by Tom Turner
Swell, thought Crawford, just fucking swell. He thought he had left that behind, dead and buried. It referred to a seven-year-old, one-paragraph article that resulted in him taking endless abuse from everyone he knew and quite a few he didn’t.
He was surprised the story had never hit Rutledge’s radar screen before, since most things had.
“What’s that got to do with anything, Norm?”
Ott craned his neck to read the article upside down. Unable to make it out, he grabbed for the paper. Crawford slapped his hand.
Ott reacted like a spanked child.
“Little sensitive there, Charlie,” Rutledge said.
It was easy to see why the vice cop had coldcocked him.
“I’m not real happy,” Rutledge said, “seeing one of my guys making headlines in that rag, Charlie.”
“Hey, that’s ancient history, for Chrissakes.”
Ott couldn’t take the suspense.
“Jesus Christ, what’s it say?”
“Glad you asked, Mort,” Rutledge said.
Rutledge grabbed the Glossy off of the desk.
“This is an article from like seven years back,” Rutledge eyed Crawford, “Charlie’s swingin’ single days, I’m guessing: ‘Twenty-six-year-old actress Gwendolyn Hyde was seen yesterday morning leaving the West Eighty-Seventh Street walk-up of one of New York’s finest (and luckiest), Detective Charles Crawford—’ ”
Crawford tried to snatch it out of Rutledge’s hand.
Rutledge pulled it back and kept reading.
“The thirty-year-old detective, who broke the Taxidermist serial killer murders, didn’t comment but Ms. Hyde said she and the detective were ‘just friends.’ ”
Ott eyed Crawford with profound new respect. He knew about his partner’s cases, but had no clue about him dating movie stars.
Crawford had met Gwen Hyde on a set in New York. The director, who was somehow a buddy of Giuliani’s, asked if Rudy could spare the detective for a few days. He had seen Crawford’s picture in the paper and described him as, “that guy who looks like Bradley Cooper.” Giuliani had no clue who Bradley Cooper was, but perked up when the director told him the mayor in the script was portrayed as a vigorous crime buster. Giuliani immediately put the director in touch with the police commissioner.
The director explained that his lead was playing a homicide detective and wanted to pick Crawford’s brain. Crawford sat around for three straight days, drinking coffee and watching the actor comb his hair in his trailer while he asked stupid questions. On the fourth day Crawford met Gwen Hyde. They ended up going out for a year and a half. They kept it under wraps for as long as they could, but finally got outed on perezhilton.com. Then a Post reporter camped out on Crawford’s doorstep and finally got the money shot of Gwen leaving his apartment. From then on it was nothing but paparazzi and aggravation.
“You’re a goddamn dog with a bone, Norm,” Crawford said. “We got a murder and you’re ripping me for this bullshit.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the mayor,” Rutledge said.
Fuck the mayor. Why the hell would he care anyway?
Crawford flashed to Lil Fonseca. What she’d have to say about the article. He knew she’d have a strong opinion on the matter. The girl had plenty of the possessive gene in her.
Rutledge shifted in his chair and pitched the Glossy back onto Crawford’s desk.
“Last thing we need is shit like this.”
Crawford turned and looked out his window.
But Rutledge had more.
“You know, you kill me, you come down here, Charlie-the-hero-cop. How ’bout leaving the headlines to people who live here? They like that shit.”
Crawford rubbed his eyes. A few minutes of Rutledge gave him brutal migraines.
“Tell ya what, Norm, I’ll call my PR guy, tell him to go low profile.” Crawford got up and walked around his desk.
“Where the hell you goin’?” Rutledge asked.
“The can . . . that okay, or do I need a slip?”
“Just act like a cop, will ya, not a fuckin’ celebrity.” Rutledge shook his head in disgust.
Crawford walked out of his office.
“Who the hell’s he think he is?” Rutledge said to Ott.
Ott shrugged. “Come on, man . . . guy was a Gold Shield up there.”
Rutledge snorted a laugh.
“You the PR guy he was talking about?”
“Jesus, Norm . . . the guy never blows his own horn about anything. You ever read about any of his cases . . . like that sick fuck Artiste Willow?”
“Who?”
“Papers called him Slash ’n’ Burn. Stabbed his vics, then tossed gas on ’em and torched ’em. Real sweetheart.
Six dead by the time Crawford tracked him down in some warehouse. Guy had two kids and their mother as hostages. Molotov cocktail in one hand, knife in another. They would have been numbers seven, eight and nine . . . if Charlie didn’t take him out.”
Rutledge crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.
“Sounds like something he told you after a few beers.”
Ott shook his head.
“You really don’t know him at all, do you? Story was national. All over TV, the papers, everywhere. I read about it when I was up north. Read about another of his cases, too.”
Crawford walked back in.
“So Charlie—”
Crawford eyed Rutledge.
“Yeah?”
“Time to go get ’em,” Rutledge said with a sneer. “Pretend like you’re going after ole Slash ’n’ Burn.”
Rutledge walked out.
“Upper one percentile of world class assholes,” Crawford said. “What was it you didn’t want him to hear?”
