Palm Beach Nasty

by Tom Turner

  Its parking court could easily accommodate fifty Rolls-Royce Silver Clouds. But the only car parked there was a fire-engine red Ferrari. ‘Rainmkr’ boasted its license plate.

  “Well, well, now isn’t that interesting,” Crawford said. “That car left the island right around the time of Darryl Bill’s murder on Friday night.”

  Ott pulled in next to the Ferrari.

  Crawford opened his door, got out and looked down at the gleaming red car. Ott climbed out and came around next to him.

  “You don’t really think that if Jaynes was behind it, he’d do it himself, do you?” Ott said.

  “My gut says ‘no,’ ” Crawford said, turning and walking toward the house. “But it’s been wrong before.”

  Crawford and Ott had talked over how they were going to play it on the way over. The pictures that Darryl Bill had taken were their ace in the hole. Misty had brought them into the station house in a sealed envelope, then beat it out of there in a hurry. There was only one that would nail Jaynes, but it would more than do the job. It was of Misty on top of a man with a long, jagged scar on his left shoulder. She was naked except for a blue tank top that had been hiked up over her breasts. She was smiling into the camera. It was pretty sick, Crawford thought, seeing how her brother was snapping the picture.

  They decided not to tell Jaynes they had seen the pictures. See whether he’d go into full denial mode or just how he’d react. They could nail him for sex with a minor, but they wanted to get him for a whole lot more than that.

  Ott was going to lead it off. Crawford just wanted to observe for a while.

  The front door looked to be twelve feet high and heavy, like you had to be a weight lifter to muscle it open. Ott pressed the buzzer and waited.

  Nobody answered.

  “Where the hell’s Jeeves?” he asked.

  Crawford shrugged and studied the door. It looked like it was imported from some medieval castle in Bavaria.

  Ott pressed the buzzer again. They waited a few seconds then walked down the steps.

  They walked around the side of the house. Ott shouted “hello” a couple of times, then tried “anyone home?” No response.

  They walked along the east side of the house down a cast-stone path and passed through a cluster of podocarpus hedges on one side and ancient-looking trees with gnarly trunks on the other. As they got to the end of it, the view opened up wide and there was a big, eye-popping ocean vista. Crawford stopped to take it in. Now he got what all the fuss was about—living on the ocean—looking out at that jaw-dropping view all day long. Fifty feet away he could see the end of a pool. It was the infinity-edged kind, where the water comes up all the way to the top, flows over the sides, then recycles back into the pool. It created the effect that the pool and ocean were connected—one long, floating body of water. Crawford wondered what the price tag on a pool like it was. His eyes drifted over to the pool house. It had a row of six squatty, powerful-looking columns in front like a mini-Parthenon.

  “Who the hell are you?” a man’s voice boomed out as they got to the pool.

  Crawford and Ott looked hard left and saw two people at the far end. They were bolt upright in their chaise lounges and wore less than welcoming looks. One was a 90 percent naked woman, wearing a thin yellow strip of cloth around her hips and doing her best to cover her bare breasts, which peeked through her long, tan fingers.

  The other one was Ward Jaynes.

  Jaynes, in a green bathing suit, was around six feet tall, had dark hair flecked with gray and clenched a cell phone in one hand. Crawford saw it right away—the long scar on his shoulder—but another thing caught him completely by surprise. Jaynes had the muscle definition of a three-hour-a-day gym rat. He hardly thought of guys who shorted stocks as being cut and chiseled. But Jaynes was.

  Jaynes came charging at them like he was going to head butt them into the ocean.

  “Who the hell are you?” he repeated. He smelled of suntan lotion and sweat.

  “My name is Detective Ott, Palm Beach police,” Ott said, taking a step toward Jaynes. “This is my partner, Detective Crawford; we’re investigating the murder in South Palm.”

  “You’re the guy from Cleveland . . . Mort, right?” A grin spread across Jaynes’s face, then he looked at Crawford, “And you . . . the big-time New York hero cop. Went out with that actress . . . well, welcome, boys.”

