by Tom Turner
“Only problem is the ending.”
Rose nodded and frowned. “Well, yeah, there’s that.”
“Okay,” Crawford said, “but come on, I need suspects.”
Rose smiled. “That’s ol’ cut-to-the-chase Crawford I know and love.”
“Hey, I can’t help myself,” Crawford said. “But I know damned well that in the ten hours or so since you heard about the murders, you’ve already got a long list of possible killers. Am I right?”
“Of course,” Rose said. “So, here’s what I can tell you so far. Carla was definitely doing that old skinflint, Robert Polk.”
“He’s a skinflint, the fifteenth richest man in America?” Crawford had checked.
“Oh, yeah, definitely, and I know from personal experience,” Rose said. “He asked me out to lunch once on the pretext of possibly listing his house with me. Took me to Sonny’s BBQ for wings.”
“I love that place.”
“Yes, but to take a date and get her in the mood?”
Crawford nodded. “Wouldn’t be my first choice for that,” he said. “Okay, he’s already on my interview list. Who else?”
“Does it have to be someone at the wedding?”
Crawford put his hand on his chin. “That’s a good question,” he said. “Mort and I were talking about that—whether it could have been someone who planned to kill either Pawlichuk or Carla beforehand and found his best opportunity to be when they were—”
“Doin’ the rhumba?”
Crawford laughed.
“Then, of course, there’s Duane Truax,” Rose said. “Who may have seemed like a catch when Carla was twenty and stupid, but not in her late thirties and a star.”
“We have him on our short list, which, at the moment, is too damned short.” Crawford reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. “I printed out a guest list of everyone who was at the wedding. I asked Addison Pawlichuk for it and she emailed it to me.”
Rose rubbed her hands together. “Oh, goody,” she said. “Guarantee you I’ll find a few more suspects for you in here.”
He handed Rose the list as his cell phone rang. He looked down at the display. It was Ott. “Gotta take this. It’s Mort.”
Rose barely heard him, already engrossed in the wedding list.
“Yeah, Mort, what’s up?”
“You know what Norm is really good at?” Ott asked, referring to their boss.
Crawford thought for a second. “Uh, not really. Bocce maybe.”
“Good guess,” Ott said. “But the answer is college football. For a guy who don’t know shit about shit, the guy’s a freakin’ encyclopedia when it comes to college ball. Figured out that Paul Pawlichuk, who never graduated from high school, is worth about a hundred mil.”
Six
Their dinners were getting cold as Rose pored over the three-page wedding list and Crawford listened to Ott.
“So, when Pawlichuk started out back in 1995 as head coach, he was making a mere one-point-five. Flash forward to his most recent deal—”
“Nine mil a year, I read?” Crawford said.
“Yes, plus bonuses and extras, which puts it probably closer to ten.”
Crawford paused for a second “Okay, but the question is, so what?”
The waiter returned and refilled their wine glasses.
“I don’t know,” Ott said. “Maybe nothing. But that old cliché ‘follow the money’ comes to mind.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” Crawford said.
“Where are you anyway?”
“At a restaurant, watching my food get cold.”
“Okay, man, I won’t keep you,” Ott said. “Couple other football-related things that Norm came up with but they can wait. What time you gonna be in tomorrow?”
“Eight or so.”
“Okay, see you then.”
“Later.” Crawford clicked off and looked up at Rose, who hadn’t taken a bite of her soft-shelled crabs. “Come on, girl, you gotta eat or you’ll waste away.”
“Appetite like mine. Ain’t gonna happen,” Rose said, not looking up. “Pretty interesting list.”
“Like who?”
“Like a guy named Arnie Stoller,” she said. “He’s a big money manager down in Miami. Handles a lot of high-net-worth individuals. Probably handled Paul.”
Crawford pulled a pen out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Do me a favor, underline his name, will you, please?”
“Sure.” Rose did it.
“How do you know him? Stoller?” Crawford asked.
