by Tom Turner
“Ask away.”
“How was it that you started life as a duke and ended up in Palm Beach as Nancy Miller’s Mr. Carson?”
“First of all, a baron, not a duke. A baron’s a little lower on the totem pole.”
“But still, royalty.”
“Yes, family crest and all. Pip, pip cheerio.” Algernon said. “Secondly, I really sucked at finance. Maybe it was because I had a father who couldn’t teach me anything but cricket, bridge, gardening, and drinking. But it could have also been that I just had no aptitude for stocks and bonds.”
“So you ended up over here—”
“As a highly-remunerated escort,” Algernon said.
“So, a gigolo,” Jacqui said.
“Yes, but one who drew the line at women over two hundred pounds with three or more chins.”
Ten
The plan was for Crawford to interview Ainsley Buttrick while Ott handled Brewster Collett; then they’d pay another visit to Chuffer Church.
“Wish my parents had been a little more classy,” Ott said, as they were going down the elevator at the station.
“What are you talking about?” Crawford asked.
“That last name first name thing,” Ott said. “I mean, Brewster or Ainsley…if I had a name like that I probably would have done a lot better with the women in Cleveland. And Charlie, that’s just way too common a name.”
“You don’t think Brewster and Ainsley are a tad pretentious?”
“Maybe a tad,” Ott said as they walked out of the building onto South County, “but the only other Mort I knew was this barber on Euclid Avenue.”
“That would be a street in the Mistake on the Lake, I take it?”
“Yes, it would be,” he said, then shaking his head. “And why do you always have to be so cruel about my beloved hometown, Charlie?”
Brewster Collett was handsome in a blonde, blue-eyed, vacuous kind of way. The kind of man who, because he had looks and was a good dancer, lured lots of women into bed. He had been born nouveau rich in Lake Forest, Illinois, fifty years ago and his father had the Illinois franchises for both Radio Shack and Blockbuster. That basically meant that, for decades, Brewster didn’t have to do anything in the way of gainful employment and so…he didn’t. But then in 2010, Blockbuster went bankrupt and five years later, after struggling mightily for years, so did Radio Shack. Collett’s father was an inveterate gambler who went to Las Vegas ten times a year, had multiple lavishly-spent-upon mistresses, and had not salted away a dime. Which meant Brewster at the age of fifty was, with the exception of a rent check he got from tenants in a duplex in Lake Bluff, essentially penniless.
Collett had had to downgrade from a house on Coral Lane in Palm Beach to a small Spanish-style house in West Palm and hadn’t told his friends he’d moved. Instead he’d meet them at the Poinciana, where he was having trouble scraping up the money to pay his annual dues.
Ott pushed the doorbell button at the modest house on Greenwood.
Collett came to the door and frowned at the sight of Ott in his brown and orange tie with the big Windsor knot just above his sternum.
“Mr. Collett, my name is Detective Ott,” he said. “From the Palm Beach Police Department. I’m investigating the death of Knight Mulcahy in Palm Beach.”
Collett made no effort to shake Ott’s hand or acknowledge him in any way except as an unseemly blight on his doorstep.
“Ah-huh,” he said.
“Yeah, well,” Ott said. “May I come in? Ask you a few questions?”
“Yes, sure,” said Collett, his eyes still glued to Ott’s tie as if there was a big, unsightly turd on it. “Come on in.”
Ott walked in and followed Collett into his remarkably unfurnished living room. There was a burgundy Barcalounger facing a big flat screen, a few bamboo chairs without pads, and that was about it.
They sat down in the bamboo chairs, which Ott worried might not support his two-hundred-and-thirty-pound heft. Still, he smiled at Collett and took out his pad and pen. “First of all,” Ott said. “I just want to confirm that you were at the party given by Knight Mulcahy and his wife three nights ago.”
“Yes, yes, I was there,” Collett said. “Barely spoke to Knight, though, except to say hello.”
Ott nodded. “And did you ever have reason to go outside the house, Mr. Collett?”
Three creases appeared on Collett’s forehead. “Why would I?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe just to get some fresh air or—”
Collett’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out and looked at the number. “Oh, got to take this,” he said. “Just take a sec.”
