Palm Beach Perfidious, page 3
Crawford had his iPhone out and typed in the number as Wurfel recited it.
He looked up at Wurfel. “You say this woman, Waverly, worked for Antonia. What exactly was it that Antonia did?”
Wurfel shook his head. “It’s still hard for me to put her in the past tense… but Antoinette was a high-end matchmaker.” Theory confirmed. “Ran a classy dating service.”
“The dating service was very good to her,” Crawford said.
“Oh, you mean, the house in Palm Beach.”
“Yeah. What else?”
“Oh, a nice, big JP Morgan mutual fund.”
“How much was that worth?”
“You think she’d tell me?”
“Who else worked for Antonia? Or was it just Waverly?”
Wurfel cocked his head. “Just Bang-Bang. Did a helluva job.”
Crawford glanced out of the garage and across the street at a beige two-story Mediterranean. “This neighborhood, LV, not too shabby. You’ve done all right for yourself.”
“That’s ’cause it was my idea in the first place, the dating service. She just took it to another level, added a few wrinkles, then at some point decided she didn’t need me anymore.” He shook his head at the memory. “Kicked me to the curb. Booted me out as her partner… and husband.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. By then she had a boyfriend… maybe two, on the QT.”
“When you say, ‘took it to another level, added a few wrinkles,’ how so?”
“Well, for one thing, she’d advertise in high-class publications like the Glossy or those other society magazines.”
“Society magazines?”
“Yeah, like there’s one called Palm Beach Society and another one… shit, I forget, Worth Avenue or something. You know, pictures of fancy people all duded up, smiling their plastic smiles, posing in front of their Bentleys.”
“So, advertise… what exactly would she advertise?”
“So for fifty thousand dollars, she would fix up men and women alike with—what was the phrase she came up with—oh yeah: ‘Extraordinarily accomplished people of means who want the very best in companionship one imagines life can offer.’ Some horseshit like that. Back when I was with her, we were averaging about twenty-five to thirty customers a year, so do the math: grossing 1.25 to 1.5 million with not much overhead. Just twenty-five grand or so on advertising. Plus, Waverly’s salary, maybe 150 grand, total.”
Crawford was still jolted by the initial figure. “Wait a minute, fifty grand? People paid that much?”
Wurfel nodded vigorously. “Yup. I mean we started much lower but as we classed it up, we made it really exclusive. People paid the fifty, no questions asked.”
“That’s incredible.” Crawford had done the math. “So Antonia would pocket somewhere between like one million and 1.25 million a year?”
“Minus ten percent to me.”
“So you’d get around a hundred every year?”
“Yeah, pretty lame considering I came up with the whole thing in the first place.”
“Yes, but like you said, she came up with a bunch of profitable wrinkles.”
“That she did. I’ll give her that.”
Crawford heard the rumble of what sounded like motorcycles off in the distance.
“Oh, here come the boys,” said LV, walking out of the garage as five motorcycles, three from the Harley-Davidson family and two from the Indian family, rolled up LV’s driveway, a sudden storm of noise echoing through the quiet neighborhood.
Crawford followed LV out of the garage. LV waved to the five bikers and turned back to Crawford. “We’re off on another run. Up to Daytona to see a race. Just for the day.”
“I need to ask you some more questions,” Crawford said.
“Make it quick, bro. I gotta clean up and the hit the road.”
Crawford thought for a second. “All right, tell you what, why don’t you come by my station house tomorrow instead.”
“Okay, you got it,” LV said. “Maybe hit you up with a few more jokes too.”
“I hope not.”
Crawford saw a blond woman in baby blue golf shorts, a pink sleeveless top and cream-colored golf shoes run across the street in their direction. She was coming right at them and stopped in front of Crawford.
“I saw your car,” she said. “Are you a policeman?”
“Ah, yes, ma’am, I am. Detective Crawford. Is there a problem?”
“A problem? Yes, there’s a big problem. That ear-splitting noise. Those god-awful motorcycles. They’re disrupting this neighborhood, and it’s not the first time.”
LV stepped forward. “Mrs. Truesdale, I’m LV; we met before. Me and my friends are about to leave. Sorry, I’ll get them to turn off their bikes.”
LV turned to the five riders and made a twisting sign to turn their engines off.
One by one, they did.
Mrs. Truesdale squinted at LV and put both hands on her hips. “‘Bikes’ you call them, I wish that’s what they were. Then they wouldn’t make all that racket.”
LV looked at Crawford for help. Crawford smiled at Mrs. Truesdale. ‘“Bikes’ is just a nickname for motorcycles, Mrs. Truesdale. Don’t worry, they’ll be gone in a few minutes.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Crawford could see a couple with two fluffy poodles walking toward them at a brisk pace. They were most assuredly not coming to welcome the motorcyclists to the neighborhood.
Mrs. Truesdale turned to them as they approached and said to the man. “Don’t worry, Harold, I’ve got things under control.”
Harold gave Mrs. Truesdale a wink. “You always do, Lena. You always do.”
Crawford turned to LV. “All right. So, my office at nine?”
