Palm Beach Nasty

by Tom Turner

  FORTY-EIGHT

  “I got our guys,” Dominica said, looking through the infrared binoculars, high up on the 1515 Building, and talking on her cell. “Short one’s wearing a baseball hat, sitting on a bench trying to dope out where Misty is. Tall, skinny guy’s in a blue jean jacket, just drove up a few minutes ago.”

  “How far from us?” Crawford asked.

  “Um, ’bout seventy-five yards. Skinny one keeps getting up and pacing around, like he’s ready to get the show on the road.”

  Crawford looked at Ott.

  Ott nodded.

  “Well, okay, then,” Crawford said, “let’s get the show on the road.”

  And Dominica dialed her phone.

  “Hey, sweetie, it’s me,” Dominica said, a few seconds later, “how you doing?”

  Fulbright heard the voice in his earpiece.

  “Feelin’ really cooped up,” Misty said.

  “Just stay there, a little bit longer.”

  “I’m just going out for a cig.”

  “No, goddamn it, Misty.”

  That wasn’t part of the plan.

  “Hey, check it out,” Donnie said, pointing.

  Fulbright whipped the binoculars up to his eyes.

  Misty was on the rear deck of the Mako. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. She kept moving, at least, something Crawford had told her to do.

  Dominica dialed Crawford on the red phone. He picked up.

  “Shit, Charlie,” Dominica said, her heart pounding, “see her, outside on the deck.”

  Crawford tightened his grip on the Sig.

  “Well, well,” Fulbright said, spotting Misty, “our little friend.”

  Donnie was psyched, his prey in sight.

  “Let’s do it,” Fulbright said.

  They both got up.

  “They’re moving,” Crawford heard Dominica say in his earpiece. “Heading toward the street . . . going across it now . . . into a building. Ah, 325, the sign says, Casa de Lago.”

  “Mac, quick,” Crawford said, “call the girl, give her the code. Right now.”

  A few seconds later, Crawford heard Dominica make the call.

  “Hey,” Dominica said, tamping down her adrenaline, “looks like Jaynes stiffed us, I’m pickin’ you up in two hours.”

  Misty didn’t hesitate. “Good, I like dry land way better.”

  Fulbright didn’t give a damn whether the older sister picked up the younger one in two hours or next July, because in ten minutes there wasn’t going to be anything left to pick up.

  Donnie had a big aluminum golf case slung over his shoulder that he had taken out of the back seat of the Navigator.

  Fulbright hadn’t noticed any lights on in the four-story building where Donnie was going to take the shot from and figured all they’d have to do was pick a lock or two. Worst case, knock a door off its hinges. Both things Donnie was an expert at. Fulbright’s only concern was that the big banyans between the building and the dock might block Donnie’s shot. But over on the left side of the top balcony there was a good-sized gap between the trees that Donnie had scoped out.

  Turned out the only lock Donnie had to pick was the outside one. The stairs went straight to the top floor. From there it was just eight steps up to the door, which opened out to the balcony. Worst security Donnie had ever seen.

  Donnie walked over to the south end of the balcony—pure focus now—put down the heavy golf case and exhaled. Fulbright knew Donnie had popped a Valium fifteen minutes before. He was hardly the high-anxiety type, that was just part of his routine, his way of cutting down on the adrenaline.

  Donnie opened the case and broke out the RPG.

  Fulbright loved to watch Donnie get into it. He was total concentration and economy of motion. Fulbright knew it was the army training. How doing something every day for a couple of years made it automatic. Eighteen years back, Donnie had almost gone to the Olympics for the army, part of the Fort Benning shooting team that did nothing but aim and fire all day long. But for this job he didn’t even need to be all that accurate. Wasn’t like he needed his sniper rifle. Just aim at the boat and blow the sucker to hell and gone.

  Donnie had the RPG pointed in the direction of the boat now, resting it on the balcony rail. He wore the same soft, thin kidskin gloves he always used and had his earplugs in. Slowly, he adjusted a sight, then moved the big barrel to his right.

  He looked at Fulbright and nodded. Fulbright put his hands over his ears.

