by Tom Turner
Ott looked at him blankly. “Some kind of joke?”
Crawford shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think we better find out.”
“How?”
“Get a court order to find out whose box that is.”
“I’m on it.”
Crawford examined the fourth and final check. “Know what we’re not seeing?”
“What’s that?”
”Any checks that seem to be related to the porn business. Which confirms our thinking that he’s out of that.”
“Yeah, whatever he made in the last year seems to be from individuals. Though we don’t know what EG, LLC is yet.”
The name and the address on the fourth check, also for a million dollars, was:
Tuck Drummond
1920 South Ocean Boulevard
Manalapan, FL 33462
That was it. Only the four deposits, which they took photos of with their iPhones. They skimmed the checks that Xavier Duke had written out but saw there was nothing of interest there. Utilities, Comcast bill, AT&T, all the usual expenses.
“So let’s split ‘em up,” Crawford said. “How ‘bout I do Carlton Kramer and Tommy Sullivan, the guy I met. You do Tuck Drummond and get going on the court order to find out the name behind the LLC.”
“Sounds good,” Ott said.
Randy Connors was over in a corner of the room texting.
“Mr. Connors,” Crawford said, “we appreciate your help and taking the time to lay this all out.”
“No problem,” he said. “Happy to help out. You need anything more, just give me a call.”
Ott just nodded at Connors, as they walked out of the bank.
Outside, Ott turned to Crawford. “Amazing how a guy can go from being a total pain in the ass to your new best friend in less than twelve hours.”
Crawford shrugged. “Maybe the guy just needed a little project to give his life purpose.”
Twenty-Five
Crawford called it a day at 7:30 and headed home to his apartment. He had spent the last hour calling marinas in Palm Beach and West Palm asking if they had a boat owned by Xavier Duke moored there. As with the DVDs, he struck out. Now he was looking forward to reading a book he had just gotten from Amazon, taking a break from the 15-hour workdays. The book was called Robicheaux by James Lee Burke. The eponymous Dave Robicheaux was a recovering alcoholic and haunted Vietnam vet who was a sheriff’s deputy in New Iberia, Louisiana. He was also a character who seemed to be one of the forerunners of the concept of operating outside the bounds of normal police behavior. Since that was where Crawford and Ott frequently went, Crawford was hoping that he might be able to get a few pointers from author Burke and his maverick hero Robicheaux.
Just as he finished chapter one, Crawford’s cell phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Charlie?”
He didn’t recognize the voice. “Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s Wayne Percy.” Percy was a Palm Beach Police uniform. “Thought you’d want to know, I just busted Duane Truax for drunk driving and possession of marijuana.”
“No shit,” Crawford said getting to his feet and setting the book down.
“Yeah. Heard you were looking at him in the Pawlichuk murder and thought you’d want to know.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Crawford said, grabbing his jacket and heading for his door. “Where is he now?”
“In a cell at the station,” Percy said. “The guy reeked of booze and pot so I searched his car looking for the pot. Found a Ruger SR 9 instead. Guy had it hidden like he didn’t want anybody to ever find it.”
“Thanks, man, I’ll be right down,” Crawford said, clicking off, then speed-dialing Ott. He looked at his watch: 10:05.
Dave Robicheaux would have to wait.
* * *
Duane Truax was still drunk.
He, Ott, and Crawford were in the hard room, which consisted of nothing but four chairs, a table, and for some inexplicable reason the famous picture of Albert Einstein with long white hair, sticking his tongue out.
“You have a carry permit for that, Thirty-Seven?” Ott asked.
“The fuck’s ‘Thirty-Seven?’” Truax slurred. Then he got it. Ott’s way of reminding him that he was no longer number one—or anywhere close—on the NASCAR money list. “No, I ain’t. Never got around to it.”
Crawford could see Truax was just as arrogant drunk as sober. Like being Driver of the Year back in 2005 allowed him to ignore certain laws.
