by Tom Turner
She looked up from her computer and smiled. “Well, hello, Charlie.”
“Well, hello, Dominica. What’s new in your world?”
“Not much. Where you at on Taylor?”
“That’s part of the reason I came to see you.”
“And the other part?”
“Just to be in your orbit.”
“That’s very sweet, Charlie.”
“That’s what they call me, Sweet Charlie.”
“Or sometimes, Inscrutable Charlie.”
“Only you call me that,” Crawford said. “So I want to tell you about my suspects, then I want you to tell me who you think did it.”
She swung her chair around to face him. “Okay, I love games like this.”
Crawford told her about Art Nunan, Johnny Cotton, Stark Stabler, and Lowell Grey and everything he had on each one of them.
“That guy Grey hit on me once,” Dominica said matter-of-factly when Crawford mentioned him last. “I was at Green’s for lunch with Cato, and he just came right up to us.” She lowered her voice into the tone of an oblivious male. “‘Hello, ladies, my name’s Lowell Grey and I’d love to join you.’”
“He’s not shy, I’ll give him that.”
“No, but he’s pretty damn boring and—oh, Jesus—so full of himself.”
Crawford nodded his assent. “Okay, so that’s my subject lineup. Whodunit?”
“Well, so you got two rich guys and two career criminals, and from what you said, none of ’em have much for alibis.”
“Correction. They think they have good alibis. However, Ott and I think they’re pretty weak.”
“I agree. Well, so out of all of them, I’d say Stabler has the best motive.”
“To kill Mimi Taylor so she doesn’t tell his wife, you mean?”
Dominica nodded. “First of all, he’s got a lot to lose if his wife dumps him. Plus, if he kills Mimi, he doesn’t have to give her the hundred thou.”
Crawford nodded.
“But, and it’s a big but, we don’t know what motives the others might have. Like maybe Mimi Taylor walked into the house when that guy Johnny Cotton was burglarizing it on his lunch break. Or maybe Mimi was going to reveal something about Grey. Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe she got into a poker game with Art Nunan down at the dog track…lost money and wouldn’t pay him.”
Crawford laughed. “Okay, the first two were pretty good. That last one’s lame.”
“Yeah, I know, but point is, you don’t know what motives the other three might have had.”
“Or,” Crawford said, shifting from one foot to the other, “maybe they didn’t have any motive it all.”
“You mean—”
“I mean, just a random killer or a serial killer. Just killed to kill.”
Dominica shrugged. “There’s always that.”
“Okay, so I’ll ask you again, who’s my guy?”
“I don’t know, they all look pretty good.”
“That’s not the answer I was looking for.”
“A little lesson in life, Charlie,” Dominica said with an expression rife with the mysteries of the universe. “You don’t always get the answer you’re looking for.”
Crawford cocked his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. Whatever you want it to.” She paused for a moment. “I will say this, I think it’s a hell of a lot more unlikely that career criminals like Cotton and Nunan would have a clue who Mogigliano—as Mort calls him—is than Stabler or Grey.”
“I agree with that. So, even though you fell short of solving my homicide, you still get a nice dinner. How about Willie’s?”
“I love Willie’s. When?”
“Tonight.”
Dominica laughed. “Sweet Charlie…Inscrutable Charlie…add to that, Last-Minute Charlie.”
“Hey, better last minute than never.”
Crawford walked into his office as his cell phone rang.
It was Lowell Grey.
“Hey, Charlie. It’s Lowell.” Like there was only one Lowell in the universe. “I wanted to take you up on your offer to get that key to Mimi’s condo and pick up my paddleboard.”
“Sure. When did you want to go down there?”
“Is now okay?”
He was glad he’d gotten Mel in there first thing in the morning.
“Ah, sure. Come on by. I’m at the station now.”
“Be there in five.”
