by Tom Turner
“Boyd and Naomi Johnson. Address is 1191 North Lake Way.”
“What else do you know about Boysie?”
Rose leaned back in the couch. “I remember hearing something about him burning down a dormitory at his boarding school up in Connecticut.”
“Really?”
“That was a long time ago. But I think he did a little stint in a nuthouse for that.”
“I think I’ll have a talk with him.”
“I would.”
“Who else?”
Rose cracked a wide smile. “Well, this next one is probably a reach.”
“I’ve had murderers be a reach before.”
Rose took another sip of her Bloody Mary. “Okay, so the man’s name is Rodney Bowman and, for lack of better words, he’s a flasher. Or was, until he stopped getting invited anywhere.”
Crawford shook his head and chuckled. “Is there any kind of deviant Palm Beach isn’t represented by?”
Rose laughed. “That’s a very good question, and I’d say the answer is no. Anyway, Rodney was a man everyone liked. Had a good sense of humor, kind of a practical joker, played a good game of bridge, I heard. A staple on the cocktail circuit. Then all of a sudden there were these reports of him flashing women. But discreetly. At first, anyway.”
“How in God’s name is something like that ever discreet?”
“Well, like he’d do it really fast. Where you’d say to yourself, did I really see that, or did I just have one too many?”
Crawford shrugged. “Okay, if you say so.”
“Then one time—” Rose started chuckling. “Sorry, this isn’t really funny, but it kind of is.”
“I’m afraid to ask, what happened?”
“So, it was at a cocktail party for the Bladder Cancer Advocacy Network, and the way I heard it was Rodney went into the men’s room and came out with his…thing out and both his pants pockets pulled out—”
“You gotta be—”
Rose shook her head. “Went up to this group of horrified women and said, ‘This is my impression of an African bush elephant.’”
Crawford felt he had now—without a doubt—heard it all. “That’s true? That really happened?”
Rose nodded. “After that he was kind of banned from the cocktail and charity ball circuit. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years.”
Crawford shook his head. “That’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard. Not sure he sounds like a serial killer, though. What’s he look like?”
“Tall, grey hair, a droopy mustache, sixty-five or so,” Rose said.
He didn’t fit Troy Price’s description, but he still was worth looking into. Crawford decided to put him on his interview list.
“Thanks. I almost hate to ask. Anybody else?”
“No, not really. I still hear Stark Stabler’s name come up. Except I don’t know if he’s got any connection to Mattie.”
Crawford figured he knew practically everything there was to know about Stark Stabler by now. He stood up. “Rose, as always it’s been…eye-opening.”
“Just trying to do my job as your number one confidential informant.”
“And a hell of a job you’re doing. As soon as I get a little spare time, let’s grab dinner.”
Rose got to her feet. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You smell great, by the way.”
She kissed him back. “So do you.” She sniffed. “Pure testosterone.”
Twenty-Two
Crawford went straight from Rose’s house to Lowell Grey’s. Needless to say, Grey was eager to get his S & M amateur hour DVD back. Crawford had a very difficult time making eye contact with Grey as the man put forth yet another flimsy alibi. One that couldn’t be confirmed by anyone else. He had woken up, done ten laps in his pool, had some breakfast, then read the paper. At 9:30 he had turned on the TV to see how the stock market was doing. Then at 10:30 he had gone over to his gallery to make final preparations for the opening.
Johnny Cotton’s alibi was better. He and the other men in the Luxury Landscaping crew had cleaned up two houses on the north end of Palm Beach between nine and twelve that morning. Cotton claimed to be working side by side with the other three men the entire time. In what appeared to be a shot at Crawford, Cotton asked whether the mailman, whom Crawford had invented, had identified Cotton as being at the house where Mimi Taylor had been killed. Crawford told him that the mailman wasn’t able to make a positive ID and couldn’t be sure. Cotton just nodded his head, smirked and said, “Uh-huh, I see.”
