Palm Beach Deadly

by Tom Turner

  Crawford looked over at Ott.

  Ott nodded as he walked toward the bar. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.

  Thirty-Seven

  Crawford and Ott drove the battle-scarred Caprice up to Jabbah Al-Jabbah’s house on Middle Road at a little before six that night. They got a lot of funny looks along the way and the shattered front windshield made for challenging visibility. They walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell.

  “You b’lieve one guy lives in this place?” Ott said shaking his head and looking up at the massive 3-story front façade.

  “Until a week ago, it was two,” Crawford said.

  A Hispanic woman in a white uniform answered the door.

  “Hello,” Crawford said. “We need to see Mr. Al-Jabbah.”

  “I’m sorry, but he is not here,” The woman said. “He is playing golf at his club.”

  “Thank you,” Crawford said and he and Ott turned, walked down the steps and got back into their car.

  “Wonder if he plays in a thobe?” Crawford said.

  “What the hell’s that?” Ott asked.

  “Jesus, and I thought you were so fashion-conscious,” Crawford said. “You know, like a tunic.”

  Ott thought for a second. “Nah, I see him as more a madras shorts, white belt, alligator shirt kinda guy.”

  The valet approached the Caprice at the porte-cochere of the Royal & Alien Club as if he didn’t want to get anywhere near the crippled cruiser.

  “We’re looking for Mr. Al-Jabbah,” Crawford said.

  “Yes, sir. Pretty sure he just finished up,” the valet said. “Probably in the men’s locker room now.”

  “Thanks,” said Crawford getting out of his car.

  He and Ott walked in the front door and up to the receptionist’s desk. The woman recognized them from before.

  “Welcome back, gentlemen,” she said, “here to see Mr. Al-Jabbah?”

  “Yes,” Crawford said, “down in the men’s locker room.”

  “It’s all the way at the end of the corridor,” she said, “take a right there.”

  “Thanks,” Crawford said and Ott nodded.

  They walked down the corridor and Ott pushed open the door. They went into a room that had five wide sinks on the far wall with mirrors above them. Razors, cans of shaving cream, deodorant, and after-shave were placed at the back of each sink.

  The first person they saw was Juke Jackson, a towel around his waist, talking to another man who was shaving in front of one of the mirrors.

  Juke smiled at them and nodded.

  “Hi,” Crawford said. “You fellas seen Mr. Al-Jabbah?”

  “Yeah, right around the corner,” Juke pointed. “The main locker room.”

  Crawford nodded to Juke and he and Ott went around the corner into the locker room.

  Jabbah Al-Jabbah, wearing beige shorts and a blue Polo shirt, was behind Elliot Segal, who was sitting on a wood bench. The two were talking.

  “Mr. Al-Jabbah,” Crawford shouted as he pulled out his Sig Sauer pistol.

  Al-Jabbah looked across the room as Crawford and Ott approached. “You’re under arrest for the murder of your nephew and the attempted—”

  Al-Jabbah, in one swift motion, reached into the locker behind him, pulled out a knife from a white leather bag, grabbed Elliot Segal around the neck and yanked him up to his feet.

  “I don’t think so,” said Al-Jabbah calmly. “Now back up and let my friend and me walk out of here.”

  Crawford and Ott didn’t move.

  Al-Jabbah pushed the knife into Segal’s neck and a thin cut opened up.

  “Jesus Christ,” Segal yelled, as drops of blood fell to his chest. “Do what the man says.”

  Crawford and Ott backed up. “Okay,” Crawford said.

  “And put your guns down on the floor,” Al-Jabbah said.

  They did as they were told.

  “You will stay here and not move a muscle,” Al-Jabbah said, “If I see you after I walk out, I will slit his throat and take another hostage. Do you understand?”

  Crawford and Ott nodded.

  “So I’m perfectly clear?”

  They nodded again.

  “Good,” said Al-Jabbah, moving across the wide locker room, the knife tight against Segal’s neck. “You follow me, you’ll have his blood on your hands.”

