Palm Beach Nasty (32 page)

“Bingo,” Crawford said, charging in and running down the steps.

“This is where he went,” Crawford yelled back to Ott.

At the bottom was a long, straight, dimly lit tunnel about five feet wide. Crawford started running at full speed and heard Ott’s footsteps close behind. A dank smell was suddenly replaced by a salty ocean scent as Crawford saw light fifty feet ahead.

He got to the end and saw a six-inch-thick steel door with a large slide bolt on it. He ran out through the door, onto the beach and stopped. It was as bright as if a bank of Klieg lights was shining down from above. The tunnel was built into a dune. Crawford looked down the beach in one direction and saw nothing. He looked the other way and saw a man.

It was Jaynes, in bright red pajamas.

Crawford looked up and saw three helicopters now.

“Okay, Mort,” Crawford shouted at Ott, “pretend he’s O.J. and we gotta stop him from making a touchdown.”

Crawford started sprinting, though loafers were hardly ideal footwear. He heard Ott right behind him. The helicopters were louder as they got lower.

Then, suddenly, Ott passed him. He was breathing heavily but Crawford spotted a faint smile on his face.

Crawford tried to see if Jaynes had a gun, then saw Ott throw it into another gear up ahead. Ott was just thirty yards behind Jaynes now. Jaynes looked back, the panicked look of a cornered animal on his face.

One of the helicopters had landed and was ahead of Jaynes. Crawford saw a man with a TV camera and the letters of the local CBS station on the side of the helicopter.

Then he saw Jaynes swing around again and—just as he did—Ott dove.

It was a tackle worthy of the NFL.

The two went down in a heap. Ott reached back for his cuffs and slapped them on Jaynes’s wrist. It reminded Crawford of a cowboy tying up a steer.

Crawford was standing above Ott and Jaynes now. He saw four men and a woman running toward them a hundred yards down the beach. He recognized one of the men.

“Nice goin’, Mort,” he said. “You made the six o’clock news.”

Ott was gasping for air, breathing too heavily to say anything.

Crawford went over to one of the helicopters that had landed twenty feet away.

“Okay, you got your shot, this is a crime scene,” he said. “Now don’t get any closer. No interviews, no nothing.”

“What are your names?” a reporter with a mike shouted.

“That’s Detective Mort Ott,” Crawford said, pointing. “And Wardwell A. Jaynes, III, is the one with the sand all over his face.”

“And you are?” the reporter asked.

“Irrelevant,” Crawford said.

He walked over to Jaynes and Ott. The reporter with the mike followed him. Crawford swung around.

“What the hell did I just tell you? Back off.”

The reporter did as he was told.

The four men and the one woman were in a huddle ten feet away from Jaynes and Ott now. They all had their recorders out.

“Okay, people, back up, there will be no interviews with me, my partner or Mr. Wardwell A. Jaynes, III. Thank you . . . oh, and you in the bad shirt,” Crawford pointed to one of the men, “can I have a word with you?”

The man walked up to Crawford.

“Like I said, Barrett, the whole lawsuit thing goes away if you get a front-page picture of your boss . . . along with a big headline that says something like, WARD JAYNES, BILLIONAIRE PEDOPHILE, ARRESTED FOR MURDER . . .”

Barrett Seabrook seemed at a loss for words.

“What the hell you waiting for?” Crawford asked. “Go write the damn story.”

Crawford walked back to Ott and Jaynes, both on their feet now. Even in handcuffs and with sand coating his face, Jaynes’s arrogance was undiminished.

“You’re going to sorely regret this travesty, Crawford,” Jaynes said.

“Not this time, Rainmaker,” Crawford said. “All your rats jumped ship. By the way, those red PJs . . . very photogenic.”

FIFTY-TWO

T
he afternoon before, Alcie had walked in on Nick packing his bags.

“Goin’ somewhere, partner?”

“How ’bout knocking next time,” Nick said, then all buddy-buddy, “don’t worry I was going to settle up with you before I left.”

Sure you were
, Alcie thought.

“I never had any doubt of that,” he said.

“Hold on, I’ll write you a check,” Nick said.

“I gotta better idea,” Alcie said. “How about us going down to the bank, you do a nice little wire transfer. That way you don’t need to waste a check.”

After the money was in his account, Alcie shook Nick’s hand, thanked him and told him it was a pleasure doing business with him. It was the end of a short-lived, but highly profitable, relationship.

E
ARLY THE
next morning, Alcie called the Palm Beach Police Department and asked for Mort Ott, the detective who had given him the sketch with Nick’s likeness. He figured he’d just leave Ott a message, but to his surprise, Ott picked up. They had patched him through to Ott’s cell.

“Ott here,” he answered, sounding way more chipper than most people did at that hour of the morning.

“Yes, hello, Officer, I am calling you to inform you that the man in that flyer you’re looking for currently resides at 101 El Vedato.”

Ott motioned frantically to Crawford next to him as he hit the speaker button on his cell. They had just booked Ward Jaynes and put him in a six-by-nine cell.

“Who is this?” Ott said into his cell. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Just a concerned citizen, Officer,” Alcie said, “trying to make sure Palm Beach is a safe place again. That address—in case you neglected to jot it down—is 101 El Vedato.”

Click.

Ott put his fist up and Crawford bumped it with his.

“Guess we can forget about sleeping,” Crawford said. “That guy’s voice . . . what’d he sound like to you?”

“Like a black guy trying to sound like Prince Charles.”

“Exactly.”

Ott spun the car wheel so hard Crawford almost slid into his lap.

“The hell you doin’?”