When they rendezvoused later in Crawford’s office, Ott caught him up on Stark Stabler and Art Nunan, whom he was now referring to as “the dog track dude.” According to Ott, Stark Stabler was starting to get pretty aggressive and threatening to go to his lawyer about how he was being harassed by Crawford and Ott. Ott, who had never been very accomplished at mollifying people, told Crawford he started to tell him to go fuck himself but bit his tongue and suggested instead that he “do what he thought best.” Crawford gave him kudos for his uncharacteristic show of self-restraint then listened to him describe Stabler’s alibi.
Stabler said that he had been out late the night before and had a lot to drink, so he slept in. Ott had asked him, “Until what time?” To which Stabler replied, “Just past eleven.”
“Jesus, are you kidding?” Crawford said. “I haven’t slept that late since the all-night keggers in college.”
“Keggers? Christ, you went to Dartmouth. I thought you guys sat around and drank martinis.”
“Are you kidding? It’s in New Hampshire. We had a still in back of the dorm. Sheep for dates.”
Ott chuckled. “Sounds like fun.”
Truth was, hearing about Lowell Grey’s and Stark Stabler’s mornings made Crawford a little envious. Particularly Grey’s. Wake up when you wake up instead of when the alarm goes off, take a nice swim followed by a leisurely breakfast, then peruse the paper, check to see how your stocks are doing. Not that he had any stocks, but hell, what was not to like about that?
Crawford told Ott about going to the Chesterfield Hotel, seeing a security camera aimed at the front door, and asking the manager if he could see tape from that morning between 9:15 and 9:45. The manager was cooperative and—sure enough—it showed Troy Price coming through the Chesterfield’s front door at exactly 9:32. Crawford had him replay it a few times, paying particular attention to whether Price looked mussed up or had the expression of man either distressed or anxious. His face simply looked vacuous.
Then he told Ott about the two men Rose had mentioned, Boysie Johnson and Rodney Bowman.
Ott started shaking his head halfway through and didn’t stop. “Did it ever occur to you,” he said when Crawford had finished, “that we live in the twilight zone? I mean, shit, a guy with his dong out pretending he’s an elephant. How many cocktails do you have to have to think that’s a good look?”
Ott made Crawford promise that he’d take him along when he went to see Rodney Bowman, saying, “One thing I’ve never had a chance to do in my long, distinguished career is interview a flasher before.”
Crawford went to the internet phone directory and found a number for Bowman.
He dialed the number and a woman answered. He wasn’t expecting that, having figured that Bowman would be single.
“Yes, my name is Detective Crawford,” he said, “Palm Beach Police, is Mr. Bowman there, please?”
“Ah, yes, he is. But he’s taking a nap at the moment.”
“When do you think he’ll be up?”
“I would say a half an hour or so.”
“Okay, me and my partner will stop by to see him in an hour.”
“O-kay.”
“Thank you.”
Crawford clicked off and turned to Ott. “Sorry, gotta wait an hour.”
Ott stood up. “Good that’ll give me time to see what I can come up with on my two other mutts.”
Frances, the woman from the reception desk, poked
her head into Crawford’s office. “Knock, knock?”
Crawford craned his neck. “Hey, Franny, what’s up?”
She held up a sheet of paper. “I got a sketch from that West Palm sketch guy.”
She handed it to Crawford.
“Thanks.” He took it as Ott leaned forward to have a look.
“You’re welcome,” Frances said, walking toward the door.
“Looks like just another white man in his thirties,” Ott said.
“Kinda looks like Brennan,” Crawford said, referring to a uniform cop.
“Or one of the trainers at my gym,” Ott said.
“A little like a young Rutledge,” Crawford said.
Ott shook his head. “Worthless.”
Crawford tossed it in his trash can.
Crawford rang the doorbell of the one-story ranch house at 223 Sanford Avenue. A few moments later, a heavyset black woman came to the door.