  Jaynes nodded like a man quite happy with himself.

  Crawford was surprised, but not much. Jaynes had done his homework.

  Crawford had read about how Jaynes would tear into a company’s books, memorize every figure on the balance sheet, then hire guys to dig up dirt on CEOs who used company jets and secretaries for their own personal use. “Relentless” and “ruthless,” were two words that came up a lot in the articles.

  “Mind if we ask you a few questions, Mr. Jaynes?” Ott asked.

  “Not at all, fire away.” Jaynes smiled, like he could use a little amusement.

  “We’re investigating that homicide. Victim’s name is Darryl Bill. He had a sister—”

  “Yeah,” Jaynes said. “Misty or Christie, depending on the day.”

  “So you knew her?”

  “ ’Course, I know her,” Jaynes said, glancing at Crawford. “You knew that or else you wouldn’t be here. You interviewing her other clients, too?”

  “Clients?”

  “Sure, I’m not the only guy she gave massages to.”

  Ott looked over at the woman who now had her top back on and pretended to be absorbed in her Vanity Fair.

  Ott motioned with his hand.

  “Would you mind stepping over here, Mr. Jaynes?”

  Jaynes hesitated, then followed Ott and Crawford out of earshot of the woman.

  “The girl claims you had sex with her on several occasions,” Ott said, lowering his voice.

  “Really?” Jaynes said, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Really,” said Ott.

  “Well, that’s complete bullshit. You wouldn’t believe all the shit I get accused of,” Jaynes said. “People trying to hold me up for every goddamn thing under the sun. It’s a hell of a burden, Mort, being so damn rich.”

  “I feel your pain, Mr. Jaynes . . . Her brother, you ever meet him?”

  Jaynes’s eyes drifted over to Crawford.

  “I don’t remember you being mute, Charlie,” Jaynes said. “What? You trying to get a read on me or something?”

  Crawford smiled.

  “So you can blindside me with a couple tough questions? That it, Charlie . . . that your plan?”

  Crawford gestured to Ott.

  “My partner asked you a question.”

  Jaynes smirked and turned back to Ott.

  “Yeah, I met the brother. Nice redneck kid, nothing much going on under that John Deere hat. He was his sister’s ride, one time he came to the door and I met him. Too bad about what happened.”

  “So you don’t know anything about it?” Ott asked.

  “Hey, I’m just a guy who trades stocks . . . not goddamn Tony Soprano.”

  “Misty’s only sixteen, you know,” Ott said.

  “You gotta be older to give massages?”

  Ott stepped into Jaynes’s space, then, barely above a whisper: “Got a thing for ponytails and lollipops do you, Mr. Jaynes?”

  “You’re fuckin’ with the wrong guy, Mort,” said Jaynes, glaring at Ott, then catching himself. “But I like your interrogational style.”

  “How many times did Misty come over?” Crawford asked.

  Jaynes turned to Crawford, shading his eyes from the sun.

  “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

  Crawford was watching Jaynes’s reactions. He showed as much as a top Texas Hold ’Em player. Crawford glanced over at the woman. Her head was still buried in the Vanity Fair, cigarette smoke rising up from behind it.

  “Not that you asked, Mort,” Jaynes said, turning to Ott, “but a friend of Charlie’s came over to my hou
se a couple times, too.”

  The woman peered up over the magazine, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She was struggling to hear.

  “You do know who I mean, don’t you . . . Charlie?”

  Crawford forced a smile.

  “An unpaid masseuse . . . with magic fingers,” Jaynes said. “Liliana Fonseca.”

  Ott’s mouth dropped a full inch.

  “Yeah,” Jaynes said, “girl’s just crazy about shiatsu.”

  Crawford wanted to rip the grin off his face.

  Jaynes walked back over to his chaise longue next to the girl and lay down on it.

  “All right, we’re done now, fellas, I’m bored,” Jaynes said, looking up at them. “Time for you boys to run along and chase some real bad guys.”

  But Ott wasn’t done.

