by Tom Turner
“And so you went there with friends?”
Taylor nodded.
“And what was it like?”
For the first time, Taylor hesitated before giving an answer. “Um, when I first went there I thought it was totally awesome. It was kind of like this oasis in the middle of Palm Beach, with a lot of fun things to do. The second time, ah…not so much.”
“What do you mean? What happened the second time?”
She hesitated again. Then. “Okay, I’ll tell you ‘cause you guys seem cool but you’ve got to promise not to tell my dad.”
“Taylor, the reality is, we probably won’t ever talk to your dad again. It was you we needed to talk to.”
“And whatever you tell us is strictly confidential,” Ott said.
“Absolutely,” Crawford said.
“Okay, well, what I told my dad about Xavier dropping me off at ten was true. As far as it went, that is,” Taylor said. “Then I went upstairs to my bedroom, snuck down the back stairway and out to Xavier’s car on the street.”
“I was doing that before you were born,” Ott said with a wink.
Taylor laughed. “I know,” she said. “So, we went up to Xavier’s place and I had one drink with him, then he kind of disappeared. I ended up with this group who I knew a little bit. Actually, from up in New York. So, we were in the bar and one of the girls goes to the bathroom and I noticed this one guy put his hand into the pocket of his shirt and pull something out. Then put it in her drink.”
“Really?” Crawford said.
Taylor nodded. “So, I got up and went into the bathroom and told the girl what I had just seen and told her not to drink her drink.”
“What did she say?” Crawford asked.
“She thanked me, then when she went back to the table, she…had a little accident.”
“What happened?”
“She knocked over the glass with her elbow.”
“Oops,” Ott said.
“Good move,” Crawford said.
“So later on, a bunch of us went out to the pool and these two guys put heavy pressure on us to go skinny-dipping.”
“What did you do?”
“I just took my shoes off and dangled my legs in the water. I’m kind of modest. Meantime, the guys brought bottles of champagne into the pool. I didn’t touch a drop ‘cause I just didn’t trust them. Neither did the girl whose drink was spiked.”
“Smart,” Crawford said. “Then what?”
“We all went and played in this amazing game room. Everybody was good and ripped at that point. One of the guys pulled out an eight ball of coke and everyone was doing lines on this old Pong game. Not this girl, though,” Taylor said, “‘cause I didn’t trust ’em at all. I don’t really know why I even stuck around.”
“So how many of you were there? In the game room,” Ott asked.
“Ten of us, I think. Four guys and six girls.”
“And what happened next?” Ott asked.
“At one point, ‘cause I was totally sober, I saw this guy Jared leave with these two girls. And that was the last I saw of them.”
“Did you know the girls?” Ott asked.
“Just one of them, but I don’t want to get her in trouble,” Taylor said.
“Don’t worry,” Ott said. “Nobody’s ever going to know we had this conversation.”
Taylor still seemed reluctant. “You promise?”
“Absolutely,” Ott said, raising his right hand.
“Her name is Alexa Armistead,” Taylor said.
“Wait,” Crawford said. “Is her father Roger Armistead?”
“Yes, I think so.” Taylor said. “I know she’s really rich.”
Crawford nodded. “So what happened?”
“So anyway, I tried to get one of the guys to give me a ride home, but they just kept putting pressure on me to hang around. Finally, I just called an Uber and left without a word.”
“Wise decision,” Ott said.
Taylor lowered her voice, like she was worried her mother or someone might be hiding behind the curtains. “That was after one of the other guys asked me and another girl if we wanted to go have a ‘slumber party’”—she took a deep breath—“which sounded kind of innocent…until I saw the look in the sleazeball’s eyes.”
Eighteen
“I don’t get it,” Ott said, as the Crown Vic drove over the crunchy Whitcomb driveway onto County Road.
“You mean, what Duke’s racket is?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
Crawford shrugged. “So, he disappears in his house and seems to have nothing to do with the floating party that’s going on there. And he’s obviously laying out a fair amount of money on drinks, champagne, bartender, cooks, and God-knows-what-else.”
“Yeah, plus somebody’s gotta clean the whole place up afterward.”
“Except it seems like there is no ‘afterward.’ Like it’s one long, continuous, never ending party.”
* * *
They were back in Crawford’s office. Ott was writing on the whiteboard. So far, under ‘Suspects’ it had the names Duane Truax and Robert Polk. They had taken Mindy Pawlichuk’s name off the list. Under the “?” category Ott had now added Xavier Duke.
As Ott had explained to Crawford: “I don’t know, he just seems like he’s guilty of something.” Below Duke, he’d added, ‘Interview/re-interview.’ He’d just written Jaclyn Puckett’s name.
“I have an idea,” Crawford said.
Ott turned to him. “Just by the way you said that tells me you’re not sure it’s a good idea.”
“True,” Crawford said. “But because I’m prepared to share it with you means it’s cleared the first hurdle.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever explained this to you before,” Crawford said, “but I have a lot of thoughts that never make it to the spoken stage.”
“O-kay.”
“Meaning my self-censor kills them before I run them by you.”
