Palm Beach Nasty (14 page)

“
Jes-sus fuck-ing Christ
,” Crawford heard Porter say, “in here, Charlie, the bedroom.”

Turning, Crawford ran back into the hallway. He practically collided with Ott, who had just come in, and motioned with his head for him to follow.

Porter was crouched down next to a woman’s naked body, spread-eagled on a king-sized bed. Her back was propped up against three pillows. Her head, swollen and purple, was tilted up at the ceiling, an alligator belt cinched around her neck, tied to a bedpost.

“Holy Christ,” Ott said.

Crawford fought the urge to cut her down. Slice the belt and ease her down on a pillow.

Twenty minutes later, the place was crawling with people. Four uniforms, the ME and the head tech, Mel Carnahan. Five minutes later, Dominica McCarthy entered the room. Crawford hadn’t seen her since the Darryl Bill hanging. Rutledge was on his way, too, Ott said, in a tone distinctly lacking in enthusiasm.

The reactions to the dead body were seared into the faces of everyone there. Crawford saw the two young uniforms cast furtive glances at the woman’s face. He could see they were virgins. Trying, unconvincingly, to look like it was just another day at the office, no big deal. Even Carnahan, early fifties and twenty years on the job, looked shaken.

Maybe it was the contrast of the cozy apartment, all baby blues and pinks, so clean and neat, with the horrifying, contorted face of the woman.

Ott, having stared down at hundreds of corpses, was on automatic pilot. Hunched down close to the body taking notes, he had walked around and observed the vic from different angles. It was like he was taking snapshots in his head. He stayed out of people’s way, while at the same time, staked claim to his territory.

Conversations weren’t much more than murmurs. None of the usual tension-breaking wisecracks Crawford was used to. A certain tentativeness, too, a fear of stepping on evidence or other people’s toes.

Crawford had just had a brief conversation with the ME and Ott when he noticed Dominica McCarthy, with tweezers and plastic evidence bags, work her way around the bed. He walked up to her.

“How’s it going?”

She looked up and pushed her glasses down.

“Hello, Detective,” she said, much less cool than last time.

“Charlie Crawford,” Crawford said.

“I know.” She smiled. “Dominica McCarthy.”

“I know,” he said. “Anything interesting?”

“Petechiae,” she said. “No surprise there.”

A petechial hemorrhage. The symptom was burst blood vessels on the eyelids caused by asphyxiation.

Crawford nodded. “Same as the kid who got hung?”

She nodded.

“Anything else?”

She pointed to her sample bags. “Hairs, fibers . . . take your pick.”

“A smoking gun would be nice,” he said, shifting from one leg to the other.

“Yeah, dream on. I’m pretty sure she had a male caller or callers . . . at some point fairly recently.”

“How do you know?”

Dominica reached for one of her bags and held it up to Crawford.

Inside the bag was a big, flat, silver metal button with a Z on it.

Crawford moved his head closer to the button and smelled Dominica’s perfume.

“How do you know it’s a guy’s?” he said, his eyes shifting from the button to her.

“I don’t for sure, just . . . it looks too big to be a woman’s. Could have been there before she was killed, too. But I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause she kept such a clean house. My guess, she probably vacuumed twice a week.”

Crawford flashed to Ward Jaynes. How he’d love to find a missing Z button on a jacket of his. But that wasn’t going to happen. Best he could hope for was a missing button on a jacket of someone who did Jaynes’s dirty work.

“Found anything that matches up to the Bill scene? Any similarities?”

She looked over her evidence, scratched the back of her head and thought for a second.

“Not really, it was like they took a Shop-Vac to the Bill scene, real pros, knew exactly what they were doing. This one . . . whoever it was, left a lot behind. Either an amateur or someone who got spooked. Took off in a hurry maybe.”

Crawford nodded, looked up and saw Norm Rutledge walk in through the bedroom door on the other side of the room.

“Thanks a lot,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Dominica said.

Rutledge beelined over to Crawford, ignoring Dominica.

“What have we got?”

“Dead woman’s name is Cynthia Dexter. Single, age forty-eight, worked at the Poinciana Club.”

“We sure as hell don’t need this,” Rutledge said, his rank breath hitting Crawford like a stiff wind off a landfill.

Rutledge’s eyes followed Ott who was walking over to them.

“So it’s the same guy?” Rutledge asked.