  “Where were you last Friday afternoon, Mr. Jaynes?”

  Jaynes shook his head and looked put-upon.

  “Let me get this straight, Mort . . . are you asking if I went down to that park and hung that kid? Is that your question?”

  The girl set down her Vanity Fair on the pool deck.

  “Where were you, Mr. Jaynes?” Ott asked again.

  “Mort, just think for a minute . . . if I wanted to do something to that kid, you really think I’d get my hands dirty. I mean, come on, get real.”

  The girl sat up in the chaise.

  “Just for the record, officers,” she said, thrusting out her breasts, “Mr. Jaynes was right here with me . . . making mad, passionate love . . . from sunup to past sundown.”

  Crawford walked over to her.

  “Thanks for sharing that,” he said, then looked over at Jaynes. “But your little red Ferrari went over the Southern bridge somewhere between seven and eight that night.”

  “Yeah, well, we had to take some time out from all that passion, Charlie . . . Garibaldi’s, seven thirty reservation. I had clams oreganata . . . now get the hell out of here.”

  Crawford walked over next to Jaynes and blocked his sun.

  “Don’t worry, we’re on our way,” Crawford said, reaching into a pocket and handing Jaynes a card. “But just in case you happen to remember anything . . .”

  Jaynes took the card from him, sat up and put a hand over his eyes.

  “Matter of fact, Charlie, I do remember something,” he said, eyeing Crawford’s card. “An excessive force complaint brought against you up in New York.”

  Jaynes reached down on the pool deck and picked up the girl’s lighter. His thumb flicked the lighter wheel, the flame shot up and he held the card above it. The card caught fire. Jaynes let it burn for a second, then flipped it onto the lawn.

  “Nice to meet you, boys, it’s been a real pleasure.”

  TWELVE

  “We really kicked ass, huh Mort?” Crawford said, as they drove down Jaynes’s long driveway back out onto South Ocean Drive.

  “Yeah, poor fucker was really squirming.”

  “Guy is one very slick act,” Crawford said.

  Ott looked over at Crawford. “Charlie, that thing he said—”

  “It was bullshit, that excessive force thing was this low-life dealer who said I kicked him in the nuts for no reason. What happened was he was going for his piece and I took him out at the knees.”

  Ott shook his head.

  “No, not that, the thing about Lil Fonseca.”

  Crawford held up his hands.

  “Hey, Mort, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with the case, okay?”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “End of story, Mort.”

  Crawford’s cell phone rang.

  “HELLO.”

  “Hi, it’s Misty.” Her voice was dead flat. “Got anybody yet?”

  “Sorry, Misty . . . not yet.”

  There was a pause.

  “I was watching that TV show,” she said, “The First 48. If they get the killers, it’s usually in the first forty-eight hours.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it doesn’t always work like that. I’ll be in touch . . . I promise.”

  Ott dropped Crawford off in front of his car behind the station.

  CRAWFORD PARKED in a spot just down from the Fonseca Gallery. He walked in, heard the tinkle of the little bell and didn’t see anyone there besides Lil.

  “I should be really pissed, Charlie,” she said, getting up from a little desk and coming over to him, “for blowing me off.”

  He had canceled their dinner date at the Pine Island Grille.

  “Sorry, but like I told you—”

  “I’m over it . . . along with the affair you had with that actress. Oh, sorry, I forgot . . . she was just a ‘friend,’ right?”

  “That was seven years ago.” He was in no mood for banter.

  She was wearing a low-cut silk top and a silver lamé skirt cut eight inches above her knee.

  “Come here,” she said, beckoning with her finger. “All’s forgiven if you take me up on my offer again.”

  A month ago she’d made him an offer which . . . he couldn’t refuse.

  “YOU EVER get bored on the job, Charlie,” she had said one rainy afternoon back in September, “just stop by . . . I’ll take you back to the back room.”

  He laughed it off when she said it, then two days later he was walking by and decided to stick his head in. She was all alone. She gave him her beguiling smile and before he knew it, he was in the back room, getting his clothes ripped off. He decided, what the hell . . . might as well just go with it. He didn’t have any pressing business at the time.