  Donnie closed his right eye and squeezed the trigger. Even with earplugs, the explosion was deafening. A chunk of loose stucco tumbled off the wall behind them.

  Fulbright was mesmerized by the sight below. The color of the explosion was yellow and blue and reminded him of the hissing flare, then the flame, when you struck a wooden match—but times a thousand. Pieces of metal and wood came raining down, as if in slow-motion. It was a frozen moment of brilliant chaos.

  Donnie grabbed Fulbright roughly by his shirtsleeve.

  “Come on, man,” he said, strapping the RPG over his shoulder. He had wiped down the aluminum golf case and was going to leave it behind. “Time to get the sister.”

  Fulbright got to his feet, followed him to the door and went down the steps.

  They were on the street now. Donnie had just clicked the door opener for the Navigator when he saw two men running toward them from the dock. One of them shouted something, then a few seconds later Donnie heard a bullet thunk into the Navigator’s side. Donnie started the engine and accelerated, but immediately saw a police car with flashing lights blocking their way to the middle bridge. He hit the brakes hard, executing a skidding U-turn, and the Navigator started speeding south, its big engine whining like a stock car out at Moroso speedway.

  FORTY-NINE

  At least the real Avery wasn’t going to just show up unannounced the way Dickie had. Nick had ten days to get things done and Avery did Nick a huge favor by giving him advance warning. Ten more days gave him a lot of time to fatten up his bank account.

  In that time he could make enough to live very comfortably in the south of France. He still wanted to stay in Palm Beach, but that possibility was a long shot now. Living where Scott, Zelda and the Murphys had spent their golden youths was a good second choice. As for learning French . . . screw that, everyone spoke English there, even if they hated Americans. Word was there were some very exclusive clubs like the Poinciana on the Côte d’Azur, too. All he needed was to meet some people who’d write letters for him, say what a swell guy he was.

  Still, it was hard, the idea of uprooting himself from here. He had actually been toying with another idea. One that would allow him to live happily ever after in Palm Beach. It would require him to do something he wasn’t absolutely sure was worth the risk, but he was giving it serious thought. He still had that detective and the Palm Beach Police Department looking for him, describing him as a “person of interest.”

  FIRST AND foremost, Nick wanted to keep Lil focused on selling options until every painting on the swirled stucco walls of the palatial Robertson mansion had been sold. Nick couldn’t tell Lil the real reason they only had ten days, so he told her he had booked a flight a long time back to leave town next week. Big party on a friend’s yacht in Cap d’Antibes, he told her.

  Nick was disappointed she hadn’t begged him to stay in Palm Beach or insisted on going along with him to Cap d’Antibes, but figured she knew her biggest priority was to get out her Rolodex and dial. Spencer Robertson’s house at 101 El Vedato turned into a Madison Avenue gallery, as Lil shepherded in eager buyers with the irresistible offer of being able to buy world-class paintings for one-third off. On Wednesday alone she brought in seven prospective optionees and ended up with sales of $500,000, $1.5 million, and $800,000. On Thursday she got another commitment for just over $2 million for two Bacons, plus $100,000 for the Hepplewhite chest in the living room that they weren’t even trying to sell. Friday was a slow day but by the end of Sunday, they had a total take of $9.2
million. Not bad for a week’s worth of work.

  The only problem was that Nick had set a goal of $5 million for himself alone. Or in his new country’s currency: 3.5 million Euros.

  So in order to make his quota, he had called up a real estate broker whose name he had seen in Glossy ads and invited him over. Nick showed him through the house and the property in back, then described to the broker what he had in mind.

  “What you’re talking about is called a life estate,” the broker said as they walked through the house. “It’s not all that uncommon.”

  “Oh,” Nick said, disappointed, having thought he had invented the concept. “So how does it work exactly . . . I mean, I want to get the money right away.”

