Palm Beach Nasty

by Tom Turner

  Ott nodded. “I’ll put placards down. Cutter on his way?”

  Crawford nodded and smiled at Ott’s dated reference to the ME.

  “It’s all comin’ back, huh Mort?”

  “Just like ridin’ a Schwinn.”

  Crawford turned away and started snapping pictures of the footprints in the sand. Then he walked a little farther and spotted the kid’s other Nike over by a swing set. He noticed the shoelace was broken, as if the kid’s foot had been twisted violently to one side. Ott came over for a look.

  Crawford saw someone approaching; he flicked his flashlight in their direction.

  It was a woman in a blue jacket that said Crime Scene on the back.

  “We got the cute one,” Ott said.

  Crawford had heard about her. A crime scene tech named Dominica McCarthy whose bulky nylon jacket and polyester pants did little to flaunt a figure everyone agreed was way above average. The Crime Scene Evidence Unit techs were the fingerprint and DNA analysts. Their TV counterparts got a lot of face time on the tube, but in real life, they mostly crawled around on their hands and knees with tweezers and baggies.

  McCarthy looked over at them, holding her gaze on Crawford for a second, then looked up at the body.

  The ME came next. George Bull was an egotistical showboater with thirty years on the job. He’d walk around a crime scene grabbing his chin and striking poses, then answer all questions the same way: “You’ll get all your answers in my write-up.”

  Crawford decided to steer clear of the great man.

  He and Ott spent the next forty-five minutes combing the scene and questioning the jogger, who had little to tell beyond recounting her grisly discovery.

  “I don’t see ’em coming up with any good prints,” Crawford told Ott. “Best shot’s probably DNA off that hoodie.”

  Ott nodded. “Guys were pros. Nice clean job.”

  Crawford walked toward the cars and went past Dominica McCarthy, who had just finished bagging the hands of Darryl Bill. She was even better looking close up.

  He nodded.

  She nodded back.

  Crawford took down the license plate number of a Mitsubishi two-door that he’d seen when he first pulled up. It looked like a nineteen-year-old kid’s car. It was black with bald tires, low to the ground. He took off a glove and touched the car’s hood with the back of his hand, not wanting to get his fingerprints on it. It was warm. Maybe been there an hour and a half. He shined his flashlight inside. The car was surprisingly neat except for one Magic Hat beer in the cup holder. Then he walked back to the crime scene and approached Dominica McCarthy, who was bagging the hoodie.

  “ ’Scuse me,” he said.

  She looked up. Big emerald green eyes and sharp, high cheekbones.

  “You might want to dust that black car over there,” he said, pointing. “The Mitsubishi.”

  “Thank you, Detective . . . already did.”

  Crawford nodded and walked over to his car.

  On the ride back to the station, he was amped up. He was leaving white-collar crime and Mickey Mouse bullshit in the rearview mirror. Dick and Jan from Buffalo bunking for free in some dead guy’s house . . . that was someone else’s job.

  He finally had himself a murder.

  He’d never admit to anyone he’d missed it.

  But he had.

  THREE

  Todd Tropez sized up her net worth. Somewhere in the $8–$10 million range, he figured. Conservative stock portfolio. J.P. Morgan. Smith Barney maybe. Probably had an ivy-covered white brick colonial up north, ocean-front condo down here, owned both free and clear. Nothing conservative about her clothes, though, or the bling. Manolo shoes, flashy designer dress, giant rock on her finger. North of three hundred K easy. A triple string of Wilma Flintstone-sized pearls and diamond earrings dangling from her mushy earlobes. It crossed his mind to just follow her out and roll her.

  But he wasn’t into that anymore.

  Todd looked around the darkened bar for younger options. He saw a few but no one looked anywhere near as rich. Keep your eyes on the prize, he reminded himself. The woman took a long pull on her drink, then smiling at him, fluttered her glued-on lashes.

  “So I’m guessing . . . twenty-eight?” Her orange corduroy throat waggled along with a small fortune in facial reconstructive surgery.

  “Twenty-six,” Todd said, raising his hand to the bartender.

