Palm Beach Predator Read online

  “Mr. Lang told me about her mother up in Vero Beach. Do you know whether she had any other immediate family?”

  “No. She was an only child.”

  “One more thing. Do you happen to have a key to her apartment?”

  “Yes, I actually do,” she said. “Mimi used to have a dog. Sometimes she’d go out of town for a day or two and I’d go feed and walk it.”

  “I understand. Could I stop by and get that key from you? I’m going to need to go inspect her apartment.”

  “Sure. I’ll be in and out the rest of the day. I’ll leave it with the receptionist, who’s here until six.”

  “Sounds good. Thank you very much. Oh, also, Mr. Lang’s going to ask all agents to come in tomorrow morning to meet with me and my partner, so I hope to see you then. I’ll probably have some more questions at that point. Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome. See you tomorrow morning.”

  Crawford clicked off and thought about what he’d say to Mimi Taylor’s mother. It was pretty much the same script every time, just different names. He and Ott alternated making the calls. It was a job neither one wanted.

  Claudia Detwiler was in a foul mood. The Reclining Nude murder had probably killed her sale of the house on North Lake Way, and now Jessica Donaldson wasn’t returning her calls. The drive back to her office after they found the body of Mimi Taylor had been a quiet one. Except for that little pain in the ass Willie, who’d whimpered all the way home, as if he’d just crashed his Luke Skywalker Landspeeder into a bridge abutment.

  The Palm Beach EMS team had gotten there ten minutes after Claudia put in the 911 call, and an EMT had paid particular attention to Jessica Donaldson, who seemed to be in shock. He’d offered to take her to Good Samaritan Hospital, just over the north bridge in West Palm, but she said she was okay. Her daughter and husband were doing fine and her son…well, Willie was Willie.

  Now Detectives Crawford and Ott had come to her office to interview her. The three of them sat together in the real estate agency’s conference room.

  “During the entire time you were at the house on North Lake Way, Ms. Detwiler,” Ott was asking, “did you ever see anyone else there?”

  “No,” Claudia said. “No one.”

  “And did you notice her cell phone there, by any chance?” Ott asked.

  Claudia shook her head. “No, sorry.”

  Unlike his short, stout, balding partner, Charlie Crawford looked nothing like a cop. He looked more like a male model who’d just popped out of a GQ ad (minus the snappy threads). He had burned out on high-profile homicides in New York City three years before and migrated south. Ott preceded him by a year, having left high crimes and misdemeanors in Cleveland in the rearview, along with other things he wouldn’t miss: like dirty snow and the flaming Cuyahoga River. He hooked up with Crawford almost three years back, and they had a mostly copacetic relationship. As Dominica McCarthy had observed, they had a quite functional marriage of opposites.

  “So, you and your clients walked into the house and were going through it when Mrs. Donaldson and her son and daughter walked into the master bathroom, right?” Crawford asked.

  “That’s pretty much it,” Claudia said. “I was with the husband when the wife and two kids went into the master and master bath. I ran in when I heard the screaming.”

  “Did you ever go up to the second floor?” Ott asked.

  Crawford knew what Ott was thinking. Maybe the killer had gone up there to hide if he heard Detwiler and the Donaldsons come into the house.

  “No, we never got that far,” Claudia said. “The police came, then the paramedics. We left a little while after that.”

  “We understand that Mimi Taylor was the listing agent for the house. Is that correct?” asked Crawford.

  Claudia nodded.

  “Did you make an appointment with her before going to the house?”

  “Yes, I did,” Claudia said. “She was going to show the house to my customers. I thought it was odd she wasn’t there, because she’s normally so prompt.”

  “So you’ve worked with her before?”

  “Oh, yes, quite a bit,” Claudia said.

  “Was anyone else around?” Crawford asked. “Like a landscaper maybe, or a pool man or a caretaker?”

  “Nobody that I saw,” Claudia said. “Oh, wait a minute, I forgot. I sent over my window cleaner in the morning. Maybe he saw something.”

  Ott noted that in his well-worn notebook then looked up. “What’s his name? And number, if you have it.”

  Claudia scrolled down on her iPhone. “His name is Diego. I don’t remember his last name…wait a minute, here it is, Diego Andujar.” She read Ott his phone number.

  “And, Ms. Detwiler, just so we’re totally clear,” Crawford said, “you were with the husband, Mr. Donaldson, when you heard Mrs. Donaldson screaming. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where were you?”

  “In the living room. He was admiring the view of the ocean and the beach.”

  Crawford nodded. “Did you happen to notice anybody walking away from the house toward the beach when you were looking out?”

  “No, sorry, I didn’t.”

  “You mentioned having worked with Ms. Taylor fairly frequently. Did you know her pretty well?”

  “Not that well,” Claudia said. “I just knew her as a good agent. I sold another listing of hers last year.”

  “What do you know about her?” Ott asked.

  “What do you mean? I just told you.”

  Crawford hadn’t had a chance to catch Ott up on his conversations with Arthur Lang and Carrie Nyquist.

  “I just wondered what you know about her relationships with men or her personal life in general.” Ott said.