“Picked up a little item on DAVID,” he said, “one Christie Bill, age sixteen, same address as that dump last night . . . solicitation of prostitution six months back.”
“Christie, huh?”
“Yeah . . . Misty must be, like . . . her stage name? You know, like a stripper.”
“Good work.”
“Wait, hang on, there’s more. Her brother was in on it, too.”
“How?”
“Her pimp.”
Crawford just shook his head.
“Sick, huh. But here’s the best part.”
“What?”
“The guy she got caught with.”
SEVEN
Ward Jaynes was not exactly a household name. But you had to be blind and deaf if you lived in New York and had never heard of him.
A rich, single guy, Jaynes got a lot of face time in both the Wall Street Journal and, at the other end of the newspaper spectrum, the New York Post. He ran a buyout company, a takeover firm or a hedge fund, Crawford knew, but he didn’t really know the difference. Jaynes always had the hot model of the moment on his arm. He clearly loved the spotlight.
Crawford remembered there was more to the story. Something to do with a woman or two. A sexual harassment rap maybe. Or a rape charge that went away.
Ott had just dropped the bomb about Misty’s prostitution charge and how Ward Jaynes was the john she had gotten caught with.
Crawford looked across his desk at Ott and pushed himself up out of his chair.
“Come on,” he said, “it’s time to have another talk with Misty.”
OTT WAS driving and Crawford saw him glance over a couple of times.
“What?” Crawford said.
“What was she like?”
“What was who like?” Crawford knew exactly who he meant.
“Gwendolyn Hyde? Man, she was really tasty in that flick—”
“Keep your head on the fuckin’ case.”
“You’re startin’ to sound like me, Charlie.”
“Yeah, it’s catching.”
Crawford didn’t like the pattern. Ott grading his past and present girlfriends as they rode past the churches and cows on the way to Misty Bill’s house.
They pulled up to Misty’s house and walked up t
o the front door.
Misty was less than welcoming. She was wearing the same pair of cut-off jeans but a tank top this time.
“How are you doing?” Crawford asked.
She just shrugged.
“We need to ask you some questions,” he said, his hands on the doorframe.
“What about?” she asked.
“Can we come in?”
“It’s a mess,” she said, scratching her head.
“That’s okay,” said Crawford, brushing past her.
Crawford went and sat down where he had last time. Ott and Misty took their same spots.
“First question,” Crawford said, “you like to go by Misty or Christie?”
Misty’s leg started bouncing furiously.
“Well, it’s actually Misty, Christie’s kinda my—”
“Stage name?” Ott asked.
“Yeah, you know, like dancers.”
“Misty, we know about your arrest . . . six months back,” Crawford said.
“It wasn’t like that, I was just going to give the guy a massage at his house. I even took classes for it.”
Ott’s eyebrows went up.
“That’s not what the girl who was with you copped to,” he said.
“She’s lying,” Misty said.
“Tell us about Ward Jaynes,” Crawford said, standing.
She tensed up and reached for her cigarette pack.
Crawford had dug around some more. Found out Wardwell A. Jaynes III was much more than a rich guy who went around with models. According to his computer search, Jaynes was number forty-nine on the Forbes list of richest people in America. He had moved down from New York three years ago, bought a brand new office building in Phillips Point, and ran a fund with twenty billion in assets. The headlines he made in both business and his personal life were, for the most part, unflattering.
“Whatever went down at Jaynes’s house in Palm Beach is history,” Crawford said. “We got no interest in it, just want to know more about him.”
Ott leaned forward. “You understand why?”
Misty stopped jiggling.
“No.”
“ ’Cause maybe Jaynes has something to do with Darryl,” Ott said.
Crawford watched her eyes closely.
“You thought that, too, didn’t you?” he asked.
She hesitated, then, “No.”
“That wasn’t real convincing,” Ott said.
“I want you to listen to me, Misty,” Crawford said, taking a step closer to her. “We came here to help you. Your safety comes first. Catching the guys who killed your brother comes second.”
“I really thought I was just going to his house to give him a massage. I really did.”
Ott shook his head. “No sale.”
“It’s true.”
“Start from the beginning. How was Darryl involved?” Ott asked.
She closed her eyes like hearing her brother’s name cut deep.
“Darryl was . . . like my manager—” she opened her eyes.
“Okay,” Crawford said. “Keep going.”
“Drove me places, made the financial arrangements, stuff like that.”
“How many other guys were you seeing?” Ott asked, tapping his foot on the thin carpet.
“A few others . . . but mainly Ward.”
“You called him that . . . Ward?” Ott asked, tapping faster.
“Uh huh,” Misty said, watching his foot.
“How much did he pay you, Misty?” Crawford asked.
“I don’t know, he paid my brother.”
“Come on, you know,” Ott said, “how much?”
“Five hundred,” she said, looking away.
“And how much did your brother give you?”
“Not enough.”
“Enough to buy you some pretty clothes,” Ott said, looking around.
Misty looked away.
“How many times did you go to his house?” Crawford asked.
She twirled a strand of hair, looking like a little girl.
“Ummm, like maybe . . . ten.”
“So your brother took the money?” Crawford asked.