“Another real-estate connection. At one point, he was looking for a house in PB,” Rose said as Crawford flagged the waiter. “His plan was to commute by helicopter to Miami. I think he ended up in Manalpan instead.”
The waiter approached their table. “Yes, sir?”
“Do me a favor, will you,” Crawford said. “Would you heat up our plates, please.”
“Absolutely,” the waiter said, reaching for their plates.
“Thanks,” Rose said, looking up and smiling.
“Who else of interest is on there?” Crawford asked.
“Well, we got the porn king, for one,” Rose said, pointing at the name.
Crawford leaned closer. “Xavier Duke?”
“Yup,” Rose said. “Apparently they shoot about as many here as in California. Word is, he does them all at his house.” Rose looked up. “Is that legal?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t really know,” Crawford said. “Not my department.”
“You do dead people, not naked people. Right?”
“And sometimes naked, dead people.” Crawford patted Rose’s hand. “So, tell me about this guy Duke.”
“I’m happy to say I’ve never had the pleasure. And if he wanted to go around and look at houses, I wouldn’t allow him to stink up my car,” Rose said. “I just know the guy is a sleaze. Supposedly has mafia connections. He used to have a house up on Jupiter Island until he moved down here. Somewhere near Tiger Woods, I heard.”
“What? Staid old Jupiter Island?”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Rose said. “They’ve got a few dubious characters up there.”
“But mostly bluebloods and Hall of Fame golfers, right?”
“Mostly, but a few rotten eggs slip through.”
“Anybody else look interesting on that list?”
“I haven’t gone through the whole thing yet,” Rose said. “But I’ll tell you something else.”
“What’s that?
“Your victim hit on me once.”
“Paul?”
Rose nodded.
“Jesus, with all his skirt-chasing, when did the guy ever have time to coach?”
“I don’t know, but I can assure you I was one skirt he chased but never caught.”
“‘Cause you’ve got good taste in men.”
Rose nodded. “Yeah, that. But I’m also proud to say that I have never had sex with a married man.”
Seven
Crawford and Rose were in her king-size bed, Crawford looking out the window at her killer view of the ocean. It was a view he never got tired of. He had fleetingly wondered what it would be like to be married to Rose. Probably not so terrible. Pretty good, in fact. She was stunning, funny, smart and independent, so they’d have a lot of time to do their own things. She was also rich and had this house with the amazing view.
But then there was Dominica McCarthy, the beautiful crime scene tech he occasionally worked with, and yes, slept with. And unless she was dead—what a horrible thought—or married to another guy—an almost equally horrible thought—she would always have a lock on Crawford’s heart. He silently scolded himself for pining for Dominica in another woman’s bed.
Rose was still sleeping, but Crawford had been up since five, going over the Pawlichuk-Carton case in his mind. He was eager to talk to Robert Polk, Arnie Stoller, and Xavier Duke. Duane Truax deserved another closer look, too. Particularly in light of the financial motive: If his wife died before she divorced
him, he’d have a good shot at getting her money, which sounded like it was considerable. He wondered how it was possible to make a million dollars for each episode of a TV series. He did the math, knowing each season had twelve episodes or so. It was simple. Twelve million. Was that possible? Then he remembered reading somewhere how the main characters in Game of Thrones were paid two and a half million per episode in the seventh season. Poor Carla, a paltry millon-per…
All of a sudden, he felt a warm hand touch his hip, then start gently moving down his leg. Rose’s breasts pressed up against his back.
“Don’t think for a second you’re going to get out of here without the breakfast special,” Rose whispered. “And I don’t mean bacon and eggs.”
Crawford turned, put his arms around her and pulled her close to him. “Are you kidding?” he said, breathing in her luscious aromatic smell. “This is going to be the high point of my day.”
“Day?”
“Week.”
“Week?”
“Year.”
“That’s more like it.”
* * *
Crawford walked into Ott’s cubicle. Ott smiled up at him, moved his head a little closer and sniffed a few times.
“I’ve smelled that a couple times before,” Ott said, his smile getting bigger. “It’s not that Irish Spring shit of yours.”