“So, you got drunk driving, marijuana possession, and unlicensed gun possession. Maybe you ought to think about being nice and cooperative with us,” Ott said. “Otherwise, it’s gonna be a while ’til you get back home to Birmingham.”
Crawford was pacing. “Never, if you killed your wife and Paul Pawlichuk.”
“Yeah, good point,” Ott said.
“So, you hid that Ruger in your tackle box,” Crawford said. “Under that false bottom. You really didn’t want anyone to find it, did you?”
Truax eyed Crawford contemptuously and didn’t answer. He was sweaty and smelled like a locker room at half-time.
“Didn’t you tell us you were headed up to Birmingham a few days ago?” Ott asked.
“Shit came up. I had to meet a sponsor,” Truax said. “Plus a bunch of stuff with lawyers.”
“You want to tell us about what happened down at that pool at Mar-a-Lago?” Ott asked.
Crawford caught his partner’s eye, flicked his head toward the hard room door, and started walking.
They both went outside.
“I know what you’re gonna say,” Ott said. “Whatever comes out in there will be inadmissible”—he laughed— “due to the suspect being humongously shit-faced.”
“Yeah,” Crawford said. “The worst lawyer in the world could get him off. We might as well get out of here. Start hammering away at him tomorrow morning.”
“I agree. Nothing to be gained now.”
They didn’t bother going back into the hard room to say good night to Truax. They got in their cars and went home.
Crawford was glad to get back to his book.
* * *
Right after they had their rotgut joe at the station the next morning, Crawford and Ott planned to head back down and see their prisoner again.
“Hope he sobered up,” Ott said, following Crawford out of his office. “What’s your morning line look like?”
“You mean on Pawlichuk?”
Ott nodded.
“Polk by a couple of lengths. Unless something comes up on ballistics for Truax’s gun,” Crawford said.
“Yeah, I’m not ruling him out, though,” Ott said, as he and Crawford got into the elevator.
Crawford pushed the elevator button for the basement.
“Maybe you can give your buddy Hawes a nudge on it.”
Ott nodded. “What works best on him is to tell him how great an ME he is.”
“No kidding. Man’s a huge fan of himself,” Crawford said, as they approached Duane Truax’s jail cell.
They stopped and looked through the bars. Truax glanced out, his hair going in at least eleven directions and his eyes bloodshot.
“Top of the morning to you, Thirty-Seven,” Ott said.
Truax sat up straight. “Will you quit fuckin’ calling me that?”
Ott examined Truax’s rumpled shirt. “You puke on that shirt?”
“Yeah, and you’re next.”
“All right, Duane, first question is, what were you doing with a fully-loaded unlicensed firearm?”
“What every other guy in the south has one for…protection,” Truax said, rubbing his face with both hands.
“From what?” Crawford asked.
“From what-the-fuck-ever. Muslims, guys who shoot up churches, maniacs who want to kill someone famous, wackos, Muslims—”
“You already said that,” Ott said.
“What about a wife who was about to become an ex-wife and make sure you didn’t get any of her money?” Crawford asked.
�
�We been through this before,” Truax said. “I didn’t need her fuckin’ money.”
“That’s your story,” Crawford said.
“Yup. And I’m stickin’ to it,” Truax ran his hands through his greasy hair.
“You seem pretty casual about all this,” Ott said. “How well do you know Florida law?”
“I’m a few credits short of a law degree.”
Ott chuckled. “You’re a real funny fucker, aren’t you? Let me enlighten you,” he said. “Possession of a concealed firearm is a third-degree felony and you can get up to five years in prison. Drunk driving, up to six months plus suspension of your license for between three months and a year”—Ott raised his hands and smiled broadly—“You don’t see any problem, bro?”
“The hell you talkin’ about?”
“You drivin’ in NASCAR races if your license gets suspended for a year?”
Truax looked blank.
“Guess you were too drunk to think of that, huh?”
