Palm Beach Nasty (23 page)

“I got the concept,” Crawford said.

Chace pushed up his horn rims.

“I’m not sure you do quite yet, and please, don’t think I’m being patronizing—”

Crawford waited.

“It’s important to get a handle on this. We’re in the middle of the worst economy you and I have ever seen. Goddamn media says as bad as the Depression. So now add to that, Palm Beach’s got two unsolved murders. Gets people thinking . . . that our little town’s not such a safe place anymore.”

Jaws
again, thought Crawford. Chace complaining to his Roy Scheider character about the economic damage being wrought by something with the same effect as the big marauding fish made out of nuts and bolts.

Crawford maintained his silence, knowing the economic tutorial had a few more chapters.

“We got people canceling their reservations at the Breakers, the Chesterfield’s at 70 percent occupancy, businesses are way down.”

Crawford nodded. He had heard the grumbling.

“And, as of this morning, Ward Jaynes threatened to sue the town for $100 million.”

Crawford felt like he just took a Louisville Slugger to the gut.

“He’s claiming he’s been the target of repeated harassment. Charlie, we don’t have the time or the money to fight something like that.”

Crawford leaned forward.

“Okay, Mal, my turn, I gotta tell you . . . this is bullshit. This is how Jaynes operates. Intimidates people, a whole damn town in this case. I’ve done a lot of homework on this guy. Spoke to a guy I went to school with, an investment banker. I don’t know much about this stuff—all these big businesses and car companies going bankrupt or getting bailed out—but Jaynes made a fortune shorting them, spreading rumors, bringin’ ’em to their knees.”

Chace started to say something but Crawford plowed on.

“Hang on, I got some notes.” Crawford pulled a pad from his breast pocket. “For one thing, Jaynes got the word out that one firm that went under a few months ago, Lehman Brothers, had $30 billion of subprime mortgages. I was an econ major, but I wouldn’t know a subprime mortgage if it bit me in the ass . . . but bottom line, every nickel Lehman stock went down, Jaynes’s net worth went up.”

Chace nodded impatiently.

“Where I’m goin’ with all this, Mal, is that Jaynes is a professional trasher. Companies, people, most of all women . . . especially very young ones. And there’s no two ways about it, Jaynes killed the brother of one of ’em. The kid was Darryl Bill.”

Three deep creases cut into Chace’s forehead.

“You’re saying, had him killed, not actually—”

“Doesn’t make any difference.”

“But you don’t actually have—”

“Trust me on this, he’s the guy.”

“But, obviously, you can’t prove it yet.”

“We’re getting there,” Crawford said, stretching it.

“Charlie,” Chace said, lowering his voice, “I hardly even know Jaynes, but I do know he’s a bad guy to have as an enemy. You have to be real careful with him. He was the governor’s biggest campaign contributor, owns a majority interest in the
Press
. Guy’s very adept at—”

“Buying people?”

Chace leaned back in his chair and didn’t answer.

“My question is this, how’d you manage to jump to the top of his enemies list?”

Crawford scratched the back of his head and thought for a second.

“Last thing I do is go out of my way to make enemies, but his fingerprints are all over everything. That sixteen-year-old girl and her dead brother. That incident with the Brazilian girl at the Poinciana Club last year. Guy’s a sleazy creep. Like I said, man’s got a sick thing for underage females. Let me ask you this . . . forget about murder, what does it do to the image of Palm Beach if word gets around we got a pedophile and sexual predator running loose?”

Chace thought for a few seconds, then stood up and paced around his desk.

“You really think he had something to do with the homicides?”

“The Bill kid, absolutely. One hundred percent. Cynthia Dexter, I don’t know. But is it so hard to believe that a rich, powerful white guy could be behind a couple murders? Or, what, Mal . . . is that just a black and Hispanic thing?”

Chace was mulling.

“I mean, come on,” Crawford went on, “here’s a guy, a habitual sex offender who gets away with it every time. A kid tries to blackmail him for having sex with his sister and Jaynes takes him out. Really, what’s with you and Rutledge . . . you think rich guys never kill people?”

Crawford stood up to go.

“And one last thing, the guy tried to bribe me. Offered me a pile of money in a safety-deposit box in the Caymans to leave him alone.”

“You’re kidding,” Chace said. He looked out his window and didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Okay, Charlie,” he said, finally, “I hear you loud and clear. You made your case. Do whatever you can to nail Jaynes’s ass.”

