Palm Beach Nasty (11 page)

Ott leaned forward in his chair, eyes getting bigger. “You’re shittin’ me!”

“Probably gave the parents a couple hundred bucks. Brings ’em back here, they stay at his house for, like, three or four months.”

“So like sex slaves?”

“That’s as good a name as any, I guess. After a while Jaynes gets bored with the whole setup and, just like that . . . ships ’em back.”

Ott’s face was white, his cheeks slumped into his jowls.

“On second thought, maybe I
haven’t
heard it all.”

The door opened and Norm Rutledge stuck his head in.

“Guys got anything yet?”

Ott rolled his eyes at Crawford.

“Working on it,” Crawford said.

Rutledge frowned, his head disappeared and the door closed.

“I’m gonna get back on the computer, see if I can get more on Jaynes,” Crawford said.

“Just log onto . . .
sickfuckbillionaire.com
,” Ott said. “Hey, how’d the broker know you were looking into Jaynes anyway?”

“I asked her that and she said she just heard something. So I pressed her a little and it turns out Rose knows Jaynes’s friend, Miranda, the woman at the pool. She also said something like how Palm Beach would be a much better place without sleazeballs like Ward Jaynes.”

C
RAWFORD FIRED
up his computer after Ott left. He Googled Jaynes again, trying to add to what Rose told him.

Crawford then pored through dozens of pages of lawsuits against Jaynes. For starters, Jaynes had been charged with sexual harassment, not once but three times, of women who formerly worked for his company. The incidents were a lot more than Jaynes getting them drunk at the office Christmas party and slapping the moves on them in the executive washroom. One of his accusers was a seventeen-year-old from Babson College, working at Jaynes Funds as a summer intern. Reading between the lines, Jaynes had apparently introduced her to the wonderful world of sado-masochistic sex, but the
Wall Street Journal
—not surprisingly—came up short on details. The
New York Daily News
and
Post,
however, got a little more specific and some of the related stories got big, garish headlines. It turned out all the lawsuits were eventually dropped. Crawford came to the obvious conclusion: thick envelopes bulging with cash.

Then Crawford read a
Barron’s
profile on Jaynes. The writer was more like a groupie than a reporter. The story detailed how Jaynes made $50 million in a two-month period shorting stocks. Two particular targets had been Bear Stearns, before it crashed and burned just a few months back, and Lehman Brothers, which went up in smoke shortly afterward. Jaynes was also a key player in bringing Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae to their knees before the government bailout. Traders like Jaynes who bet against the market were both feared and despised—but also secretly envied by many. They were the Wall Street grave dancers who’d load up on “put” options on companies, betting the companies would go down the tubes. They bet millions that companies with bloated and overpaid managements, or ones rife with fraud and dubious accounting, would fall hard and make quick windfall profits for the “shorts.”

Another article recounted how one of the most powerful tools of someone like Jaynes was rumor. A favorite trick was spreading stories that federal authorities were closing in, about to slap “Giuliani bracelets” on some hapless CEO, then perp-walk him into a police van as the flashbulbs popped. The author mentioned how Jaynes had a multimillion dollar media budget dedicated to trashing wobbly companies. But Jaynes apparently didn’t discriminate; he went after perfectly healthy ones, too.

The writer ended his article heavy-handedly, saying, “to Wardwell A. Jaynes, III, the choice between making $50 million in eight weeks or a thousand enemies for life was absolutely no choice at all.”

Crawford was about to start on another story when his door opened again and he saw Rutledge’s face.

“Crawford, you need extra guys, let me know, we got plenty of manpower.”

“Let’s not clusterfuck it, Norm,” Crawford said, not looking up.

“How ’bout just bringing me a few perps,” Rutledge said, and his head disappeared.

Crawford shook his head and understood why guys chose to be vampires, cops who only worked graveyard shift. A veteran with twenty-two years on the job he met once was one of them. He told Crawford he worked graveyard so he’d never have to lay eyes on Rutledge, except at cops’ funerals.

Crawford’s phone rang.

“It’s me,” said the expressionless voice. “Anything new?”

“Not yet, Misty. Don’t worry, though.”

It was like she was on a three-second delay.

“Please,” she said and hung up.

Crawford looked at his watch. It was almost eight. He glanced out his window. It was pitch black, time for a change of scenery. Time to put as much distance between him and Rutledge as possible.

He walked out to Ott’s cubicle.

“Let’s get out of here, I’ve seen enough of Shithead to last a goddamn lifetime.”

Dave Shales, a detective in the cubicle next to Ott’s, looked up, caught Crawford’s eye, smiled and nodded.

Ott, glued to his computer screen, held up his hand.

“Hold on, man. Just want to read this FCIS thing about Jaynes.”

Crawford leaned down to see Ott’s screen.

“Oh, yeah, I saw that one.”

“Where you want to go?” Ott asked, looking up.

“Hard Case.”

They could talk shop in peace at the bar.

So he thought, anyway.

SEVENTEEN

C
rawford and Ott were the only Palm Beach guys who went to the Hard Case, a cop bar in West Palm. It was way too downscale for clean-cut, wholesome Palm Beach cops. Palm Beach cops wanted to keep their distance from the dog pound of West Palm mutts—a scraggly lot with Fu Manchus and gaudy tats. Crawford liked the Hard Case because it was nothing like O’Herlihy’s. O’Herlihy’s was where most Palm Beach cops went. Specifically, Rutledge and his suck-ups. They had long, serious debates there about police procedures and all the latest scientific techniques. None of them took their drinking very seriously either. Especially Rutledge—two beers, home to the wife, lights out.