“Did you go to your car and get that Ruger at any point during the wedding?” Crawford asked. “There are cameras all over that parking lot.”
Truax still had a blank look on his face. Like the reality of having his license suspended had really knocked him for a loop.
“Did you hear what my partner asked you?” Ott asked.
Truax turned to Crawford. “Look, man, I’m telling you again, I had nothing to do with what happened to Carla and Pawlichuk and your ballistic report is gonna clear me”—he shook his head and dropped his voice—“Wish I had never gone to that goddamn wedding.”
“Lot of people probably feel that way.” Crawford glanced over at Ott.
Ott shrugged. “Okay, we’re gonna leave you then,” Ott said. “You got anybody to post bail for you?”
Truax nodded. “Yeah, Jaclyn Puckett’s takin’ care of that.”
“Well, good.” Ott sounded as if he was actually feeling a little sorry for Truax.
“We may need to ask you some more questions after we get the report,” Crawford said.
Truax just nodded as Crawford and Ott walked away and went toward the elevator.
“What do you think?” Ott asked as he hit the elevator button.
“My gut still says distant second,” Crawford said, as the elevator door opened. “But you know as well as I, there are some really good liars out there.”
Crawford went back to his office and looked up the names of marinas north and south of Palm Beach. He wasn’t all that hopeful about finding anything. He figured if Duke owned a boat, why dock it a half an hour away from where he lived? But on his eleventh call, he hit pay dirt. Xavier Duke had a Mangusta 108 moored at a marina in North Palm Beach. This according to the marina manager, who explained that Duke had bought the boat from a man who’d kept it at that same marina and had spoken highly of how well they cared for it. Given that, Duke had decided to keep the boat there.
Crawford went straight to Ott’s cubicle. “I found a boat owned by Xavier.”
Ott looked up with a big grin. “No shit.”
“Yup, and I’m putting you in charge of getting a warrant to search it stem to stern.”
“Hey, I’m from the Midwest. Does that mean from front to back?”
Crawford nodded. “Attaboy.”
Twenty-Six
One of Crawford’s first discoveries when he came down from New York to Palm Beach was how little time people had for him. The good folks of Palm Beach always had a golf or tennis game, lunch at the club, the latest exhibit at the Norton museum, a lecture at the Four Arts, a charity ball, or even a nap that interfered with his request to interview them. He was like a minor nuisance who was to be avoided altogether or, at the very least, put off for a few days. His questions were not high priorities on people’s lists. Their attitude seemed to be: The detective can wait, my nap cannot.
But, surprisingly, Carlton Kramer agreed to see him right away and Crawford was on his way to Kramer’s house on Pendleton Avenue. He parked in front of number 208, an imposing white, brick colonial, walked up to the house, and pressed the doorbell.
A bald man wearing madras shorts came to the door. Crawford thought that madras shorts had gone the way of top hats and dickeys.
“Hi, I’m Detective Crawford.”
The man’s eyes lit up as if Crawford had just said, ‘and I’m here to give you a two-hundred-million-dollar check for winning the Florida state lottery.’
Kramer stepped closer to Crawford and looked at him expectantly. “Any luck?”
“Any luck with what, Mr. Kramer?”
“My wallet,” Kramer said. “Did you find it?”
“Sorry, I don’t know anything about your wallet.”
Kramer looked hugely disappointed. “I got pickpocketed at the Kravis Center. The Book of Mormon matinee.”
“I’m actually a homicide detective investigating the murder of Xavier Duke,” Crawford said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions related to that.”
Kramer frowned. “Oh, yeah, I heard about that,” he said. “But you’re sure you don’t know anything about my wallet?”
“No, that would be someone in burglary,” Crawford said, still standing on the houses front stoop. “Would it be okay if we went inside, Mr. Kramer?”
Kramer sighed. “Sorry, we can’t. My wife has her bridge group in the living room.”
Crawford wanted to get on with it. “Okay, this is fine right here,” he said, “So my first question is, why did you write a check for a million dollars three months ago to Xavier Duke?”
