by Tom Turner
“Yeah, and she said no,” Ott said. “So maybe you lost it. Your big ego shattered. Shot down by a lowly real estate agent.”
Price’s fists tightened and his face turned crimson. “Who the fuck are you?” he growled. “You clowns have no fuckin’ idea who you’re dealing with.”
Price looked like he was fighting an urge to haul off and slug Ott.
“Oh, yeah, we do,” Ott said. “A guy who propositions women when his wife is in the next room. I mean, pretty bush league, my friend.”
Price started to get up, but Crawford reached over, put his hand above his knee and pushed down. “Hold on a second. We’re not done here. Did you touch that woman? Lay a hand on her at all?”
Price was still hot. “Of course, I didn’t, it was early in the morning.”
Crawford and Ott looked at each other quizzically.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Crawford asked. “Just so you know, we’re getting latent finger and palm prints later today from her clothes.”
“Yeah, so in case you want to change your tune, better do it now,” Ott said.
“I’m not doing anything of the kind,” Price said, getting up, unimpeded by Crawford this time. “If you really are getting fingerprints or whatever, you’ll find none of ’em are mine.”
“Okay, Mr. Price, well thank you for your time,” Crawford said. “And, not that we don’t trust you, but we’re going to need you to stop by our station tomorrow to be fingerprinted.”
Price rolled his eyes. “It’ll have to be day after tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I got a bunch of conference calls and a golf game.”
Crawford shot a glance at Ott, then back to Price. “This is a priority.”
“The hell it is,” Price said.
“Tell you what,” Crawford said. “You’re not at our station by twelve, I’m sending a detail of uniform cops to find you.”
Ott had to get his licks in. “So don’t make ’em drag you off the golf course.”
Twenty-Four
Crawford was frustrated as hell. He had spent way too many days and hours to be where he was. Which, in a word, was nowhere. There was nothing else to do except go back over and dig down deeper into the suspects he had. He remembered something that had caught his interest about Stark Stabler in Wikipedia, but then he had been interrupted by a phone call and had never gotten back to it. The gist of it was that Stabler had been defaulted in the doubles final of a big tournament. He clicked back on to Wikipedia and read the profile again. It was the French Open back in 1990, and Crawford did the math and figured Stabler was twenty-eight years old and hadn’t won a major up to that point.
He called up the relevant Wikipedia page and read it carefully. The cryptic explanation in the article read, “Stabler and his doubles partner, Dennis McKinley, were defaulted on the eve of the final for reasons that remain unclear.” That was the problem with Wikipedia, you didn’t always get the full story. And sometimes their facts were a little off. Nevertheless, the story piqued Crawford’s interest. The only problem was he couldn’t exactly call Paris and, using his limited French, try to get to the bottom of it. So instead he Googled the USTA—the United States Tennis Association—and actually found a telephone number for their headquarters in White Plains, New York.
A woman answered. He identified himself, said he was a tennis fan. “I’m curious about a men’s doubles match at the French Open and was hoping I could get some information about it.”
“I might be able to help you,” the woman said.
“The thing is, the match was played twenty-eight years ago,” Crawford said. “Well, actually it wasn’t played…but it was supposed to have been.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Does the name Stark Stabler mean anything to you?”
“Sorry, sir, it doesn’t, but there’s someone here who might be able to help. His name is Bill Torrey. He’s kind of our tennis historian.”
“Yes, I’d like to speak to him if he has a few minutes.”
“I’m looking at him across the office right now. Let me put you on hold for a second.”
“Sure. Thank you very much.”
A few moments passed, then a voice. “Hello, this is Bill, can I help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Charlie Crawford, I’m a detective in Palm Beach, Florida, and I’m looking into something.”
“Okay. What do you need to know?”
“Do you remember a player named Stark Stabler?”
“Absolutely. Great backhand, so-so forehand, a hundred-mile-an-hour serve back when that was really fast. Married a rich woman.”
“That’s the guy,” Crawford said. “So, my question is this, back in 1990, he and his partner, Dennis McKinley, were in the finals of the French Open—”
“But got defaulted.”
“Yeah, exactly, so I just wondered if you knew why.”
There was silence at the other end for a few moments. Then. “Yes, there was some scandal involving a woman player, I think.”
“Scandal? What do you mean?”
“I don’t remember the exact circumstances,” Torrey said. “But I know who would know.”
“Who is that?”
“Dennis McKinley. That was his one big shot to win a major. He was kind of a journeyman player. He never got to a final again. I heard he wanted to kill Stabler.”
“So whatever the issue was, McKinley wasn’t involved.”
“No, as I remember, whatever the issue was, it just had to do with Stabler,” Torrey said. “Come to think of it, Dennis ended up being a club pro. Somewhere down near you. Delray, I think.”
Crawford was dying to find out what happened. “I’d really like to talk to him.”
“I don’t remember what the club’s name is off the top of my head, but I can find out.”
Crawford gave him his number and fifteen minutes later Torrey called back with the name of the club and its phone number.
Crawford looked at his watch, thinking that maybe he’d just take the twenty-minute ride down to Delray Beach. But he decided against it, figuring he’d get the same answer in a phone call. He called the number.