  Crawford made eye contact with Elliot Segal. He had never seen so much fear in one man’s eyes before.

  Al-Jabbah and Segal shuffled around the corner of the locker room.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack like a baseball bat hitting a home run.

  “Uhhhh,” came a scream of pain.

  “You sonofabitch,” said a voice that sounded like Juke Jackson’s.

  Crawford ran around the corner of the locker room and saw Al-Jabbah on the floor, his eyes shut, blood streaming from the back of his head.

  Then Crawford looked to his right and saw Juke Jackson holding a golf club.

  Six or seven iron, by the look.

  Thirty-Eight

  At eleven the next morning, Jabbah Al-Jabbah was in the emergency room of Good Samaritan Hospital and had plenty of company: Crawford, Ott, five West Palm Beach detectives and a small army of suits from the FBI and Homeland Security. They were all there to get a crack at questioning Al-Jabbah before he was arraigned.

  Crawford was talking to one of the West Palm detectives when his phone rang. It said ‘Cecelia Vargas,’ a name he didn’t recognize but he answered anyway.

  “Hello.”

  “Detective Crawford,” said the woman’s voice, whispering.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Jacqui Mulcahy,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

  “Just barely,” Crawford said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Algernon Poole forced me to write out a check for two million dollars to him this morning.”

  “What?” Crawford said. “When did this happen?”

  “Just a few hours ago,” she said. “He’s a very violent man. He has kept me a hostage in my own house for the last two days. He took my cell phone, cut the house line, this is my cleaning lady’s cell.”

  “And you had that much money in the bank?” Crawford asked.

  “After Knight’s experience with Ainsley Buttrick’s fund, he kept a lot of cash on hand.”

  “What bank?”

  “Palm Beach National,” Jacqui said. “Algernon made me call the manager and tell him it was okay to cash the check.”

  “So you think he cashed it?”

  “I don’t know, I assume so,” Jacqui said. “Knight had cashed big checks like that before.”

  “Okay, here’s what you do,” Crawford said. “Go to your bedroom and lock the door. Put furniture up against it just to make sure. Me and my partner will be right there. Leave a door or two open, if you can.”

  “I will. Please hurry.”

  Crawford and Ott arrived at Jacqui Mulcahy’s house on North Ocean ten minutes later. They went around to the back French doors, which were open and went inside. Then Crawford held up his hand and they listened for voices.

  Nothing.

  They went through the back porch into the living room, stopped again, and listened some more.

  Still nothing.

  Then they walked toward her bedroom, down a long hallway and knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Who is it?” came the distraught voice of Jacqui Mulcahy.

  “Crawford and Ott,” Crawford said.

  “Oh, thank God,” Jacqui said. “Let me get the door.”

  It took a few moments for her to move the furniture and unlock the door.

  They walked in and she looked infinitely relieved. Crawford thought for a second she was going to throw her arms around them.

  “I don’t know where he is,” she blurted. “He took the keys to all the cars. I think I heard one of them start up two hours ago.”

  “Where does he live?” Crawford asked.

  “The gara
ge apartment,” Jacqui said.

  “We’ll go check it out,” Crawford said.

  “Will one of you stay with me, please?” she said. “I am so afraid of him.”

  “Sure,” Ott said. “I will.”

  “And you have a gun?”

  He smiled and patted above his left hip. “You’re safe, I promise.”

  “I’ll be back shortly,” Crawford said, then turning back. “Do I need a key?”

  She shook her head. “He always leaves it unlocked.”

  Crawford nodded, pretty sure how she knew that.

  He walked outside to the detached four-car garage and took out his gun. There was a stairway on the left side. He walked up it, stopped to listen, and, hearing nothing, knocked on the door.

  After a few moments, he turned the knob, pushed the door open and walked into a living room.

  Seeing nothing of interest there, he walked through it and into a large bedroom.