  “Well, the best way,” the broker said, “is you get an appraiser to price the house, then you look at what are called actuarial charts, figure out approximately how long the, ah, owner is expected to live, then you discount—”

  “But I don’t have time for all that, just tell me what it’s worth, I’ll show you papers that prove I inherit it, then we’ll draw up an agreement. Like if you say it’s worth, I don’t know, $20 million—”

  “A little less,” the broker said.

  “Okay, fifteen . . . then I discount it by 50 percent, so that’s $7.5 million, then I sign an agreement selling it to a buyer for that and they give me 20 percent now—” Nick said, gesturing wildly with his hands—“the rest after my grandfather passes away and it closes.”

  “That’s a huge discount,” the broker said; “you sure you want to do that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I want to make a quick deal.”

  The broker nodded. “Okay, you’re going to need your grandfather to sign off on it, you know.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Forgery was child’s play compared to the other things he had pulled off.

  “If that’s what you want to do, Mr. Robertson,” the broker said, “I’m sure I can make a few calls and . . . make a quick deal.”

  Nick nodded to the broker as they walked to the front door. “That’s exactly what I want to do. Make your calls, get back to me as soon as possible.”

  “You got it,” said the broker, turning and shaking Nick’s hand.

  Nick said good-bye and closed the front door.

  He was on to his next project now, a man who had a lot to get done. No one was around so he figured it was a good time to take the big Bacon in the front closet over to his storage unit on Okeechobee.

  He called Yellow Cab on his cell, figuring it was safer than taking Spencer’s Rolls Cloud Three or Alcie’s Corolla. It wasn’t likely, but what if he got a flat? Palm Beach cops were so damn accommodating. He could just picture a cop trying to help him, then recognizing him from the flyer. Why take a chance? Just in case the cabby had seen one of the flyers, he’d wear his wraparounds and Spencer’s yellowed Poinciana golf cap.

  He told the dispatcher to have the cab there in twenty minutes. That would give him time to bubble wrap the big picture from the closet.

  He turned to the closet and flipped on the switch. He didn’t see the picture right away. He pulled out Spencer’s big golf bag, then the canes and the two umbrellas that it had been behind. But it was nowhere in sight.

  In a panic, he turned the whole closet upside down, yanking raincoats and heavy jackets off their big wooden hangers, pulling out a folded-up card table, then grabbing a big cardboard box and dragging it toward him. It was heavy and went crashing to the floor. Nick heard glass shatter inside, but didn’t care.

  It was then he realized the Bacon was gone.

  FIFTY

  Donnie jammed the accelerator to the floor and was doing sixty down Worth Avenue. Thing was, Worth Avenue was a one-way street, going the other way. Fulbright watched as they blurred past a red-faced guy pointing frantically in the other direction. He looked back and saw a big white car two blocks behind them.

  “Shit, they’re comin’,” Fulbright said.

  “I see ’em,” Donnie said, totally cool, as he yanked the wheel hard to his right and skidded onto South County Road. “We’re gonna be fine.”

  That was the soldier side of Donnie that Fulbright loved. Solid ice.

  Ott was behind the wheel two hundred yards back and Crawford was on the radio. He had alerted the dispatcher about their pursuit; problem was that the three other cops on duty were all up at the north end in Zone Four, five miles away. He told the dispatcher to get them down to the north bridge and block it.

  BOLO for a black Navigator, he said.

  Then he got a call from Misty.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Dominica’s coded warning to Misty had been the signal for Misty to slip over the far side of the drug boat and swim to safety at the south end of the docks.

  “Yeah,” she said, “never swam so fast in my life. Wrapped my phone in a baggy I found on the reefer boat.”

  “Good girl. Call you later.” He clicked off.

  The Navigator, after hanging a hard, tire-burning right, was going in the direction of the Southern and Lake Worth bridges.

  “This is 322, headed down South Flagler,” Crawford heard the voice on the radio say.

  Ott glanced over. Shit, it was Dominica.

  “Three minutes north of Southern,” she said.

  “McCarthy,” Crawford shouted into the radio, “don’t get anywhere near the Southern bridge. You saw what they did to the boat—”

  “Blew it into another zip code,” Ott mumbled.

  But there was no response from Dominica.

  “McCarthy?”