“They’re some obvious similarities,” Crawford said, “but I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Crawford,” Rutledge said, shaking his head, “give me something.”

“Easy, Norm, I’m just saying I’ve seen a lot of copycats before.”

“What are you talking about? How could it be a copycat? We kept the Bill scene under tight wraps.”

Ott stifled a laugh.

“Is that right?” Crawford asked. “Then how come the doorman at my building knew every detail the morning after?”

Rutledge just glared at him.

His eyes finally shifted over to the body. Crossing the room quickly, he almost mowed down a uniform.

Crawford and Ott followed him.

“There’s another possibility, you know,” Rutledge said, looking down at the body. “Sexual asphyxia ever occur to you?”

Crawford had already talked over that possibility with Ott and the ME.

“ME’s prelim says there was no penetration, Norm.”

“So? Since when is there always penetration?”

“Since 98 percent of the time,” Crawford said.

“Maybe this is the 2 percent.”

“So you saying this was an
accident,
Norm?” Ott asked, not disguising his skepticism. “Two consenting adults taking it right up to the edge—”

“And going over,” said Rutledge. “I got news for you, Ott, there’s a lot of kinky shit in Palm Beach. You got a problem with that?”

“Ah, yeah,” Ott said, “actually, I do.”

“Anything but another murder, right, Norm?” Crawford asked, giving Rutledge a cold stare.

“Hey, if it’s another murder, I can deal with it. All I’m doing is examining all the possibilities, and I’m telling you . . . sexual asphyxia is one.”

Ott snuck a skeptical look at Crawford.

“Good news is,” Rutledge said with a sneer, “if it’s a murder, at least I got Florida’s top homicide team on it. Already got one you ain’t got shit on . . . think you can handle another?”

“It’s been only six days, for Chrissakes,” Ott said.

“Yeah, and you got squat. People gonna start sayin’, ‘guys may have been big homicide cops up north, couldn’t catch a fuckin’ cold down here.’ ”

Crawford looked over at Dominica. She had edged away from Rutledge.

“So, we getting it Norm or not?” Crawford asked.

“You already got one.”

Crawford knew Rutledge had no other choice. Everyone else in the department was clueless when it came to homicide.

“So . . . is that a ‘no’?” Ott asked.

Rutledge’s eyes got twitchy, his tics were kicking in.

“You got it for
now
.”

“Don’t go doin’ us any favors, Norm,” Crawford said.

“I said, ‘you got it
for now
.’ ”

“Big whoop,” Ott said, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t give me your sarcastic bullshit, Ott,” Rutledge said, saliva in the corners of his mouth. “Hey, by the way, heard about your little brawl at the Hard Case . . . out there making us proud again.”

A uniform looked over, like he might have to jump in between them.

“Whoa,” Ott said, raising his hands, “we were just sitting there when this asshole sucker punched Charlie.”

“Just minding your own business, huh?”

“Talking over the Bill case, as a matter of fact,” said Ott.

Rutledge just shook his head in disgust and walked off.

Crawford shot Ott a glance.

“I know,” Ott said, “upper one percentile of world-class assholes.”

“No kiddin’. First, the guy’s dead sure it’s the same perp as Bill,” Crawford said, “then he’s sure it’s asphyxia . . . make up your mind, jackoff.”

They watched Rutledge go into a huddle with Carnahan. It lasted about ten minutes and at the end Rutledge slapped Carnahan on the back, gave him a big smile and walked out. Trying to sell his sexual asphyxia theory, Crawford figured.

Crawford and Ott spent the next two hours going over every square inch of Cynthia Dexter’s apartment. They watched McCarthy bag eight personal items and tag the alligator belt. Their most interesting discovery was Dexter’s address book. As far as names and numbers went, the book was pretty sparse. Pages C through F were blank. Seemed to be more people in it who fixed or sold things than friends or relatives.

They were in her kitchen looking at it, their gloves on.

“Check this out,” Ott said, pointing to a wall calendar. On it notes were written: “Mom dinner seven thirty,” on one day. “Dr. Martin three,” on another. Ott was pointing at one from ten days ago. It read, “Nick G., movies.” It had a heart in red ink around it. But, slashed into it was a big black X, etched so deep it cut through the paper.

“This guy, Nick G.,” Crawford said, “maybe we should have a little chat with him.”

Ott leafed through the address book.

