Palm Beach Nasty (22 page)

“You dumb bastard,” Crawford said.

“What,” Ott threw his hands up in the air, “the hell’d I do?”

Crawford shook his head.

“Think about it, for Chrissakes. If Rutledge gets involved, running his little teams, he’ll have less time to get on our asses.”

Ott thought for a second.

“I don’t know, Charlie.”

“Just think about it, we got our suspects, Jaynes and Greenleaf. They’re ours. Nobody else works ’em, we tell Rutledge’s ‘teams’ not to go within fifty miles of them.”

“What if the perps are someone totally different?”

“First of all, they’re not.” Crawford smiled. “Second of all, if they were, you don’t think we’ll figure it out before those dipshits do?”

Ott grunted in agreement.

“I want to tell you about something I been working on,” Crawford said.

Ott put his hands on the side of Crawford’s desk and leaned closer. “Okay . . . let’s hear.”

“It’s not all completely worked out yet.”

“So give me the basics.”

“Has to do with Jaynes.”

“I figured.”

“Not that Greenleaf hasn’t got my attention, too.”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Ott said. “So tell me.”

“Okay, the key is our little Lolita . . . Misty Bill.”

“Keep goin’.”

“And her big sister.”

“What big sister is that?” Ott asked.

“The one I made up.”

THIRTY-FIVE

C
rawford was uncomfortable with any restaurant that had valet parking and it wasn’t just because he’d have to shell out five bucks to some guy. But the place was Dominica McCarthy’s choice, so what was he going to say? Besides, before he sprung his plan on her, he had to get her to warm up to him a little.

Crawford got the stub from the valet, went in, and found her waiting just inside the door.

“Only ten minutes this time. You’re getting better,” she said, smiling.

He looked at his watch. “Sorry.”

They went in, sat down and ordered drinks. Crawford leaned back and put his hands on the back of his head.

“So, tell me, Mac, just how’d you get into this line of work?”

“My father was a detective,” she said, pushing a dark strand of hair over her ear.

“Around here?”

“Miami.”

The waitress showed up with a Bud for Crawford and a glass of red wine for Dominica. Crawford took a swig.

“So you were what . . . a tomboy who wanted to be just like the old man?”

“Yeah, you know, beat up guys, drive like a bat out of hell, put the little flasher on top of my car.”

“So how’d you get into hair and prints?”

She took a sip of wine. “I don’t know . . . just did.”

“You’re pretty damn good at it.”

She laughed. “Putting stuff into little bags, you mean?”

Crawford took another sip.

“I think there’s a little bit more to it than that.”

“Yeah, but I been thinking about a career change. Becoming a cop. Maybe detective even.”

“Really, why?”

“ ’Cause, I don’t know, I like a little more action. CSEU’s kind of the same old, same old.”

He raised his bottle.

“So here’s to you . . . the girl out to steal my job.”

She clinked it with her wine glass.

“I think it’s safe, Charlie . . . so what about you, what’s your story?”

“It’s kind of a long, not particularly interesting one.”

Dominica moved closer and put her elbows on the table.

“You must have stuck out like a sore thumb up in New York. Big old slice of white bread—no tats, scars, facial hair—right smack in the middle of that melting pot of brothers, goombahs, micks and spics—”

“—Whoa, Offi-cer Mc-Carthy . . . you gotta read your manual. Can’t talk like that,” Crawford said, in mock shock.

“I can when half of ’em are my people.”

“By the way, check this out,” he pointed to the tiny scar above his right eye.

Dominica leaned forward and examined it.

“You trying to call that a scar? Probably got it in some duke-out at your frat house.”

“Lacrosse.”

She nodded.

“Figures . . . quaint little Indian game played by rich white boys.”

He toasted her again.

“So what made you choose this noble profession?” she asked.

His first instinct was to give her his usual twenty-five-words-or-less answer. But she actually seemed interested.

He decided to tell her the story as dinner showed up. It actually served his purpose, since he wasn’t quite ready to launch into the main reason why he had asked her out. It took a second for him to figure out where to start. This was the first time he had told anyone the story since Gwen Hyde.