  Nothing.

  Crawford turned to Ott. “I know damn well she heard me.”

  “Girl wants to join in the fun,” Ott said, pedal to the metal.

  They flashed by the Everglades golf course off to their right. Ott had the Crown Vic up over eighty now, but wasn’t gaining.

  “Dispatch,” Crawford said into his radio, “try to get West Palm to block the Southern bridge. If we got anyone down south, same for Lake Worth.”

  “Got it,” the dispatcher said.

  Crawford doubted whether dispatch would be able to get anyone there in time.

  The Navigator blew through a stop sign on South Ocean, barely missing a gray Porsche it would have T-boned into the ocean.

  “Son–of–a–bitch can drive,” Ott said, eyes wide, sweat glistening on his face.

  He slowed at the stop sign on South Ocean—barely—then gunned it. Ott kept the pedal down and within ten seconds had it back up to eighty, then ninety. Fifty-five miles over the speed limit, still not gaining.

  The Navigator was at Mar-a-Lago now. Its brake lights flashed, a hard right ahead, a choice whether to go through the roundabout and due south or straight across Southern bridge into West Palm.

  Crawford looked up and saw the chopper he’d phoned in for. A moment later the Navigator disappeared around the corner—going close to sixty.

  A few seconds later they were going into the hard right turn.

  “Hang on, man,” Ott said.

  Crawford knew that Crown Vics were too fat for good cornering even with their Police Interceptor suspensions. It went into a big slide. He hoped like hell nobody was coming the other way.

  A midnight blue Audi 8 was.

  It was halfway through the roundabout. Ott had to cut the turn even tighter. Crawford prayed they wouldn’t flip. The tires squealed and the Vic clipped the Audi’s bumper. Then, as if nothing had happened, Ott stomped on the pedal again.

  “Hammer time,” he yelled.

  “Crazy bastard,” Crawford said, looking back.

  He hoped the Audi driver hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest. Then, he turned back and saw the Navigator roar up over the top of the Southern bridge.

  Crawford knew if the driver got to West Palm, he could be gone. At least the helicopter was on him. But the hitters had a hundred options. Their best play was probably to go onto a side street. Ditch the car and disappear.

  Cr
awford had his Sig Sauer out and was bracing himself with his left hand on the dashboard. They got to the top of the bridge, then saw the Navigator, a Christmas tree of red brake lights in front of them. Past it, Crawford saw a Chevy Caprice sideways on the far side of the bridge, blocking the road. It was Dominica’s Caprice.

  “What the hell’s she thinking?” he yelled.

  He stuck his head out the window and aimed his Sig. The driver of the Navigator suddenly accelerated hard. Tires screaming, it was headed for a spot between the Caprice’s ass-end bumper and the north side of the bridge. Crawford didn’t shoot, worried a ricochet could hit Dominica.

  “Fucker ain’t gonna make it through,” said Ott.

  Then Crawford saw Dominica’s head pop up from behind her Caprice. She ducked down fast as he heard a burst of automatic gunfire come from the Navigator. He saw the windows on the Caprice get blown out like ice falling off a roof. He couldn’t see Dominica. The Navigator flew past the tail of the Caprice with no more than six inches to spare. Crawford suddenly heard loud pops, and saw the Navigator fishtail and go into a slide, heading straight toward a telephone pole. There was nothing the driver could do and Crawford heard the crash, then saw a shower of sparks. The pops were the Navigator’s tires getting blown out. Somehow Dominica had managed to throw down tire-puncturing stop sticks. The big spikes probably blew out all four tires.

  Ott flashed through the same space the Navigator had just gone through. Crawford was looking everywhere for Dominica. He didn’t see her, then checked the rearview. Nothing. Ott stood on the brakes with all his 220 pounds and skidded to a stop fifty feet behind the Navigator.

  Then in a sudden screeching cacophony of steel wheels on pavement, the Navigator started coming at them, jammed into reverse. Crawford and Ott, leaning out their windows, started firing and in seconds the Navigator’s back window was a fringe of glass shards. It stopped dead twenty-five feet from them.