Palm Beach Pretenders Read online




  Palm Beach Pretenders

  A Charlie Crawford Mystery (Book 5)

  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 Pretenders/Tom Turner – 1st ed.

  Contents

  Also by Tom Turner

  Join Tom’s Author Newletter

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Afterword

  Charlie Crawford Book 6 (Sneak Peek)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  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

  STANDALONES

  Broken House

  Join Tom’s Author Newletter

  Get the latest news on Tom’s upcoming novels when you sign up for his free author newsletter at tomturnerbooks.com/news.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, to my beautiful and talented daughters, Serena and Georgie, who I never get to see enough. I would also like to thank my friends, Tim Pitts and Rob Shaw (known affectionately as Rude Rob to his friends) for their critiques, comments and generous reviews.

  One

  If you go to the Mar-a-Lago website, you will see photos of catered weddings, which take place at the club. One shows an exterior pathway leading to an ornate, white arch, where men and women are united in holy matrimony. A profusion of palm trees sway in the breeze over rows of white wooden chairs on either side of the path. The wedding in the photos appears to be fairly small, seating a hundred or so guests.

  Today’s wedding party was much larger, and the white wooden chairs looked tiny because the average guest weighed between two hundred fifty and three hundred pounds. It was the wedding of the son of legendary college football coach Paul Pawlichuk, who’d recently signed a five-year contract for nine million dollars per year. Rich, the bridegroom, was a linebacker for the Miami Dolphins and made even more than his father, though it was Paul who was the member of the Mar-a-Lago Club. Rich was marrying Addison, the younger sister of Carla Carton, the lead actress in the hugely successful Netflix series Bad Karma. Not much was known about the bride except that she’d recently been a Miss Universe runner-up and was a woman who demanded things be done her way.

  Rich’s Miami Dolphin teammates and friends were sitting in the fragile-looking white chairs, along with a number of former college football players who had remained friendly with their coach, Paul. Fortunately, and somewhat surprisingly, as the ceremony came to a close and all rose to watch and photograph the ring exchange and protracted kiss between Addison and Rich, it appeared that all the white chairs had survived intact. The only casualty was the well-tended and recently mown lawn, into which countless chair legs had sunk three or four inches below the dark-green zoysia grass.

  The ceremony concluded, the bride and groom were walking down the aisle, followed by the wedding party. As they headed to the area where the reception would be held, three waves of white-jacketed waiters made their way into the crowd with trays of fluted glasses filled with champagne.

  “Thanks,” Paul Pawlichuk said as he reached for a glass, then proceeded to drain it in one long gulp.

  His wife Mindy, aware of her husband’s prodigious appetites in so many areas, thought nothing of it when Paul grabbed a second flute off another waiter’s tray on the fly.

  “Beautiful ceremony, didn’t you think?” Mindy asked her husband as their daughter Janice approached them with her husband George Figueroa and young son in tow.

  “Very nice,” Paul said, then under his breath, muttered, “But the padre kind of dragged it out a little.”

  The “padre” was a renowned monsignor from Miami who spoke too slow and flowery for Paul’s taste.

  “Hey, hon,” Paul said, kissing his daughter Janice and ignoring his son-in-law the way he always did.

  Janice shook her head. “You do see George standing next to me, Dad…and your grandson?”

  Paul nodded. “Hey, Jorge, how’s it goin’, bro?”

  Paul called everyone ‘bro’ except his brother.

  Janice looked furious. “It’s not Jorge, for God’s sake.”

  Paul refrained from saying what he was thinking, Well, it used to be, and instead gave his four-year-old grandson a pat on his undersized head.

  Janice turned to her mother and whispered under her breath. “You believe that tramp?” she said, flicking her head in the direction of the TV star and bride’s sister. “Decked out like some Las Vegas hooker.”

  “Hey, hey,” her mother said. “A little reverence on your brother’s wedding day.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Janice said, as she caught her father sneaking a glance at Carla.

  * * *

  Across the room, Carla had walked up to one of the two outside bars and was talking to an older man who had followed her there. He was Robert Polk, the billionaire owner of Polk Global.

  Carla leaned close to Polk and asked under her breath, “When was the last time you spoke to Alex?”

  Polk glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “I went up to Deerfield and saw him play in a soccer match,” he said, “Took him out for dinner afterward.”

  Carla frowned. “That was way back in the fall, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s spring now.”

  “Well, you had him for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Polk said.

  “Yes, but there was a lot of time in between.”

  “What can I tell you, I’ve been busy as hell lately,” Polk said. “When does he hear from Yale?”

