by Tom Turner
“Glad you asked. Because what happened then is similar to what happened to Mimi Taylor and Mattie Priest. It’s called a pattern.”
“Difference is,” Ott said, “They didn’t live to tell about it.”
“That whole thing over there was a put-up job because two French guys were in the finals against us, and the tournament director was French.”
“‘Put-up job,’ huh?” Crawford said. “So you’re saying the French Open is a rigged deal. Is that it?”
Stabler did his sigh-groan combo again. “I’m saying I’m getting really sick of you two harassing me every five minutes.”
Crawford leaned closer to Stabler and lowered his voice. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, that really doesn’t concern us much. See, we’re trying to solve two brutal murders and, as far as a suspect goes, you check a lot of the boxes.”
“I don’t give a damn if I check a thousand boxes. I had nothing to do with either one. And you don’t have one goddamn shred of evidence.”
Crawford eyes flicked around the room. “I’ve been admiring your art collection.” He pointed. “That one over there, who’s the artist?”
“I don’t know. It’s my wife’s collection. I just know that one’s a Chagall.” He pointed to the wall behind Crawford and Ott.
Crawford and Ott turned and looked at it. “Very nice,” Crawford said then pointed to the wall to his left. “And that one, I’m pretty sure, is a Modigliani.”
Stabler turned to it. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. Then to Crawford, “How’s a cop know so much about art?”
Crawford eyed the man and decided to answer the question with a question. “How’s a married man know so many single women?”
Stabler leaned forward. “Okay, that does it,” he said. “Right after you leave here, I’m going to call my attorney and direct him to initiate a lawsuit for police harassment.” He stood up. “So, why don’t you get the hell out of here, so I can make that call.”
Neither Crawford nor Ott moved. “Have at it, Mr. Stabler,” Crawford said. “And as your attorney will no doubt inform you, my partner and I are just doing our jobs.”
The blue parrot in its cage ten feet away started squawking. “Just doing our jobs. Just doing our jobs.” Then it added, “Here, kitty, kitty…that’s what she said.”
Twenty-Six
Stark Stabler, Lowell Grey, Troy Price, Art Nunan…dubious, unlikely, long shot, nah. That was how Crawford had them sized up after good hard reexaminations. Which was not to say that none of them could have done it. Because he hadn’t ruled out any of them yet. That left Johnny Cotton. And even though Ott seemed to have written him off as a suspect, Crawford was not so sure. His gut, which had been a long way from batting a thousand lately, was hinting that the ex-con might just be an artful con man.
He had gotten the names and addresses of the other landscapers on Cotton’s crew, so rather than interview them in Cotton’s presence he wanted to wait until they were done for the day. Not have Cotton listen in to the conversation.
It was a little past five when he dialed one of them. Enrique Diaz. Diaz answered.
“Mr. Diaz, this is Detective Crawford. We met earlier,” he said. “Are you alone at the moment?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I just wanted to ask you a question. Was Johnny Cotton with you and your crew the entire morning today?”
A long pause. “Yes,” Diaz said finally.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes,” Diaz said.
“Okay, well, thank you. Do me a favor and don’t mention this conversation to Cotton.”
“Okay,” Diaz said.
Crawford clicked off, figuring the first words out of Diaz’s mouth the next morning would be “Hey, Johnny, guess who called me last night?”
He dialed a black guy on the crew named Lincoln Jones.
Jones answered right away.
“Mr. Jones, this is Detective Crawford from this morning. Are you by yourself?”
“Yeah, I am. Why?”
“I just have a quick question for you,” Crawford said. “Was Johnny Cotton with you and your crew the whole morning the day that woman was killed?”
No hesitation. “Yeah, except the coffee run.”
“Wait? He went and got coffee?”
“Yeah, it was his turn.”
“And how long was he gone?”
“Oh, you know, half hour. Maybe a little more. Hang on, come to think of it, it was closer to forty-five minutes. I ’member him saying he had to wait for the drawbridge when we got on his ass ’cause it took so long.”
“So, the bridge,” Crawford said, “meaning he went over to West Palm to get the coffee?”
“Yeah, Dunkin’ Donuts on Clematis.”
Crawford knew it well. “How’d he seem when he got back?”
“What d’you mean, how’d he seem?”
It was kind of a clunky question. “I mean, any different than usual? Was he any more keyed up than usual?”
“Keyed up?”
“You know, nervous, excited?”
“Nah, dude just seemed like he always did. I dint notice nothin’ outta the ordinary.”
“You didn’t see any cuts or anything on his face, did you?”
“Nah, nothin’.”
“Okay. Well, thanks. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention we had this conversation.”
“You got it.”
Forty-five minutes? One of the landscaping jobs was five minutes from the house on Dunbar. The other one…even closer.
This was headline news.
Twenty-Seven
The real estate agent was ten minutes late for her appointment. She was surprised that her buyer’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. She got out of her car, unlocked the house and went around and did what she always did, checking to see that everything was nice and clean. It also meant making sure there were no dead bugs on the white Carrera marble countertops or that any green chameleons whose cheeks puff out like basketballs weren’t scurrying around inside.
