looked over at the woman who now had her top back on and pretended to be absorbed in her Vanity Fair.
Ott motioned with his hand.
“Would you mind stepping over here, Mr. Jaynes?”
Jaynes hesitated, then followed Ott and Crawford out of earshot of the woman.
“The girl claims you had sex with her on several occasions,” Ott said, lowering his voice.
“Really?” Jaynes said, folding his arms over his chest.
“Really,” said Ott.
“Well, that’s complete bullshit. You wouldn’t believe all the shit I get accused of,” Jaynes said. “People trying to hold me up for every goddamn thing under the sun. It’s a hell of a burden, Mort, being so damn rich.”
“I feel your pain, Mr. Jaynes . . . Her brother, you ever meet him?”
Jaynes’s eyes drifted over to Crawford.
“I don’t remember you being mute, Charlie,” Jaynes said. “What? You trying to get a read on me or something?”
Crawford smiled.
“So you can blindside me with a couple tough questions? That it, Charlie . . . that your plan?”
Crawford gestured to Ott.
“My partner asked you a question.”
Jaynes smirked and turned back to Ott.
“Yeah, I met the brother. Nice redneck kid, nothing much going on under that John Deere hat. He was his sister’s ride, one time he came to the door and I met him. Too bad about what happened.”
“So you don’t know anything about it?” Ott asked.
“Hey, I’m just a guy who trades stocks . . . not goddamn Tony Soprano.”
“Misty’s only sixteen, you know,” Ott said.
“You gotta be older to give massages?”
Ott stepped into Jaynes’s space, then, barely above a whisper: “Got a thing for ponytails and lollipops do you, Mr. Jaynes?”
“You’re fuckin’ with the wrong guy, Mort,” said Jaynes, glaring at Ott, then catching himself. “But I like your interrogational style.”
“How many times did Misty come over?” Crawford asked.
Jaynes turned to Crawford, shading his eyes from the sun.
“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”
Crawford was watching Jaynes’s reactions. He showed as much as a top Texas Hold ’Em player. Crawford glanced over at the woman. Her head was still buried in the Vanity Fair , cigarette smoke rising up from behind it.
“Not that you asked, Mort,” Jaynes said, turning to Ott, “but a friend of Charlie’s came over to my house a couple times, too.”
The woman peered up over the magazine, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She was struggling to hear.
“You do know who I mean, don’t you . . . Charlie?”
Crawford forced a smile.
“An unpaid masseuse . . . with magic fingers,” Jaynes said. “Liliana Fonseca.”
Ott’s mouth dropped a full inch.
“Yeah,” Jaynes said, “girl’s just crazy about shiatsu.”
Crawford wanted to rip the grin off his face.
Jaynes walked back over to his chaise longue next to the girl and lay down on it.
“All right, we’re done now, fellas, I’m bored,” Jaynes said, looking up at them. “Time for you boys to run along and chase some real bad guys.”
But Ott wasn’t done.
“Where were you last Friday afternoon, Mr. Jaynes?”
Jaynes shook his head and looked put-upon.
“Let me get this straight, Mort . . . are you asking if I went down to that park and hung that kid? Is that your question?”
The girl set down her Vanity Fair on the pool deck.
“Where were you, Mr. Jaynes?” Ott asked again.
“Mort, just think for a minute . . . if I wanted to do something to that kid, you really think I’d get my hands dirty. I mean, come on, get real.”
The girl sat up in the chaise.
“Just for the record, officers,” she said, thrusting out her breasts, “Mr. Jaynes was right here with me . . . making mad, passionate love . . . from sunup to past sundown.”
Crawford walked over to her.
“Thanks for sharing that,” he said, then looked over at Jaynes. “But your little red Ferrari went over the Southern bridge somewhere between seven and eight that
Ott motioned with his hand.
“Would you mind stepping over here, Mr. Jaynes?”
Jaynes hesitated, then followed Ott and Crawford out of earshot of the woman.
“The girl claims you had sex with her on several occasions,” Ott said, lowering his voice.
“Really?” Jaynes said, folding his arms over his chest.
“Really,” said Ott.
“Well, that’s complete bullshit. You wouldn’t believe all the shit I get accused of,” Jaynes said. “People trying to hold me up for every goddamn thing under the sun. It’s a hell of a burden, Mort, being so damn rich.”
“I feel your pain, Mr. Jaynes . . . Her brother, you ever meet him?”
Jaynes’s eyes drifted over to Crawford.
“I don’t remember you being mute, Charlie,” Jaynes said. “What? You trying to get a read on me or something?”
Crawford smiled.
“So you can blindside me with a couple tough questions? That it, Charlie . . . that your plan?”
Crawford gestured to Ott.
“My partner asked you a question.”
Jaynes smirked and turned back to Ott.
“Yeah, I met the brother. Nice redneck kid, nothing much going on under that John Deere hat. He was his sister’s ride, one time he came to the door and I met him. Too bad about what happened.”
“So you don’t know anything about it?” Ott asked.
“Hey, I’m just a guy who trades stocks . . . not goddamn Tony Soprano.”
“Misty’s only sixteen, you know,” Ott said.
“You gotta be older to give massages?”
Ott stepped into Jaynes’s space, then, barely above a whisper: “Got a thing for ponytails and lollipops do you, Mr. Jaynes?”
“You’re fuckin’ with the wrong guy, Mort,” said Jaynes, glaring at Ott, then catching himself. “But I like your interrogational style.”
“How many times did Misty come over?” Crawford asked.
Jaynes turned to Crawford, shading his eyes from the sun.
“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”
Crawford was watching Jaynes’s reactions. He showed as much as a top Texas Hold ’Em player. Crawford glanced over at the woman. Her head was still buried in the Vanity Fair , cigarette smoke rising up from behind it.
“Not that you asked, Mort,” Jaynes said, turning to Ott, “but a friend of Charlie’s came over to my house a couple times, too.”
The woman peered up over the magazine, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She was struggling to hear.
“You do know who I mean, don’t you . . . Charlie?”
Crawford forced a smile.
“An unpaid masseuse . . . with magic fingers,” Jaynes said. “Liliana Fonseca.”
Ott’s mouth dropped a full inch.
“Yeah,” Jaynes said, “girl’s just crazy about shiatsu.”
Crawford wanted to rip the grin off his face.
Jaynes walked back over to his chaise longue next to the girl and lay down on it.
“All right, we’re done now, fellas, I’m bored,” Jaynes said, looking up at them. “Time for you boys to run along and chase some real bad guys.”
But Ott wasn’t done.
“Where were you last Friday afternoon, Mr. Jaynes?”
Jaynes shook his head and looked put-upon.
“Let me get this straight, Mort . . . are you asking if I went down to that park and hung that kid? Is that your question?”
The girl set down her Vanity Fair on the pool deck.
“Where were you, Mr. Jaynes?” Ott asked again.
“Mort, just think for a minute . . . if I wanted to do something to that kid, you really think I’d get my hands dirty. I mean, come on, get real.”
The girl sat up in the chaise.
“Just for the record, officers,” she said, thrusting out her breasts, “Mr. Jaynes was right here with me . . . making mad, passionate love . . . from sunup to past sundown.”
Crawford walked over to her.
“Thanks for sharing that,” he said, then looked over at Jaynes. “But your little red Ferrari went over the Southern bridge somewhere between seven and eight that
Similar Books