“I’ll be there,” LV said, then with a smile. “You like donuts, Detective?”
“No, I’m good,” Crawford said.
By then he’d have had his fill.
FIVE
After leaving the victim’s mansion more or less empty-handed, Mort Ott knew that getting into Antonia von Habsburg’s MacBook Air and iPhone were his best remaining shot at gleaning some solid clues about her murder, so he made that his top priority. So later that morning, Ott dropped by crime-scene tech Dominica McCarthy’s cubicle, only to find she wasn’t in. Ott left her a note, along with the vic’s laptop and phone:
Dominica,
How ’bout being a hero and cracking von Habsburg for us? Just do your magic and figure out how to open one or both of these things.
Mort
He got a call back an hour later from Dominica. “You would have to give me Apple products.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re the toughest ones to crack into without a password.”
“Is there a ‘but’ here?”
“You know me too well,” Dominica said. “But… I did manage to get into the iPhone. Lots of names in her Contacts.”
“You’re the best. How’d you do it?”
“Come on, Mort. A magician never reveals her secrets. I’m still working on the computer.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Three minutes later he was at her cubicle.
She looked up and he bumped fists with her. “Thank God for cops like you.”
“Thank you, Mort. But I’m not sure I’ve ever been called a cop before.”
“Hey, we’re both cops. I’m the detective variety and you’re the crime-scene evidence tech variety.”
“There you go,” she said, handing him the iPhone. “So get your clues out of this and put someone in the slammer by the end of the day.”
“Wish I could… but that might be pushing it a little.”
*****
He called Crawford immediately to tell him about the phone.
“Girl’s good,” Crawford said.
“You would know.”
Crawford didn’t dignify that, but twenty minutes later was in Ott’s office.
“So whaddaya got so far?” he asked.
“I got a list of names like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Like who?”
“Well, you remember that list of billionaires the Glossy published a couple months back?” Ott asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, so far I got four guys from that list and, surprise, surprise, one woman. And guess what, three of the men and the one woman are married.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Yeah, and I’ve also got two aging rock-and-roll legends, a big-time actor now in his seventies, a bestselling author, and I’m only up to the Ns.”
“Wow, you hit the jackpot.”
“Dominica hit it for us. I’m just reading names and numbers,” he said. “So what about Larry Victor Wurfel?”
“My biker buddy? We’re on friendly terms now. Even asked me to call him LV,” Crawford said. “He also confirmed what we already suspected. That Antonia ran a dating service, an ultra-high-end one. Cost fifty grand to play. But I got a feeling there’s a lot more to it than a simple dating service. He’s coming in here tomorrow morning so we can both question him. He also gave me the name and number of a woman who worked for Antonia who I’m about to call.”
“You’re shittin’ me. The thing cost fifty grand?”
“Yeah, but that’s not a big shocker based on the list of players you found.”
“So what are we gonna do about that list?”
Crawford thought for a moment. “Before we do anything or question any of ’em, let’s start with the woman who worked for Antonia. Try to get a handle on the ins and outs of the whole thing”—Crawford realized what he had said—“so to speak. Save the fat cats for last. Once we’ve got a better handle on the operation.”
“Makes sense. I called that woman DeeDee but she didn’t pick up—surprise, surprise. Who’s the woman you’re calling?”
“Name’s Waverly Bangs.”
Ott laughed. “Waverly Bangs. I love it. You s’pose that’s actually the name on her birth certificate?”
“Somehow I’m thinking that might be an alias.”
“Somehow I think you’re right. Sounds like the name of one of James Bond’s hussies.”
“All right, I’m gonna go back to my office and call her now.”
“Waverly?”
Crawford nodded.
“Want a little privacy for your call, do ya?”
“Jesus, Mort. You never quit.”
*****
“Ms. Bangs?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“My name is Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police Department.”
Click.
This wasn’t the first hang-up Crawford had ever had. In fact, over the last eighteen years, he had probably been hung up on between fifty and a hundred times. Maybe more.
So he did what he always did. Called back.
Second go-round, he always got either an answering machine or endless rings.
This was an answering machine.
“This is Wave. You know what to do.”
“Ms. Bangs, it’s Detective Crawford again. It’s very important I speak with you. So call back as soon as possible, or come to the Palm Beach Police Department at 345 South County Road in Palm Beach. It’s not a good idea to ignore this message. You could get into a lot of trouble if you do.”
That was his standard message. If someone was innocent or had nothing to hide, it usually was enough to get them to respond pretty fast. In his experience, hang-ups were most often caused by panic reflexes at hearing the words “Palm Beach Police,” not by being guilty of a crime. It was not every day you got a call from a detective, and most people probably went through their entire lives never getting one. Those who had probably didn’t consider themselves among the fortunate.
Twenty minutes later, Crawford got a call on his cell. It was Waverly Bangs.
“Detective Crawford?”
“Yes, Ms. Bangs.”
“Sorry, I had another call on call waiting and disconnected you by accident.” Yeah, sure, likely story. “Anyway, here I am.”
