Palm Beach Pretenders

by Tom Turner

  Rebecca turned to Ott. “I feel kind of out of it.”

  “What do you mean?” Ott asked.

  “All you guys arresting people and throwing ‘em in jail,” Rebecca said.

  “Yeah, and after a few more drinks we’ll be tellin’ you we rounded up all the top ISIS operatives,” Ott said.

  Crawford leaned toward Rebecca. “Lucky you,” he said. “You get to deal with dogs and cats instead of people.”

  Dominica turned to Rebecca. “Oh, you’re a vet?”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “I told her,” Ott said, “I’d take her mutts over our mutts any day.”

  “Hey, speaking of which,” Crawford said to Ott. “I saw you coming out of Rutledge’s office. What was that all about?”

  “Oh, Christ,” Ott said. “He gets me in there and he says, ‘So, Ott, I heard you were running around impersonating some mafia guy.’ And I get all serious and say, ‘No, Norm, I don’t know anything about that. Where’d you hear that?’”

  “Atta boy,” Crawford said. “Deny, deny, deny.”

  “And then he gets that stupid look on his face, you know where he’s working up to one of his lame-ass jokes.”

  Crawford, Dominica, and Scarpa all nodded.

  “Finally, he goes, ‘Maybe you’re just spending too much time with that dago Scarpa in your lowlife bar.’ And I get all serious. ‘Wait a minute, Norm, that sounds like an ethnic slur to me.’ And he looks all worried like I’m going to report him to the anti-defamation league.”

  “Maybe I should have a little talk with human resources,” Scarpa said, draining the last of his Yuengling.

  Dominica turned to Crawford. “What did you ever hear from Hawes?”

  Crawford and Ott both laughed. “Think he must have taken a three-day nap or something,” Crawford said. “He got back to us this morning with the ballistics test results on Duke.”

  “What?” Dominica said.

  “Yeah, I explained that we took in the killer yesterday, and he goes, ‘Oh yeah, no shit?’”

  “Clueless Bob,” Dominica said, shaking her head. “Hey, is it true what I heard—about there being only thirty million in Pawlichuk’s account? Down from, like, fifty?”

  Ott nodded. “If you ever want to lose your money in a hurry, George Figueroa is your go-to guy.”

  “Yeah, only problem is you gotta go to a jail cell out on Gun Club Road to find him,” Crawford said.

  Ott leaned back in his chair. “So, I was doing some math and figured that, of Robert Polk’s twenty-one billion and Mindy Pawlichuk’s hundred-twenty million and whatever Janice Figueroa could hock her Bentley and jewelry for,” he said, “none of ’em are ever gonna be able to spend a dime.”

  “I hope you’re not coming up with a moral to the story,” Crawford said. “Like, ‘Honest and poor is the road to salvation.’”

  “Jesus, Charlie, what kinda chump you take me for?” Ott said. “Honest and poor sucks. The moral of the story is—”

  “Tell us, oh wise and insightful one.”

  Ott glanced at Dominica and Rebecca. “Cover your ears, ladies. Moral of the story is…don’t ever get fuckin’ caught.”

  THE END

  Afterword

  I hope you liked Palm Beach Pretenders. If you did, I would appreciate it if you would take a few minutes and review it on Amazon by tapping this link: Palm Beach Pretenders. Thank you!

  In the meantime, what follows is an exclusive look at the first two chapters of my latest Charlie Crawford mystery. It is so new I haven’t even given it a title yet.

  To receive an email when it comes out on Amazon, be sure to sign up for my free author newsletter at tomturnerbooks.com/news.

  Best,

  Tom

  Charlie Crawford Book 6 (Sneak Peek)

  One

  In her mind, Claudia Detwiler had already spent the commission money. For starters, she’d book a Danube River cruise on Viking, the one that started in Budapest and ended up in Prague. Someone had told her that you pronounced it Buda-pesht, so she planned to enunciate it properly and impress her fellow travelers right off the bat with her worldliness. Even though she lived with Jake Dawson, she’d be traveling alone. After all, everyone was always telling her that she could do better than Jake. And you never know when a handsome German industrialist or Danish count might be bunking a stateroom away.