At Dartmouth he had become best friends with another freshman on the football team named Owen Mars. Fast forward to the end of senior year. Crawford, Mars and another guy were going to youth-hostel their way across Europe before Crawford started his job in the training program at J.P. Morgan. He wasn’t sold on being a Wall Street guy, but figured it was something his father would have wanted him to do. Follow the Crawford family tradition. He toyed with the idea of taking a year off, but could just hear his old man on the subject. (“Christ, Charlie? You have to find yourself? How ’bout just finding yourself a nice apartment and getting your ass in gear.”)

On graduation day he got a call early in the morning. Owen had been in a car accident. Bobby Wister, another guy on the team, called from the hospital and said it was serious. Crawford told Bobby he’d be there in fifteen minutes. When he got there, he saw Bobby outside the emergency room. Choked up and bleary-eyed, Bobby gave him the news: Owen was dead. Crawford couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. There was no way. He had been drinking and celebrating with Owen just a few hours before at a bar in White River Junction.

Impossible. There had to be some mistake. Goddamn Owen was indestructible.

Bobby explained what happened after Crawford left them at the bar. Some local had gotten pissed off at Owen for dancing with his girlfriend. Owen had no clue the girl was with anyone. But the guy had come flailing up to him and said, “Get your fuckin’ nigger hands off her.” Owen took a step toward him, stopped and just shrugged it off. He had heard it all before. Awhile later Bobby and Owen left. Owen went to get the car while Bobby stopped off at the men’s room. From inside Bobby heard tires screeching, like someone had gunned it hard. Then he heard Owen yell, then a loud thump. He found Owen face down in an oily puddle, his belt snapped and his pants bloody and shredded. He had been broadsided by a car that kept on going.

Crawford’s best friend was dead. A pile of broken bones in a parking lot.

It was four in the morning. Crawford knew he had to pull himself together and take charge. He wished there was a manual for this. He told the cop at the hospital he’d call Owen’s parents, since he knew them. He borrowed the hospital’s phone and called them in Bridgeport. There was no answer.

Then he drove back to his dorm, took a long shower and got dressed. He went up to Owen’s room, which was never locked. He made Owen’s bed and cleaned up his room. For the next hour he sat at Owen’s desk thinking: about football, about Dartmouth, about times with Owen and about what he was going to say to Mr. and Mrs. Mars.

At nine o’clock there was a rap on the door. It was awful because it sounded so eager. Crawford opened the door. The Mars’s smiles went from confused to sensing something was very wrong. Mr. Mars asked his daughter, Darletta, to go outside. Then Crawford told them what had happened. It was the worst moment of his life.

They were devastated, but held it together. The classiest people Crawford had ever met. Crawford’s family and the Mars’s went to graduation together. Mr. Mars wanted Crawford to go up and accept Owen’s diploma, but Crawford suggested Darletta go instead. And somehow that little twelve-year-old girl was able to compose herself and make the short, sad walk to get Owen’s diploma—just hours after her beloved brother’s tragic death. She got a standing ovation because everyone knew. Eight years later she got her own diploma from Dartmouth. Crawford took a day off and drove up from New York for her graduation.

A month after graduating, Crawford was still in Hanover, New Hampshire, preoccupied with nailing Owen’s killer. The cop in charge of the investigation, who knew Crawford from security at football games, let him tag along, like some kind of kid deputy.

The case had a bad ending. No ending, really. The police did all they could to pressure the guy and his girlfriend. Crawford watched a couple of sessions through the two-way mirror. Neither one of them broke, though. They didn’t even bend. Crawford had a few strong urges to attempt to wring a confession out of the guy.

Two months later, Crawford left New Hampshire, frustrated, outraged and sad that probably nothing was ever going to happen to his friend’s killer. But, for once, he knew for sure what he was going to do with his life.

Dominica looked a little choked up.

“And they never got him?”

Crawford shook his head.

“That is so incredibly sad,” she said.

Crawford got the check and a few minutes later they left. Crawford had decided to hold off on springing his plan on Dominica. It needed some work, more tweaking. The timing wasn’t quite right. He had to think it through some more, get the whole setup perfect.

They walked outside and the valet came up and took their tickets.

“Well,” she said, resting her hands on her hips, “I had fun, Charlie.”