  “In a couple of weeks,” Carla looked concerned. “It’s a sure thing, right?”

  Polk nodded and took a sip of his champagne.

  Carla’s sister Addison, clad in her twenty-thousand-dollar Zac Posen wedding dress, walked up to them.

  “There she is,” Carla said, giving her sister a big hug and kiss. “Such a beautiful ceremony. And, oh my God, your flowers are so gorgeous—”then turning to Polk—“you remember Robert?”

  “Of course, hello, Robert,” Addison Pawlichuk said, then turned to her sister. “Well, it’s official, I just married into the Polish royal family of football.”

  “Mazel tov,” Carla said, raising her drink.

  Addison laughed. “That’s Jewish, not Polish.”
<
br />   “Close enough,” Carla said. “You got a real mixed bag of people here. Which makes for the best weddings, they tell me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Addison said.

  Carla, looking over her sister’s shoulder, zeroed in on her husband, Duane Truax. “Which one of your bridesmaids is Duane impressing with his race-track heroics now?”

  Addison turned around and looked. “Oh, that’s Chelsea.”

  “Is she the Prada model?” Carla asked.

  “Yes, exactly, living with a chef at Nobu,” Addison said.

  “Where’s he?”

  “Working.”

  Carla nodded knowingly. “While the cat’s away, I guess.”

  Addison laughed.

  Robert Polk took a step closer to hear better.

  Carla, still looking at her husband and the young model, shook her head disdainfully. “I’ve seen that look in his eye. I bet he just told her he was Driver of the Year.”

  Addison turned to her sister. “He was?”

  “Yeah, back in 2005.”

  Addison glanced over at the six-piece band, which had segued into something slow after having just finished a bouncy number.

  “Would you like to dance?” Polk asked Carla, sounding very formal.

  Carla rolled her eyes and raised her eyebrows at her sister. “You mean, would I like you to tromp all over my toes?”

  Addison tried to suppress a laugh. Polk looked stung.

  Carla couldn’t care less. “No, thanks,” she said, looking away from Polk. “I’m going to go talk to my old friend, the movie director. It’s been a while.”

  Addison glanced to where her sister was looking. A short man in his fifties with slicked-back blond hair and a ring in his ear was talking to a young woman.

  “Movie director?” Addison said with a knowing smile. “I’d say you just gave him a promotion.”

  Carla laughed. “Okay, how about…director of short features where none of the actors wear clothes.”

  Addison patted her sister’s shoulder and smiled. “Yeah, exactly, the kind that never have much of a plot.”

  “But plenty of skin,” Carla whispered, then gave Robert Polk a kiss that barely grazed his cheek. “Bye, Robert, nice to see you.”

  “I’ll give you a call,” Polk said.

  “Go ahead, but I’m going to be busy as hell,” Carla zinged him.

  Carla walked over to the man with the slicked-back blond hair. He was talking to a woman—late teens or early twenties—who had boobs so tightly packed into her dress that they looked like they were struggling to come out for air.

  “Hello, Xavier,” Carla said.

  The short man swung around and came eye level with Carla’s expensive Bvlgari diamond necklace.

  “Well, hello, Carla,” Xavier Duke said.

  Carla glanced at the young woman. “Hi, I’m Carla.”

  The woman’s baby blues lit up at having been addressed by the well-known actress.

  “And this is my friend, Taylor Whitcomb,” Duke said.

  “Hi, so nice to meet you,” Taylor said. “I love your show.”

  “Well, thank you,” Carla said. “Wait, are you related to Rennie and Wendy?”

  Taylor laughed. “Daughter.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Carla said. “I haven’t seen them in such a long time. Do they still live in New York and have a house down here?”

  “Yes,” Taylor said. “Sure do.”

  “Well, please give them my best,” Carla said.

  “I definitely will,” Taylor said.

  Carla turned back to Duke and said flirtatiously, “So how ‘bout a dance, big boy?”

  Big boy he wasn’t, but game he was. “I’d love to,” Duke said, then to Taylor, “See you in a little bit.”

  Xavier Duke had no original parts left on his face. Two years ago, he’d had a major facelift to expunge the bags under his eyes, and the plastic surgeon had thrown in a complimentary Kirk Douglas cleft chin. All of his crow’s feet, frown lines and smoker’s lines had been lasered into oblivion. His teeth had been bleached to an extreme, almost unnatural white.

  Duke and Carla made their way to the dance floor, then she dropped her voice…and her smile. “A hundred thousand dollars,” she said, suddenly all business.