“That guy made her book,” he said.

Crawford looked down at the page Ott was holding open.

“Greenleaf, Nick (Viggo’s) 855-3033,” it said in flowery handwriting.

“I’ll call him,” Ott said.

He dialed and waited.

“Voice mail.”

“Hang up. Ever been to Viggo’s?”

“No, what is it?” Ott asked.

“This restaurant in Citiplace. I went there once,” Crawford said, like he hadn’t relished the experience. “Nouvelle cuisine, meaning three asparagus and a four-ounce piece of meat . . . artfully arranged, of course.”

“Of course.”

“How about you wrap it up here,” Crawford said, looking around for Dominica McCarthy. “I’m gonna get a bite, then head over to Viggo’s. Find this Nick guy and ask him what the big, black X is all about.”

He detoured over to Dominica. She was standing on the right side of the bed, writing on a pad.

“So, Mac, check you later, okay?”

She looked up and smiled.

“Mac?”

“Yeah, your first name’s got too damn many syllables. Let me know what you come up with, that button and stuff?”

“Sure, I’m about ready to get out of here, too. Give me twenty-four hours to get back to you.”

He nodded and walked over to Carnahan.

“So?”

Carnahan looked up at him. “Norm was pitching a sexual-hijinx-that-went-bad theory.”

“Figured . . . and you weren’t buying?”

“Nah, I’ve heard his theories before. He’s right about one in ten. Not this time.”

Crawford walked out to the elevator and pressed the button. He waited, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, but it seemed stuck on a floor below.

He heard a door close behind him and looked around. It was Dominica.

“So you done?”

“It’s a wrap,” she said.

He pushed the elevator button again. Nothing.

“Little problem here, let’s take the service elevator.”

It came up fast. Crawford looked at his watch as the door opened. It was one fifteen.

“How ’bout I buy you lunch? I was headed over to Green’s.”

“Sure, but I’m warning you . . . I’m no cheap date. I got a big appetite.”

TWENTY-ONE

N
ick had just spent two and a half hours at the Poinciana. He had pulled it off. Brilliantly, in fact. That was one of his new, favorite words.
Brilliant
. A Brit thing. He noticed the chic young things said it all the time and he had added it to his daily vocabulary.

Nick had simply walked into the Poinciana, gone to the main desk and said he was Avery Robertson, Spencer Robertson’s grandson. The woman at the desk smiled and welcomed him. Then he explained that he hadn’t been to the club in a while, and asked her to remind him where the dining room was. She suggested that since it was such a nice day, maybe he’d prefer having “luncheon” outside. Yes, indeed he would, he said, that would be “fabulous.” She gave him directions to the terrace, which overlooked the first tee and the putting green.

He had vichyssoise and iced tea, followed by lobster tail and arugula salad. At the end of his lunch, he started to reach for his wallet. But instead of taking his credit card, the waitress asked him for his number. His number? Then he remembered. Oh, yes . . . Cynthia Dexter had told him how every member had their own account number so they could charge anything they wanted. Nothing so crass as credit cards or cash at the Poinciana. He explained to the waitress that he hadn’t used the club in a long time and was sorry but had forgotten what his number was. She assured him, with a wink, that was no problem, a lot of members forgot. Then it dawned on him . . . ah, yes, older members forgot a lot at their age.

He watched golfers bustle over to the driving range and foursomes teeing off, then saw three pretty young women sit down a few tables away. He was sure he saw one glance over at him several times. He knew he looked stylish and eligible. Not to mention his sensuous, new lips, and blazing azure blue eyes. He had gotten new contacts. He had always wanted blue eyes.

After lunch he got up from the table and smiled at the woman a few tables away. She returned it, and didn’t break eye contact for what seemed like an eternity. He went back inside the club, walking on air. He wandered around, feeling like he belonged. He went into a room where backgammon tables were set up in one corner. Two men were sitting across from each other at one.

He walked over and nodded to one, then looked down at the table.

“How’s it going?” one of them said, smiling.

“Gentlemen,” Nick said, with a little nod.

The other man, studying his next move, didn’t look up. He moved one of his pieces, then finally glanced at Nick. He stared at him for a few seconds, not acknowledging him, then looked back down at his board. Nick knew the type. Damned if they’d say hello if they didn’t know you. Or maybe decided if he didn’t know you, you probably weren’t worth knowing.