“Where exactly are you, Ms. Bangs? I’d like to come talk to you face-to-face.”
“About Antonia, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m at 2600 North Flagler in West Palm, the Northwood area.”
“Okay, I’m going to leave right now. Be there in ten minutes.”
She sighed like she wasn’t thrilled with the idea. “Okay, I’ll tell the doorman to expect you.”
“See you shortly,” Crawford said and clicked off.
*****
Fifteen minutes later, Crawford was in the living room of Waverly Bangs’s apartment overlooking the Intracoastal and Palm Beach off in the distance.
“Beautiful view,” he said.
“I bought it for the view—” she began, but was interrupted by the sudden noise of an electric drill and a power saw. “Oh my God, here they go again. I call this building ‘The Noise Palace.’ Friend of mine here calls it ‘The Jackhammer Arms.’”
“It is kind of loud,” Crawford said.
“What?”
He raised his voice. “I said, it is kind of loud.”
“No kidding,” she said. “I complain, nobody listens.”
“So, Ms. Bangs, Larry Victor Wurfel gave me your name and number, said you worked for Antonia von Habsburg.”
Bangs nodded. “Such a terrible thing, what happened to her. I mean how could anybody…” Her voice trailed off as the pounding of a hammer joined the chorus of electric drills and saws. “Sorry about that,” she shouted. “Friend I mentioned calls that racket the ‘Portofino Philharmonic’… sorry, where were we?”
Crawford raised his voice. “Tell me about the business. All I know is that it was a very high-end dating service. And while you’re at it, I’d like to hear any thoughts you might have on who might have killed Ms. von Habsburg.”
Waverly Bangs glanced away from Crawford and started tapping her fingers on the side of her chair. She was a large woman with bleached blond hair and striking, emerald eyes. She wore sweat pants and a loose-fitting white T-shirt with a swoosh on it.
“We charged a lot because we had the best clientele in the world. I mean that literally. Antonia was the most discriminating woman you could ever meet. She interviewed candidates at least three times, sometimes more. I mean, just vetted them to death. Only about twenty percent of people who applied and who she interviewed actually made the cut. It was like getting into Harvard or something.”
“And I know she charged a small fortune,” Crawford said.
“Yeah, fifty thousand up to seventy-five for the really, really wealthy ones.”
Crawford shook his head. “Seventy-five thousand? I find that just incredible,” he said. “For how many names and numbers?”
“Ten.” Waverly said. “But they were the absolute crème de la crème.”
“You’re talking about women now?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Because you also catered to women. Correct?”
“Yes, but very few of them.”
Crawford leaned toward her. “Define what you mean by that, please? Crème de la crème?”
“What don’t you understand? The most beautiful women around.”
“Yeah, but also what they were like, their characteristics?” Crawford said. “I already made the assumption they were beautiful.”
“That’s for sure,” she said, her fingers back to tapping. “Well, okay, so… intelligent, classy, funny, well-bred, articulate, possessing good manners…”
“And the men? The clients.”
“Wealthy.”
“So that was it? They just had to be rich?”
“I said wealthy. There’s a difference.”
“There is?”
“Sure. Rich is more a nouveau thing; wealthy is more… old money.”
Crawford shrugged. “Who knew? So are you saying that she rejected nouveau riche men?”
Waverly thought a second, tugging at a blond forelock. “Ah, no, she just preferred old-money guys. Told me they were better behaved.”
“Behaved?”
“Yeah, you know.”
Not really, but he could guess.
“So the men just had to be wealthy or rich, and hopefully well-behaved… but weren’t always.”
She laughed and nodded.
“Back to my second question, who do you think might have killed her?”
A double shoulder shrug. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to speculate a little.”
“Please do.”
“Well, I’d look into her boyfriend for one. Though, truth is, she had more than one.”
“What’s his name and why do you mention him?”
“Jimmy Marston’s his name, and because he found out she was messing around with one of the clients. The two had a pretty hot and heavy thing going for a while.”
“What’s the client’s name, and how would I find Jimmy Marston?”
“No clue about the client, she didn’t tell me everything. And Jimmy Marston works at one of those fancy trust companies on Royal Palm Way. Starts with a B, I think.”
“Bessemer Trust?”
“No.”
It was time for Crawford to thrum his fingers on his chair. “Oh, I know, Brown Brothers Harriman, maybe?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”
“Okay, so who else? On the list of potential killers of Antonia?”
Waverly cocked her head and put a finger up to her lip. “Well, there was this English guy she went out with for a while. I think he was after her for her money. You know those Brits, never have any money, always looking for the gravy train.”
“I’ll take your word for it. But what was his name?”
“I can’t remember now. One of those Brit names. You know like Oliver, Nigel, Alfie or… Cuthbert.”
Crawford laughed.
“What?”
“I just don’t remember running across a lot of Cuthberts, British or otherwise.”
Waverly shrugged again. “Sorry, I just don’t remember the name.”
“What do you think about LV Wurfel?”
“As Antonia’s killer? Nah, no way. Why do you say him?”
