Palm Beach Pretenders

by Tom Turner

  Gorman nodded his head. “Oh, yeah. That schmendrick.”

  “What?” Ott said.

  “It’s like a schmuck,” Crawford clued in his partner.

  “What about him?” Gorman asked.

  “He tried to hold you up, right?” Crawford asked.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “We’re cops,” Crawford said.

  Gorman chuckled. “Yeah, I paid him off,” he said. “That was right before I told him to leave me the fuck alone or I’d fuck up his life but good.”

  The man seemed a little profane for a public servant. But, then again, Crawford had once counted four fucks in one of Ott’s sentences. So, this was kids’ stuff.

  “And what did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, ‘nothing?’”

  “The scumbag hung up and that was the end of it.”

  Gorman’s story sounded credible. That probably had been the end of it, Xavier Duke deciding—wisely—that Ellis Gorman was not a man he should mess with. There were plenty of other far less dangerous men in Palm Beach who Duke could have counted on to write him million-dollar checks to keep their daughters’ privates…private.

  Thirty-One

  They thanked Gorman and started to leave.

  Gorman, who had been eyeing Crawford closely, sidled up next to him and asked if he was the “homicide dick” from New York who had come down to Palm Beach a few years back. Crawford said he was and told him he had actually voted for Gorman when he was living in New York. He didn’t mention that he’d begun voting for Gorman’s opponents when it became clear that Gorman was shady at best and a full-fledged crook at worst.

  Gorman smiled, clapped Crawford on the back, and asked them if they wanted to “take a load off” and have a beer with him.

  Crawford thanked him, said they were on the job, but maybe some other time.

  They drove back to the station and went to their offices.

  Still eager to get in touch with Janice and George Figueroa, Crawford decided to call Janice’s brother Rich Pawlichuk, figuring Rich might be more forthcoming than his mother about George’s management of the Pawlichuk portfolio.

  He dialed the cell phone number that Rich had given him when they first met at Mar-a-Lago.

  “Hello?”

  “Rich?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Detective Crawford.”

  “Oh, hey. What’s up?”

  “I have a few questions about your brother-in-law George’s investment of your parents’ money and also about his compensation.”

  “Okay, shoot,” Rich said. “I know a little about that stuff, just not all the specifics.”

  “My understanding was that George invested in safe investments like CDs, government bonds, stuff like that. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, Arnie Stoller invested in stocks and more sophisticated things like currencies, derivatives, and international stocks and bonds. George, like you said, did the conservative stuff.”

  “And Stoller told me his compensation was something he referred to as ‘two and twenty,’ right?”

  “Yeah, I have my own account with Arnie. That means he gets two percent of the total, then twenty percent of the annual profits.”

  “But George’s compensation isn’t that much, is it?”

  Rich laughed. “Oh, God, no,” he said. “Not even close. George makes a flat seventy-five K a year.”

  That was significant news. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, I was there once when Dad was pissed off at George. Told him anybody could do what he did. Called him ‘Jorge’ when he got mad. Dad told him he could do it himself if he had to, but just didn’t want to spend time on it.”

  “And what did George say?”

  “Not much,” Rich said. “But I remember my sister was really pissed.”

  “What did she say?”

  “It was more the look she gave my Dad. I mean, nasty. Really nasty,” Rich said. “Dad was kind of oblivious to shit like that. He just shrugged it off and said something like ‘take it or leave it.’ I remember Janice saying that Arnie Stoller got paid five times what George got.”

  “And what did your father say?”

  “He said, ‘No, more like ten times, but that’s because he averages eighteen to twenty percent a year.’”

  “What did Janice say to that?”

  “Nothing. Janice just has a way of quietly seething and giving my Dad what he called ‘the Janice glare.’”

  “How long ago was this? When this conversation took place?”

  “Oh, God, recently. The family all had breakfast together the morning of the wedding. Mom, Dad, me, Addison, Janice and George. Janice always brought money up. Always complained how she couldn’t survive on how little George made.”

  * * *

  Crawford went straight to Ott’s cubicle and told him about his conversation with Rich.

  “So, what’s your thinking?” Ott asked.

  “George and Janice just went from a distant third to neck and neck with Robert Polk at the final turn.”

  “Okay, but how do you think it could’ve gone down?”

  “One, Paul found out that instead of fifty million plus in the account that there was—I don’t know, pick a number. Say forty-five—”

  “‘Cause George had pissed it away on baccarat and Janice on jewelry.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And when Paul found that out, he fired George?”

  Crawford nodded.

  “So, if George doesn’t have the family account anymore, Janice has to go hock the Bentley and half her jewelry.”

  “Yup,” Crawford said. “Or two, Janice could have figured that if Paul was dead, she’d have a much better chance of browbeating her mother into paying George more to support her lifestyle.”

  “Yeah, could have been either one of those,” Ott said. “So, walk me through how you see the actual murders going down. ‘Cause I still see Polk as being the more likely shooter, seeing how he knows his way around guns.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Crawford said. “But back to number two: Let’s say Pawlichuk found he only had forty-five million in his account a week before the wedding.”