The Hard Case was in a dicey commercial area that was dead at night, about equal distance from a black neighborhood and a blue-collar white one. It used to be called Black ’n’ Blue and catered to African American cops.

That was before Jack Scarsiola, an ex-detective, bought it and changed the name. It looked exactly the same, though. A one-story building painted black outside with a blue door that swung out. A small window on the street side provided very little light mainly because of the heavy steel bars around it and the fact that it was frosted. There was razor wire to protect the satellite dish that pulled in 300 channels when the weather cooperated. Inside, beyond the long wooden bar, were two pool tables, a couple quarters on top belonging to the players up next.

On any given night, the population was 90 percent law enforcement. The male to female ratio was usually about eight to one.

Crawford and Ott walked in.

“Hey, Jack,” Crawford said to Scarsiola, who was tending bar.

“P. B. boys slummin’ again, huh,” Scarsiola said, as he worked the draft stick. “Brought along your roly-poly friend, huh Charlie?”

Scarsiola liked to give Ott shit. They just rubbed each other the wrong way.

“Fuck off,” Ott said, “and gemme a Yuengling.”

“Hey,” Scarsiola said, leaning across the bar, “heard you boys caught the hanging case.”

“Yeah,” Crawford said.

“Got any suspects?”

Crawford didn’t answer.

“Like you’d tell me, right?”

“What do you think?” said Crawford, watching a woman take a drag on a cigarette. He had a strong urge for one, even though it had been two and a half years. It was against the law to smoke in the bar, but what did cops care?

Scarsiola handed Crawford a Budweiser and Ott a Yuengling.

Ott scanned the place.

“Usual bunch of beauties, huh?” Crawford said, looking at a guy with a Harley tattoo on his fleshy bicep.

Ott nodded and sipped his beer.

They went and sat at a table.

“I never asked you,” Crawford said, “how’s this place compare to Cleveland joints?”

Ott gave the question some thought.

“Unfavorably.”

“That it?” “Yeah.”

“The laconic Mort Ott.”

“Don’t give me that Dartmouth vocab shit,” Ott said, taking a swig. “I ain’t in the minus-fifteen club.”

“The what?”

“Never told you about my minus-fifteen club?”

Crawford shook his head.

“Meaning IQ points,” Ott said, rubbing his creased forehead, “the difference between down here and up north.”

“Keep going?”

“Okay, so take, say, a landscaper . . . fifteen points more stupid down here than up there. Lawyers here . . . same thing, minus fifteen. Across the board—doctors, accountants, toll booth collectors, you name it—fifteen points more stupid down here.”

“More stupid, huh?”

Ott looked at him and screwed up his eyes.

“Yeah . . . less smart.”

“Gotcha. You got any more half-assed theories?”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey, I didn’t tell you, I went out to check on Misty Bill.”

Ott looked at him funny. “You did . . . why?”

“What do you mean, why? Kid’s brother just got killed. Her father’s in jail. Her mother’s . . . who the hell knows where.”

Ott nodded.

“I just wanted to see how she was doing.”

Crawford caught a whiff of cheap aftershave nearby and looked up.

“Hey, Crawford,” said a voice, “what’s the problem, can’t you find the hangman?”

The guy was named Sonny Johnson, a West Palm cop he knew by sight. Johnson was with someone Crawford had never seen before. No question about it, both of them were clearly three sheets.

Johnson was around forty, short black hair, a gold stud in his left ear and wearing a Ramones T-shirt. Crawford figured he dug it out of his kid’s drawer, no clue who the Ramones were. The other guy was chinless and wore a do-rag.

“What’s the problem,” Johnson said again, “can’t find the hang—”

“Yeah, he heard ya the first time, genius,” Ott said to Johnson, “go get yourself another beer, huh. You sober up, something intelligent might flop outta your piehole.”

“You’re a real funny fuck,” Johnson said, leaning closer to Ott. “How is it anyway, being sidekick to the greatest cop in New York history?”

“A great honor,” Ott said, straight-faced, shoving his chair back to get away from Johnson’s beery breath.

Johnson glanced over at Do-rag, then back at Ott.

“Your partner give you pointers and shit?” Johnson asked.

“Yeah,” Ott said, tilting his chair back farther, “watch out for assholes in bad T-shirts.”

“Good one,” Johnson said, swaying. “Mort.”

Johnson let loose with a long, guttural burp, like he could do it on demand.

“Ott, right?” Johnson said.

Ott didn’t answer.

“Well, I gotta tell ya, Mort Ott . . . that’s the lamest fuckin’ name I ever heard.”

Do-rag beat on his thigh like Johnson was Letterman.

“I got a question for ya, the fuck is an ‘Ott’ anyway . . . a midget otter or something?”

Ott looked at Crawford and shook his head.

“You done?” Ott asked. “ ’Cause we’re working something here. How ’bout taking your butt boy and getting the fuck outta here.”

Ott turned away from Johnson. Crawford watched Johnson out of the corner of his eye. Just in case.

He and Do-Rag shuffled off toward the bar.

Crawford thought about slapping Ott five.

“I had the same question,” he said instead.

“About what?” Ott asked.

“What the hell is an Ott anyway?”

“Funny,” Ott said, standing up and pointing at his empty beer.

“You ready?”

Crawford nodded.

“Watch out for the knuckle draggers.”

Crawford’s eyes followed Ott as he headed to the bar, remembering when Rutledge first introduced him to Ott.

“C
RAWFORD
, This is Mort Ott,” Rutledge had said it fast, like it was one syllable.