Palm Beach Predator Read online

  Palm Beach Predator

  A Charlie Crawford Mystery (Book 6)

  Tom Turner

  Tribeca Press

  Copyright © 2018 Tom Turner. All rights reserved.

  Published by Tribeca Press.

  This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.

  www.tomturnerbooks.com

  Palm Beach Predator/Tom Turner – 1st ed.

  Contents

  Also by Tom Turner

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  About the Author

  Also by Tom Turner

  CHARLIE CRAWFORD MYSTERIES

  Palm Beach Nasty

  Palm Beach Poison

  Palm Beach Deadly

  Palm Beach Bones

  Palm Beach Pretenders

  Palm Beach Predator

  STANDALONES

  Broken House

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  One

  In her mind, Claudia Detwiler had already spent the commission money. She’d book a Danube River cruise on Viking, the one that started in Budapest and ended up in Prague. Someone had told her that you pronounced it Buda-pesht, so she planned to enunciate it properly and impress her fellow travelers with her worldliness right off the bat. And even though she lived with Jake Dawson, she’d be traveling alone. After all, everyone was always telling her that she could do much better than Jake. And you never know when a handsome German industrialist or Danish count might be bunking a stateroom away.

  She also needed to chic up her wardrobe a bit. She’d gotten about all the mileage she could out of her hard-shouldered Versace suit and her Herve Leger Band Aid dress, which fit fine back in her rail-thin days, but not anymore. Then she planned to take some tennis lessons from the cute pro at the Racquet Club for the dual purposes of losing a few pounds and meeting people who might eventually be looking to buy or sell a house in Palm Beach.

  Speaking of which, Bill and Jessica Donaldson had already seen the house which Claudia was driving them to three times. They were going there again because they wanted their children to see it. Kids and houses were a dicey mix, because you never knew what might come out of their spoiled little mouths. “But Mom, I can’t stand that pukey carpet in my bedroom” or “How are we supposed to play Ultimate Frisbee on that puny, little lawn?”

  So, short Bill—height, hair length and attention span—was riding shotgun in Claudia’s Range Rover, while round and fidgety Jessica sat in back with loudmouth Willie and princess Emma. One big, happy quintet, heading for the house on North Lake Way.

  Claudia had planned ahead by dispatching her window washer, Diego, that morning to make sure there were no saltwater stains on the windows, thus ensuring that Bill and Jessica would once again swoon over the ocean view. It had cost her a hundred dollars but was well worth it…so she hoped, anyway.

  Bill leaned toward Claudia. “If we had a quick closing—like, say, two or three weeks—do you think we could get it for less?” he asked, which was the first sign that he might be considering floating a lowball offer.

  “I know they turned down twelve five,” Claudia said, meaning twelve million five hundred thousand. She’d heard that, anyway but wasn’t absolutely sure if it was true or not. Bill chewed on that for four or five blocks until Jessica piped in.

  “I know it comes with the furniture,” she said, “but we’re not in love with much of that stuff. In fact, we’d probably have to pay Goodwill to come take most of it away.”

  Yep. A lowball offer was definitely headed her way. It almost seemed as if the pair had rehearsed this tandem act of disparaging the exquisite edifice around the breakfast table that morning.

  Shit, maybe Diego wasn’t such a good investment after all.

  “I don’t know what they valued the furniture at,” Claudia said, trying to hold things together. “Maybe not too much.”

  In the rearview mirror, Claudia watched Jessica nod but not say anything. Another glance back caught Jessica concentrating hard. Like she was cooking up yet another gambit to knock the price down.

  Claudia drove into the driveway, trying to come up with a way to restore the Donaldsons’ former enthusiasm. “I just love how the driveway meanders in,” she said, “then you see it—ta-da!—the big reveal of this extraordinary house.”

  Bill and Jessica didn’t respond despite Claudia’s zealous hype job. The big house did have nice curb appeal, though it would have been a lot better if it had another fifty feet of frontage. The neighboring houses felt a little too close on both sides.

  It was then that Claudia realized that the listing agent, Mimi Taylor, wasn’t there. Her car anyway. Mimi was normally so prompt for her showings.

  Claudia parked and everyone got out. She pointed at the Canary Island date palm. “That’s a real specimen,” she said. “I’ve never seen one that big.”

  “It’s nice,” Bill said coolly.

  He seemed to have been much more excited about it the first time they came. That is, before he slipped into stealth negotiating mode.

  They walked up the six steps to the landing. Willie was bringing up the rear, picking his nose with impunity. Emma yawned as she played a game on her iPhone. Well, at least she was preoccupied and might not bitch about the carpet.