She nodded.
“How’d they get along?” Ott asked. “Your brother and Jaynes?”
“Fine,” Misty said.
Crawford watched her closely.
“Misty,” he said, “if Jaynes had something to do with what happened to Darryl, who do you think he might go after next?”
Her jaw was tightly knotted and her gaze was locked onto a spot on the yellow living room wall. She was starting to shake.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, after a few seconds. “My brother just drove me there, collected the money, then drove me home.”
Her cool was back. The little girl gone. Sixteen going on . . . twenty-five.
“So who was it then, Misty?” Crawford asked. “Who do you think killed Darryl? I know you got a theory.”
She shook her head.
“Misty, let’s cut to the chase. Darryl lived here with you,” Ott said. “You knew who his enemies were. He into the drug scene?”
“Never touched ’em, swear.”
“No Oxy . . . crystal meth?”
“No.”
Ott got up and drilled her with a withering stare. Cops had a name for it. Eye fucking.
“So some guys hung him ’cause . . . what? They didn’t like his mullet?”
She glared at him.
“You son-of-a-bitch ass-hole.”
Crawford caught Ott’s attention and flicked his head. He walked out the front door onto the porch, Ott right behind him.
Crawford turned sharply and Ott almost bumped into him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Crawford jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “Girl’s sixteen years old, for Chrissakes. Don’t be such a hard-ass.”
“I was just trying to—”
“Well, don’t,” Crawford said, staring him down. “Girl’s not some skagged-out hooker from the crack side of Cleveland.”
“Come on, Charlie, I—”
“Just cool it.”
Crawford turned and went back inside. Ott followed him.
Misty looked scared. Like she didn’t like being left alone.
“I’ll say it again, Misty,” Crawford said. “Our job is to protect you, make sure nothing happens to you. For all we know, some guys could show up tonight.”
That knocked a little color out of her face.
“We need you to work with us.”
She started to say something, then stopped.
“What?” Crawford asked.
“Nothing,” Misty said.
Crawford knew now was the time to walk out, when her doubts were stacking high.
“Okay,” he said, heading toward the door, “we’ll be in touch. You need us . . . you call.”
They walked out the front door and got into the car.
Ott stuck the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it.
“Tough little cookie.”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, who’s got a million secrets.”
Crawford grabbed the car door, opened it up, got out and went back inside. He told Misty he was taking her down to the station.
When she protested, he said he didn’t want to hear it.
EIGHT
For one thing, Crawford wanted to get her out of the comfort zone of her house. For another, he had a genuine fear for her safety. Not that he could keep her at the station, but at least, if she was in jeopardy, she’d be safe for a while.
She followed them in her car and they took her straight into the soft room. It was minimal on interior decoration: a black Naugahyde easy chair, a sofa with foam cushions and plastic flowers. Marginally better than the hard room next door with its stiff wooden chairs, industrial tile floor and forty-watt light. That was where they interrogated the hard-core guys.
Misty sat down in the chair, Crawford and Ott stood. They wanted to have height on her.
“I’m gonna
say it again,” Crawford said, “whatever you tell us is confidential.”
“But you hold back and all bets are off,” Ott said.
She eyed him coldly.
“We’re going to record this, too,” Ott said.
She nodded.
Ott flipped the switch.
“Okay, Misty, we’re all ears.”
Misty fumbled for a cigarette.
“Can’t smoke in here,” Ott said.
Crawford overruled him.
“Just one’s okay.” He handed her an empty Coke can to use as an ashtray.
Her hands were shaking. It took three matches to get her cigarette lit.
“So tell us all about you, Darryl and Ward Jaynes,” Crawford said.
She took a drag on her cigarette down to her toes.
“Darryl kept saying Ward was our pot of gold. How we’d never have to work another day in our lives. Corvettes and caviar, he kept saying. Like he had a clue what caviar was.”
“So Darryl tried to blackmail him?” Ott asked.
Misty didn’t react.
“Is that what happened?” Ott turned up the volume.
She nodded.
“I want the answer in words.”
“Yes.”
Darryl against Jaynes, Crawford thought, like David versus Goliath, minus the slingshot. He remembered a few more things he’d read about Jaynes, back when he and Jaynes were in the city at the same time. The guy was one of those very visible New York guys you read about. Self-obsessed lords of the teetering Wall Street cosmos—before anyone knew the underpinnings were rusted out and collapsing, back when everyone thought it was balls to the wall . . . up, up, and away.
“How much was Darryl after?” Crawford asked.
“A million dollars.”
“I figured,” Ott said, eyeing Crawford. “Chump change.”
“Misty,” Crawford said, “did Darryl have Jaynes on tape? Pictures? Or what?”
She didn’t move.
“Tell us,” Crawford said.
She squirmed.
“Yes, photos,” she said.
Crawford cocked his head and looked over at Ott.
“Of what exactly?” Ott asked.
She sighed.
“I never saw them,” she said. “Darryl just said they were enough to put Ward away for a long time.”
Crawford moved a step closer to Misty.
“What went on there . . . at his house?”
Misty flicked her hair back and slumped into the chair.
