged forward a few steps, then stopped.

  “Toss it, Swain!”

  Again, no response.

  He crept forward a few more yards and stopped.

  He could see Swain’s jeans but not his upper body or his hands.

  He took a few more steps and saw all of Swain’s body: a large patch of blood in his upper right chest, pistol still in his right hand—a Glock, Crawford thought—and eyes shut.

  He took a few more steps. Suddenly Swain’s eyes popped open and he raised his pistol to aim, but Crawford was ready.

  He fired three quick shots into Swain’s chest.

  Swain’s arm and pistol fell to the mud before he could get off a shot.

  Thirty-Eight

  A half hour later, a cluster of cops had gathered in the thicket where Crawford had killed Larry Swain.

  Crawford had first called Rutledge and told him what happened, then found a clearing where Ronnie Cooper had eventually spotted him waving his white—and by now soiled and sweaty—shirt. First came Ott and his prisoner, Guy Bemmert, who looked down in disbelief and shock at the body of his dead partner. Then, two guys from the Marine Unit, who had docked their boat in the inlet. Then a uniform on an ATV, and finally two cops who had parked their car half a mile away.

  While this was all going on around him, Crawford remained silent.

  He hadn’t killed a man in a long time. Since his days in New York.

  There had been three up there.

  It was not something he relished, and Ott could plainly see that.

  “You okay, man?” Ott asked, going over to his partner, who was leaning against a tree, looking into the woods in an unfocused gaze.

  “Not really.”

  “I hear you.”

  Crawford turned and caught Ott’s eye. Ott had never seen the look before on his partner’s face. It could have been despair. It could have been shock. It could have been regret. Probably a little of all three.

  Ott, who never seemed at a loss for words, couldn’t come up with anything he thought appropriate to say. Finally, he spoke quietly. “Probably time we both took a vacation. Got away from this shit for a while.”

  Crawford nodded an uncertain nod. “He just didn’t want to get taken alive, I guess,” he said, his gaze still distant.

  “Yeah,” Ott said. “Some are like that.”

  Crawford looked over at Guy Bemmert, who was kneeling next to Swain’s body, surrounded by cops. It seemed like he was saying a silent prayer.

  “I feel bad for the guy,” Crawford whispered to his partner.

  Ott nodded.

  After a few moments, Bemmert looked up at them.

  “Mr. Bemmert,” Ott said, “we need to know about Vega.”

  Thirty-Nine

  On the way back up to Palm Beach, Ott checked the GPS tracker to see where Vega’s BMW was. Their fear was that she may have heard on the news about the shoot-out and driven her high-powered vehicle off to parts unknown.

  But no, she hadn’t

  “Her car’s parked on Worth Avenue,” Ott said, having just read it on the tracker.

  “By the way, we need to get the judge to okay us looking at her bank accounts.” Crawford said.

  “One step ahead of you, I already called.”

  “Good man. Let’s go find her.”

  Vega’s white M760 was parked right in front of Ta-Boo at 241 Worth Avenue.

  Crawford and Ott pulled into a space in front of the Jimmy Choo’s across the street. They got out of the Vic and Crawford glanced at a pair of turquoise high-top sneakers in the window.

  Crawford pointed “You’d look good in those.”

  “Yeah, probably set me back three hundred bucks.”

  “More,” Crawford said as they crossed the street to Ta-boo.

  They walked in and Crawford spotted Vega right away sitting at the bar. She had a drink in front of her in a long skinny glass with two olives in it.

  The famous blabbermouth soup.

  Crawford sat down beside her in a leather bar stool, Ott on the other side.

  “Hello, Vega,” Crawford said, as she turned to him.

  “Hello, Charlie, I’ve been expecting you.”

  Crawford motioned to Ott. “This is my partner, Detective Ott.”

  She turned to Ott. “Hello, detective.”

  “Ma’am,” said Ott.

  She turned back to Crawford.

  “So, you heard about what happened,” Crawford said, “on the news?”

  She shook her head. “From Guy Bemmert. He called from his boat. Said you were after him. You caught ’em, I guess?”

  Crawford nodded. “Why didn’t you run?”

  “I thought about it, but I knew you’d catch me.”

  “You got a fast getaway car,” Ott said.

  Vega turned to him and laughed. “I never drive it over forty.”

  “What a waste,” said Ott.

  She turned back to Crawford. “Besides, I couldn’t exactly picture myself as The Fugitive.”

  Crawford laughed. “So, I’m guessing you found out Bemmert and Swain were stealing from SOAR and demanded money from ’em to keep quiet.”

  “Yes, I looked into Bemmert after I saw that fancy boat docked at Elysium. From what I had heard he had to pay a big fine to that company he had bilked and was, basically, broke. So, I said to myself, now he’s got a million-dollar boat? How does that work?”

  Ott leaned toward Vega. “I got news for you, ma’am, that’s a two-million-dollar boat.”

  “Wow. Really?” she said, as the bartender approached them.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Can I get you drinks?”

  “Oh, yes. Try a martini, Charlie?” Vega said.

  Crawford looked up at bartender. “Coke, please.”

  “You’re no fun,” Vega said.

  The bartender turned to Ott. “Ginger ale, please.””

  “We’re teetotalers,” Crawford said with a smile.

  Vega laughed. “You weren’t when we were at Mookie’s.”

  “So, I guess, with your Skull and Bones background, it was simple to find out what Bemmert and Swain were up to?”

  Vega cocked her head. “How did you… oh, right, you’re a detective.”

  Their drinks came and Crawford took a sip of his Coke.

  “So, what’s going to happen to me?” Vega ask
ed.

  “To be honest with you, I don’t know. If there’s a trial, I’ll say you were cooperative. That is, if you are, and if you fill me in on everything you know and don’t try to lead me astray. That was kind of your MO before. Like how you got your friend Maxwell to steer me away from Bemmert and Swain—” he took a sip of his Coke. “Also, if you testify against Guy Bemmert.”

  “And Larry Swain?”

  Crawford sighed. “Ah, he’s… no longer with us.”

  Ott leaned toward Vega. “Ma’am, speaking of Larry Swain—”

  “He and Guy were a hell of an unlikely couple, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll say. What do you know about Swain?”

  “Not that much, except that supposedly he used to be in a motorcycle gang. He was always nice to me—hey, people change— but people said he had a nasty side.”

  “Did you ever see any weapons at their apartment?”

  “I was only there twice. Today and, well, one other time, so… no, I didn’t.”

  Crawford glanced over at Ott. “Something tells me when we go through that place, we will.”

  “Yeah, might find a bunch of cash squirreled away, too.”

  Forty

  Vega, eager to be cooperative, spent the next half hour telling Crawford and Ott everything she knew they’d want to know. Fannie Melhado, with the exception of some twisted S&M escapades, was, as Maxwell the PI had said, clean as a whistle. Crux, with the exception of having been instrumental in the set-up of Holmes Whitmore, the falsely accused pedophile, was also in the clear.

  And Leo Peavy…well, he just plain looked bad. But, with the exception of the sideburns and the plug-ugly watch, he couldn’t really help it.

  In the wake of the case, Crawford took Ott’s advice and went down to the Keys for a few days. He had a friend who was an avid, almost obsessive, bone-fisherman and said how much fun it was catching the elusive fish. Crawford didn’t really know what a bonefish looked like but thought he’d try it since his friend swore by it.

  At the end of their first morning fishing, he still didn’t know what a bonefish looked like because, even with the assistance of a man generally regarded as the best fishing guide around, they didn’t catch one. A couple of times the guide pointed and said, See over there. Crawford swung around and looked but all he saw was water reflecting the sun.