  Bill smiled at Jessica as Claudia fiddled with the lockbox to get the key. “We’re just going to go ahead on in. Mimi, the listing agent, is probably right behind us.”

  Bill and Jessica nodded.

  She took out the key, pushed it in the keyhole, then turned it, opening the door. The five of them walked into the foyer, and Claudia spread her arms wide. “Welcome. To. Casa…Donaldson!” she proclaimed as they walked into the living room. It truly was a fantastic ocean view, though she noticed that Diego had missed a spot on the upper-right-hand corner of a window.

  “See what I mean about the furniture?” Jessica said to her husband, though the comment was clearly for Claudia’s benefit.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure Goodwill will even take it,” Bill said.

  Claudia was beginning to hate this family of negative thinkers, nosepickers, and smartphone savants. She decided to zero in on the check-writer, Bill, as Jessica and the kids peeled off in the direction of the master bedroom.

  “In analyzing the comps,” Claudia said, “the price is really good on a per-square-foot basis.”

  Bill nodded as his eyes wandered along the crown molding.

  “As you can see, they spared no expense on the details.” Claudia watched Bill’s eye dri
ft over to where Diego had missed the spot.

  “I’ve never had a place on the ocean,” Bill said. “Do you need to clean the windows all the time?”

  “Oh, gosh, no,” Claudia lied. “Just every once in a while.”

  “How often is that?” Bill asked. “Once every couple of days? Every week?”

  Claudia started to answer but was interrupted by the piercing scream of Jessica. Then Emma joined in. Then Willie, the little nosepicker, hollering way louder than his mother and sister put together.

  Two

  The woman’s naked body lay faceup in a Jacuzzi bathtub in the spacious master bathroom, her head just below the granite tub surround. On the surround, the words Reclining Nude had been scrawled in Crest toothpaste. An empty tube lay discarded on the floor in front of the tub.

  Something in Palm Beach homicide detective Charlie Crawford’s past academic life told him that Reclining Nude was the name of a famous painting. Back at Dartmouth, he had taken a gut course in art, which turned out to be one of his favorite classes ever. Every now and then he’d go to the Norton Museum in West Palm or hit a gallery or two on Worth Avenue, even though he couldn’t afford to buy anything.

  Crawford and his partner, Mort Ott, had ID’d the body, having located the deceased woman’s purse on a counter in the kitchen. Her name was Mimi Taylor, and the business card in her wallet said she worked at Sotheby’s Real Estate at 340 Royal Poinciana Way in Palm Beach. Crawford and Ott had been joined at the scene by the medical examiner and two women from the Palm Beach Police Department’s Crime Scene Evidence Unit.

  Bob Hawes, the medical examiner, had reached the official verdict that Taylor had been strangled to death—this, about an hour after Crawford and Ott had, unofficially, come to the same conclusion.

  Crawford Googled “Reclining Nude” and found a painting by that name by Amedeo Modigliani that had sold for $170 million three years before at a Christie’s auction. It depicted a naked woman, not in a bathtub but on what appeared to be a burgundy-colored sofa.

  Going back to his search results, Crawford found another painting called Reclining Nude—this one by Picasso. The Picasso was considerably more abstract. He’d take the Modigliani over the Picasso any day but didn’t have $170 million lying around.

  Crawford motioned Ott to follow him out of the bathroom so they could have a private conversation. Ott followed him out into the large master bedroom.

  “So for starters, no clear evidence of rape,” Crawford began.

  Ott nodded. “But obviously she didn’t walk in here with no clothes on.”

  “So the killer either had her strip while she was still alive or took her clothes off after he killed her,” Crawford said. “I’m guessing he was either someone she was showing the house to or else was already here.”

  “Well, if it was someone she showed the house to, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to have called her on his own phone. Or given her his real name.”

  “Exactly. So he’d have used a burner and a fake name.”

  Ott nodded. “Or could have met her here,” he said. “Called her on the burner and told her he saw her name and number on the sign and wanted to see it right away.”

  “Yeah,” Crawford said. “Could be. Or coulda been a burglar she caught in the act. Except if it was, he would have taken her cash and credit cards.” He had a second thought. “Plus that whole thing with the toothpaste and staging her body…gotta be premeditated.”

  “So you’re ruling out burglary?” Ott asked.

  “I’m not ruling out anything yet. Let’s just call it unlikely.”

  “I agree.”

  “So, two other things,” Crawford said, glancing around the room. “The vic’s car isn’t here, and neither are her clothes.”

  “Maybe the perp took her car. Clothes, too.”

  “Which means he didn’t drive here.”

  “Or…maybe there were two of them?”

  Crawford cocked his head. “Yeah, but I’m not getting that vibe.”