Dennis McKinley was on the court giving a lesson, so Crawford asked the employee if she could ask McKinley to call him back.
He glanced out his window as he thought about what to do next. His thoughts were interrupted by leaden footsteps he hadn’t heard in a while. It was Norm Rutledge, his boss, and right behind him, grimacing slightly, was Mort Ott.
“We need to talk,” Rutledge said.
“Okay,” Crawford said, as Rutledge started to sit down.
“Hey, that’s my chair,” Ott said. “It’s molded to my ass by now.”
Rutledge flashed him the stink eye but sat in the other chair.
“What’s the subject, Norm?” Crawford asked.
“Dead real estate agents,” Rutledge said succinctly. “They’re not good for the local economy.”
“Keep going,” Crawford said.
“I’ve had a bunch of calls from all the usual suspects,” Rutledge said.
“Let me guess,” Crawford said. “That would be the mayor, the head of the town council and, ah, the Rotary guy?”
“Yup, and a few others’ve checked in,” Rutledge said. “Like the president of the Palm Beach Board of Realtors.”
Crawford hated to ask what he or she had to say, so he didn’t.
“This guy named Shaw and his board members want to have a meeting with us,” Rutledge said. “He feels that there should be a cop present when agents show houses from now on.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“His suggestion was that a cop didn’t need to actually be with the agent as they show a house—that would be a little distracting—but maybe be outside or on the porch or something. You know, just a presence.”
Crawford glanced over at Ott, who was being uncharacteristically silent.
“Norm, you gotta be fucking kidding,�
� Crawford said. “Last time I checked there were something like a thousand agents—full- or part-time—in Palm Beach. So let’s say one shows a house every day, no, let’s just say every other day. That means we need to have guys go to five hundred showings a day.”
Rutledge’s blank look made it clear he hadn’t done the math. “That’s just what the guy suggested.”
Ott leaned into Rutledge. “Well, then he’s smokin’ some really good shit. Tell him to go hire a bunch of rent-a-cops or something. Our uniforms got way better things to do with their time.”
“You know, Ott,” Rutledge said. “Maybe you should try looking at it from their point of view. They’ve had two of their agents brutally murdered.”
“I’m aware of that, Norm. We were at both scenes,” Ott said. “Hey, I feel bad, obviously, for the vics and their families. It’s just that suggestion is crazy. You got money in the budget to pay for a hundred more uniforms?”
“‘Course not, but you need to hear some of the shit I’m hearing,” Rutledge said. “The mayor told me there hasn’t been one sale in the last four days. Not only are agents scared, but so are buyers. We really don’t need people thinking Palm Beach is a goddamn war zone. Why don’t you just get the killer…like today?”
Crawford could see by Ott’s look that he was thinking about responding with one of his quaint expressions like, Yeah, and why don’t you pull a rabbit out of your ass. But he held his tongue. Crawford was impressed by his partner’s second display of self-control.
Crawford glanced at Rutledge. “We understand your concern, Norm. We’re doing everything we can.”
Rutledge nodded. “If you understand my concern then you’ll understand that’s hardly the answer I was looking for. Hey look, I know this armed guards for real estate agents thing is a shitty idea. But I need you to meet with this Board of Realtors guy just to appease him.”
Ott rolled his eyes, and Crawford did a slow version of counting to ten. “Okay, Norm, we’ll see the guy, but how ’bout we keep it short?”
“There’s actually going to be three of them. The president and two others,” Rutledge said.
Crawford sighed. “Clusterfuck, huh?”
“Maybe you guys could refrain from rolling your eyes and saying fuck every third word when you meet with ’em.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Ott said.
Rutledge stood up. “Well, thank you for being your usual thoughtful and reasonable selves.”
Crawford raised his eyebrows. Ott was usually the one who went heavy on the sarcasm. “You’re very welcome, Norm.”
Rutledge walked out, and Ott stayed seated.
“Can’t say I was surprised,” Ott said.
“Yeah, I was kind of expecting something like that.”
“Can you imagine us being on real estate-showing detail?” Ott got a funny look in his eyes. “Now, if we got a piece of the commission, that would be a whole different story.”
“I get them being freaked out about all this—” Crawford stopped to answer his cell phone. “Hello.”
“Hi, Charlie, it’s Holly.”
Holly? Oh, right.
“Yes, hi, Ms. Pine,” Crawford said, rolling his eyes at Ott.
Ott, who had stood up to leave, was sticking around now.
“I was wondering if you’d do me a big favor,” she said then added, “But there’s a reward that goes with it.”
“What’s that, Ms. Pine?”
Not in this lifetime would he ever be calling her Holly.
“I’m showing a house to a man I’ve never met before. He called me on a sign at my listing on Kawama. I was hoping you’d be there. Maybe just in your car or something, so he sees you. Afterward, for your effort, I’ll buy you a drink at HMF” —whatever and wherever HMF was— “that bar at The Breakers.”
“I’m sorry, but me and my partner are flat-out at the moment. Why don’t you take along another agent with you?”