  Ott nodded. “Okay.”

  Crawford thought for a second. “Or maybe—for all we know—he had already found out George had been stealing from him and fired him.”

  “But wouldn’t Rich and the other family members know about that?”

  “Not necessarily. I get the sense Paul didn’t confide much about financial stuff with Rich and almost nothing with Mindy. So maybe Janice realized one of two things—no, actually three: One, her father was aware they’d been looting the account and is about to fire George. Or two, it’s only a matter of time until Paul finds out then fires George. Or, three, Pawlichuk’s not likely to find out at all but George is still only making seventy-five K—”

  “Yeah, but in that case, he could still keep looting the account.’

  “True, but maybe they just decide the best solution is if Paul’s dead. Then they don’t need to ever worry about getting caught.”

  “I hear you,” Ott said. “So if they did it, who do you think actually did it?”

  Crawford thought for a second. “Gotta be George. Or a guy they hired,” he said. “Janice might be motivated, and might be cold-blooded, and definitely is mean, but no way she takes a gun and blows away her father and Carla Carton.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Ott said.

  “I still wouldn’t rule out them hiring a hitter,” Crawford said.

  Ott nodded uncertainly. “And I still wouldn’t rule out Polk.”

  “Which is where I’m going right now.”

  “Back to see Polk?”

  “Yeah, he’s probably missed me.”

  * * *

  On the way to pay his unannounced visit to Robert Polk, Crawford worked up a good head of steam because he had lost count of how many times he had called
and left messages.

  He also made a call on his way, which turned out to be very productive.

  He double-parked on the street near Polk’s office building, put his flashers on, and took the elevator up to Polk’s office on the penthouse floor. He walked into Polk’s reception room and got a hostile frown from the receptionist, Jeanette.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I need to see Mr. Polk.”

  “He’s in a meeting,” she said. “And you don’t have an appointment, sir, so he won’t be able to see you.”

  He walked past her and back to Polk’s office, the door to which was closed.

  He didn’t bother knocking, simply turned the knob and walked in.

  Robert Polk, sitting at his conference table with a man in a suit, looked up at Crawford and glared. “What the hell are you doing, bursting in here—”

  “I need to speak to you right now,” Crawford said. “Not next Tuesday, not when you can spare ten minutes—” He glanced at the other man. “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, this is police business, please wait in the reception area.”

  The man clearly didn’t know how to react.

  “This is outrageous, Crawford”—Polk turned to his guest—“Max, this isn’t going to take long.”

  Max stood.

  “Actually, Max, it might,” Crawford said.

  Max nodded and walked past Crawford and out the door.

  “Just so you know,” Polk said, glowering at Crawford. “I’m going to file an official complaint with the mayor of Palm Beach. She’s a close personal friend of mine.”

  “Do what you gotta,” Crawford said, still standing. “My first question: Were you and Carla Carton having a fight at the Pawlichuk wedding related to her refusal to marry you, after previously having said ‘yes.’”

  Polk shook his head and huffed. “No.”

  “Several eyewitnesses said Carla had repeatedly embarrassed and humiliated you at the wedding. Was that enough of a reason for you to pursue her and—”

  “No.”

  “You have a gun-carry permit, do you not, Mr. Polk?”

  Ott had checked with the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services and found that Polk had registered a Walther P99 semi-automatic pistol and a Heckler & Koch VP9.

  “Yes, I do,” Polk said.

  “And where do you keep your weapons?”

  “One at home and one in the glove compartment of my car.”

  “And was that the car that you drove to the Pawlichuk wedding last weekend?”

  “Yes, it was,” Polk said, getting to his feet and shaking his head. “Look, that’s enough, Crawford. If you’re trying to imply that I was the murderer of Paul Pawlichuk and Carla Carton, then you’ve totally lost your mind and I have no intention of answering any more questions.”

  Crawford put up a hand. “I did what you suggested the first time we met and called your wife. We had a very nice conversation and she told me that she had no idea when you got home after the wedding because she was asleep. I asked her when she normally goes to bed and she said between ten and ten thirty. Yet you said you left the wedding at nine and, I know because I checked, your house is exactly eight minutes away from Mar-a-Lago. You see how something doesn’t jibe here?”

  Polk groaned and sighed at the same time.

  “Okay, okay, for Christ’s sake,” he said walking over to his desk and picking up a pad and a pen. “Call this number”—he said as he wrote—“I was there for about an hour to an hour and a half.”

  Polk handed the piece of paper to Crawford.

  “Whose number is this?”

  Another long sigh. “Her name is Melissa.”

  This was something, Crawford felt, that deserved to be milked. To the max. “So, let me get this straight,” he said. “You were leaving the wedding, where you had just spent a great deal of time talking to a woman who you had asked to marry you while you were, in fact, already married, to go back home to the person who you were married to. But along the way you decided to drop by this woman Melissa’s house to…what? Ask her to marry you?”