Kramer’s frown deepened. “What do you want to know for?”
“As I said, I’m investigating the murder of Duke and that’s one of the questions I have.”
“I don’t have to answer the question.”
“No, you don’t,” Crawford said. “But why would you not, unless you’ve got something to hide?”
Kramer wiped his mouth with his hand and looked away. Then his eyes met Crawford’s. “I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide,” he said. “It was an investment.”
“An investment in what?”
“Xavier Duke was a filmmaker,” Kramer said. “We have a mutual friend who introduced us. Duke told me about a movie he wanted to make and I decided I wanted to invest in it.”
“So presumably for the million dollars you kicked in, you end up making a certain percentage of the profits? Something like that, right?”
“Yes, something like that,” Kramer said.
“And just out of curiosity, where was the movie being shot?”
Kramer looked stumped. “I’m not a hundred-percent sure. Hollywood, I guess.”
Maybe he was a guy rich enough to take million-dollar flyers on a regular basis, but Crawford wasn’t getting that vibe. The only vibe he was getting—loud and clear—was that Kramer was winging it.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Kramer, what was the movie about?”
The frown that had gone away for a few moments came surging back. “Well, it basically was about this sorority house, ah, back in the sixties. Then, ten years later they, the girls, that is, have a, ah, reunion…”
“I see.”
Kramer smiled nervously. “It’s a character-driven vehicle.”
“Oh, is it?” Crawford tilted his head skeptically.
He had the sense Kramer was saying whatever floated into his head. “Had they picked a title for the movie?”
Kramer looked blank for a second. “Well, let’s see, Sorority was the working title. They tell me things like that sometimes change.”
Crawford nodded, looking for a way to trip up Kramer. “I see,” he said. “What might be really helpful is if I could see the screenplay.”
“Unfortunately, I never saw one. You see, Detective, I made my decision about investing in the project based on Duke’s track record.”
“I understand,” Crawford said. Now it was zinger time: “Didn’t Mr. Duke make porn movies?”
The frown slowly turned to
a smile. “Well, yes, and my impression was that this movie might fall into the category of soft porn. I mean, when you think about it, a sorority house is rife with possibilities.”
Crawford nodded. “Okay,” he said, “I just never think of any porn movies—soft, hard or whatever—as being character-driven.”
Kramer shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s just what Xavier told me.”
Crawford was running out of questions. “Was there anything like a prospectus that laid out for investors how the finances worked?”
“Not that I recall,” Kramer said. “As I said, I was going on the recommendation of a friend who had done pretty well financially in one of Duke’s movies.”
“And what is your friend’s name?”
“Dale Marston. He’s got a house down on the ocean.”
Crawford wondered if he just made the name up. “Okay, well, I guess that’ll do it then.” Crawford looked around. “Beautiful house you have here. You have kids living here with you?”
“Nah, I live up on Long Island most of the year. Got two boys working in the city. And a daughter in college.”
“Does she come down on Christmas and spring break?”
Kramer nodded. “Yes, she does.”
“Well, okay,” Crawford reached out for Kramer’s hand. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem,” Kramer said. “Hey, do me a favor, give the guys in burglary a kick in the ass, will you? Tell ‘em to try to find my wallet. Damn thing cost me over two grand. Bottega Venata.”
“I’ll tell ‘em,” Crawford said, as he turned and walked down the steps.
He was pretty sure he’d never spent more than twenty-five bucks for a wallet.
Twenty-Seven
“I didn’t buy a word of it,” Crawford said to Ott who was sitting opposite him in Crawford’s office. “You know what it seemed like to me?”
“What?”
“That Xavier Duke and Carlton Kramer spent fifteen minutes concocting a cover story, just in case they ever needed one. Same with your guy, Tuck Drummond?”
Ott nodded. He and Crawford were comparing notes after having just returned from their respective interviews.