Crawford looked at his watch. It was 11:50. He walked out to the reception area and waited for Grey. He planned to go get a sandwich after he gave Grey the key, then monitor Grey’s activities in the condo via his iPad. Mel—tech wiz that he was—had hooked up the cameras at Mimi Taylor’s apartment in such a way that the live footage would be transmitted straight to Crawford’s iPad.
A few minutes later, Lowell Grey walked into the station wearing Bermuda shorts, tasseled loafers with no socks, and a moss green sports shirt with the logo of the Poinciana Club on it.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the key. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes.”
“No rush,” Crawford said. “If I’m not here when you get back, just leave it at the desk.”
Grey walked out, and Crawford went around to the back of the building and got into his car. He’d decided that he’d follow Grey down to the south end of Palm Beach and monitor what Grey did in Mimi Taylor’s condo from her old parking lot.
It took him just under fifteen minutes to get there. He parked between a van and a Mini and clicked on his computer just in time to catch Grey walk in the front door to Mimi Taylor’s condo. Grey went straight to the balcony and approached his paddleboard, then turned and went back inside empty-handed.
He beelined straight for the kitchen, then to the refrigerator and opened the door. Grabbing a Heineken like Ott, maybe? Crawford watched as Grey reached into either the crisper drawer or the chill drawer. He lifted up something with his left hand—it looked like a flat box of breakfast sausages, Crawford thought—then, with his other hand, picked up something that had been underneath the box. As Grey tucked it under his arm, Crawford couldn’t make out what it was, except it was flat and rectangular. Then Grey went back out to the porch, grabbed the paddleboard with his other hand, hefted it so it was parallel to the floor, and headed toward the door.
Crawford opened the front door of the Crown Vic, got out, and walked toward Mimi Taylor’s building. Instead of going inside to the lobby, he waited outside.
A few minutes passed, then Lowell Grey walked out, paddleboard in one hand, the mysterious bundle tucked up under his left armpit. He spotted Crawford, and his smile slid off his face.
“Charlie, wh-what are you doing here?”
“I just have one question for you.”
Grey turned to his side to hide the bundle from Crawford’s view.
Crawford pointed. “The question is, what’s that?”
Grey was frozen.
“What do you have there?” Crawford asked again. “That thing under your arm you’re trying not to let me see.”
“Oh, this,” Grey said, pulling out the bundle. “Just a DVD I left there.”
Crawford stepped into Grey’s space. “That you kept in the refrigerator?”
Grey frowned. “How did you—”
“Cameras. I got a warrant to have them installed.”
Grey didn’t look happy.
“What’s the DVD of?” Crawford asked. “This warrant says I can appropriate anything you took out of Ms. Taylor’s condo.”
“It’s just a DVD.”
“I can see that. But of what?”
Grey sighed long and painfully, and his tan seemed to fade one shade.
“What’s on the DVD?” Crawford asked again.
“Just, ah, me and Mimi.”
Crawford knew it was not Grey and Mimi Taylor taking a moonlit walk on the beach. Or playing tennis. He put out his hand. “I’m going to need to appropriate that from you as it may be relevant to my in
vestigation of Ms. Taylor’s murder.”
Grey suddenly looked like a little boy who was about to cry. “Why are you doing this to me. I didn’t kill Mimi. I told you, I was at my pool when it happened. Plus, you can ask anyone, I’d never hurt a fly.”
Crawford raised his hand. “I need to take it from you.”
A lone bead of sweat went racing down Grey’s face and dropped to the pavement.
“Hand it over,” Crawford said, more forcefully. “I’ll return it to you if I determine it’s not something we consider relevant.”
“You won’t, trust me.”
“Mr. Grey.”
“You promise you won’t let anyone else see this?”
“Just me and my partner.”
Grey finally handed it to him. “Please get it back to me as soon as possible.”
Crawford wasn’t going to make any promises. “Thank you, I’ll be in touch.”
Crawford turned and walked away. He got to his car and looked back.
Grey hadn’t moved.
