by Tom Turner
“Sure,” Crawford said, clicking the speakerphone button.
“Putting you on speaker, Norm.”
“Okay,” said Rutledge.
“Repeat what you just said about the helicopter, Norm,” Crawford said.
“It’s gonna get there in about a half hour,” Rutledge said.
“Make damn sure it’s got a full tank,” Pratt said. “I don’t want to get in it and find out we can only go ten miles.”
“Don’t worry,” Rutledge said, “we’re not playing games with you.”
“Better not,” Pratt said. “Or else Officer Evans’ wife and kids will be deep in mourning.”
Crawford nodded. “Okay, thanks, Norm,” he said, clicking off.
Crawford caught Pratt’s eye. “So where you thinking about going, Sam?”
“Disneyworld,” Pratt said.
Crawford laughed. “No, really.”
“I don’t know,” Pratt said. “A full tank—three hundred miles or so—that can get me to a lot of nice places. Havana, Nassau, I’ve always wanted to go to Harbor Island.”
Crawford nodded as a plan came into his head. “Look, Sam, I’ll be honest with you, we’re having a hard time getting the money,” he said. “But I think I got the answer.”
“Damn well better,” Pratt said, agitated.
“Just listen,” Crawford said. “Remember when Pedro Bacalao’s son was kidnapped last year?”
“Yeah, they cut off his ear to show they weren’t screwin’ around,” Pratt said. “What about it?”
“My partner and I caught the guys who did it,” Crawford said. “Mr. Bacalao was very grateful. He pledged a generous contribution to the Palm Beach Police Foundation.”
“Yeah, what did I read?” Pratt said. “Couple million?”
“Three million, to be exact,” Crawford said. “So I’m thinking maybe we could get him to release a million of that.”
“I like the way you’re thinkin’. Give the man a call,” Pratt said. “What could be a better cause than saving a cop’s life. Right, Jon?”
Evans, pistol to his head, didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
“This’ll take a little more than a phone call,” Crawford said. “I gotta talk to the guy in person.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Crawford said. “‘Cause I can’t just call him up and say, I need a million bucks.”
Pratt thought for a second, then stood up behind Jon Evans.
“All right, Charlie, but I want Pudge”—he pointed his pistol at Ott—“to go. And for the sake of Jon here, he better be very persuasive with Bacalao.” Pratt said, then to Ott. “Take my number and keep me up to speed on what’s happening. Charlie, you stick around.”
Forty-Seven
Turned out Pedro Bacalao, the heir to the largest pharmacy chain in South America, was in Bogota on business. Not only that, no one was authorized to release any of the money from the Palm Beach Police Foundation’s account until the full board met and approved it. None of this was going to keep Ott from going forward with the plan.
He dialed Sam Pratt a half hour after leaving the B&R on his cell phone. “Yeah, Pudge, what’s up?” Pratt said.
“I got a million dollars,” said Ott.
“I love a can-do guy,” said Pratt.
“I’m coming back to the B & R now. I’ll meet you at the helicopter that’ll be landing in about ten minutes,” said Ott.
“You’re the best,” Pratt said. “I’ll raise a glass to you in Harbor Island or Havana or Nassau, wherever I end up.”
“Just live up to your part of the bargain and release Evans,” Ott said.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back on a stake-out before you know it.”
Pratt, pistol to Evan’s head, was walking through the B & R on his way out to the tennis courts. He got to a pair of French doors and looked out. There on the center court was a bright blue Bell Jet Ranger helicopter, its blade going half speed.
“I see the chopper,” Pratt said into his cell, “where are you?”
No response.
“Where the hell are you?” Pratt said, as he pushed open the French doors.
Positioned on the roof above the French doors, Ott jumped. As he landed on Pratt’s shoulders, he knocked the pistol out of his hand.
Within seconds, twenty cops with their guns drawn were surrounding them, including Crawford who had run out through the French doors.