Crawford smiled.

“Thank you, Mal, I intend to.”

“ ’Nother thing you should know. When you applied for the job here, I wanted you as chief of police. I liked your résumé. Liked the idea of having a guy like you on the job.”

Crawford just waited.

“That’s a compliment, Charlie, for Chrissakes. First, I thought hiring a guy who busted serial killers might be overkill. But I liked how everyone said you spoke your mind. Didn’t play politics. And, clearly, I see that’s the case. So here we are, we got two murders—a serial killer maybe—least I know I got the right guy on it.”

“Thanks,” Crawford said, with a little nod. “Funny how Rutledge sees it just the opposite.”

“Well, isn’t it obvious why.”

“Why?”

“He found out I was thinking about you for chief when I got your résumé,” Chace said, leaning forward in his chair. “That would have been a demotion for him.”

“So now it all makes sense. Thanks for clueing me in, Mal. I was in the damn doghouse with Rutledge before I even got here.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry about that.”

Crawford got up.

“That’s all right, I can deal with Rutledge. And, fact is . . . I never woulda accepted it. Woulda made a shitty chief. I totally suck at delegating.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

C
rawford and Ott were at the Hard Case and didn’t really care whether it got back to Rutledge. Crawford wanted to talk more about his plan, but not at the office where Rutledge could pop in on them at any moment.

Ott was telling a story he just heard about one of Rutledge’s “teams.”

“Fucking Roper gets this anonymous tip some guy’s sleeping in a car at the Poinciana and goes and rousts the guy. Guy’s sound asleep in the back of this old BMW at three in the morning. Somehow Roper’s gotten it into his head this guy’s got something to do with the murders—”

The team was Roper and Vendazzo. Ott described them as eager as a pair of Cub Scouts with half the brains.

Crawford had his feet up on a chair at the table, knowing no way this had a good ending.

“So they get this guy out of his car,” Ott said, “take him in, figure he’s guilty of something.”

“Based on what?”

“Beats me, based on he’s sacked out in the back of his car, I dunno. Meantime, the guy’s telling ’em he’s a member of the Poinciana, what the hell are they doing to him—”

“So he had a few too many at the bar?” Crawford asked. “Better to pass out there than drive home drunk?”

“No, you’re not gonna believe this shit. Vendazzo doesn’t buy the guy’s a member, says he’s gonna call up the manager. Guy pleads with him not to call, it’s three in the morning. But Vendazzo calls anyway and, turns out, the guy is a member.”

“So what happened?”

“So Vendazzo wears the guy down and gets him to talk.”

“About what?”

“He tells him he’s living there.”

“Where?”

“In his car . . . in the Poinciana parking lot. Tells ’em he used to work on Wall Street before the shit hit the fan. Lost his job, all his money.”

Crawford shook his head.

“You’re kidding?”

“No, worked for that place, Bear whatever—”

“Stearns,” Crawford said. “Christ, I had a college buddy there. Worth $10 million one day, fourteen cents the next.”

“Wait, so listen . . . this poor bastard’s house got fore-closed on and he’s desperate. Camps out in his car, wakes up every morning, goes to the men’s locker room where he takes a shower, shaves, the whole deal—”

Crawford took a pull on his beer.

“—he gave the security guy at the Poinciana a few bucks to, you know, look the other way.”

Ott shook his head. “Hold on, how long’s this been going on?” Crawford asked.

“Couple of months, living on cheese and crackers from the men’s bar, washes his car where they wash the golf carts—”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Swear to God, fucking Roper told me the whole thing. So awhile back apparently, some of the members catch on—but everyone likes the guy and figures, hell, they could have worked at that shithole Bear Stearns—”

“So they let him keep doing it?”

“Yeah, everybody just looks the other way, ’til the guy hopefully gets back on his feet.”

“Tell you what, Mort,” Crawford said, shaking his head, “I got a whole new respect for Poinciana guys now.”

“I hear you . . . those guys take care of their own,” Ott said, big smile lighting up his face. “So enough of that . . . how’d your ‘businesss’ dinner go . . . with your friend, McCarthy?”

“I didn’t spring it on her yet. Think we might be able to get her on board, though. I gotta have dinner with her again tonight.”

Ott leaned forward and slapped him on the arm.

“Oh, you poor bastard, the sacrifices you make.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s got to.”

Ott drained his Yuengling. “Hey, ever see that show,
To Catch a Pedophile
?”