  “Add a zero,” Duke said.

  “Fuck that.”

  “It’s like a tip to you.”

  “Two hundred is the best I’m doing,” she said.

  “You’ve got until Monday,” Duke said.

  Carla pulled back from him. “And you’ve got until I make a phone call.”

  She didn’t have some big goombah on speed-dial but figured there was no harm in implying she did. Carla walked away quickly, headed for the bar.

  She watched Paul Pawlichuk walk across the room with a drink in his hand and decided to follow him. He seemed to be heading in the direction of Mar-a-Lago’s living room. She looked around to see if anyone was watching and, seeing no one, walked faster until she was right behind him. As he got to the door, she reached between his legs and goosed him.

  He swung around and, seeing her, broke into a wide smile.

  “Hello, Paul,” she said. “You weren’t looking for me, by any chance?”

  He touched her on the shoulder.

  “I’m just going to take care of a little business with my son-in-law, then I plan to give you my complete, undivided attention.”

  Two

  “Guy’s got to weigh close to three hundred pounds,” Mort Ott said, looking down at a large, naked male body sprawled out in a white chaise longue.

  Charlie Crawford nodded. He had his hand on his chin as he observed a woman’s body, also naked, also dead, face-down on the pool deck ten feet away from the chaise. “Yeah,” he said. “And I’m guessing she was on top.”

  “So, like 425 pounds of thrusting and grunting,” Ott said. “Damn chaise must be pretty well made.”

  A row of eleven more chaise longues all faced the pool in a perfect symmetrical formation.

  “I’m guessing she tried to run,” Crawford said. “Shooter probably did her first, then him.”

  The man had been shot in the temple and chest and the woman three times in the back. The man—six-foot-five or so—had a Buddha-like paunch with slab-like arms and legs. He had a good tan, and, it appeared, based on the small triangular patch of slug-white skin from his hips to his mid-thighs, sunbathed in a bathing suit from the Speedo family. Crawford and Ott, both semi-knowledgeable about college football, had recognized the victim right away as Paul Pawlichuk, the legendary college coach.

  The woman was shapely, had long blond hair and stunning good looks. She also had a nice tan, but without lines, so in their professional opinion she sunbathed nude.

  It was 6:30 in the morning. Crawford and Ott were at the Mar-a-Lago pool on the ocean, which was across the street from where the Pawlichuk-Carton wedding had taken place. The actual address was 1100 South Ocean Boulevard, Palm Beach, Florida. With them was Bob Hawes, the local medical examiner, and two CSEUs—Crime Scene Evidence Unit techs—who were scouring the immediate area for hair follicles, DNA samples, and other useful forensic clues. Surrounding them, and watching them go about their methodical business, were two Palm Beach police officers, who had arrived first on scene, and another twelve unidentified men in civilian clothes, who may or may not have been Secret Service.

  Ott, who was taking notes in an old, leather-bound notebook he’d had since his days as a homicide cop in Cleveland, lowered his voice.

  “She can’t be the coach’s wife. Why would he be banging her here instead of—”

  “No way it’s his wife,” Crawford agreed.

  Bob Hawes, who was crouching to examine the woman, looked up. “You boneheads don’t recognize her?”

  Ott shrugged. “Who is she?”

  “Madeline in that Netflix show, Bad Karma,” Hawes said. “I don’t know her real name.”

  “Holy shit, you’re right,” Ott said.
“The chick who plays the senator’s mistress.”

  “What’s your estimate of time of death?” Crawford asked the ME as he pulled out his iPad.

  “Six and a half hours ago,” Hawes said without hesitation.

  One thing that always bugged Crawford about Hawes was how sure he always seemed to be about everything. He suppressed an instinct to ask how Hawes could peg the vics’ time of death so precisely, but he let it go.

  Crawford was six three with piercing blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair worn a little longer than his crew-cut boss liked. More than once, Crawford had been asked by people on the street whether he was that polo-playing Ralph Lauren model. Ott, shorter by seven inches, rounder by four belt-sizes, older by fifteen years, and balding, was an easy man to underestimate. That would be a mistake, because, at fifty-three years old, Ott could bench press his weight, outrun Crawford, and, thus far anyway, outthink any southern Florida mutt, miscreant or outlaw.

  The detectives had already inspected the couple’s clothes, which had clearly been hastily tossed onto a nearby chaise. They hadn’t found a wallet or anything identifying either person.

  Crawford took out his iPad. “So, Madeline’s the character’s name?” he asked Hawes.

  Hawes nodded.

  Crawford started scrolling on his iPad.