  He went over to a frail-looking mahogany desk that had a pad on the right side. On the pad was a phone number. Then beside the number, the name ‘Sidney’. Crawford put his gun back in his holster, then ripped the page off the pad and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket. He looked down at the bedspread and noticed a recessed rectangular outline on top of it, the size of a suitcase. Then he went to the large white bureau on the far side of the room and opened the top drawer. Nothing but a pair of black socks. He closed it and opened the next drawer. Nothing was in it. Same with the third and fourth drawers.

  Then he went and checked out a walk-in closet. All that was there was a long wool coat, suitable more for London than Palm Beach.

  He walked out of the bedroom, through the living room, down the stairs and back to the main house.

  Then he went back down the long hallway and into Jacqui Mulcahy’s bedroom.

  “He’s gone,” Crawford said to Ott and Jacqui.

  “How do you know?” Jacqui asked, at least partially relieved.

  “There are no clothes in the bureau and closet,” Crawford said. “He packed up a big, heavy suitcase on his bed”—then, turning to Ott—“I need you to check it out with me again”—then back to Jacqui—“I promise, he’s not coming back.”

  Jacqui nodded as Ott followed Crawford to the door.

  “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” Crawford said.

  They didn’t find anything else in Algernon Poole’s former residence.

  In fact, he had left very little behind.

  After five minutes of searching, Crawford reached into his pocket.

  “I found this on that memo pad,” Crawford said pointing. “Some guy’s number.”

  Ott came over and looked at it. “That’s a toll-free number,” he said.

  “It is?”

  “Yeah, not just 800’s; 866’s are too,” Ott said, pulling out his cell phone. “I’ll try it.”

  Ott dialed the number and put it on speaker. “Welcome to World Dominion Cruise Line—”

  Ott nodded a few times. “So there ya go. The guy’s hopping a boat to somewhere.”

  Crawford nodded knowingly. “I think I know where,” he said, tapping the word ‘Sidney.’ “Guy just can’t spell for shit.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Ott knocked off the seventy-five miles from Palm Beach to Miami in fifty-one minutes, despite the usual traffic tie-ups on 95. Crawford had been working his phone all the way down and found out that a World Dominion cruise ship was departing that afternoon for a 121-day cruise that ultimately ended up in Sydney. Crawford also spoke to the manager of Palm Beach National Bank, who confirmed that they had given a man with an English accent two million dollars in cash after Jacqui Mulcahy authorized it.

  Crawford had gotten in touch with the Miami police chief and told him that he anticipated making an arrest on a ship in the Port of Miami. It was more a courtesy because he and Ott were fully authorized to arrest someone for a felony anywhere in the state, and the assault and kidnapping of Jacqui Mulcahy—even in her own home—definitely qualified as a felony. The chief asked Crawford if he needed any back-up and he told him they were good. He was pretty sure Algernon Poole wouldn’t be packing an AK-47.

  With a few more calls, he got permission to go aboard the boat that Poole was a passenger on. It was called the Seven Seas and the trip cost $78,000, which Ott pointed out was the cost of a good starter home in his neighborhood.

  As Ott turned off of Biscayne Boulevard onto Port Boulevard, several massively tall cruise ships came into view.

  With any luck, they were about to ruin the trip of one of their passengers.

  Crawford and Ott took an elevator up to the highest deck of cabins. Algernon Poole’s was just below the swimming pool, but far enough away from it so he wouldn’t be subjected to hoot-and-hollering pool parties in the wee small hours. They got off and followed the signs to his cabin number, then knocked on the door.

  No answer. Then a short Filipino in a starched uniform walked up to them with a big smile. “You gentlemen are looking for Mr. Poole?”

  “Yes,” Crawford said, taking his ID out of his pocket and showing it.

  A frown rippled across the Filipino’s face as Ott took a step forward. “You know where he is”—checking the man’s name bar—“Danilo?”

  “I think he may have gone to the lounge on the promenade deck,” Danilo said.

