Palm Beach Broke Read online

  Palm Beach Broke

  A Charlie Crawford Mystery (Book 7)

  Tom Turner

  Tribeca Press

  Copyright © 2019 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 Broke/Tom Turner – 1st ed.

  Contents

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  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Killing Time in Charleston (Exclusive Preview)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Tom Turner

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  Prologue

  It reminded Thorsen Paul of when he used to smuggle girls up to his bedroom in his parents’ house in Greenwich. Except now he and his lady friend were in the guesthouse of his parents’ house in Palm Beach and it was twelve years later. His parents had stopped trying to catch him in the act a long time ago.

  The only real danger was the boyfriend of the woman he was in bed with. The guy’s name was David Balfour and he had a nasty temper. Thorsen and Bree had just made love and were lying next to each other naked and sweaty, the top sheet up to their waists. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and Bree had to get back to the gallery on Worth Avenue where she worked.

  “I love our little nooners,” Bree said, getting up out of bed.

  Paul grabbed her arm gently. “Do you have to go?”

  She pulled her arm away. “Sorry, gotta get back. You know, another day, another Picasso to sell.”

  “Really?”

  “I wish,” Bree said, sliding into her panties. “Don’t you have to go see your bankers and lawyers?”

  Thorsen groaned. “Just my lawyer. And it’s not going to be fun.”

  Bree pulled up her short white silk skirt over her hips and buttoned it. Then she lifted her black spaghetti strap shirt over her head and pulled it down.

  “I love women who don’t wear bras,” Paul said, a lustful look in his eye.

  Bree walked over to the bed and leaned down and kissed him. “You love all women.” She put a finger up to his lips. “Bye, my love.”

  “Hurry back.”

  She walked toward the back door, opened it and left.

  Thorsen Paul looked at his watch. He had two hours until he had to see his lawyer.

  Five minutes later he was sound asleep.

  * * *

  The second-floor door suddenly flew open and two people burst in. One had a Glock and the other, a short, heavily tattooed man, brandished a long knife.

  “Don’t say a word,” said the one with the Glock. “Get out of bed.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  * * *

  Two days later.

  Charlie Crawford and Mort Ott, the full complement of Palm Beach’s homicide department, were on their way back from lunch in West Palm Beach. The radio was tuned to a local news station.

  Former billionaire and twenty-eight-year-old founder of NextRed Corporation, Thorsen Paul, has been reported missing by his attorney. The San Francisco resident and son of Palm Beach philanthropist, Roderick Paul, was last seen at his parent’s home yesterday afternoon by a source who asked to remain anonymous. The family has requested that if anyone has any knowledge of Mr. Paul’s whereabouts, to please contact…

  The news anchor provided a phone number identified as that of Mr. Paul’s attorney.

  Ott nodded. “NextRed was that company that went from being worth billions to worthless in about five minutes, right?” he asked as he drove their Crown Vic over the middle bridge from West Palm to Palm Beach.

  “It was a little more than five minutes, but yeah, it got totally crushed,” Crawford said. “I read somewhere that Paul declared personal bankruptcy and was like…close to homeless.”

  Ott shook his head. “Poor bastard,” he said. “Not to be a downer, but you think maybe the guy offed himself?”

  Crawford shook his head. “Jesus, Mort, you just heard this and already you got the guy dead and buried.”

  One

  Charlie Crawford got the call from dispatch the same day, a few minutes after 8 p.m. Dead woman ID’d as Adriana Palmer, had been shot four times, at 897 North Ocean Boulevard. He drove quickly from his West Palm Beach condo, and reached the Palm Beach residence a few moments before Mort Ott arrived.

  Ott rumbled in behind the wheel of his tricked out 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge Ram Air IV, a car their boss, Chief Norm Rutledge, thought inappropriate for a homicide cop. Ott slid his two-hundred-fifty-pound frame past the steering wheel, got out, and looked over at Crawford.

  “Just when I was all hunkered down, ready to binge out on Bosch,” he said, referring to the TV show.

  “Maybe we can solve it quick,” Crawford said. “Get you right back there.”

  “When does that ever happen?”

  “Yeah, true.”

  Three uniforms were there already. One of them, Bob Shepley, introduced Crawford and Ott to the victim’s twin sister, Amanda Palmer, who was sitting in her sister’s living room. Shepley explained that a next-door neighbor said she’d heard several loud pops and called the police.