  Claudia exhaled and glanced out the window. “I remember hearing that she had a long-standing relationship with a man, but I think they may have broken up.”

  “Do you know any more about it?” Ott asked.

  Claudia shrugged. “Sorry.”

  Crawford nodded and glanced over at Ott. “I can’t think of any more questions, for now.”

  “Me either,” Ott said, standing up. “Could we get your card in case we need to get back in touch with you?”

  “Sure.” She reached into her purse and pulled out two cards. She gave one to each of them.

  Crawford and Ott stood, facing the agent from across the conference table.

  “Oh, one last thing,” Crawford said. “Could you give us the cell phone number of Mr. or Mrs. Donaldson, please? Just in case we need to talk to them.”

  Claudia gave them the numbers. “Be my guest. I’m afraid my conversations with that family are finis.”

  On the way back to the station house, Crawford put in a call to Diego Andujar. It went to voicemail, so he left a message. “Mr. Andujar, my name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police Department. Please call me as soon as possible.” He left his number.

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” Ott asked.

  “I don’t know,” Crawford said. “Third baseman for the Yankees? Except it’s Miguel.”

  Ott shook his head. “The guy I’m thinking of boosted cars.”

  “Really?” Crawford said. “Wonder if he boosted Mimi Taylor’s.”

  “Let’s find the guy,” Ott said. “Meanwhile I’ll check him out on FDLE.” Ott was referring to a website that contained a database of individual criminal records.

  “While you’re at it, see about getting a search warrant for Mimi Taylor’s place,” Crawford said. “If you’re right about Andujar having a record, he wouldn’t be a guy I’d give access to a twelve-million-dollar house.”

  Ott smiled. “If I’m right.”

  “You were once back in 2016.”

  Ott shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You’re a hell of a funny fuck, Chuck.”

  Three

  Turned out, Ott was right. One Diego Andujar of West Palm Beach had been convicted aof car theft several years back.


  “How the hell did you recognize that name?” asked Crawford. “It’s not like you’re in burglary.”

  “’Cause the car he boosted was my neighbor’s. An old Mercedes shitbox,” Ott said. “She came over to my house bawling her brains out, telling me how much she loved the car. I told her I’d make sure to get a good guy on it. And sure enough, Benny Carbone, ace West Palm PD burglary dude, caught Andujar.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “When I first got down here. About four years ago.”

  “So I’m guessing Andujar did a couple of years and got out?”

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  “I’ll put in another call to him,” Crawford said. “And if I don’t hear anything in a couple hours, we’ll go track him down.”

  Ott nodded.

  “In the meantime, I was thinking we go around to a bunch of real estate offices in Palm Beach. Get ’em in a room and ask ’em what they know. You know, sketchy people they may have dealt with. Or maybe someone knows something about Mimi Taylor that might be helpful. I already got one set up for Sotheby’s at ten tomorrow. Next, I’m gonna talk to Rose, see what she knows.”

  Rose Clarke was the top real estate agent in Palm Beach and also a friend of Crawford’s. A close friend. A friend with benefits, to be precise.

  “I was just going to suggest that,” Ott said. “Seeing how she knows everyone.”

  “And everything,” Crawford added as he dialed her cell.

  “Hello, Charlie,” Rose answered, not sounding like her usual bubbly self. “I was wondering when I was going to hear from you.”

  “Hey, Rose,” Crawford said. “How you doing?”

  “Not too well. Poor Mimi.”

  “I know. Pretty horrible what happened,” Crawford said. “Did you know her very well?”

  “Not too well. But I liked her. She was always easy to work with.”

  “Do you know how long she was with Sotheby’s?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I’d guess about ten years.”

  “Have you heard anything at all?”

  “You mean, like how it could have happened?”

  “Yeah, or who might have done it?” Crawford asked. “We both know how the rumor mill gets cranking in this town.”

  “Oh, do we ever,” Rose said. “No, I haven’t heard anything at all, but it’s early still.”

  “I heard she had just broken up with a guy after a long relationship.”

  “Yeah, Lowell Grey. She was too good for that bum.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  Rose paused, cleared her throat. “Well, I’d describe him as one of the many guys in Palm Beach with too much money and too much time to screw around. She was better off without him.”

  “And I guess she finally figured that out,” Crawford said. “You know if she had another male friend after him? And, if so, who?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who?”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “Giovanni’s at seven thirty tonight?”

  “Deal.”

  Giovanni’s was a no-frills but exceptionally good Italian restaurant on Clematis Street in West Palm Beach.

  “That also gives you plenty of time to keep your ear to the ground and come up with a long list of suspects. Oh, also, can I ask you a big favor?”

  He heard a faint chuckle.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Me and Mort are gonna go around to real estate offices and talk to agents. Can you tell me the names of the ones we should talk to? I know a few of them. I’m going to Sotheby’s, obviously.”

  “Right,” she said. “Well, I’d start with the big ones. Corcoran, Douglas Elliman, Fite, and Brown Harris.”

  Crawford wrote the firm names in his notebook. “That’s great. Thanks, Rose.”

  “No problem. Tell me if you need more.”

  “At first, I thought about getting all you agents together in one big room somewhere.”