Ott nodded.
“Hey,” Collett said, then turned away and listened.
Ott heard a garbled woman’s voice that sounded familiar but he couldn’t make out the words.
“Absolutely,” Collett said, his eyes lighting up as he glanced down at his watch. “Let’s say eight.”
Ott listened as hard as he could.
“Yup, Breakers,” he said, then in a whisper, “à bientôt, chérie.”
He clicked off and looked up at Ott. “Sorry, a little business,” Collett said. “Now what were you—”
“No problem,” Ott said. “So you were inside the whole time at the Mulcahys’?”
“Well, yes,” Collett said. “Until I went home.”
Ott looked at him like, ‘Yeah, well, no shit,’ and wrote something on his pad. “And because I’ve asked everyone this same question: can you think of anyone who might have murdered Knight Mulcahy? You know, a personal or business matter, a grudge, a bad feeling about something, anything at all?”
Collett shook his head slowly, then he stopped as if a thought had intruded, then he looked like he was about to say something, then he started shaking his head again. Then, finally, “Nope. Can’t say as I do.”
Crawford found himself in a vast reception room that had as its centerpiece a sculpture of a black panther twice its normal size. It looked like it was either snarling or smiling, Crawford couldn’t tell which. The magazine selection there was limited to financial publications, so Crawford was catching up on his emails when Ainsley Buttrick walked in.
“You look like a detective,” Buttrick said, examining Crawford’s recently purchased Shechers Murilo oxfords with unmasked disdain. “I’m Ainsley Buttrick.”
“Mr. Buttrick,” Crawford said, standing up and shaking Buttrick’s skeletal hand. “Thanks for seeing me”—then pointing to the giant panther next to him—“I like your mascot.”
“Thanks,” said Buttrick. “It was done by the same sculptor who did the bull up on Wall Street. So, come on back and ask me whatever you want.”
Crawford followed Buttrick back to a gigantic office with a desk the size of a small aircraft carrier and a conference table off to the side. Buttrick sat down in a chair at the conference table and gestured for Crawford to do the same. Crawford was facing Buttrick’s desk, behind which were pictures of Buttrick with both Bush presidents, Mitt Romney, Marco Rubio, Carly Fiorina, and the tennis player Roger Federer. Not one Democrat in the bunch.
Buttrick folded his hands, smiled and looked Crawford square in the eyes. “So go ahead, Detective, what do you want to know about Knight Mulcahy?”
“Just tell me about your relationship with him, if you would.”
“So, as I’m sure you know, Mulcahy was an investor in my fund. He had an inconsequential five million in it and I basically did him a favor by letting him in.”
“Five million dollars is inconsequential?”
“Let me amend that,” Buttrick said. “It’s ‘microscopic.’ I don’t want to sound like a big swingin’ dick, but my minimum, as of five years ago, was twenty-five million. Knight came to me and practically begged to get in with five.”
“But my understanding is, based on his net worth, he could have come up with twenty-five million without too much difficulty,” Crawford said.
“I know, but he said he was tied up in some illiquid real estate de
als and that was all he could do at the time,” Buttrick said. “Told me he’d come up with another twenty in six months, but never did.”
“Okay, so what happened?” Crawford asked.
“You mean, why’d he go spouting off about the big black cat?”
“Yeah,” Crawford said. “Is that what you call it?”
“Some reporter at the Wall Street Journal came up with that,” Buttrick said. “I kinda liked it.”
“Okay, so as I understand it, Mulcahy had some losses in…the big black cat,” Crawford said. “And chose his radio show as a forum to—”
“—trash me,” Buttrick said, getting more animated. “He lost about as much as I win on a typical golf bet, then goes off on the cat, saying it’s a big loser. Well, if it’s such a big loser, then how come I’m worth six-point-seven billion dollars?”
Crawford didn’t know the answer. “What was your response to him, saying what he said about your fund on his radio show?”