It must be one hell of a DVD, thought Crawford.
“Wow, I can see why he didn’t want anybody to see it,” Ott said, after watching the first minute of the DVD.
They were in Crawford’s office.
Crawford recognized that it had been filmed in Mimi Taylor’s living room. The film opened up on a shot of Taylor wearing a black leather bikini bottom, nipple clamps, a Zorro-like mask, and looking very self-conscious. It seemed as if a camera had been placed in a stationary position. On one of the bookshelves, Crawford guessed.
“These things really hurt,” Mimi said to the camera.
“You get used to them,” an off-camera Lowell Grey assured her.
“I don’t think so,” Mimi responded, as a black-leather-clad Grey strode into the picture.
Crawford and Ott couldn’t help laughing. Over both his shoulders were leather straps that went all the way down to his groin area where they connected with a leather jockstrap that had two black leather bands that went around his hips. Around his neck was a dog collar with sharp studs and in his right hand a whip with four short strands of leather.
“He’s not really going to use that thing, is he?” Ott said.
“Jesus, spare us,” Crawford said.
And at that Grey took a few steps toward Mimi and snapped the short whip.
“Ow!” Mimi cried. “How in God’s name is this supposed to be fun?”
“I didn’t say fun,” Grey said. “It’s just supposed to enhance the sexual experience.”
“I don’t know why we can’t just do it the regular way,” Mimi protested.
“Because it was getting to be the same old, same old,” Grey said and snapped his short whip a little harder this time.
“Ow, goddammit! That really hurt!” Mimi took a step back. “Why don’t I do it to you if you think it’s so much fun?”
“Because I’m the slave master,” Grey said.
Mimi put her hands on her naked hip. “Oh, Jesus, Lowell, really?”
“And I want you down on your knees,” Grey said and cracked the whip again.
“All right, enough,” Mimi said. “I’ve had it with your silly game. I’m going to go change. I’m not a goddamn dog or your slave or whatever it is you want me to be.”
Mimi Taylor walked out of the picture and presumably to her bedroom.
Lowell Grey sighed as Crawford had seen him do earlier and muttered under his breath, “Just when it was getting good.”
Ott turned to Crawford. “You ever get into any shit like that, Charlie?”
“Not for a couple years,” Crawford deadpanned.
Ott’s eyes lit up. “Really, you did?”
Crawford smiled and shook his head.
Ott looked disappointed. “I’ll admit it,” he said, “sex with the same woman can get a little old after a while, but I don’t get trying to spice it up with shit like that.”
Crawford leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Maybe you should look at it from the woman’s point of view. It goes both ways, bro.”
Seventeen
Willie’s was a burger joint but according to many, the best burger joint in southern Florida. It was located just off of Clematis in a little hole-in-a-wall, one-story building, which was half Willie’s and half Nat’s Tats.
Crawford had a half-finished beer mug in front of him, and Dominica had a glass of rosé.
“I never knew you were so trendy,” Crawford said.
“What do you mean?”
He pointed at her wine. “You used to drink pinot grigio, then you jumped ship. Everyone says rosé is what the ‘trendies’ drink these days.”
“Catch up, Charlie, it’s been around for years.”
Crawford shrugged. “Shows you what I know,” he said then lowered his voice. “So, I want to ask you about something.”
“Okay. Ask away?”
“How would you feel about a little B and D?”
Dominica frowned. “What?”
“Bondage and discipline.”
“Yeah, I know what it stands for, but are you serious?”
Crawford kept a straight face. “Yeah, I went to see that new Fifty Shades of Grey
movie—”
“Get out of here? You saw that?”
“Yeah, Fifty Shades Freed. Those two actors in it get pretty…creative.”
Dominica shook her head as the burgers showed up. “I just can’t see you going to that. Bet you were the only guy in the theater.”
“There were a couple of others.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Wearing raincoats.”