Another five minutes went by and still no buyer, which wasn’t particularly upsetting because she had plenty of customers who treated a house showing as if it were a cocktail party: you were invited to come at seven but didn’t arrive until seven thirty.
She went into the kitchen to get a glass of Pellegrino. She had bought several bottles when she first got the listing and had one bottle left in the fridge. She opened it, took out the bottle, and went to get a glass in a cabinet next to the butler’s pantry. She reached up and got a glass and as she did felt a hand grab her shoulder roughly and pull her into him. With one hand, he held her tight and with the other, he put something over her mouth. Then with both hands he pulled it tight. Duct tape, she could see.
The man was half a foot taller than her and had what appeared to be a nylon stocking over his head. She noticed a rip in it just below his nose. She tried to scream but nothing came out.
Without saying a word, he started ripping her clothes off. First, her blue silk blouse. He grabbed both sides and pulled, and the buttons went flying. Then with one hand, he reached for her bra right above her left breast. He tugged it and the clasp broke, leaving her bare-breasted.
With an arm around her shoulder, he reached down and put his other hand inside the front of her skirt. He yanked the skirt hard, and it ripped up the entire front. He let the skirt fall to the floor then tore off her panties.
She was completely naked now.
He put his hands around her neck and started choking her. She could feel his thumbs pressing into her windpipe—the pain and the lack of oxygen combining to create a blinding terror as she struggled to free herself. As her vision began to tunnel and consciousness slipped away, she suddenly heard the most wonderful sound possible, the unmistakable crunching sound of car tires on the Chattahoochee pebble driveway.
In that instant, the attacker released his grip and fled from the kitchen.
The dispatcher called
Crawford first. When her call went to voicemail, she called Ott and reached him.
Then Ott called Crawford and got him. “Charlie, Holly Pine is at Good Sam.” Good Samaritan Hospital in West Palm Beach. “She was assaulted at that house she was showing.”
“Oh, Jesus. Is she all right?”
“I think so. Apparently, she’s conscious. Probably sedated. I guess someone showed up in the middle of the assault and scared the guy off.”
“Let’s go there right now,” Crawford said. “You doin’ anything?”
“I was, but this is more important. See you there in ten?”
“Make it fifteen,” Crawford said.
Crawford did a quick internet search for florists that were open late and found one. A torrent of guilt washed over him like a ten-foot wave. However bad off Holly Pine was—physically or psychically—it was on him. It was true that Palm Beach’s finest were not in the business of providing armed guards for real estate agents, but he could have found time to do it just that one time.
Then he thought about the optics. How it would look if word got out that Holly Pine had asked him to accompany her because she was suspicious about a guy who had contacted her to see a house? In two words, not good. In three words, really, really, bad.
So, to try to assuage his guilt he bought a dozen roses for her. Just after he handed the salesperson his credit card, he wondered if Holly Pine would infer that this was a romantic gesture on his part.
Stop, he told himself as he signed his name. That was of absolutely no importance whatsoever.
Then he wondered whether Holly Pine would even welcome him or the flowers. She might, with good reason, look upon him as someone who failed to prevent her assault. She might even harbor hostility toward him. Well, if so, he’d have to get beyond that because she might also hold the key to the identity of the killer.
Holly Pine’s room at Good Samaritan Hospital was like all the other hospital rooms Crawford had ever stayed in or visited. A white tile floor, fluorescent lighting, a curtain on a track that surrounded the bed, and a few bad landscape prints that were screwed into the walls.
She lay in bed with a Marie Claire magazine in her lap. On first glimpse, all Crawford could see that looked different about her was that her neck was a fierce red in color. She had no apparent bruises or black eyes and was able to muster a stoical smile as he handed her the bouquet of roses in a glass vase.
“Thank you,” she said, her tone weaker than usual.
“How are you feeling?” Crawford asked as Ott stood by his side.
“I’m okay. The shock has worn off. Nothing even remotely like that has ever happened to me before.” Then, looking at the roses, “They’re so beautiful.”
Crawford nodded. “It’s the least I could do. I just want to tell you how sorry I am I didn’t go with you to that house. Especially since you told me you were distrustful of this man. I should have made the time and, again, I am very sorry.”
“That’s okay, I know it’s not part of your job description. It was a little like asking you to help a little old lady cross the street. Not that I’m a little old lady or anything,” Pine said, smiling. “I just had this premonition, I guess you’d call it. Which is why I asked you.”
Wow. On top of having gone through the whole terrifying ordeal, Holly Pine was going to be understanding. How bad was she—unintentionally—going to make him feel?
Ott took a step toward her bed. “Ms. Pine, can we ask you some questions, please?”
“Of course. But will you please stop with the ‘Ms. Pine’?”
Ott nodded. “Okay, Holly. If you would please start at the beginning.”
“Sure.” She took a deep breath.
“Take your time,” Crawford said. “We’re in no rush.”