  One of the CSEU techs walked into the master bedroom. Her name was Dominica McCarthy, and she and Crawford had a history.

  “What’s your take?” Ott asked her.

  “Damned if I know, Mort,” Dominica said. “I’m just the hair, prints, and DNA girl.”

  Ott chuckled. “You’re a lot more than that. Whatcha got so far?”

  “I got lots of everything,” Dominica said. “Which tells me one of two things. Either the house has been shown a lot lately, or else the cleaning people haven’t come around in a while. Or maybe both.”

  “A lot is better than a little, right?” said Crawford with a smile. “What are you focusing on?”

  “The hair and DNA in the tub and that toothpaste tube.”

  “Think you might lift a print off the tube?” Crawford asked.

  “Maybe. A partial anyway. What do you guys got?”

  Ott smiled. “Being the art connoisseur I am, I know that both Picasso and Mogigliano did paintings called Reclining Nude.”

  Dominica chuckled. “I believe it’s Modigliani.”

  “Close enough,” Ott said.

  “Still just tossing things around,” Crawford said.

  “Where it all starts, right?” Dominica said.

  Crawford nodded. “By the way, did any of you recover a cell phone in the bathroom? Or anywhere around there?”

  Dominica shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “It could be really helpful,” Ott said.

  “I hear you,” Dominica said, walking toward the door. “All right boys, wrap it up by the weekend, will you?”

  “Do our best,” Crawford said as Ott nodded.

  Back in his office at the police station on County Road, Crawford called the Sotheby’s office, identified himself, and asked to speak to the real estate firm’s manager, whose name he had just learned from the receptionist was Arthur Lang.

  “Yes, hello, Detective, this is Arthur Lang.”

  Crawford could tell by his tone Lang knew what had happened to Mimi Taylor.

  “Hi, Mr. Lang, I’m calling about the death of your agent, Ms. Taylor.”

  “So horrible,” Lang said. “I—well, I just can’t even comprehend it.”

  “I know and I’m very sorry,” Crawford said. “I’d like to ask you some questions if it’s okay.”

  “Of course,” Lang said. “Ask me anything.”

  “Thank you. First, I need to know who her next of kin are, if you know.”

  “Yes, I looked that up shortly after I heard what happened. Her mother’s name is Mrs. Andrew Taylor, and she lives up in Vero Beach.”

  “So Ms. Taylor was never married?” Either that or she had been married and kept her maiden name, Crawford figured. Or had been divorced and had taken it back.

  “As far as I know, she never was,” Lang said.

  “And do you have her mother’s phone number?”

  Lang said yes and gave him the number. “I also suggest that you speak to another agent here named Carrie Nyquist. Mimi and Carrie were best friends.”

  “Is she in the office now?”

  “I think so. I saw her a little while ago,” Lang said. “I can transfer you, if you’d like.”

  “Before you do,” Crawford said, “her license shows her address is 2500 South Ocean Boulevard. Do you know if that’s current?”

  “Yes,” Lang said. “One of those condo buildings at the south end. Just south of the Par Three golf course.”

  “You don’t happen to have a key to her condo, do you?”

  “No, but Carrie might.”

  “Okay, thanks. If you could transfer me over to Ms. Nyquist now… Oh, and Mr. Lang, I’d like to come to your office tomorrow morning and speak to all your agents if that’s possible.”

  “Sure, I understand,” Lang said. “How’s ten o’clock?”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’ll send out an email and tell my agents it’s a mandatory meeting.”

  “Thank you agai
n. Now, if you could transfer me, please?”

  “You’re welcome. Here goes.”

  Crawford waited a few seconds.

  “This is Carrie,” said the voice.

  “Hello, Ms. Nyquist, my name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police. I am very sorry about the loss of your friend Ms. Taylor. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

  The woman sighed deeply. “Oh, God. I still can’t believe it. She was the best…” And with that she began to cry.

  “I’ll make this brief. Was Ms. Taylor ever married?”

  “No, but she had been living with a man until recently. For almost three years. Lowell Grey is his name.”

  “And had she been seeing anybody else since then?”

  “Yes, but she wouldn’t tell me who.”

  “Why not? Do you know?”

  “I could guess.”

  “Because the other man was married?”

  Nyquist didn’t respond.

  “Ms. Nyquist?”

  “I think he might have been.”

  Crawford tapped his desk with his fingers. “Did Ms. Taylor ever mention anyone she was…scared of, possibly? Anyone who ever threatened her? Or who may have ever been physically abusive to her?”

  Carrie Nyquist sniffled. “No. She never mentioned anyone. I mean, Mimi was a woman who worked very hard but had a pretty simple life. She wasn’t a party girl or a social butterfly like a lot of the women in this business.”