Buttrick smiled. “My first response was to go ballistic, I won’t lie to you, I was really pissed. My second response was to sue the shit out of the guy because of a confidentiality agreement he signed. But my third response was”—he shrugged his shoulders—“not to give a rat’s ass. Know why?”
Crawford shook his head.
“‘Cause of the guy’s audience,” Buttrick said. “Bunch of rednecks from Arkansas pulling down 30K a year. Them hearing about Mulcahy losing money in a hedge fund…‘What the hell’s a hedge fund?’ they’re wondering.”
It was a good point.
“Mulcahy’s money was inconsequential,” Buttrick went on. “So you see, Detective, the concept of me going down to his beach house with a gun when he’s down there getting his rocks off with some bimbo is about as absurd as one of his listeners putting cash in the cat.”
On that note, Crawford got to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Buttrick, I appreciate your time.”
He didn’t see the need to shake Buttrick’s bony hand again.
“You’re very welcome, Detective,” Buttrick said, then a smile. “If you’re ever looking for a place to put that paycheck of yours…”
Yuk-yuk-yuk.
Twenty minutes later, Crawford and Ott were walking up the steps to Chuffer Church’s house.
“So you didn’t even ask Collett about his relationship with Jacqui Mulcahy?” Crawford asked.
“No,” said Ott. “I thought about it, but then figured, what’s the point? He’d just deny it. Even though he took her call in the middle of our conversation. Pretty sure it was her, anyway. I was really just trying to get a sense whether the man could kill somebody or not.”
“And?”
“No fucking way,” Ott said. “Guy totally lacks motivation.”
“What are you talking about,” Crawford said, pressing the doorbell. “You told me the guy was broke. Needed a meal ticket, i.e., Jacqui Mulcahy. Ever heard of the saying, starvation is motivation?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“‘Cause I just made it up.”
“I figured,” Ott said, pressing the doorbell.
Crawford and Ott were in Chuffer Church’s living room again. The paintings and the furniture were all awash in pastel colors, as if Lily Pulitzer herself had been turned loose with a holster of yellow, pink, blue, and green paintbrushes.
“Mr. Church,” Crawford said, sitting across from him in a wicker chair, “we came up with a few discrepancies in your story. About where you were the night Knight Mulcahy was killed.”
Church looked offended. “What are you talking about,” he said. “I told you we watched a movie here, then—”
“Actually,” Ott cut in, “we have a time-dated video which shows your car coming out of your driveway at exactly—”
“Okay, okay,” Church said quickly. “But what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is we don’t expect you to lie to us,” Crawford said.
“Which, clearly, you did,” Ott added.
Chuffer Church inspected the tops of his Testonis as if there was a secret message etched into them.
“So, the question is, where exactly did you go?” Crawford asked, impatiently.
“This place over in West Palm,” Church mumbled.
“A restaurant? A bar? What was it?” Ott asked. “We’re going to need to confirm that you actually went there this time.”
“It’s called Claudia’s,” Church said.
“The strip joint?” Ott said.
Crawford stifled a laugh.
“It’s a gentleman’s club,” said Church.
“Oh, sorry,” Ott said, struggling to keep a straight face.
“I met a guy there,” Church said. “We had business to discuss.”
“And how long were you there?” Crawford asked.
“About two hours,” said Church.
“So someone would be able to confirm you were there?” Ott asked. “A bartender maybe, the bouncer…or”—he couldn’t resist—“one of those scantily-clad ladies who dances with poles?”
Church looked offended. “I was just there to meet a man and discuss a business venture.”
Church reminded Crawford of the man who claimed to buy Playboy for the articles.
“So who was it you met with?” Ott asked.
“His name is Jabbah Al-Jabbah,” Church said. “Name ring a bell?”
Crawford and Ott both shook their heads. “Can’t say it does,” Crawford said.
“The royal family of Saudi Arabia,” Church said, looking pleased to throw around the title.
“Okay,” Crawford said. “So, if you don’t mind, what was the business meeting about?”
“It’s really none of your business,” Church said. “But I’ll tell you anyway, since I have nothing to hide. Then we can be done with this whole ridiculous conversation. I’ve been talking to Mr. Al-Jabbah about becoming a backer in a business of mine.”