Crawford shook his head. “Maybe if you spent less time sniffing me like a dog and more time on the case, we’d be getting somewhere.”
“I am getting somewhere,” Ott said glancing in the direction of Norm Rutledge’s office. “Thanks to ol’ dipshit over there.”
“He came up with more football intel?” Crawford asked dubiously.
“Yeah, and it’s not half bad.” Ott put his hands behind his head and his feet up on his desk. “He tells me he read a while back that one of the NFL owners approached Pawlichuk and secretly negotiated a five-year guaranteed deal with him.”
“For how much?”
“Fifty-nine million supposedly.”
“So what happened?”
“So supposedly Pawlichuk agreed to it,” Ott said, “and based on that—even though it wasn’t signed—the owner fired his head coach. Had to eat something like ten million remaining on the guy’s contract.”
“Guess he figured it was worth it,” Crawford said.
Ott shrugged. “Yeah, except the next day Pawlichuk changed his mind. And since all the owner had was a handshake—”
“The owner was screwed,” Crawford said.
Ott nodded his head. “Big time. Ended up looking like a schmuck and had to go hire another guy.”
“This is all from Norm?” Crawford said, cocking his head.
“Yeah, and don’t sound so surprised.” Ott smiled. “Every couple of years or so, the guy has a good idea.”
“So, what was it?”
“His idea?”
“Yes.”
“That the owner was so humiliated and pissed off he hired a guy to take out Pawlichuk. Carla was collateral damage.”
Crawford shook his head and frowned. “You back on the crack again, Mort?”
“I think it could have happened.” Ott held up his hands. “Hey, we gotta at least look into it.”
Crawford shrugged. “Have at it. Go waste your time.”
Ott looked like a spanked child. “He also told me about a guy named Sims Thaw. Ever hear of him?”
Crawford shook his head.
“Well, he’s the head coach of a Canadian Football League team. I forget which one,” Ott said. “So, according to Norm, Thaw used to be Pawlichuk’s assistant coach before he got the CFL job. A week ago, it comes out that Pawlichuk and Thaw are the two leading candidates to be head coach of another NFL team. Anyway, Thaw was at the wedding ‘cause he and Pawlichuk stayed in touch. Went hunting and fishing and shit together—according to Norm.”
Crawford locked eyes with Ott. “Gotta tell you, Mort, that’s a whole pile of worthless bullshit. I mean, I get that we don’t have anything, but we ain’t that desperate.”
“Why are you shooting it down before we look into it?”
Crawford shook his head slowly. “How many times have you heard about a guy killing a high-profile rival for a job? Or, in this case, a rival who’s a friend.”
Ott started tapping a pencil on his desk. “I’m sure it’s happened,” he said. “And don’t forget, we’re talking about a ten-million-dollar job here. That’s per year.”
Crawford slowly shook his head. “It’s really thin, man. There’s nothing there,” Crawford tilted his head and looked into his partner’s eyes. “And I think deep down you know it.”
“We gotta humor Norm a little,” Ott said.
Crawford shrugged. “Why? We never have before. But—what the hell—put the guy on our interview list. Even though it’s a total waste of time. The football player we need to be speaking to is Joey Decker.”
“I know. I’ve been trying.”
“But nothing yet?”
Ott shook his head. “Not yet. I’m also lining up both Mindy Pawlichuk and Duane Truax for re-interviews,” he said. “Figuring we’ve got new questions for both of ‘em. What about Carla’s billionaire boyfriend?”
“Robert Polk. He’s been ducking my calls,” Crawford said. “I’ve got two other guys we definitely need to talk to.”
Crawford told him about the Miami money manager Arnie Stoller and porn king Xavier Duke. When he mentioned how Rose Clarke had clued him in about Stoller and Duke at dinner the night before, Ott smiled knowingly and said, “Aha…the soap mystery has been solved.”
When it came to women, Ott was more of a traditionalist than his partner. He had a long-standing, exclusive relationship with a woman named Rebecca, whom he’d met on match.com. They’d been seeing each other for almost two years.