  She also needed to chic up her wardrobe a bit. She’d gotten about all the mileage she could out of her hard-shouldered Versace suit and her Herve Leger Band Aid dress, which fit fine back in her rail-thin days, but not anymore. Then she planned to take some tennis lessons from the cute pro at the Racquet Club for the dual purpose of losing a few pounds and meeting people who might eventually be looking to buy or sell a house in Palm Beach.

  Speaking of which, the Donaldsons had seen the house three times already. Claudia was driving to it again because they wanted their children to see it. Kids and houses were a dicey mix, because you never knew what might come out of their spoiled little mouths. “But Mom, I can’t stand that pukey carpet in my bedroom,” or “How are we supposed to play ultimate frisbee on that tiny, little lawn?”

  But, what could she say?

  Sorry, your kids can’t see the place until after you’ve got it under contract?

  The result of all this was that Bill Donaldson was riding shotgun in her Range Rover while his wife Jessica sat in back with loudmouth Willie and princess Emma. One big, happy quintet, heading for the house on North Lake Way.

  Claudia had planned ahead by dispatching her window washer Diego that morning to make sure there were no saltwater stains on the windows, thus ensuring that Bill and Jessica would once again swoon over the ocean view. It cost her a hundred dollars but was well worth it…so she hoped anyway.

  “If we had a quick closing—like, say, two or three weeks— do you think we could get it for less?” Bill asked, which was the first sign that he might be considering tossing in a lowball offer.

  “I know they turned down twelve five,” Claudia said, meaning twelve million, five hundred thousand. She’d heard that, anyway, but wasn’t absolutely sure if it was true or not. Bill chewed on that for four or five blocks until Jessica piped in.

  “I know it comes with the furniture,” she said, “but we’re not in love with much of that stuff. In fact, we’d probably have to pay to have Goodwill come and take most of it away.”

  Yep. A lowball offer was definitely headed her way. It almost seemed as if the pair had practiced this tandem act of disparaging the exquisite edifice around the breakfast table that morning.

  Shit, maybe paying Diego wasn’t such a good investment after all.

  “I don’t know what they valued the furniture at,” Claudia said, trying to hold things together. “Maybe not too much.”

  Through the rearview mirror, Claudia watched Jessica nod but not say anything. Another glance back caught Jessica concentrating hard. Like she was thinking up yet another gambit to knock the price down.

  Claudia drove into the driveway, trying to think of a way to restore the Donaldson’s former enthusiasm. “I just love how the driveway meanders in, then you see—ta-da!—the big reveal of this amazing house.”

  Bill and Jessica didn’t respond despite Claudia’s zealous hype job. The big house did have nice curb appeal, though it would have been a lot better if it had another fifty feet of frontage. The neighboring houses felt a little too close on both sides.

  Claudia parked and all five of them got out. She pointed at the Canary Island date palm. “That’s a real specimen,” she said. “I’ve never seen one that big.”

  “It’s nice,” Bill said. He seemed to have been much more excited about it the first time they came. That is, before he lapsed into subtle negotiating mode.

  They walked up the six steps to the landing. Willie was bringing up the rear, picking his nose with impunity. Emma yawned as she played a game on her iPhone. Well, at least she was preoccupied and might not bitch about the colo
r of the carpet.

  Bill smiled at Jessica as Claudia fiddled with the lock box to get the key. She took it out, pushed it in the keyhole, then turned it, opening the door. The five of them walked into the foyer, Claudia spread her arms wide, and smiled. “Wel-come to Casa…Donaldson!” she proclaimed as they all walked into the living room. It truly was a fantastic ocean view, though she noticed that Diego had missed a spot on the upper right-hand corner of a window.

  “See what I mean about the furniture?” Jessica said to her husband, though the comment was clearly for Claudia’s benefit.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure Goodwill will even take it at all,” Bill said.