“Going to get the guy at El Vedato, whataya think?”

Ott took a skidding left turn onto Congress.

Crawford grabbed the dashboard for support.

“Mort, for Chrissake, lose the Skip Barber driving school shit. It gonna matter we get there two minutes faster?”

“Sorry.”

“You
do
understand we got nothing on the guy?”

Ott thought for a second.

“I mean, not a damn thing,” Crawford said, shrugging. “We go to the house . . . then what? We got probable cause?”

Ott scratched his head. No sleep in a long time wasn’t helping his thought processes.

“I mean,” Crawford said, “charge him with what?”

“Suspicion of murder. Cynthia Dexter,” Ott said, scratching his head harder.

“Based on what?”

Bloodhound creases sliced across Ott’s forehead.

“Okay, well . . . what’s the guy doing living in a $10 million house?”

Crawford shook his head. “That illegal, Mort?”

“Sure as hell is suspicious. Bet we can nail him for art theft.”

“And whataya got for proof?”

“Fucking A, Charlie,” Ott said, tapping his fingers on the wheel, “work with me here, will ya.”

“You’re too damn eager; we jump the gun, we hand some defense asshole a way to get him off.”

“So what are you saying?” Ott asked.

“We get a warrant,” Crawford said. “We’ll come up with a reason for it between now and when we see the judge.”

“Okay,” Ott said, accelerating on the green light. “In the meantime, what if the guy flies?”

“We’ll put guys on the house,” Crawford said punching seven numbers into his cell.

“Who the hell you calling at this hour?”

“The judge.”

“Christ, it’s six fucking thirty in the morning.”

Crawford let it ring. He waited. Someone answered.

“Sorry to bother you, judge, it’s Charlie Crawford. I got a murder suspect at a house on El Vedato. I need a warrant. Can—”

Crawford listened for fifteen seconds, then clicked off his phone.

“What’d he say?”

“Same thing you did, but we’re meeting him at ten. He must have an afternoon golf game.”

FIFTY-THREE

F
ifteen minutes later, Crawford and Ott were parked two doors down from 101 El Vedato.

“How do you want to play it?” Ott asked, over the engine that idled too loud.

“Two guys, front and back.” Crawford gestured toward the house.

“I’ll call the station, get the guys. Then what?”

Crawford looked at his watch.

“Then . . . we go catch some Zs.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, if Greenleaf’s in there, he’s not going anywhere. Got three hours ’til we see the judge. What do you want to do? Sit around and drink coffee?”

“Guess I could handle a nap.”

Ott then lifted up his foot.

“Hey, by the way, you never asked me about the secret of my speed.” He pointed at his shoe. “Right there, waffle soles.”

“Is that what it was?” Crawford laughed. “I gotta hand it to you, you showed me some wheels. Helluva tackle, too.”

“Just a little FYI, Charlie,” Ott said as he put his foot back on the floor, “you can’t catch anyone on a beach in Bass Weejuns.”

Crawford raised his foot.

“Never catch me dead in Bass Weejuns . . . Skechers, man.”

T
HEY DROVE
back to the station.

Problem was, Crawford couldn’t get to sleep there. He kept thinking about Dominica. How he could’ve gotten her killed. She was probably back at her place now, he figured, having bad dreams about large cars hurtling toward her.

His adrenaline was surging. His exhaustion no match for it. His mind jumped to Greenleaf. Leaning back in his chair, he watched the sun rise from his office window. He was churning through Greenleaf scenarios. Lil hadn’t given him much, but enough to get him speculating. He knew she was holding back. By the time the sun had cleared the four-story condominium building to the east, Crawford had a pretty good working theory. Why Nick Greenleaf had killed Cynthia Dexter.

Still, it was hard wrapping his head around the idea that the guy in funny-looking devil slippers could hurt a fly.

At nine thirty, Crawford got out of his chair and walked down to the soft room.

He opened the door and heard snoring, then saw the unmistakable super-sized body of Mort Ott with the orange and brown striped tie still around his neck. His calf-length socks had slid down below his ankles and Crawford saw his hairless skin the color of dead fish. The small room smelled a little ripe. But then, it usually did. With or without Ott in it.

“Two feet on the floor, fat boy,” Crawford said, shaking Ott’s shoulder.

“Fu—uck,” came the muffled protest from Ott.

Ott sat up, straightened his tie and hiked his socks up over his calves. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a roll of Certs and threw down three of them. Crawford went into the can and splashed water on his face and combed his hair. Then they drove over to the judge’s office. The judge was not impressed with their appearance but gave them the warrant anyway.

On their way to the house on El Vedato, Crawford got a call on his cell. It was Jim McCann, one of the detectives who was covering the house. He checked his watch. Ten thirty. He put McCann on speaker.

“Yeah, Jim?”

“Car’s leaving here, big old Rolls Cloud Three.”

“Who’s in it?”

“Can’t tell, windows are tinted.”

“Follow it.”

“I’m on it.”

“Check back when he stops.”

“Will do,” McCann said. “Hey, I heard there was a whale sighting in the soft room a little while ago.”

Ott rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, wearing a stylish orange and brown tie and waffle-sole shoes,” Crawford said, ducking Ott’s slap to the back of his head.

FIFTY-FOUR

“I
remember this place,” Ott said, as Crawford pressed the buzzer on the front door of 101 El Vedato. “When I was handing out those flyers, this is where I met that civicminded African American gentleman who, I’m guessing, placed the call earlier.”

Crawford nodded and hit the brass knocker three times.

Finally, the door was opened by a woman around fifty in a light blue uniform.