“I mean, call me old-fashioned, but I just find it all pretty lame.” He was back on the people at the Pawlichuk wedding. “Everybody’s screwing around on everybody else. I don’t know whether it’s a rich-guy thing, or maybe a nouveau-riche-guy thing?”
“For starters, it’s not just a guy thing,” Crawford said. “And second of all, don’t let it get you so crazy.”
Ott shook his head. “I’m trying not to. It’s just…I don’t know, man…” He snapped his fingers. “Now that I think about it, maybe it’s a French thing?”
“A French thing?”
“Yeah, you know, how those frogs have mistresses all over gay Paree.”
“Oh, yeah, is that a fact?”
Ott chuckled. “You know, Charlie, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a little French blood in you.”
“What the hell are you talking about now?”
“All your women,” Ott said. “Let’s see there’s Rose and Dominica…that reporter babe who works at the Post. Then there was Lil Fonseca, but of course, she’s in the slammer up in North Carolina now.”
Crawford flashed Ott his best exasperated look. “I’m not going out with Dominica,” he said without much conviction.
“At the moment, you’re not,” Ott said. “But can you honestly tell me with a straight face that you’ve never gone out with two women at the same time?”
“Jesus, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t we have a murder to solve here?” Crawford sighed.
Ott smiled his ‘gotcha’ smile. “Okay, Charlie, go ahead change the subject, just when I got you by the short hairs.”
* * *
Sims Thaw, the CFL football coach, was a dry well. He told Ott that right after the Pawlichuk wedding, he had skipped the reception and had gone with his family to have dinner with his sister up in Jupiter. He didn’t get to see her much, he explained, living up in Toronto. He gave Ott her number in case he wanted confirmation. Ott called even though he was convinced Thaw was innocent. Sure enough, Thaw’s sister said he was there and volunteered to send Ott photos of them together.
After Ott got off of the phone, he went in to Crawford’s office to catch him up. Crawford
was logged onto his computer.
“Whatcha doin’?” Ott asked.
“Checking out Mar-a-Lago.”
“What about it?”
“Well, I just imagined it would be 5-star everything, but I remembered Addison Pawlichuk saying it was a ‘roach motel.’ And Rose said basically the same thing.” Crawford clicked onto the website. “Pictures of the place look nice.”
“What are you looking at?”
“The Mar-a-Lago website,” Crawford said.
“Well, of course, they’re gonna look good on that,” Ott said. “You gotta check Yelp or something.”
“Yelp?”
“Yeah, remember I told you, this site where people give reviews on restaurants, hotels and shit?”
Crawford started clicking. A few moments later, he leaned closer to his screen. “Holy shit,” he said. “Listen to this: ‘Absolutely horrible. Tremendous disappointment. Extremely tacky. Everything says “Made in China” on it. Roach-infested. Very, very poor quality towels and linens. Food was awful. Leaky faucet. Stained carpet. Sad.’”
“You’re kidding,” Ott said.
Crawford shook his head. “And here’s another,” he said. “‘This place is a dump. I have been there several times and it is a clear failure. I have to say it folks, but they really need to drain the swamp there. Should be called MAL a Lago, it’s so bad.’”
“Wow, that’s unbelievable,” Ott said. “The winter White House turns out to be the winter…shithole.”
“I know…place seemed all right to me,” Crawford said. “But what do I know?
They were scheduled for a meeting with Rutledge, something they looked forward to as much as getting a wisdom tooth pulled with pliers.
They walked into Rutledge’s office at just past three. Rutledge was flossing his teeth. Always an attractive sight. Then Crawford noticed a snowy skim of dandruff on the shoulders of his long-sleeved blue shirt. To the side, a cockroach skittered across the floor.
All this in the first three seconds.
Rutledge tossed the floss into a trashcan next to him. He missed but left it on the floor. “So, you boys will be glad to know I got this sucker solved.”
Crawford nodded. “So I heard.”