  She had reached behind him and locked the door, then put her arms around him and kissed him with absolutely no holdback. All of a sudden, he was into it. He pulled her blouse up over her head. She yanked off his shirt and tie, then grabbed his belt and deftly opened the buckle, like she’d had lots of practice. They kissed again as he undid one of the hooks of her bra.

  She reached back and unhooked the other in one quick swipe. Her bra dropped to the carpet. He pulled her toward him, her breasts pressed up against his chest. He slid his two hands under her skirt and cupped her tight, round ass. Her hand found its way through the slit in his boxers and brought him out. In one motion he dropped her skirt and underpants and entered her. She grabbed his shoulders, then pulled herself up and put her legs around his hips, leaning back slightly.

  He was surprised—not unpleasantly—at how athletic she was.

  “Quite the little gymnast,” he said.

  She smiled up at him, her fierce blue eyes blazing, challenging him.

  THIS TIME Lil motioned to the back room with her head and fluttered her long eyelashes.

  “Whaddaya say?” She grabbed for his hand.

  “I say, some other time.”

  “Come on, you can skip the foreplay.”

  She came up to him intending to give him a kiss on the lips, but he turned and all she got was cheek.

  He went and sat down in a love seat.

  “What’s wrong, Charlie?”

  She came over and sat in his lap.

  He looked over at the front door, worried someone might come in.

  “Relax,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “You’re always so damn uptight, Charlie.”

  “Okay, maybe so. It’s just not a real good idea . . . fornicating on the job.”

  “Funny how that didn’t bother you last time.”

  He heard the tinkle of the gallery’s bell.

  A tall, older man with a barbershop quartet mustache walked in.

  “Hello, Dixon,” she said, “picking up your Botero?”

  The man glanced over at Crawford.

  “Dixon, this is my friend, Charlie Crawford. Charlie . . . Dixon Fordman, my favorite client.”

  Fordman’s ruddy face beamed.

  Crawford stood up and shook his hand.

  Lil went to the back room and brought out a large painting covered in bubble wrap.

  The man took the painting, thanked her, gave her a kiss on the cheek and left. />
  Crawford had procrastinated his Q & A long enough. He opened his mouth to ask his first question.

  “Oh, hey, before I forget,” she cut him off, “will you go with me to the Fall Ball?”

  She waved a beige vellum invitation at him.

  He had politely said “no” to the Red Cross Ball, the Susan Komen Cancer Research Ball and some other thing. What was she not getting?

  “And what exactly is the Fall Ball?”

  “This charity ball for bipolar kids, or maybe it’s diabetes.”

  “There’s a difference, you know.”

  “I forget which, doesn’t matter, it’ll be fun.”

  “Do I really look like a cummerbund kind of guy?”

  “I promise, Charlie, you’ll have a great time. Dancing, drinking, bunch of fun people.”

  The drinking part sounded okay.

  “Lil . . . one more time, I’m a cop. I’m what is known as a public servant. Servant . . . as in the cleaning lady. Or butler, if they’re still around.”

  “In Palm Beach? Oh, you bet they are. Tell you what, think about it? You don’t have to just turn me down cold.”

  He nodded.

  “Lil, I need to talk to you about Ward Jaynes.”

  She didn’t look quite so tan. “What about him?”

  “Tell me what you know about him.”

  “Ward Jaynes is an occasional client of the gallery. He’s not one of my favorite people, but I tolerate him because he’s got a lot of money . . . even though he doesn’t part with it easily.”

  Her eyes burrowed into his.

  “What are you really asking, Charlie?”

  “What do you know about his . . . personal life?”

  “Nothing,” she said, a little too fast.

  The front door bell tinkled again. She got up quickly.

  Crawford reached for her arm and held it.

  “Tell me what you know about a sixteen-year-old girl named Misty.”

  She shook her arm loose, walked away and gave the customer who just walked in a dazzling smile.