Ott, his favorite brown polyester pants ripped at the knee, straddled a prostrate Pratt and looked up at Crawford.
“Hell of a jump, Pudge,” Crawford said.
Ott slowly shook his head and smiled. “I’m way too old for this shit, Charlie.”
Forty-Eight
Ott had reinjured an old football injury in his right knee when he landed.
Rose Clarke, who had gotten wind of what happened at the B&R, had called Crawford, who had filled her in. He told her about Ott’s leaping heroics and his bum knee. Then she thanked him, hung up and called Ott.
“Mort, how you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine, Rose,” Ott said. “Just hobbling around with this damn cane for a while.”
“Well, I’m just glad you didn’t break anything,” she said. “How ‘bout I take you out for dinner? Pick you up at your place at seven tonight. I’ve got this great out-of-the-way spot. Really good food.”
What the hell, Ott thought. Beat the hell out of the Marie Callender chicken pot-pie in the on-deck circle in his freezer.
He gave her his address, then, with a big grin on his face, walked into Crawford’s office.
Crawford, on his computer, looked up. “Hey, Mort, you feelin’ any better?”
Ott nodded. “Like a million bucks.”
“So that Advil kicked in?”
“Nope,” said Ott, shaking his head. “‘Cause I got a dinner date with the hottest chick in the whole state of Florida.”
“Don’t tell me,” Crawford said. “Some babe from your bowling league?”
“Funny. How ‘bout Rose Clarke?”
A frown cut across Crawford’s face. “Really?”
“I knew she’d eventually see the light. Realize you were just another pretty face.”
Turned out to be a bit of a hike from Palm Beach, but Rose promised Ott it would be worth the drive.
They parked, walked in and sat down in a corner in the back.
Rose pointed to his leg. “You want to rest it on a chair?” she asked. “Would that be more comfortable?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “It really is no big deal.”
“Are you just being stoical?” Rose asked.
“Nah. Hey, I like sympathy as much as the next guy,” Ott said, taking a drink of water. “It just doesn’t feel all that bad.”
“You really jumped off the roof of the B&R?”
Ott nodded sheepishly. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“That’s like out of some cowboy movie or something,” she said, beaming.
“Yeah, well, best I could come up with on short notice,” he said
Rose put her hand on Ott’s. “My hero.”
He laughed as he heard footsteps off to one side.
“Welcome to Marbella,” the waiter said, instantly recognizing Ott, but not missing a beat. “Hello, Detective…and madame…tonight we have two incredible specials. May I tell you about them?”
Ott smiled up at him. “Sure, Bill. Whatcha got?”
THE END
Afterword
I hope you liked Palm Beach Deadly. If you did, please leave a quick review on Amazon. Thank you!
Charlie Crawford and Mort Ott return for another murder investigation in Palm Beach Bones—now available on Amazon.
And to receive an email when the next Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mystery comes out, be sure to sign up for my free author newsletter at tomturnerbooks.com/news.
Best,
Tom
Palm Beach Bones (Excerpt)
O
ne
Crawford and Ott were eyeballing the body that lay on the beach behind The Breakers. Ott was down in a crouch; Crawford was snapping photos on his iPhone. Even for veteran detectives from the mean streets of New York and Cleveland, it was not a pretty sight. The dead man appeared to be in his sixties, wearing khaki pants and a blue shirt. It was apparent that creatures of the sea had had their way with him. A bullet hole in the middle of his chest indicated that someone of the human species had as well. The victim’s skin was slug white and wrinkled and he had a bulky Breitling watch that was still ticking even though his heart no longer was.
It was 6:30 a.m. An early morning beach stroller had called Palm Beach PD an hour ago with shock and horror in her voice. Crawford had been at the station at the time of the call, while Ott had come to the scene directly from his house.
“Shot him somewhere on the beach then dragged him into the water,” Ott weighed in, glancing up at Crawford. “Or maybe dumped him from a boat.”