  “Would you please open his cabin,” Crawford said.

  Danilo hesitated.

  “This is police business,” Crawford said. “We need to make sure he’s not in here.”

  Danilo reached in his pocket, pulled out a key and opened the door.

  The cabin was a huge upgrade from Poole’s garage apartment in Palm Beach. It was a duplex with lavish-looking leather furniture arranged in two seating arrangements—one focused on a 60-inch super Hi-Def Samsung TV. A stairway led up to a bedroom loft above. Off of the living room was an outdoor balcony big enough for a good-sized cocktail party, which had a big wooden, free-standing hot tub in one corner.

  “Not too shabby,” Ott said under his breath.

  Crawford smiled. “Yeah, perfect for picking up his next rich, female victim,” he said. “I’m going to check up above.”

  Crawford walked up the steps to the loft and noticed the large suitcase that had made the impression on Poole’s bed in the garage apartment. Then he noticed a stack of new books on a desktop: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom and a grim-sounding title: How We Die: Reflections of Life’s Final Chapter by Sherwin B. Nuland.

  Not exactly the light-hearted page-turners he’d take on a trip.

  Forty

  They found Algernon Poole in the bar on the promenade deck at 1:15. Needless to say, he wasn’t thrilled to see them.

  Poole looked up, slightly glassy-eyed, rolled his eyes and gave Crawford a ‘what the hell?’ look of total disbelief.

  Crawford didn’t see the necessity to read him his rights or handcuff him. “So Mr. Poole, on your way to Sydney, I see?”

  “I was,” Poole said, shaking his head. “How did you find me?”

  “You left behind one word and a phone number,” Crawford said. “Other than that, you probably would have made a clean getaway.”

  Poole shook his head. “And I suppose it would be unproductive to offer you a large sum of money to let me sail off into the sunset.”

  “How much are you talking?” Crawford asked.

  “Say…five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Sorry. That adds attempted bribery to the list of charges against you,” Crawford said.

  “I was just being hypothetical,” Poole said.

  “I’ll let the judge decide that,” Crawford said, patting his breast pocket. “I got a recorder here.”

  “You’re so thorough, Detective. You guys look uncomfortable standing there,” Poole said, gesturing to the chairs at his table. “Why don’t you—as you Yanks would say—take a load off?”

  Crawf
ord took a step forward, pulled out the chair and sat down. Ott followed.

  Poole looked around for the waiter. “Want a drink?’

  “Sure,” Crawford said, then looking at Ott. “Ginger ale for you, partner; since you’re drivin’.”

  Ott rolled his eyes.

  The waiter came over and they ordered.

  “Nice cabin you got there, Mr. Poole,” Crawford said. “But I was curious about something.”

  “And what was that?” Poole asked.

  “Your selection of books,” Crawford said. “A little dark.”

  Poole looked down, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then looked back up at Crawford, not saying anything.

  The waiter brought over their drinks. A Bud for Crawford, a Coke for Ott.

  “There seemed to be a certain theme there,” Crawford said.

  “And what was that, Detective?”

  “Death.”

  Poole took a long sip of his drink, then carefully put it down, like he was working his way up to saying something momentous. But again, he said nothing.

  “I was just curious,” Crawford said again.

  “I heard you the first time,” Poole said. “You can’t help yourself, can you, Detective?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Crawford asked.

  “You have to figure out every little detail.”

  “Now that you mention it, I might be guilty of that.”

  Poole exhaled. “And you’ve already figured it out,” he said. “About the books.”

  Crawford nodded. “You have something terminal, like cancer maybe?”

  “Close enough,” said Poole.

  Crawford bowed slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you,” Poole said. “Does that bit of news get you thinking about being a little lenient?”

  “You mean like, letting you go?”

  Poole nodded and smiled.

  “‘Fraid not,” Crawford said.

  “I figured,” said Poole.

  “Especially since you’re still a murder suspect.” Crawford said.