“Oh, you mean, CC Ryder?” Ott said.
Church’s mouth went into a wide O. “How is it possible you know the name of my company?”
“I keep an eye on the fashion scene,” Ott said.
Church looked quizzical.
“Actually, I been checking up on you a little. Stores in New York, Boston and L.A., right?”
“Yeah, and about to be five more,” Church said. “Including one here.”
“Congratulations,” Crawford said. “So you went straight from your house to Claudia’s?”
“Yup, in the opposite direction of Knight Mulcahy’s, I might add.”
Crawford knew Ott would check security cameras south of Church’s house to confirm that.
Crawford looked at Ott. Ott shrugged. It was a wrap.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Church,” Crawford stood up and shook Church’s hand.
Ott did the same. “Look forward to getting my first pair of pink pants at your new store,” he said.
Church didn’t realize he was kidding. “We’ll have some fantastic bow ties, too. You’d look good in a bowtie, Detective.”
Eleven
Just to keep track of all his suspects, Crawford wrote down their names on a white board in his office. Then beside each name he wrote a short description. Beside Jacqui Mulcahy, he wrote ‘$.’ Beside Paul Mulcahy, he wrote ‘ditto.’ Beside Brewster Collett, he wrote, ‘wants Jackie.’ Beside Lila Moline, he wrote ‘wants Knight.’ Beside Chuffer Church, he wrote ‘business deal went south.’ Beside Ainsley Buttrick, he wrote ‘Knight trashed fund.’ Beside Sam Pratt, he wrote ‘golf cheater?’ Beside Ned Durrell he wrote, ‘writer-fight with Knight.’ He knew he was forgetting a few. Oh, yeah, Skagg Magwood and Earl Hardin. Beside their names, he wrote ‘?’ And finally, he wrote ‘John/Bob,’ and next to it, ‘MIDBBB’—which stood for the man in the double-breasted blue blazer. God, he hoped he hadn’t forgotten anybody.
Right after that he got a call from the medical examiner, Bob Hawes, a guy he had a short but rancorous history with. Hawes stated emphatically that Knight Mul
cahy had been killed between 9:40 and 9:45 on the night of his party. Crawford started to say that it was impossible to be so exact, but let it go. Why get into it with the guy yet again?
He was now on his way down to the basement of the station house where the evidence techs kept their offices.
Dominica McCarthy was talking on her cell.
She spotted him and motioned him over. “We’ll be there at two,” she said. “Does that work?” She nodded, then said, “Okay, see you then,” and hung up.
“Hey, Charlie,” she said, raising her palms in mock protest: “You don’t call, you don’t write.”
“Sorry,” he said, “you know how it is when I got a homicide.”
She sighed. “Yeah, only too well. ‘Bye-bye, Dominica, see you just as soon as I solve this sucker.’ Which could be years.”
Crawford laughed. “Don’t be a wiseass. And those are both big exaggerations. But at least you recognize I eventually get my man.”
“Yup. Just like the Mounties,” she said as her cell phone rang. She ignored it.
Dominica was the second of Crawford’s Palm Beach girlfriends, something they kept under wraps. He had sworn off women for a while after a rough break-up in New York. But then along came Lil Fonseca. A blonde knockout. Ambitious. Scheming. Conniving. It had been a short, but rousing run. Then came Dominica. Beautiful emerald eyes, bouncy, full hair, uncomplicated, not to mention a figure everyone agreed was way above average. He had fallen hard for her, but now its status was on-again, off-again.
“What’s your batting average since you’ve been down here? Four for four,” she asked.
“Come on, girl, you forgot one. Five for five.” Crawford gave her a fake fist-pump. “Hey, look, I came here to take you out to lunch. So quit givin’ me a hard time.”
Dominica started nodding. “Uh-huh. To discuss Knight Mulcahy’s murder, right?”
“Among other things,” he said. “Also, to catch up with you. Find out how Hobo’s doin, how your surfing’s comin’ along. You know, what’s new in your life?”
“Hobo’s still eating my shoes and I got a new short board.”