  “Oh, God,” she said, “I was twenty-six when you were born.”

  Sure you were, he thought. She’d shaved off at least fifteen years. Who was she kidding? Even in the dimly lit Tiger Room, designed to shroud crow’s feet, wrinkles and pouches, the woman had to have at least one foot into her seventies.

  The Tiger Room at the corner of Peruvian and Cottage Row in Palm Beach was owned by an astute Cuban businessman who built his business on the sound concept that even septuagenarians get horny.

  Todd smiled at her the way Amory Blaine would have. He was going through his F. Scott Fitzgerald phase now. That was the way he did it: picked an author and read everything the guy ever wrote. John O’Hara had been before Fitzgerald and before O’Hara was a more obscure guy, Boston writer by the name of J.P. Marquand.

  Margo, the bartender, brought over his Mount Gay. “Here you go, Todd.”

  “Put the gentleman’s drink on my tab, please, Margo,” the woman said.

  “Will do, Mrs. Schering.”

  “Thank you.” Todd raised his glass to her.

  “It’s Janet,” the older woman said, flipping her long platinum wig the way women half her age did.

  Todd could tell being called Mrs. Schering made her feel old. He also knew his drink would have been on the house, since bartenders took care of their own.

  When Margo said his name, he realized again how much he hated it.

  Todd. Should have changed it, too, back when he jettisoned his last name Gonczik. Tough enough making it in Palm Beach, but with the name Gonczik? And Todd, he thought, such a mama’s boy name.

  He thought about going with Trent. It had a sort of Waspy ring to it.

  But Trent Tropez? Nah . . . that was lame, too. A guy in a soap opera with capped teeth and blond flecks in his hair. Plus Trent was one of those Brant, Brent, Brett kind of names. Phony as Janet Schering’s age . . . and nose, for that matter.

  Todd took a big slug of courage. The Mount Gay went down easy.

  “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

  “Love to,” Janet Schering said, eagerly sliding off the zebra-skinned bar stool.

  Todd had weighed his options and decided on a slow dance. It was a toss-up which would be worse, pressed up against the old bag or doing some spazzed-out version of the twist with her.

  He put his left hand in her right and his arm on her shoulder and smiled down at her wizened four foot eleven. Her back was bare, her expression eager. His hand slid along the flank of her shoulder, then down her back. He could feel goose bumps spring up at his touch. Then his hand snagged on something. He realized in horror it was a mole. A mole the size of a blueberry. He slid his hand back to her bony shoulder.

  “You know, you are a very handsome man,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  Well, truth was, he wasn’t. His looks were perfectly adequate, nothing special. Five eleven, thick blond hair with a nice wave and a very straight part. His eyes were a little too close together and if he was a woman, he would have gotten some collagen pumped into his thin, prissy lips. Done something about his nose, too. In fact, as soon as he had the money, he’d take his face into the shop.

  But for now he made the most of what he had. He worked hard at maintaining a perpetual tan and dressed like a preppie, a look you could never go wrong with in Palm Beach.

  Janet suddenly started thrusting up against him like a sexed-up bulldog. He fought the urge to bolt. The song ended, but she didn’t break the clinch. Then the band launched into a Rod Stewart standard, which seemed to plunge her even deeper into the mood. Sh
e moved her right hand from his shoulder up to the back of his neck.

  Oh, Christ . . . please, no. She started to caress his neck, then slid her hand into his hair.

  Todd soldiered on, grinding into her gently, knowing he’d need a bucket of Viagra to get it up. Then, oh my God . . . she moaned. More like a bleat. She pushed into him and his hand slipped back down onto the blueberry. He gasped unintentionally.

  “What, honey?” she whispered in his ear. “I turn you on, don’t I?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he whispered back.

  “Want to come back to my house?” She wheezed, apparently tuckered out by the fox trot.

  He pulled his head back and smiled down at her.

  “I’d follow you anywhere, babe.”

  Please . . . just put one between my eyes, right now, he begged silently. What pathetic third-rate ham had invaded his body? As they headed outside, walking down Peruvian, Todd had a strong urge to just roll her, snatch her jewelry, be done with the whole sorry mess. Then he reminded himself again.