“Hello, I’m Detective Crawford. I called earlier. This is my partner, Detective Ott.”
Ott nodded.
The woman smiled. “I’m Mr. Bowman’s caregiver, Jonetta. Come right in. He’s watching one of his shows.”
They followed her into the living room.
They saw all they needed to see. A man hooked up to a dialysis machine who seemed absorbed in a TV show that Crawford was ninety percent sure was The Flintstones based on hearing the unforgettable voice of one of his boyhood idols, Barney Rubble.
Crawford tried to head Jonetta off at the pass. “We don’t need…” But it was too late. She had already gotten Rodney Bowman’s attention.
He looked up and smiled. “Hey, fellas,” Bowman said. “Did you fix the filter?”
Crawford glanced at Jonetta.
“He thinks you’re the pool repairmen,” she murmured.
Crawford glanced out the window at the backyard and stage-whispered back, “But there’s no pool.”
Jonetta nodded. “I know, but I think there was at his last house.”
Crawford nodded and turned to Bowman. “Hi, Mr. Bowman. Yes, we just installed it, and you’ve got a ten-year guarantee on it.”
“Well, thanks, boys,” he said, then glanced at Ott. “You fellas always do such nice work.”
Ott nodded and flashed him a thumbs-up. “We aim to please.”
They were in the car, headed back to the station. “You can usually take Rose’s tips to the bank,” Ott said.
“Yeah,” said Crawford. “I think a fair amount of time’s passed since Ol’ Rodney’s stint as the elephant man.”
Twenty-Three
Crawford had called and spoken to the mother of Boysie Johnson and made an appointment to stop by and see her son at 6:30 that night. After that, he had another appointment with Troy Price at the Chesterfield. It was set for 7:15, and Ott was going to go along. After that, Crawford was going to call it a day.
The Johnson house was a really ugly Mediterranean. Mainly because it was chocolate brown with fire-engine red trim. Crawford thought the function of Arcom, or the Architectural Commission, the “aesthetic police” as Rose called them, was to crack down on bad taste in Palm Beach houses. Apparently, they had missed one.
Mrs. Johnson met Crawford at the door. She had one of those faces that looked as if it had long since forgotten how to smile.
“What is this about, Detective?” she asked when Crawford identified himself.
Crawford decided to waste a smile on her. “I just need to speak to your son about a matter.”
“Did you think that was an answer?” she shot back.
“I would like to ask him where he was this morning.”
“Where he always is,” Mrs. Johnson said.
“Could I speak to him, please, Mrs. Johnson?”
Her long, dramatic sigh communicated the message that neither she nor her son had time for whatever lame, inconsequential nonsense Crawford was there to discuss.
“Come in,” she said. “I’ll go get him.” She pointed. “Go wait in that room over there.”
It was a small study that looked like it should be in a monastery.
A few moments later, a man walked in. He was as Rose had described him. Dark hair, looked to be around forty but shorter than Crawford expected. And he had an abnormally large head. He had inherited his mother’s smile, which was to say his expression was blank.
“Hello, Boysie—”
“My son’s name is Boyd Junior; he’s not called that anymore.”
“Okay. Hello, Boyd Junior,” Crawford said. “I’ll just be needing a minute of your time. How about we sit?”
Boysie looked at his mother. She gave a quick nod.
Crawford and Boysie sat, while his mother stayed standing. Hovering was more like it.
“I’d like to know where you were this morning. Could you tell me, please?”
Crawford saw that there was clearly something off about the man, as if he were concentrating really hard trying to understand the simple question. Drug burnout was his first theory.
“Well, I went to my job like I do every day.”
Crawford wondered if he was referring to something other than picking up cans.
“Your job, can you tell me what it is?”
“I go find cans and get money for them.”
Nope.
“And where do you do that?”
“Mainly in West Palm Beach.”
“And how do you get there?”
“My bike, over the north bridge.”
“So you go down North Lake Way, then over the north bridge?”
