they wanted to get him for a whole lot more than that.
Ott was going to lead it off. Crawford just wanted to observe for a while.
The front door looked to be twelve feet high and heavy, like you had to be a weight lifter to muscle it open. Ott pressed the buzzer and waited.
Nobody answered.
“Where the hell’s Jeeves?” he asked.
Crawford shrugged and studied the door. It looked like it was imported from some medieval castle in Bavaria.
Ott pressed the buzzer again. They waited a few seconds then walked down the steps.
They walked around the side of the house. Ott shouted “hello” a couple of times, then tried “anyone home?” No response.
They walked along the east side of the house down a cast-stone path and passed through a cluster of podocarpus hedges on one side and ancient-looking trees with gnarly trunks on the other. As they got to the end of it, the view opened up wide and there was a big, eye-popping ocean vista. Crawford stopped to take it in. Now he got what all the fuss was about—living on the ocean—looking out at that jaw-dropping view all day long. Fifty feet away he could see the end of a pool. It was the infinity-edged kind, where the water comes up all the way to the top, flows over the sides, then recycles back into the pool. It created the effect that the pool and ocean were connected—one long, floating body of water. Crawford wondered what the price tag on a pool like it was. His eyes drifted over to the pool house. It had a row of six squatty, powerful-looking columns in front like a mini-Parthenon.
“Who the hell are you?” a man’s voice boomed out as they got to the pool.
Crawford and Ott looked hard left and saw two people at the far end. They were bolt upright in their chaise lounges and wore less than welcoming looks. One was a 90 percent naked woman, wearing a thin yellow strip of cloth around her hips and doing her best to cover her bare breasts, which peeked through her long, tan fingers.
The other one was Ward Jaynes.
Jaynes, in a green bathing suit, was around six feet tall, had dark hair flecked with gray and clenched a cell phone in one hand. Crawford saw it right away—the long scar on his shoulder—but another thing caught him completely by surprise. Jaynes had the muscle definition of a three-hour-a-day gym rat. He hardly thought of guys who shorted stocks as being cut and chiseled. But Jaynes was.
Jaynes came charging at them like he was going to head butt them into the ocean.
“Who the hell are you?” he repeated. He smelled of suntan lotion and sweat.
“My name is Detective Ott, Palm Beach police,” Ott said, taking a step toward Jaynes. “This is my partner, Detective Crawford; we’re investigating the murder in South Palm.”
“You’re the guy from Cleveland . . . Mort, right?” A grin spread across Jaynes’s face, then he looked at Crawford, “And you . . . the big-time New York hero cop. Went out with that actress . . . well, welcome, boys.”
Jaynes nodded like a man quite happy with himself.
Crawford was surprised, but not much. Jaynes had done his homework.
Crawford had read about how Jaynes would tear into a company’s books, memorize every figure on the balance sheet, then hire guys to dig up dirt on CEOs who used company jets and secretaries for their own personal use. “Relentless” and “ruthless,” were two words that came up a lot in the articles.
“Mind if we ask you a few questions, Mr. Jaynes?” Ott asked.
“Not at all, fire away.” Jaynes smiled, like he could use a little amusement.
“We’re investigating that homicide. Victim’s name is Darryl Bill. He had a sister—”
“Yeah,” Jaynes said. “Misty or Christie, depending on the day.”
“So you knew her?”
“ ’Course, I know her,” Jaynes said, glancing at Crawford. “You knew that or else you wouldn’t be here. You interviewing her other clients, too?”
“Clients?”
“Sure, I’m not the only guy she gave massages to.”
Ott
Ott was going to lead it off. Crawford just wanted to observe for a while.
The front door looked to be twelve feet high and heavy, like you had to be a weight lifter to muscle it open. Ott pressed the buzzer and waited.
Nobody answered.
“Where the hell’s Jeeves?” he asked.
Crawford shrugged and studied the door. It looked like it was imported from some medieval castle in Bavaria.
Ott pressed the buzzer again. They waited a few seconds then walked down the steps.
They walked around the side of the house. Ott shouted “hello” a couple of times, then tried “anyone home?” No response.
They walked along the east side of the house down a cast-stone path and passed through a cluster of podocarpus hedges on one side and ancient-looking trees with gnarly trunks on the other. As they got to the end of it, the view opened up wide and there was a big, eye-popping ocean vista. Crawford stopped to take it in. Now he got what all the fuss was about—living on the ocean—looking out at that jaw-dropping view all day long. Fifty feet away he could see the end of a pool. It was the infinity-edged kind, where the water comes up all the way to the top, flows over the sides, then recycles back into the pool. It created the effect that the pool and ocean were connected—one long, floating body of water. Crawford wondered what the price tag on a pool like it was. His eyes drifted over to the pool house. It had a row of six squatty, powerful-looking columns in front like a mini-Parthenon.
“Who the hell are you?” a man’s voice boomed out as they got to the pool.
Crawford and Ott looked hard left and saw two people at the far end. They were bolt upright in their chaise lounges and wore less than welcoming looks. One was a 90 percent naked woman, wearing a thin yellow strip of cloth around her hips and doing her best to cover her bare breasts, which peeked through her long, tan fingers.
The other one was Ward Jaynes.
Jaynes, in a green bathing suit, was around six feet tall, had dark hair flecked with gray and clenched a cell phone in one hand. Crawford saw it right away—the long scar on his shoulder—but another thing caught him completely by surprise. Jaynes had the muscle definition of a three-hour-a-day gym rat. He hardly thought of guys who shorted stocks as being cut and chiseled. But Jaynes was.
Jaynes came charging at them like he was going to head butt them into the ocean.
“Who the hell are you?” he repeated. He smelled of suntan lotion and sweat.
“My name is Detective Ott, Palm Beach police,” Ott said, taking a step toward Jaynes. “This is my partner, Detective Crawford; we’re investigating the murder in South Palm.”
“You’re the guy from Cleveland . . . Mort, right?” A grin spread across Jaynes’s face, then he looked at Crawford, “And you . . . the big-time New York hero cop. Went out with that actress . . . well, welcome, boys.”
Jaynes nodded like a man quite happy with himself.
Crawford was surprised, but not much. Jaynes had done his homework.
Crawford had read about how Jaynes would tear into a company’s books, memorize every figure on the balance sheet, then hire guys to dig up dirt on CEOs who used company jets and secretaries for their own personal use. “Relentless” and “ruthless,” were two words that came up a lot in the articles.
“Mind if we ask you a few questions, Mr. Jaynes?” Ott asked.
“Not at all, fire away.” Jaynes smiled, like he could use a little amusement.
“We’re investigating that homicide. Victim’s name is Darryl Bill. He had a sister—”
“Yeah,” Jaynes said. “Misty or Christie, depending on the day.”
“So you knew her?”
“ ’Course, I know her,” Jaynes said, glancing at Crawford. “You knew that or else you wouldn’t be here. You interviewing her other clients, too?”
“Clients?”
“Sure, I’m not the only guy she gave massages to.”
Ott
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