“It won’t take long, I promise,” she said. “I’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes. Then you can get your reward. I figure you for a Jack Daniels kind of man.”
He couldn’t stand Jack Daniels.
“Thank you, Ms. Pine, but I just can’t make it. But, good luck, I hope you sell it.”
She sighed. “Okay, thanks.”
He clicked off and his phone rang again.
It was a number he didn’t recognize. He decided to take it anyway. “Hello.”
“Hello, Detective, this is Dennis McKinley. You called and left a message?”
“Oh, yes, thank you for calling me back.” Ott stood up, gave a wave and walked out. “I’m curious about an incident that occurred a long time ago in your tennis career. When you and your partner Stark Stabler were defaulted in the finals of the French Open.”
McKinley groaned. “Yeah, what about it?”
“What was the reason for the default? My understanding is that it had to do with something Stabler did?”
“Damn right it did,” McKinley said. “Like trying to knock down Laura Stubbs’s front door.”
The name was vaguely familiar to Crawford. “She was a tennis player, right?”
“Yeah, she had just lost in the semis there.”
“Can you tell me exactly what happened, please?”
“Uh, okay. Stabler had a bottle of wine at dinner and somehow got it into his head to pay Laura a visit in the middle of the night. He pounded on her door ’til she opened up, then he started groping her. She fought him off and finally forced him to leave.”
“So there was no rape or anything?”
“Everything but,” McKinley said. “She woke up the tournament director in the middle of the night and told him what happened, and that was it for us. Instant default. My big chance, up in smoke. I coulda killed the bastard. Never spoke to him again.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Crawford said. “Were there any other incidents that you know of involving Stabler?”
“You know what, Detective? After what happened that night I never wanted to hear another goddamn thing about Stark Stabler.”
“I get it. Well, thank you, Mr. McKinley, I really appreciate your time. I won’t keep you any longer.”
“You’re welcome,” McKinley said. “If you happen to see that dirtbag, be sure and give him my worst.”
Twenty-Five
Crawford beelined down to Ott’s office. Ott was on his computer.
“I just heard a good story about Stark Stabler,” Crawford said.
Ott leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his neck. “I’m all ears.”
At the end, Crawford asked Ott to look up a name on his internet phone directory. The name was Sally Stabler.
Ott actually found two numbers. One looked like a landline, the other a cell.
Crawford dialed the cell number and a woman answered. He clicked on speakerphone.
“Mrs. Stabler?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“My name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police, and I would like to come see you as soon as possible.”
She laughed. “That’s going to be a little difficult since I’m on a chairlift out in Montana.”
“Skiing?”
“Yes, Detective, that’s what you do on a chairlift…they take you up a mountain so you can ski down it.” He could see she and Stabler deserved each other. “Why are you calling me, anyway?”
“So, you were not in Palm Beach yesterday morning?”
“No, I was two thousand miles away. I asked you what this is about.”
“A local matter,” Crawford said. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Stabler.”
He clicked off before she could ask anything else. “What a complete pain in the ass.”
Ott laughed. “What…did you think Stabler’d be married to a rich, hot babe with a sparkling personality?”
They were in Stabler’s living room, which, though quite bright and cheery, looked as though it had been decorated by someone in the 1950s. It also was the home of t
wo parrots who liked to talk. But their vocabularies were limited. The red one seemed to have two phrases that it alternated between “Here, kitty, kitty” and “That’s what she said.” The blue one just burst out laughing every minute or so. It was more like a cackle, and something told Crawford that the bird might be imitating Sally Stabler’s laugh.
“Gotta tell you,” Ott was saying to Stabler, “the way you made it sound, I figured your wife was with you yesterday morning.”
Stabler frowned. “I never said that.”
“No, you never did,” said Ott. “But that was the impression I got.”
“Well, that’s your problem.”
Crawford glanced away from the blue parrot to Stabler. “And your problem, Mr. Stabler, is you don’t have an alibi. I want to ask you about something that happened quite a while ago.”
Stabler did a combination sigh and groan.
“The night before you were to play in the doubles final at the French Open back in 1990—”
“Jesus Christ, that’s ancient history. Why don’t we talk about when I was in kindergarten?”
Crawford ignored him. “You assaulted a woman named Laura Stubbs that night.”
“The hell I did. She came on to me at dinner.”
“Did Mattie Priest ever come on to you?” Ott asked.
“I barely knew the woman,” Stabler said.
Ott started tapping the coffee table next to him. “When I talked to you before, you implied you didn’t know her at all.”
“Like I just said, I barely knew her.”
“Which is way different from not knowing her at all,” Ott said. “Which is what you clearly implied.”
Stabler sighed. “Do you have a tape recording of our conversation, Detective?”
Crawford glanced at Ott and could see his partner getting sick of the verbal sparring. He noticed a vein in Ott’s forehead that stuck out when he got angry.
“So, you have absolutely no alibi, is what you’re telling us,” Crawford said. “And you’re also telling us that you got defaulted from the final of the French Open because Laura Stubbs ‘came on to’ you.”
“What the hell does something that happened a million years ago have to do with anything?”