  If Polk’s eyes could have killed, Crawford would have been dead on the carpet.

  “Get…the…hell…out…of…here.”

  Crawford nodded as he stared into Polk’s hateful, beady eyes. “I’ll tell Max you’re ready to resume your conversation with him,” he said. “And, as the expression goes, I won’t let the door hit me in the ass on my way out.”

  Thirty-Two

  Crawford and Ott were spending twelve to fifteen hours per day on their two cases, slaloming back and forth from one to the other.

  There were so many people to talk to, it was tough to keep everybody straight. Crawford was in his office when Herb Weaver’s name showed up on his cell phone caller ID. He had no idea who the man was.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Charlie,” the voice said. “Herb Weaver, PBPD.”

  Oh, yeah, big, brawny uniform cop. “Hey, Herb, what’s up?”

  “So, I think I found your girl. The one in the photo Ott gave me. In bed at that house on the North End.”

  Crawford shot up straight in his chair. “Oh, yeah. Who is she?”

  “Girl by the name of Christy Lauter. Kid who dropped out of Dreyfoos School of the Arts.”

  “Know how old she is?”

  “She’d be a senior this year. So, like eighteen or so?”

  “Sure doesn’t look it,” Crawford said.

  “I agree,” Weaver said. “A friend of hers gave me an address. Want it?”

  “Yeah, please.”

  Weaver gave him an address fifteen minutes away and Crawford went straight there.

  He knocked on the door of the West Palm Beach bungalow, which was only a few blocks from where Ott lived.

  The door opened and a young woman eating cereal in a bowl looked out. She was definitely the girl in the DVD.

  “Hi, Christy. My name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  She didn’t look guilty of anything. “Sure, I guess. What about?”

  He pulled two photos out of the breast pocket of his jacket. “This is you, right?” he asked, showing her the one of the girl in bed.

  Her face suddenly turned red. “I was drunk. I didn’t know…” She held up her hands and thrust the photo back at him.

  Now she did look guilty.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I just have two more questions for you.”

  “Okay?”

  He handed her the other photo. “Who is this?”

  She leaned forward, glanced at the photo, then pulled back. “He never told me his name”—seriously? Crawford wanted to say—“He was even drunker than I was. I just met him that night.”

  “And my second question is, how old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” she said. “Want to see my ID?”

  “I trust you. Were you eighteen at the time this video was shot?”

  “Just barely.”

  Crawford had another thought. “Actually, I have one more question.”

  She looked nervous.

  “Do you know who Xavier Duke is?”

  “I’ve heard the name, I think.”

  “He owned that house. But you never met him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay,” Crawford said with a smile. “I’ll let you go back to your Cheerios.”

  “Fruit Loops.”

  Mystery solved: Christy was not AC. Instead, AC had been the boy. And whoever he was, he was off the hook for having sex with a minor.

  Thirty-Three

  Crawford and Ott decided it was time to have another talk with the fathers who had written million-dollar checks to Duke. Crawford would pay visits to Carlton Kramer and Tommy Sullivan and Ott would meet with Tuck Drummond.

  They talked through their approach at great length: This was not going to be a normal, everyday Q&A. They both felt that one of the three men might be Duke’s murderer, or possibly have had
hired someone to do the job. One motive to kill Duke would have been if he had gotten greedy and come back to them and hit them up for another payment. Or possibly one of them felt that, even though he’d bought Duke’s silence, there was nothing quite as effective as silencing the blackmailer forever.

  Ott pointed out that if he were one of the fathers, he would worry about the possibility of Duke getting drunk and blurting out to somebody, ‘Oh, man, you should see this video of so-and-so I got.’ Crawford agreed that was another good reason to silence him permanently.

  In the end, they decided the best way to deal with the fathers was to play it straight. Say to them, in as sympathetic a voice as they could muster: Listen, we know you paid Xavier Duke a million dollars for a film. There was nothing illegal about what you did, but there definitely was something illegal about what Duke did. But he’s dead so that’s the end of it. The question is, did he ever come back to you and ask for more money? Their thinking was that if they could just get one of the fathers to say ‘yes,’ then they could safely assume that Duke had hit all of them up for another check.

  And the best way to not have to pay him again was to kill him. The father could simply have called Duke and arranged to meet him at the vacant lot on Reef Road, purportedly to give him a check, then instead greet him with two to the face and one to the chest.

  Carlton Kramer’s wallet had still not turned up and he asked Crawford again to exert his influence over the burglary team at PBPD to do what they could to find it. Crawford assured him again that he would. Then he launched into his Q&A, a little stronger than he and Ott had scripted it.

  They were sitting in Kramer’s living room. It was not his wife’s bridge day.

  “Look, Mr. Kramer, I know you paid Xavier Duke a million dollars for a film your daughter was in, so don’t bother denying it. I also know it had nothing to do with girls in a sorority house. Here’s my question: Did Duke every come back to you and demand another million dollars or any other payment above that initial million”—and before Kramer could answer he added— “I need to know the truth, and this time there will be consequences if I don’t hear it.”