“Yeah, let’s do it again; sorry I bored you with all the autobiographical stuff.”

“I liked it,” she said, her green eyes sparkling.

“Well, in that case . . . I got plenty more . . . not all of it’s sad either.”

The valet drove up Dominica’s car. Crawford tried to slip him a five. She stopped him.

“Thanks, Charlie, I pay my own way.”

He shrugged. She got in her car.

“Goodnight,” she said rolling down the window.

“Goodnight,” he said.

That was another thing he hated about valet parking. The guys always got in the way of a goodnight kiss.

THIRTY-SIX

C
rawford wasn’t looking forward to his meeting with the mayor. Something about it had the déjà vu of bad boy Charlie reporting to the principal’s office.

He was in the reception room outside the mayor’s imposing-looking office a few minutes before two. Maybe it was Crawford’s big-city bias, but he couldn’t see how being mayor of Palm Beach could be stressful or require more than twenty minutes of work a day. He compared the office and its mayor to its New York City counterparts. And there was no comparison. Being mayor of New York was obviously heavy lifting, even if you were a billionaire and got paid a dollar a year. Crawford had been on the job for most of Giuliani’s tenure as well as Bloomberg’s first term and had seen it close up. How they had to be on call twenty-four/seven to bang heads with union leaders, fight budget battles, go to the cops’ funerals, and—oh, yeah—deal with little things like 9/11.

Malcolm Chace was a man who had inherited a considerable amount of money but, word was, hadn’t increased the principal much. Intellectually capable of being chief executive of a town that essentially ran itself—and probably not much else. So he’d heard anyway. The one thing everybody seemed to agree on was that Chace had few equals when it came to likability, and definitely looked the part.

Crawford dialed his cell phone while he waited for the mayor.

Misty Bill answered.

“Hello, Detective,” she said, eagerness in her voice.

“I don’t have anything yet, Misty, but I want to give you a heads-up. I might be needing you to help me. How would you feel about that?”

No hesitation. “In a heartbeat.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“I’m in.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He hung up and a few minutes later the mayor came out and introduced himself.

“Hello, Detective. Welcome,” Chace said, giving Crawford a mayoral smile and a firm double-handed shake.

“Thank you . . . Mr. Mayor.”

“Make you a deal. I won’t call you ‘detective’ if you don’t call me ‘Mr. Mayor.’ It’s Mal.”

“Okay, Mal.”

Crawford followed Chace back to his office. It was high-public-servant generic—leather chairs, mahogany desk, pictures of Palm Beach’s better-known landmarks. The Flagler Museum. The Breakers. Mar-a-Lago. A diorama of Worth Avenue from the fifties.

Chace sat down, put his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together.

“You got your hands full, huh Charlie?”

“Sure do.”

“I want to talk to you about two things.”

Crawford nodded.

“First is Ward Jaynes. Jaynes is probably the most . . . powerful man in this town.”

Crawford noticed that Chace chose his words very carefully. Not “richest”—even though he was—or “most important,” which he might well have been.

“What that means in plain English, Charlie, is . . . it’s a bad idea to piss him off.”

Crawford just waited.

“Which is exactly what you did.”

“Hold on—”

“Charlie, please,” Chace said, holding up his hands, “hear me out, I’ll give you your say. First of all, basic economics . . . you know how they compute real estate taxes in Palm Beach?”

Crawford shook his head, no idea.

“Just go with me here,” Chace said. “What happens is an appraiser calculates what your house is worth, then you pay about 2 percent of that amount in real estate taxes. So if Jaynes’s house is worth $80 mill which I’d say is about right—then he pays close to $1.6 million in taxes.
Every year
.”

Chace stopped to let it sink in.

Crawford did some quick math in his head. He hadn’t made $1.6 million in his whole lifetime.

“One mill-ion six hun-dred thou-sand dol-lars . . . a year, Charlie,” Chace said, dragging it out. “Some of that money goes to cleaning the streets, some fire rescue, some into pensions, some your salary. Without big taxpayers like Jaynes, we’d probably have smaller paychecks . . . follow me? Our public services would suffer, too.”

It sounded like a variation on Rutledge’s don’t-rock-the-rich-guy’s-boat spiel.