Crawford nodded as he took another photo with his iPhone.
“Hawes on his way?” Ott asked.
Bob Hawes had been the medical examiner for Palm Beach County for twenty-five years. Way longer than he should have been, as far as Crawford was concerned.
“Yeah, should be any minute,” said Crawford.
Crawford looked up and saw a kid and a dog walking toward them. He held up his hand and walked in their direction. “Sorry son, but you can’t come any closer.”
The boy’s eyes were big. “Is that man okay?”
“You’re going to have to turn around and go back,” Crawford said, pointing over the boy’s shoulder.
“Okay,” said the boy reluctantly, still eyeing the body. Then he turned, gave a tug on the dog’s leash, and started walking away.
Three uniforms came down to the beach, having parked in one of The Breakers’ parking lots. Crawford put a hand up to his mouth and shouted to them. “You guys got any tape?”
One of them, Stan Gilhuley, held up a roll of yellow crime-scene tape.
“Good. I need you over there, Stan.” He pointed to where the boy had just come from. “And Jon, over there,” he pointed to the other side of the beach. “Don’t let anyone get anywhere close.”
He looked up at The Breakers and saw a cluster of people looking down at them. One had a pair of binoculars and two others had cameras. He saw a cameraman from WPEC news, the CBS affiliate.
“Tape off the path, Hal,” Crawford told the third cop, “between those two trees.” He pointed to two Chinese podocarpus. “Make sure those people stay up there,” Crawford said. “Even the press.”
“Especially the press,” Ott mumbled.
Then Crawford saw the figure of Bob Hawes part the crowd, no doubt telling the public to make way so he could get to the crime scene before the clueless cops messed it up. Hawes wore gray flannel pants and a shirt that looked more like a pajama top, totally inappropriate for a June day that was already north of eighty degrees.
Ott hadn’t noticed the ME yet; he was busy taking notes in his vintage leather-bound notebook that he’d had since way back when.
“Hawes is about to make his entrance,” Crawford said under his breath.
Ott groaned as he stood up straight and pocketed the notebook.
A few moments later, Hawes walked up to them, his black Corfam high-gloss tie shoes having taken on a few spoonfuls of sand.
“Boys,” Hawes said with a nod to Crawford and Ott before he looked down at the body. “Ho-lee shit.” His eyes were as big as the gut hanging over his white plastic belt.
“What?” Crawford asked.
“That’s Clyde Loadholt.”
“Who’s Clyde Loadholt?”
“He was chief of police here fifteen years ago,” Hawes said, bending down for a closer look. “That watch…he got that when he retired. Clyde was a damn fine chief. Everyone loved the guy.”
Crawford didn’t point out the obvious: everyone except at least one.
Two
The thwack-thwack-thwacking of a helicopter’s blade broke the silence of the group huddled around the corpse on the beach.
Crawford looked up as it got closer.
“Jesus,” Ott said. “What the hell—”
He shook his head as Crawford walked toward the helicopter, waving his hands. But it just kept coming, lower by the second. It got to right above where the body was, only about twenty-five feet above them, its rotors kicking up a sandstorm.
A pretty woman, her hair flying in all directions, was leaning out the passenger side, snapping pictures.
Crawford yelled through the cloud of sand, “Get out of here, you’re wrecking our scene!”
The woman looked down at him, smiled, waved, and just kept snapping.
Ott, a mile-wide frown on his face, pulled out his Glock and pointed it. “Outta here! Right now!”
The woman’s smile disappeared but she snapped off a few last shots. Then she lowered her camera, reached into her pocket, pulled something out, and tossed it from the helicopter. It fluttered down toward the beach.
The helicopter started to rise, then headed inland.
Ott shook his head, brushing sand out of his thinning hair as he watched the helicopter disappear. “You believe that shit?”
“Guess you made the six o’clock news, waving your piece,” Crawford said.