  Claudia was beginning to hate this family of negative thinkers, nosepickers, and smartphone savants. She decided to zero in on the check-writer, Bill, as Jessica and the kids peeled off in the direction of the master bedroom.

  “In analyzing the comps,” Claudia said, “the price is really good on a per-square-foot basis.”

  Bill nodded as his eyes wandered along the crown molding.

  “As you can see, they spared no expense on the details.” Claudia watched Bill’s eye drift over to where Diego had missed the corner.

  “I’ve never had a place on the ocean,” Bill asked. “Do you need to clean the windows all the time?”

  “Oh, gosh, no,” Claudia lied. “Just every once in a while.”

  “How often is that?” Bill asked. “Once every couple of days? Every week?”

  Claudia started to answer but was interrupted by the piercing scream of Jessica in another room. Then Emma joined in. Then Willie, the little nose picker hollering louder than his mother and sister put together.

  Two

  The woman’s naked body lay face-up in a Jacuzzi bathtub in the spacious master bathroom, her head just below the granite tub surround. On the surround, the words Reclining Nude had been scrawled in Crest toothpaste. An empty tube lay discarded on the floor in front of the tub.

  Something in Palm Beach homicide cop Charlie Crawford’s past academic life told him that Reclining Nude was the name of a famous painting. He had taken a gut course in art back at Dartmouth which turned out to be one of his favorite classes ever. Every now and then he’d go to the Norton Museum in West Palm or hit a gallery or two on Worth Avenue, even though he couldn’t afford to buy anything.

  Crawford and his partner Mort Ott had ID’d the body, having located her purse on a counter in the kitchen. Her name was Mimi Taylor and the business card in her wallet said she worked at Sotheby’s Real Estate at 340 Royal Poinciana Way in Palm Beach. Crawford and Ott had been joined at the scene by the medical examiner and two women from the Palm Beach Police Department’s Crime Scene Evidence Unit.

  Bob Hawes, the ME, had reached the official verdict that Taylor had been strangled to death—this, about an hour after Crawford and Ott had, unofficially, come to the same conclusion.

  Crawford had Googled Reclining Nude and found a painting by that name by Amedeo Modigliani that had sold for $170 million three years before at a Christie’s auction. It depicted a naked woman, not in a bathtub but on what appeared to be a burgundy-colored sofa.

  Going back to his search results, Crawford had found another painting called Reclining Nude—this one painted by Picasso. The Picasso was a lot more abstract. He’d take the Modigliani over the Picasso any day, but didn’t have $170 million lying around.

  Crawford motioned Ott to follow him out of the bathroom so they could have a private conversation. Ott followed him out into the large master bedroom.

  “So, for starters, no evidence of rape,” Crawford began.

  “But obviously she didn’t walk in here with no clothes on,” Ott said.

  “So the killer either had her strip while she was still alive, or took her clothes off after he killed her,” Crawford said. “I’m guessing it was either someone she was showing the house to or else the suspect was already here.”

  “Well, if it was someone she showed the house to, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to have called her on his own phone. Or given her his real name.”

  “Exactly. So he’d have used a burner and a fake name.”

  Ott nodded. “Or could have met her here,” he said. “Called her on the burner and told her he saw her name and number on the sign and wanted to see it right away. She might have been in her office or car and came right over.”

  “Yeah,” Crawford said. “Could be. I was also thinking he could have been a burglar she caught in the act. Except if he was, he would have taken her cash and credit cards—” he had a second thought— “Plus that whole thing with the toothpaste and staging her body…it’s gotta be premeditated.”

  “So you’re ruling out burglary?” Ott asked.

  “I’m not ruling out anything yet. Let’s just call it unlikely.”

  “I agree.”

  “There are two other things,” Crawford said, glancing around the room. “The vic’s car isn’t here, neither are her clothes.”

  “So maybe the suspect took her car. Clothes, too.”

  “Which means he didn’t drive here.”

  “Or... maybe there were two of them?”

  Crawford cocked his head. “Yeah, but I’m not getting that vibe.”

  One of the CSEU techs walked into the master bedroom. Her name was Dominica McCarthy, and she and Crawford had a history.