Ott thought for a second. “So, what you’re saying is, I never have to hear your really shitty ideas.”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, basically.”
“Well, lucky me.”
“But this one, which you may think is a shitty idea, but which I kind of like, is one I’ve decided to share with you.”
“I’m honored.”
“So, the question is, how old do you think Dominica looks?”
“Shit, Charlie.” Ott chuckled. “Isn’t that your department?”
Crawford and Dominica McCarthy had an on-again, off-again relationship. When it was on it was very, very good and when it was off it was both uncomfortable and awkward. Which wasn’t surprising, given that they shared the same employer.
“You’re right,” Crawford said. “And I know how old she is, but the question is how old does she look?”
Ott grabbed his chin and looked around the room. “I’m going to give you a range answer. How’s that?”
“That’s fine.”
“Between, ah, twenty-six and thirty.”
Crawford smiled. “I’m going to tell her you said that ‘cause she’s thirty.”
Ott looked relieved. “Good. Means I’ll score some points with her. By the way, I think I know where you’re going with this.”
Crawford smiled. “What took you so long?”
* * *
Crawford was down in CSEU. Dominica McCarthy, big brown eyes, high cheekbones, bouncy, full hair and a figure everyone agreed was way above average, had her espadrilles up on her white melamine desk.
“So, it’s simple,” Crawford said. “You just go to this party and observe what goes on.”
“But you already know what goes on: a bunch of rich kids hang out, drink too much, do a bunch of lines, then some lowlife slips a girl a date rape drug and—”
“Yeah, I know, definitely not your idea of fun,” Crawford said. “But the big question, and what I’m trying to find out, is what the owner of the house gets out of it.”
Dominica shrugged. “Maybe he likes to watch,” she said. “You know, a voyeur. He’s got some two-way mirror in one of the bedrooms? Or peeps through the keyhole? There are plenty of creeps out there like that.”
Crawford shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”
“So what do you think it is?”
“The obvious. Duke’s filming kids having sex and making money at it. We just gotta find out how it works.”
Dominica thought for a second. “Did you run this by Norm? Bringing me in?”
Crawford shook his head. “Wasn’t any point if you weren’t on board.”
“Let’s just say, I’ve got one foot on board.”
“That’s a start.”
“If I had two, would you run it by Norm?”
Crawford shifted from one leg to the other. “I already know what his reaction would be.”
“What would it be?”
Crawford thought a second. “Well, as I don’t need to tell you, Norm is a protector of the big fish of Palm Beach. Meaning anyone with money or juice. I think he might put Xavier Duke in one of those categories.”
Dominica nodded. “Okay, here’s how I look at it: We don’t need to run it by Norm if it’s got nothing to do with work. In other words, if it’s personal. If it’s just me going to a party because a friend told me about this place and I was dying to meet some new guys.”
Crawford nodded. “There you go. Exactly.”
Dominica wasn’t done. “‘Cause the guy I was going out with kind of…well, faded away. Too busy with his job maybe, or possibly just wasn’t into me anymore.”
Crawford folded his arms and shook his head. “That is so, so not true. It’s nothing like that at all.”
Dominica slipped into her surprised look. “Oh, Charlie,” she said. “Did you think I was talking about you?”
Nineteen
Jaclyn Puckett had stayed over at the Chesterfield Hotel to handle all the details of transporting Carla Carton’s body to its place of final rest, a cemetery called Westwood Village Memorial Park in Los Angeles. Not to mention make the funeral arrangements, which required a million logistical calls as well as back-and-forths between Duane Truax, Carla’s sister Addison, and many other friends of Carla.
Ott had called Jaclyn and asked if she could meet with him and Crawford again, explaining that they had a few additional questions, which wouldn’t take long. She told him how busy she was with all of Carla’s business and said she couldn’t do it until later in the week.
Ott, being by nature persistent and not disposed to take no for an answer, persuaded Jaclyn to meet with them later that afternoon. He volunteered to make it easy for her and meet in the lobby of the Chesterfield.
On the short drive over from the station, Ott urged Crawford to turn on the charm and give her that “big dazzler that melts chicks’ hearts.”
Crawford pretended to be lost in thought and ignored his partner. Besides, being accused of having a “big dazzler” was downright embarrassing.
When they met in the Chesterfield lobby, Jaclyn was wearing something in the muumuu family and had a harried look on her face. “Don’t ever get stuck with the job of handling a celebrity funeral,” she warned Crawford and Ott.
“I think it’s safe to say that ain’t gonna happen,” Ott said, shaking Jaclyn’s hand.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Crawford said, motioning to a couch and some chairs across from the front reception desk. “Shall we?”
Jaclyn sat down and fanned her face with a hand. “A lot hotter down here than L.A.,” she said.
“It’s the humidity,” Crawford said. “We want to thank you very much for all the help you’ve given us already. Our first question is, do you know anything about Xavier Duke having something on your old boss Carla Carton?”
Jaclyn looked puzzled. “Something on…?”
Ott nodded and smiled. “Come on, you know what he means.”