“Which means I’ll be hearing from Rutledge,” Ott said referring to Norm Rutledge, the current chief of police.
Crawford nodded. “You can count on it.”
A uniform brought something over to Crawford and handed it to him. “This is what she tossed,” he said.
It was a business card. It read: Alexa Dillon, Palm Beach Morning News.
Ott read it over Crawford’s shoulder. “Gotta hand it to her. She got the money shot for tomorrow’s edition.”
Crawford had been out of town for the past week. He had been up in Connecticut and had just flown down from JFK airport the night before. Family emergency was how he had explained it to Norm Rutledge and when Rutledge pressed him for details he just repeated it.
Palm Beach had been homicide-free for the last five months, so his timing had been good.
Bart, Crawford’s twenty-nine year old brother, was the family emergency. Bart had checked himself into Clairmount, located in the pastoral hills of New Canaan, Connecticut. Clairmount, as the website said, specialized in ‘the treatment of psychiatric and addictive disorders,’ and was a, ‘unique and extraordinary place that helps people find the path back to mental health and wellness.’
It was clear, Bart hadn’t yet found the path.
Along with their middle brother, Sam, Bart had followed their father’s footsteps and had gone into the investment-banking business. Both Bart and Sam had become phenomenally successful and were now principals in the same New York hedge fund.
Because of the ten-year age difference, Crawford and Bart had never been too close. But they still got on the phone every month or so and talked football or what different family members were up to.
Bart was smart, funny, handsome, and very rich, but he’d also landed the Crawford family’s depression gene. It didn’t help that he had a marriage that was shaky at best because of a wife who obeyed her marriage vows only about six days out of seven.
Bart told Charlie that on the night before he was scheduled to check into Clairmount he had gone to a bar in the meatpacking district of Manhattan and parked himself on a barstool until the place closed down. Then—seven drinks later—he had gotten into his car and, with the companionship of a fifth of Johnny Walker Blue, had GPS’d his way up to New Canaan. He got there around 6:00 a.m., so he’d had some time to kill before Clairmount opened at nine. He then proceeded to pull out a small, dark bottle of white powder and powered through it for the next hour.
Needless to say, Bart hadn’t made the best first impression with the staff when he’d staggered into reception that morning.
A week later, Crawford had
walked into his brother’s residence, a large Tudor home called Brook House—one of many on the Clairmount campus—and found Bart in the middle of a heated Monopoly game with five women. The brothers shared a long hug and Bart clapped Charlie on the back so hard it was like he was trying to dislodge a chicken bone from his throat.
“Your brother cheats,” one of the Monopoly players announced to Crawford right off the bat.
“I could have told you that,” Crawford said, as Bart introduced him to the women at the table. It was an odd mix from age twenty to around sixty.
“He always ends up on Chance,” one named Emily said.
“And never goes to jail,” said another named Cynthia.
“Speaking of jail,” Bart announced. “My brother here’s a cop—well, actually a detective—so you better be nice to him. Did you ever hear about that case where a guy called the Taxidermist killed all those people in Manhattan?”
Two of the women nodded.
“Well, Charlie here solved it,” Bart said, beaming with pride.
“Wait, didn’t you date that actress, Gwendolyn Hyde?” A younger woman asked.
Crawford’s face reddened.
“He doesn’t like to talk about that,” Bart said in a conspiratorial whisper to his new friends.
After Bart had cheated his way to victory, he and Crawford went out on the porch of the house, which had an idyllic view of a swift-moving brook. A family of ducks waddled into their periphery a few minutes later.
“So how’s it going here, Bart?” Crawford asked. “Something tells me it’s not all fun and games.”
“It’s all right.” Bart had never been a complainer. “We go to classes, they’re teaching us this thing called DBT, which stands for…shit, I forget. It’s all about trying to get our heads straight. Then we’ve got AA and Al-Anon every night. Hey, if you gotta be at a place like this, I guess this is as good as any.”
“Doing you any good, you think?”