  “What’s your take?” Ott asked her.

  “Hell if I know, Mort,” Dominica said. “I’m just the hair, prints, and DNA girl.”

  Ott chuckled. “You’re a lot more than that,” he said. “Whatcha got so far?”

  “I got lots of everything,” Dominica said. “Which tells me one of two things: either the house has been shown a lot lately, or else the cleaners haven’t come around in a while. Or maybe both.”

  “A lot is better than nothing, right?” Crawford smiled at her. “So what are you zeroing in on?”

  “The hair and DNA in the tub and that toothpaste tube.”

  “Think you might lift a print off the tube?” Crawford asked.

  “Maybe,” Dominica said. “A partial anyway. What do you guys have?”

  Ott smiled. “Being the art connoisseur I am, I know that both Picasso and Mogigliano did paintings called Reclining Nude.”

  Dominica chuckled. “I believe it’s pronounced Modigliani,” she said.

  “Close enough,” Ott said.

  “Other than that, we’re just tossing things around,” Crawford said.

  “Where it all starts, right?” Dominica said.

  Crawford nodded.

  “All right then, boys,” Dominica said, walking toward the door. “Wrap it up by the weekend, will you?”

  “Do our best,” Crawford said as Ott nodded.

  * * *

  Back in his office at the police station on County Road, Crawford called the Sotheby’s office, identified himself, and asked to speak to the manager, whose name he had just learned from the receptionist was Arthur Lang.

  “Yes, hello, detective, this is Arthur Lang.”

  Crawford could tell by his tone Lang knew about what had happened to Mimi Taylor.

  “Hi, Mr. Lang, I’m calling about the death of your agent, Mimi Taylor.”

  “So horrible,” Lang said. “I—well, I just can’t even comprehend it.”

  “I know and I’m very sorry,” Crawford said. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Of course,” Lang said. “Ask me anything.”

  “Thank you,” Crawford said. “First, I need to know who her next of kin are, if you know.”

  “Yes, I looked that up shortly after I heard what happened. Her mother’s name is Mrs. Andrew Taylor and she lives up in Vero Beach.”

  “So Ms. Taylor was never married?” Either that or she had been married and kept her maiden name. Or had been divorced and had taken it back.

  “As far as I know,” Lang said.

  “And do you have her mother’s phone number?”

  Lang s
aid yes and gave him the number. “I also suggest that you speak to another agent here named Carrie Nyquist. Mimi and Carrie were best friends.”

  “Is she in the office now?” Crawford said.

  “I think so. I saw her a little while ago,” Lang said. “I can transfer you, if you’d like.”

  “Before you do,” Crawford said, “I assume you have Ms. Taylor’s address?”

  “I do,” Lang said. “She lived down at one of those condo buildings at the south end. Address is 2500 South Ocean Boulevard. Just south of the Par Three.”

  “You don’t happen to have a key to her condo, do you?”

  “No, but Carrie might.”

  “Okay, thanks. If you could transfer me over to Ms. Nyquist now…” Crawford said. “Oh, and Mr. Lang, I’d like to come to your office tomorrow morning and speak to all your agents if that’s possible.”

  “Sure, I understand,” Lang said. “How is ten o’clock?”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’ll send out an email and tell my agents it’s a mandatory meeting.”

  “Thank you again,” Crawford said. “Now, if you could transfer me, please?”

  “You’re welcome. Here goes.”

  Crawford waited a few seconds.

  “This is Carrie,” said the voice.

  “Hello, Ms. Nyquist, my name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police. I am very sorry about the loss of your friend, Ms. Taylor. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

  The woman sighed deeply. “Oh, God. I just can’t believe it. She was the best…” And with that she began to cry.

  “I’ll make this brief, Ms. Nyquist. Was Ms. Taylor ever married?”

  “No, but she had been living with a man until recently. For almost three years. Lowell Grey is his name.”

  “And had she been seeing anybody else since then?”

  “Yes, but she wouldn’t tell me who.”

  “Why not? Do you know?”

  “I could guess.”