“You mean where some freak shows up looking for a thirteen-year-old he met in a chat room?”

“Exactly, then gets a camera and mike shoved in his face.”

Crawford nodded. “What about it?”

“I was just thinking, that fucking Jaynes, a rich version of those scumbags. A pedo with eleven zeroes after his name.”

Crawford nodded and held up his empty mug.

“Your turn to fetch, fat boy.”

A few minutes later Ott was back.

“I been doing some refining . . . of my plan,” Crawford said, taking the beer from Ott. “Imagine you’re Jaynes and an envelope shows up on your doorstep.”

Ott nodded. “You mean, from Misty’s
sister
?”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think Jaynes’ll find out there is no sister? He’s pretty good at doing his homework, as you’ll recall.”

“I know, but if we play it right, he’s not gonna have time. She gives him a quick deadline.”

Ott chewed on that.

“Okay . . . but what if Misty doesn’t want in?”

“She’s in. I talked to her. Wants to nail him worse than we do.”

“All right, assume she’s in and assume Jaynes doesn’t do his homework—”

“No, I’m saying he won’t have time to. Gets the envelope with a note saying he’s got twenty-four hours to come up with $10 million, or else a bunch of nasty photos gets plastered all over the
Enquirer
. You really think he’ll take the time to check whether Misty’s got a sister or not?”

“Yeah, I hear ya.”

“He’ll be hearing the clock ticking.”

Ott took a swig.

“So big sis puts the squeeze on him?”

“Yeah, and know what . . . I don’t think $10 mill is enough, now that I think about it. Big sis has been around . . . she knows Jaynes is way up there on the Forbes list.”

Ott grinned. “How ’bout $20 million then?”

“Now you’re talking,” Crawford said. “So when Jaynes’s guys find out Misty’s in the wind, he can either pay her—”

“Or snuff her . . . and based on Darryl Bill and Cynthia Dexter, I’d say Jaynes prefers taking the latter route.”

Crawford started to take a sip, then put his bottle down.

“Yeah, assuming he did Cynthia Dexter.”

“Which I am, I don’t care what Jaynes said. He had motive,” Ott said. “Why? You thinking the bartender?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jaynes did ’em both, trust me,” Ott said.

“Maybe, but the bartender’s putting out some pretty nasty vibes.”

Crawford took a long sip.

“So Jaynes got the goons to string up Darryl Bill,” he said, “but him doing the sisters himself is way out of his scope of expertise. Darryl Bill he could handle, because he caught him by surprise. No surprise element with the sisters, plus there’re two of them.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Ott said. “This is a job where he calls in the pros.”

“And all we need to do is feed them a few crumbs.”

A smile spread across Ott’s face.

“Then we catch ’em in the act . . . when they’re just about to take out Misty and Dominica.”

“So then they make the only deal they can, give up the big fish to save their asses.”

Crawford flashed to an image of Jaynes and the hitters in handcuffs. It warmed his heart.

“You are aware, Charlie, your plan is not exactly . . . by the book?”

“Which part?”

Ott scratched his head.

“Well, there’s the entrapment part . . . then there’s the blackmailing-a-suspect part. And if I thought harder, I’d probably come up with a few more.”

“Technicalities.”

Ott slapped him five and raised his glass.

“One more?”

“My turn,” Crawford said, getting up and going to the bar.

While he was up there, he dodged Scarsiola’s twenty questions about the second murder.

He walked back to the table, set a beer in front of Ott, then sat back down.

“The hell’s that?” Ott asked, eyeing Crawford’s clear drink. “You graduate to vodka?”

“Club soda. Gotta be clear-eyed and sober for my business dinner,” Crawford said, taking a long pull.

Crawford had called Dominica and asked her what kind of restaurant she wanted to go to. She said a seafood place, she was big on grouper.

Crawford looked at his watch and finished off the club soda.

“So you ditching me?” Ott asked.

Crawford smiled, pushed his chair back and stood up.

“In a Cleveland second.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

C
rawford got to the restaurant a few minutes early so Dominica wouldn’t be able to bust him again for being late. On the ride over, a few major doubts about the plan had crept into his head and wouldn’t go away. Like how seriously dangerous it was, for starters. What if something happened to Misty or Dominica? Sure, he and Ott would be right there, but they couldn’t anticipate everything. The whole thing could blow up fast. One of them could get hurt. Worse . . . killed.