  He wasn’t into that anymore.

  FOUR

  Crawford had written up his report in his car at the crime scene. Then he’d stopped off at Dunkin’ Donuts on his way back to the station.

  He flashed back to Dominica McCarthy at the crime scene. First woman he’d ever seen look good in baggy, blue polyester.

  Ott had gone straight back and was on the computer in his cubicle when Crawford got there. That was one of the many things Ott grumbled about—his cubicle—since he had had four walls and a door up in Cleveland. Even when the chief, Norm Rutledge, pointed out it was bigger than most of the others, Ott just shrugged. Said he was a corner-office kind of a guy. Crawford knew he really didn’t give a damn. He just liked busting Rutledge’s balls.

  Ott looked up and chuckled.

  “You look like a new man, Charlie.”

  “The hell you talking about?”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, finally got something with a little meat on it.”

  Crawford just walked away, knowing Ott could read him like he had subtitles.

  He went down to dispatch, where the Veriplate tag recognition system was.

  “Mind if I get on your machine?” he asked the dispatcher.

  “All yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  He backed the machine up to four in the afternoon and watched the procession of cars on tape coming onto Palm Beach via the south bridge. It was amazing how clear he could read the plates. After forty-five minutes he saw the black Mitsubishi. He stopped the machine. He moved closer and backed the machine up again. He decided to run plates on cars that came over the bridge an hour before and an hour after the Mitsubishi came over. Somewhere around a hundred fifty cars, he estimated.

  A half an hour later he was looking down at a fire engine red Ferrari with the license plate, Rainmkr. No shortage of asshole rich guys with massive egos in Palm Beach, he thought. Thirty cars after that came a blue Ford Explorer SUV. He looked at the plate, but couldn’t make out anything. He backed it up again and froze it. Still nothing. No numbers, no letters, not even blurry ones.

  Then it hit him. The possibility that whoever was in the Explorer could be his guys. Back about fifteen years ago some outlaw Einstein had come up with a special gelatin substance that bad guys, particularly bank robbers, sprayed onto license plates to obscure their letters and numbers. When the gel had been sprayed onto a plate, you could read it clearly with your eyes, but a camera couldn’t make out anything.

  Ott came bursting into the dispatch area.

  “Let’s take a ride out to the kid’s place,” he said. “He lived way out on Paladin.”

  Paladin Road was in the West Palm boonies. Not a lot of $20 million spec houses out that way.

  “Gimme a minute,” Crawford said, then filled in Ott about what he had seen on the Veriplate.

  “Fuckin’ guys know what they’re doin’,” Ott said. “Like some of your mutt buddies up in the Deuce.”

  Crawford slouched down in his chair, and looked at more plates.

  The Deuce had been Crawford’s turf for eleven years. The district between Sixth and Ninth Avenues on Forty-Second Street—essentially Times Square—a neighborhood that was cleaned up by one of Giuliani’s squads, but still had a nasty underbelly of seediness and sleaze.

  After another twenty minutes taking down plate numbers, Crawford went in and got Ott.

  They went out to the back of the station, got into Ott’s white Caprice and headed west on Okeechobee.

  Crawford’s phone rang just past the Florida Turnpike. He looked down at the number. It was Lil Fonseca. They’d been going out for two and a half months. It fell short of boyfriend-girlfriend status in his mind, but she felt otherwise.

  “Hey, Lil.”

  “You okay?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I heard about the murder, the shoot-out and—”

  “I’m fine, but, sorry . . . no shoot-out.”

  It amazed him how fast the word traveled in Palm Beach, how distorted things always got. Like everyone had to twist, tweak and add their own spin to whatever story was currently making the rounds. Like that game Telephone.

  “Does this mean I get to see you even less?”

  “I’m gonna be flat out ’til we solve this.”

  “Well, then, what are you waiting for,” she said, “solve it.”

  “I got a feeling I’ll be hearing that a lot.”

  They flashed by a broken down Pentecostal church. Nothing but churches and cows out this far.

  “Don’t forget dinner next Tuesday,” she said, like ducking out wasn’t an option.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Pine Island Grille, seven thirty.”