  Amanda, who lived in a house on the other side of her sister, had told Shepley that she had just arrived home, heard sirens and seen the flashing lights of arriving police cars. She was a medium-height, fit-looking blonde who had mascara pooling below her eyes, and a splotchy red nose. She wore tight jeans and a blue T-shirt with St. Barth’s on it.

  “We’re sorry about your loss, Ms. Palmer,” Crawford said, showing her ID. “I’m Detective Crawford and this is my partner Detective Ott. Can we ask you a few questions? We want to find who did this as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sure,” she said, wiping her eyes on the short sleeve of her blouse. “What do you want to know?”

  It turned out Amanda and her sister owned The Max, an exclusive fitness club that Crawford had heard of a few times. She said Adriana had left work at a little before six and that she had left around seven-thirty. Amanda said her sister had told her she needed to run a few errands before she headed home.

  Amanda shrugged. “Sorry, I wish I could tell you something really helpful.”

  “Are you aware of any recent burglaries in the neighborhood, Ms. Palmer?” Crawford asked. Theft wasn’t Mort’s or his beat.

  Amanda shrugged. “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Did your sister ever mention anyone she was afraid of?” Ott asked. “Anyone who may have threatened her, possibly?”

  Amanda shook her head. “No, and I would certainly know about that.”

  “Nobody at all?” Ott pressed.

  Amanda shook her head

  Crawford nodded. “Okay, well, thank you. We’re going to look around your sister’s house, if that’s okay. Then I’m sure we’ll have more questions. You’ll be here for a while, right?”

  Amanda nodded and sniffled.

  As they walked out of the living room, Crawford and Ott each donned a pair of vinyl gloves.

  They walked through the living room and out to an enclosed sun porch.

  Ott pointed at a window, opened a crack. He and Crawford walked over to it.

  “Remember when there was that string of burglaries? Houses on the beach?” Ott said.

  “Yeah, just before I came down,” Crawford said. “A gang from Miami, right?”

  “Yeah, Cuban guys, in a Donzi.” A so-called go-fast boat. “Took a while to get ‘em, but eventually they did.”

  “So that’s what you’re thinkin’?”

  “Just that it’s a possibility,” Ott said. “Not necessarily by boat, but houses on the ocean are easier to hit. Just walk down the beach.”

  Crawford nodded as he looked around for anything else out of place.

  “Plus, most people who live on the ocean have expensive shit,” Ott said.

  “Yo
u’ve made a study of that?”

  “Yeah, you name it: jewelry, flat screens, furs, silverware, hell of a lot nicer here than in my neighborhood.”

  Crawford nodded.

  “Not that someone’s gonna drag a flat screen out of here. But all that other stuff’s pretty portable.”

  “Yeah,” Crawford said. “I’m gonna go out to the car. Get my Maglite and look around out back.”

  Ott nodded and they both went and retrieved Maglites from their cars, then walked through the house and out the French doors, which led to a big stone terrace and a pool beyond.

  Outside, they shined their Maglites on the ground below the open window. The beams illuminated a large shoe print in the dirt, pointed away from the house, toward the ocean.

  “Bingo,” Ott said.

  Crawford crouched and studied it. “Should be able to get a good impression.” He pointed at the print. “Tread looks like a sneaker.”

  Ott nodded. “About a nine or ten,” he said, looking around for more prints but seeing only the one.

  Walking in a straight line, four feet apart, they walked toward the ocean, then back to the house, covering a small grid pattern.

  “Hey, check this out,” Ott said, his Maglite pointing at something in the grass. It was a string of pearls.

  Crawford reached down to pick up the pearls with a vinyl-clad hand.

  They spent the next half hour scouring the beach but found nothing more. At the water’s edge, they walked along the sand, looking for any sign of a boat having landed on the beach or been pushed off from it. But the tide had recently come in, so if there had been any footprints or signs of a boat, they’d been washed away.

  They walked back up to the house. “Let’s check the security system,” Crawford said, and they went into the foyer and found the keypad. It looked expensive and state-of-the-art. Not surprising. But what did surprise them was…it was off.

  “Why would you ever turn it off?” Ott asked.

  Crawford shrugged. “Damn good question. Let’s go talk to the sister.”

  Ott nodded and they turned and walked toward the living room.

  “You know anything about The Max?”

  “Just that it’s a little out of my budget.”

  Ott chuckled. “I heard they get like a grand a month.”

  “Make that way out of my budget.”