Jaclyn sighed, then smiled. “I learned at our first meeting that if I play dumb with you two, you’ll eventually browbeat me into submission, so I’m not gonna bother. Yes, I know all about Duke blackmailing Carla.”
“We’d appreciate it if you tell us about it,” Crawford said.
“Okay, but this is a little delicate,” Jaclyn said. “And I’m going to have to choose my words very carefully.”
“Take your time,” Crawford said.
“We-ll, a year or two before Carla met Duane Truax—when she was still young and foolish—she auditioned for one of Xavier Duke’s, ah, blue movies. Do they still use that phrase?”
Crawford shrugged.
“Well, you know what I mean.” Crawford and Ott nodded. “It turns out she didn’t get the part, thank God. But Xavier or one of his assistants took some very, um, explicit still shots. So, flash forward to three weeks ago: Duke called up Carla and, long story short, offered to burn the photos and the negatives if Carla paid him one million dollars. And if she didn’t, he told her, the photos were going to somehow find their way into the hands of TMZ or one of those gossip rags.”
“So, what happened?”
“Well, she stalled him and stalled him. Then finally at the wedding, she confronted him. She told me about it right after it happened. She offered Duke a hundred thousand and he laughed it off. Told her to add a zero. She told me she’d go up to half a million, but I bet she would have paid the million.”
“Why do you say that?” Crawford asked.
“Because she had this thing in her contract—they used to call it a ‘morals clause,’ I think—where Netflix or any studio could cancel her contract if pictures like that were published. What would you do? Pay the man off and keep earning a million dollars per episode on Bad Karma or refuse and lose your job? I mean, duh?”
“I hear you,” Crawford said. “Let me ask you a question on a slightly different subject: I Googled Xavier Duke and it said the last porn movie he made was five years ago. Do you have any idea, or maybe Ms. Carton mentioned something to you, why he stopped?”
Jaclyn laughed. “Well, I hope you don’t think of me as an authority on porn movies, but it’s probably just like everything else.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simple. Some of them make money, some of them don’t. I’m sure there’s lot of competition, too. And probably there are directors who are hot one day, then cold the next. I think people figure they all make money, but if that was the case then everyone and his brother would be makin’ ‘em.”
Crawford nodded. Made sense.
“Maybe Duke had a few duds in a row and got out of it. Who knows?” She shrugged.
Over Ott’s shoulder, Crawford noticed a boy walk into the hotel wearing a black hoodie and aviators.
He glanced over at them and, seeing Jaclyn, waved, but kept walking toward the elevator.
Jaclyn smiled and waved back as the boy pushed the elevator button.
Ott turned and looked. “Who’s that?” he asked, not able to make out his face at all.
“That’s Alex,” Jaclyn said. “Carla’s son.”
Of course, he’d be here, Crawford realized. His mother had just been brutally murdered. “He’s staying here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jaclyn said with a sneer. “Let’s just say that father Robert is less than welcoming at the moment.”
“That sucks,” Ott said.
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
“How’s he doing?” Crawford asked.
“Not great,” Jaclyn said. “As you can imagine.”
Crawford nodded. “Poor kid.”
Twenty
Dominica had a dress she never had the guts to wear in public. It had a slit all the way up to her right hip and more cleavage than she wanted anyone she knew to ever see. With its sequins and deep, whorehouse purple color, it would be perfect for Xavier Duke’s ersatz Playboy mansion and a bunch of people she would probably never see again.
She had to admit as she looked into her full-length mirror that she looked fabulous in it. Alth
ough it was eighty degrees and clear outside when she left her apartment, she wore a raincoat so the neighbors wouldn’t see her in the dress. She quickly took off the raincoat when she got into her car, then drove across the north bridge from West Palm to Palm Beach, careful not to speed or go through a light. The last thing she needed was to be pulled over by a cop she worked with.
She took a right into the long driveway on North Lake Way and had a flashback. She’d gone on a few dates with Aleksandr Zinoviev, one of the two Russian brothers who had once lived in the house now owned by Xavier Duke, though she had never actually been to the house. He usually took her out on his yacht, the biggest boat she’d ever been on by a couple hundred feet.
She left her Honda in a big parking court that looked like it could easily accommodate thirty or forty cars, walked up the steps to the massive front door, and pressed the buzzer.
A moment later, the door opened.
“Welcome to Windsong,” a man said, ushering her in. “Please come in.”
“Wait, I just want to make sure I’m at the right place,” Dominica said. “Is this Mr. Duke’s house?”
“It is,” the man said. “And I am Mr. Duke.”
Xavier Duke was wearing a burgundy velvet jacket and white ducks.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Duke,” Dominica said. “I’m Donatella Greer.” The name came compliments of a girl in the sixth grade who Charlie Crawford had had a crush on. “A friend of mine told me there was a party here…well, like all the time.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Donatella, and your friend is correct,” Duke said. “What is your friend’s name, if I might ask?”
“Billy,” Dominica said, then with a shrug, “Billy-with-gorgeous-blue-eyes-whose-last-name-I-don’t-remember.”
“Um, not sure I know who that is,” Duke said. “Come on in. Would you like a drink?”