She took a few more deep breaths. “This is not easy. So…I got to the house on Kawama five minutes late but didn’t see a car in the driveway. So, I unlocked the front door and went in. I turned on all the lights so it was nice and bright. I tried not to think about what happened to Mimi and Mattie. ‘It’s just another showing,’ I kept saying to myself. Then, as I always do, I went through every room to make sure everything looked inviting.”
“When you do that, what are you looking for?” Crawford asked.
“Just to make sure there aren’t any surprises. Like, one time I found a dead cockroach on a pillow in the master. Yuck. Another time, I found a snake, very much alive, in a laundry room.”
Ott smiled. “Something like that might tend to be a deal-killer. So, everything looked all right.”
“Yes, everything was fine until I walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water.”
Then she told them about the frightening attack and how she managed to struggle back into her shredded clothing before the other agent walked into the house.
“She had come to preview the house,” Pine said. “She came by our office to pick up a key earlier in the day.”
“Preview it,” Ott asked. “What exactly does that mean?”
Crawford knew because Rose Clarke had explained it to him once.
“She was going to show it tomorrow,” Pine said, “and wanted to see it first. That way she’d know all the good things about the house and could point them out.”
“Did you notice anything else about the man aside from him being six feet tall or so and strong?”
Pine thought for a second. “Yes, his smell. It was like he lived in a dumpster.”
Crawford shrugged. “Maybe he does.”
Except that would rule out Stark Stabler, who smelled like he drenched himself in expensive aftershave every morning.
“I mean, really bad,” Pine added.
“What else can you tell us about him?” Crawford asked.
Holly Pine glanced out the window then back to Crawford. “The whole thing took less than a minute, I think. I can’t think of anything else.”
“Well, thank you very much for letting us come see you,” Crawford said.
“Yes, we really appreciate it,” Ott added.
“Make you a deal,” Crawford said, getting to his feet. “One of us will be there at any showing you have until we solve this thing.”
Pine held out her hand. “Deal. Though I may take a few days off from showing.”
Crawford walked up to her bed and shook her hand. “Can’t say I blame you.”
Ott shook her hand. “We’ll even go in before you show to make sure there’re no snakes in the house.”
Holly managed a pained chuckle.
“Speak for yourself,” Crawford said. “Snakes scare the hell out of me.”
Twenty-Eight
It was just past eight at night. Crawford had gone back to the station, and Ott had gone home.
The first thing Crawford did was call Dominica McCarthy.
“Hi, Charlie,” she said. “Long time no—”
“I got a big favor to ask.”
“So, I see I got the all-business Charlie, as opposed to good-time Charlie.”
Crawford laughed. “Yeah, ’fraid so. I need you to go to a house on Kawama and see if you can lift a print.”
“The real estate agent killer?”
“Yeah, he went after number three, but someone showed up when he was right in the middle of it.”
“Jesus, is she all right?”
“Yeah, but if it had been three minutes later… Anyway, I went there and saw that he jimmied open a living room window. The address is 207 Kawama. Place is open now.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
“What’s new?”
Crawford clicked off and looked out his window at the full moon.
Crawford had a theory about the real estate agent killer. But then, he always had theories. That was a detective’s stock in trade. History had shown that about twenty percent of his theories panned out. But that didn’t stop him from having them.
He turned on his computer, went to Google and clicked on Malpaso Co
rrectional Institution, also known as Malpaso Max. He scrolled down until something caught his attention.
It said: In 1999, Malpaso instituted the Art in Prison program, which includes creative writing, poetry, visual arts, dance, drama and music. The program continues to this day and has expanded to include yoga, meditation and horticulture. A substantial portion of the prison population has been involved in the program.
It was as if the words “visual arts” were in red flashing lights. It went on to explain that outside artists volunteered to come several days a week to teach the inmates in various fields. Crawford next Googled “Art in Prison” and found several eye-opening articles. One told about an Malpaso inmate named Bruce Moller, serving twenty-one years to life for murder, who created a sculpture inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s book The Old Man and the Sea. It depicted a bearded fisherman hooking a huge marlin as his boat is being buffeted by eight-foot waves.
The article explained how the piece was fashioned from materials allowed in the prison’s restricted environment. The papier-mâché waves were a mix of floor wax and toilet paper. The boat is made from the back of a writing tablet cut into pieces. The oars were carved from Popsicle sticks from the canteen; the sail was snipped from a sheet. The fishing line was a broken string from a guitar class. It was an impressive piece of sculpture that, Crawford felt, wouldn’t have been out of place in a Soho gallery.
Another article mentioned that there was a website called Prison Art where you could buy art made in various prisons throughout the country. Crawford went to it and found hundreds of pages of everything from charcoal sketches to richly colored oil paintings. He knew he’d need at least a whole day to go through all of it. Some of it was amateurish, and anybody could have done it, but much of it was really good.
At the end of one article, he read the following quote. “We artists are indestructible: even in prison or in a concentration camp. I would be almighty in my own world of art, even if I had to paint my pictures with my wet tongue on the dusty floor of my cell.”