  * * *

  Amanda Palmer was sitting in the living room, having a glass of wine. Bob Hawes, the medical examiner, had arrived, along with two crime-scene techs. Crawford was disappointed that neither of them was Dominica McCarthy, with whom he shared a special relationship. He also believed she was the best tech in the department—but, then, he might have been a little biased.

  Crawford and Ott approached Amanda Palmer. “Mind if we ask you a few more questions, Ms. Palmer?”

  “Sure, whatever I can do to help,” she said, gesturing toward the couch opposite her. “Have a seat.”

  Crawford and Ott sat as Crawford pulled out the pearl necklace from his jacket pocket. “Is this your sister’s?”

  Amanda nodded, wide-eyed. “It sure is. Where’d you find it?”

  “On the lawn out back,” Crawford said. “Our theory is your sister may have walked in on a burglary. Could have tried to resist the burglar, or burglars, with the pepper spray found in her possession, and was shot.”

  “Oh, my God,” Amanda said. “Did you find anything else?”

  “We found a well-preserved footprint just below where we believe the suspect entered and exited the house,” Crawford said.

  “Can you track someone down with a footprint like that?”

  “It’s not easy,” Crawford said. “But it’s a start.” He remembered the keypad. “Do you know why your sister’s security system was turned off?”

  Amanda shrugged. “No, sorry. That seems odd.”

  “That’s what we thought.”

  “On another note,” Ott said, “was Adriana going out with anyone, seeing someone?”

  “Yes,” Amanda said, “a man named Ed Bertoli.”

  Crawford heard footsteps from the foyer. A tall man in blue jeans and a polo shirt burst into the living room. “Oh, my God,” he said, running up to Amanda. “I just heard. Are you all right, honey?”

  Amanda stood, threw her arms around the man, and started to sob. “I—I just can’t,” she started. “I can’t even comprehend it.”

  The man kissed her. “I am so damned sorry.”

  “These nice men are Detective Crawford and…sorry I forgot—”

  “Detective Ott,” Ott said with a smile.

  “I’m Ted Bartow,” he said. “Amanda’s boyfriend. Do you have any idea how it happened?”

  “It’s too early to know for sure,” Crawford said. “We think Adriana may have walked in in the middle of a burglary.”

  Bartow looked back at Amanda. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he said again, putting an arm around her shoulder.

  “Thank you.” Amanda wiped her eyes, spreading mascara. “I think I want to go home unless you have some more questions,” she said to Crawford.

  “We’ll make it brief,” he assured her. “I’m assuming your sister had people who worked at the house on a regular basis. Like a cleaning lady? Pool cleaners? Landscapers, probably?”

  “All the above,” Amanda said. “Plus, she had a man come and detail her car every two weeks.”

  “Do you use the same people your sister used?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes,” Amanda said. “We vetted them all pretty thoroughly. They’ve all been working for us”—she thought for a second— “for over five years.”

  “Why?” Bartow asked Crawford. “Were you thinking it might be an inside job? One of them decided to rob the place?”

  Crawford nodded. “We’ve seen it before,” he said, then to Amanda. “But you never had any kind of problem with anything disappearing before?”

  Amanda shook her head. “No. Nothing like that.”

  Crawford glanced over at Ott, who was taking notes in his old leather-bound notepad. His partner looked up and shrugged.

  “Well, I guess that’ll do it for now,” Crawford said, reaching for a card in his wallet. “If you think of anything else, please call me.” He handed cards to Amanda and Bartow. “In the meantime, we’ll be in touch and keep you up to speed on our investigation.”

  “Thank you very much,” Amanda said.

  Crawford nodded.

  “Again, sorry for your loss,” Ott said.

  Amanda gave the detectives a pained smile, still clinging tightly to Bartow.

  Crawford and Ott walked to the foyer, where the ME and the two crime-scene techs were still studying the body and the area surrounding it.

  “Perp came in through a window in the sun porch,” Crawford said. “It’s on the other side of the living room.”

  “And there’s a good footprint outside below the window,” Ott added. “Perp exiting the house.”

  Crawford asked Hawes, “Can you measure it, and let me know what its size is?”

  Hawes nodded. “For you, Charlie, anything.”

  “We also found this string of pearls owned by the vic out in the lawn behind,” Crawford said, handing it to Hawes, who promptly bagged and tagged the necklace.

  “So, burglary gone wrong, huh, Charlie?” the ME said.

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe?”