Crawford laughed as Dominica took a bite. “So, you’re avoiding my question.”
“Which is what?” Dominica asked.
“Well, I went to this site called Candyman,” Crawford said, holding up his hand for the waiter. “And it had these leather outfits that were pretty racy. There was one police costume that was unlike anything I’ve ever seen the boys down at the station wear. A pair of handcuffs hangin’ off—” He couldn’t keep a straight face anymore and burst out laughing.
Dominica slapped his arm and started laughing too. “You jerk, I couldn’t tell whether you were serious or not. What made you launch into that whole thing?”
“I don’t know. Just thought I’d mess with you a little.”
“You didn’t really see that movie, did you?”
He shook his head.
“You’re bad,” Dominica said with a smile as the waiter came up to them.
“A couple more, please,” Crawford said, gesturing to their drinks.
Dominica’s apartment was closer to Willie’s, so that’s where they had ended up.
Crawford kissed Dominica as he rolled off her onto the other side of the bed. He was more than a little out of breath, and his naked body glistened with sweat.
“Sometimes I worry about having a heart attack with you,” he said.
She shushed him with a finger on his lips.
He spoke through the finger. “You don’t suppose that would’ve been more fun with a little spanking or something?”
Dominica brought her other arm around Crawford’s shoulder, leaned over, and kissed him. “Couldn’t have been better with anything.”
Eighteen
Crawford drove the twenty blocks to his apartment building, took a shower, dressed, and walked the few blocks to Dunkin’ Donuts. His favorite server, Jeanelle, had moved on to greater challenges—Costco, he was told—so he placed his usual order with a young Hispanic-looking man who had an alert, ready smile.
“Two blueberry donuts with a medium extra-dark,” Crawford said and added, “just one shot of milk.” He hadn’t needed to add the “one shot” with Jeanelle, as she had his coffee down to a science. Crawford was pretty particular about his coffee. He wanted just enough milk to change the color from black to dark brown.
Crawford picked up his order, then stuffed two bucks in the tip jar and headed to his table over in
the corner. Problem was, a couple with two kids were sitting at it. He mentally shrugged—how were they to know it was his table?—and sat at the one next to it. Just as he did, his cell phone rang. It was the number of the police station.
“Crawford,” he said.
“Charlie,” said the dispatcher. “Got a bad one at Dunbar. Number 1-7-1.”
“Thanks. I’m on my way.” He put the lid on his coffee and the remaining donut back in the bag and headed for the door.
Number 171 Dunbar was a well-proportioned, two-story, white Spanish stucco house that had five blue-and-whites parked haphazardly on the street along with four unmarked cars, one of which Crawford recognized as Ott’s Buick Regal. On the lawn was a small, discreet for sale sign. A uniform was stringing crime scene tape along the front of the house while curious neighbors huddled in little packs on the street and sidewalks to either side.
Crawford got out of his car, nodded to the uniform, and went into the house. He saw the body right away. There was a wide stairway straight ahead through the large entrance foyer. At the bottom of the stairway lay a naked woman. Ott was off to the right of the body, taking a picture with his iPhone, his leather notebook tucked under his arm.
Crawford approached Ott, who lowered the phone and turned to him. “Hey, man,” Ott said. “You ever take any French back in high school?”
Crawford looked down at the body and saw four words hand-lettered on her stomach that seemed to have been written with a red marker. Nu descendent un escalier, it said. He got closer and realized the message had been scrawled in lipstick.
Crawford pointed to the stairs. “‘Nude descending a stairway.’ There’s a famous painting by that name.”
Ott shook his head. “I’m guessing the way this woman descended was more like being thrown down the stairs.”
“She pretty busted up?”
Ott nodded. “Yeah, a broken arm, ribs, you name it.”
Crawford shook his head in sympathy. “So, we got the art angle again,” he said. “Reclining Nude, now this.”
Ott nodded. “And a real estate agent at a house that’s a listing of hers.”