  “Forget it,” Rose said. “You’d need to rent out the convention center. Someone told me there’s one agent for every fifty people in Palm Beach.

  “But only one of ’em sells house like you do.”

  “Mmm,” she said. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  By five o’clock, Crawford had not heard back from Diego Andujar, so he and Ott decided to track him down. After that, they’d to go to Mimi Taylor’s condo at the south end of Palm Beach. Crawford had gone and picked up the key that Carrie Nyquist left for him at the agency, and Ott had gotten a search warrant from Judge Shanahan.

  To get started, Crawford called back Claudia Detwiler and asked if she had Diego Andujar’s address. She did. She told him he lived in a little garage apartment in West Palm and said he did occasional odd jobs for her at the houses she listed.

  He thanked her, went and got Ott, and they drove from the station on South County Road to the address in West Palm.

  The house in front and to the side of the garage apartment was a broken-down grey stucco one-story house that had numerous cracks and a broken drain pipe. A brand-new Chevy Cruze was in its driveway.

  “You know why people care more about what they drive than the dump they live in?” Ott asked.

  “Why’s that?”

  “’Cause that’s where people see ‘em the most. In their car,” Ott said. “Think about it…who ever sees them in their house except relatives and friends?”

  Crawford glanced over and shook his head. “Hang around you much longer and I’ll know the meaning of life.”

  Ott simply nodded.

  The driveway to the left of the house led to the narrow, two-story garage apartment. At the end of the driveway in front of the garage sat a dented white Geo.

  “If he still boosts cars, he would have copped something nicer than that piece of shit,” Ott said as they both got out of the Crown Vic.

  They walked up to the apartment and Crawford knocked on the door. They heard a TV on inside, but after a full minute nobody had come to the door.

  Crawford pounded on it again. Harder this time. Still nothing, except now they no longer heard the sound of the TV.

  Crawford turned, his back to the door and kicked it three times with the heel of his foot. “Open up. Police.”

  Finally, a short woman in her thirties wearing a striped top opened the door. She looked scared.

  “Mrs. Andujar?” Ott asked.

  She nodded.

  “Palm Beach Police. Where’s Diego?”

  “I do not know,” she said with a heavy Spanish accent.

  Crawford put his hands on the frame of the door and leaned forward. “Listen, if we go inside and find Diego hiding under a bed or crawling out a window, we’re gonna take him in for resisting arrest. Do you understand?”

  She was silent.

  “Do you understand?” Ott repeated loudly.

  She nodded but didn’t move.

  “So, go get him,” Ott said. “And don’t you go crawling out a window. I’d hate to have to tackle you.”

  “And you’d hate it more,” added Crawford.

  The woman turned and went back in. Crawford blocked the door from closing with his foot.

  A few moments later, a slender man in a black Puma track suit appeared. His eyes darted back and forth between the detectives, avoiding their gazes.

  “Why were you hiding?” Crawford asked.

  “I wasn’t hiding, “Andujar said.

  “Well, what do you call it when you wife says you’re not home but you are?” Ott asked.

  Andujar didn’t have an answer to that.

  “Claudia Detwiler told us you went to 1441 North Lake Way and washed the windows there this morning. Is that correct?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes, I did,” Andujar said.

  “When were you there and for how long?” Ott asked.

  “I got there at about nine and left about two and a half hours later,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “And
who did you see there when you were there?” Crawford asked.

  “No one. Ms. Detwiler told me the owners are up north somewhere.”

  “What about Mimi Taylor?” Ott asked.

  “I don’t know who that is,” Diego said.

  “You sure?” Ott said. “Nice-looking, blonde woman in her thirties? Real estate agent?”

  “I’m sorry, but there was no one else there when I was there,” Diego said.

  “Okay, I’m gonna ask you again,” said Ott. “Why were you hiding? And don’t tell us you weren’t, ’cause your wife—who doesn’t lie so well—said you weren’t here.”

  Diego sighed and looked down at his shoes. “I didn’t want to get in trouble with the police.”

  “Again, you mean?” Ott said. “Yeah, we know about your grand theft auto.”

  “He has been an honest man since that,” Diego’s wife said. “A very hardworking, honest man.”

  “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Mrs. Andujar,” Ott said. “And when did your husband get back home this morning?”

  “Around noon, or a little before that,” she said.

  “So, you cleaned those windows and came straight home?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes, I did,” Diego said.

  Ott looked over at Crawford.

  “Next time, call us back when we call you,” Crawford said.

  “I-I was going to,” Diego said lamely.

  “When?” Ott said, shaking his head. “Next month?”

  “All right, Diego,” Crawford said. Then to his wife, “Give me your cell number, too. We might need to contact you again.”

  Ott took down Diego’s number, and they walked back out to their car.

  “What did you think?” Ott asked as he started up the Crown Vic.

  “I think Diego’s got a nice, loyal wife,” Crawford said.

  “So, Diego walked out of Moore Haven Correctional and down the straight and narrow,” Ott said. “You’re not usually so trusting, Charlie.”

  “It’s not that I’m trusting, it’s just a big reach that Diego staged the body like that and had a clue what Reclining Nude even meant.”