  “I’ll try,” he said again.

  “Bye, honey. Be careful.”

  He cringed a little. First time she’d said, “honey.”

  Ott looked over and smiled, left hand on the wheel. “How’s little miss smokin’ hot?”

  “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  Lil Fonseca was definitely “smokin’ hot.” Throw in wild, enigmatic, a woman with her own agenda and, he suspected, eager to give him a makeover. Turn him into a guy who wore red pants, used words like “iconic,” and said “at the end of the day” a lot.

  They had met a few months back while they were in line to get overpriced sandwiches at a place a block from the station.

  Last time he was with her, she tried to take him shopping on Worth Avenue after describing his tie selection as “Russian Mafia circa 1990.” He told her every store on Worth was way north of his budget. She ended up taking him to an upscale thrift shop on South County. Most of the ties she favored there were either pink or lime green. Or had furry little Hermès animals on them. Worst part was that they started at forty bucks apiece . . . for a used tie. He told her he hardly spent that much on a brand new suit. They walked out empty-handed.

  The thing Crawford didn’t get about Lil was that for a woman with undisguised social ambitions, what was she doing with him? A lowly cop. For that matter, what was he doing with her?

  He looked over at Ott, one hand on the wheel, the other flossing his teeth with a plastic dental pick. Ott’s story was as straightforward as Lil’s was complicated.

  Bald, lumpy and physically unprepossessing, Ott was a first-rate detective. He’d spent twenty-three years on the Cleveland force staring down at stiffs. Dutch on his father’s side—originally Van Ott—and Jewish on his mother’s, Ott was easy to underestimate. Part of it was because at age fifty-one, he looked ten years older. He stood just five seven and weighed in at over two thirty, but despite the donuts and Checkerburgers, he was in shape. Spent an hour a day in the gym before work and could bench three hundred pounds. He had no problem mixing it up either, a solid wingman.

  He had told Crawford that it had gotten old—dead people on the Cleveland pavement—and the fact that Palm Beach probably had fewer than twenty homicides in its
entire recorded history was a big plus for him. Not that people didn’t die all the time in Palm Beach—just not from TEC-9 drive-bys.

  Twenty minutes later Crawford and Ott pulled up to a rundown bungalow on a dried-out, dirt road. The grass was brown on both sides of the house and a Chevy Z/28 was up on blocks in the back. A tar-paper shack would have been an upgrade.

  “Like the goddamn Dust Bowl out here,” Ott said.

  A tall girl answered the door dressed in short cut-off jeans and a bathing suit top. Crawford guessed sixteen or seventeen, a brunette with dark, striking eyes, bare feet and a body that had ripened early.

  “Are you . . . related to Darryl Bill?” Crawford asked, showing ID.

  “I’m his sister, Misty,” she said, stifling a yawn. “What’d he do this time?”

  “I’m Detective Crawford, my partner, Detective Ott, can we come inside?”

  “Okay . . . is this serious?” She scratched her cheek.

  “Yes,” Crawford said.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  The house was hood rich—Salvation Army-furnished—except for one expensive-looking sofa and a huge hi-def Sony. On its screen, guys on dirt bikes were jumping fifty feet in the air off built-up mounds.

  “Can we sit down?” Crawford asked.

  Misty gestured to a sofa. Her eyes were flitting from side to side, jumpy now.

  Crawford and Ott sat down in the red leather sofa that looked brand new.

  Misty sat on the arm of a love seat, one leg on top of the other, jiggling nervously.

  “How do we reach your parents, Misty?” Crawford asked.

  “You don’t . . . my father’s in jail, my mom—” she raised her arms, “who knows?”

  Crawford leaned forward.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you, Misty but . . . Darryl was killed.”

  She jumped up and put her hands to her mouth.

  “Oh, my God, no.”

  Then she started screaming “no” over and over.

  She put her hands over her eyes, tears flooded through them.

  She bumped into a coffee table, then kicked it with her bare foot.

  Crawford looked at Ott knowing he was thinking the same thing. Notifications . . . by far the worst part of the job.