“Yup. Uh-huh.”
“Which means you go past Dunbar Road.”
Mrs. Johnson put her hands on her hips. “What are you implying?”
A little spittle had gathered at the corner of her mouth.
Crawford put up his hands. “I’m not implying anything, Mrs. Johnson. I’m just asking your son a few questions.” He turned back to Boysie. “Do you know where Dunbar Street is?”
Boysie shook his head. His mother’s tone had clearly made him agitated.
“Did you stop anywhere before you went over the north bridge this morning?”
“No, of course, he didn’t.” Mrs. Johnson shot him hateful eyes. “That’s not his routine.”
“I asked your son.”
Boysie looked extremely anxious. “No, I never get off my bike, except to get cans. Bottles sometimes.”
Crawford nodded, leaned forward, and patted Boysie’s arm. “It’s okay—”
“Don’t you dare touch my son,” Mrs. Johnson said.
Ignoring her tone, he smiled at Boysie. “Just one last question…are you okay?”
Boysie nodded. He had the look of a dog that had been kicked a lot when it was a puppy.
Crawford noticed he had a watch. “What time do you leave here in the morning?”
“Seven thirty on the dot. Every morning,” Boysie said with pride.
Crawford had heard all he needed to hear. Aside from concluding that Boysie was a highly unlikely murderer, there were several cameras on the north bridge where he could see when Boysie crossed into West Palm Beach and when he returned later that day. He planned to foist off the job of studying that day’s tapes on a uniform he had used for similar jobs in the past.
He stood up and thanked Boysie and Mrs. Johnson.
Boysie said, “You’re welcome.” His mother didn’t say a word.
Crawford and Ott’s reception at the Chesterfield Hotel wasn’t any more welcoming than the one Crawford had just had at the Johnson home.
“I thought we did this before,” Troy Price said, as Crawford and Ott sat opposite him in the expensively appointed Chesterfield reception area. “I told you what happened, you checked it out, end of story.”
“We need an exact timeline,” Crawford said. “You got to the house on Dunbar at nine and at nine thirty-two you entered the Chesterfield lobby. It’s exactly five and a half minutes from there to here, going the speed limit, which leaves you twenty-seven
minutes to tell Mattie Priest again you weren’t interested in a house with a master on the second floor.”
“Probably could tell her that a couple hundred times in twenty-seven minutes,” Ott chimed in.
Price shook his head and sneered. “So, you brought along your comedian partner, huh?”
Crawford tapped a table next to him with his hand. “Mr. Price, tell us what happened from when you first walked in the front door of the house until you got back in your car to take the five-and-a-half-minute ride back here.”
Price sighed. “Okay, I said hello to Mattie, then went into the living room, checked it out, then the dining room—ditto—then the kitchen and the pantry.”
“And how long did that take?” Crawford asked. “Ballpark?”
“Oh, about five minutes.”
“Thought you said the whole thing took you five minutes.”
“Hey, I wasn’t checking my watch every two seconds.”
“Then what?”
“I went from the kitchen to the maid’s room and bath in the back.”
“Okay, that’s what, another…minute?”
“Like I said, I wasn’t timing it.”
“Then where’d you go?” Ott got back into the act.
“Upstairs.”
“Why’d you go upstairs if you knew there was no master bedroom on the first floor?” Ott asked.
Price started to blink. “’Cause I figured, what the hell, I was there, might as well look around a little.”
“Okay, so it takes you fifteen seconds to get up the stairway. Now you’ve got twenty minutes unaccounted for.”
“There were a lot of bedrooms up there.”
“So you spent twenty minutes up there, then left?” Crawford asked.
“No, not that long.”
“Remember, you told me you were at the house for five minutes,” Crawford said.
“Okay, I was a little off.”
“A little?” Ott said.
Crawford leaned close to Price. “I got a theory, Mr. Price. I think you were trying to seduce Mattie Priest. Talk her into having sex with you upstairs.”
