Palm Beach Nasty Read Online Free PDF

how does it work, getting into the Poinciana?”
    “You plan on joining?”
    He laughed.
    “First, you need to know a lot of members,” she was slurring now.
    “Keep going,” he said, leaning forward, avoiding her aggressive cleavage.
    “Then, someone proposes you, says you’re a really swell guy, how lucky the Poinciana would be to have you, where you work, what your handicap is—”
    “You mean . . . that thing in golf?”
    “Exactly, the lower the better.”
    Nick remembered that Jordan Baker, his favorite character in Gatsby, had a really low one. Cheated, too. He loved that about her.
    “Okay, so what happens after that?”
    Cynthia straightened up and looked very earnest.
    “I really can’t tell you anything else. I get into the secret handshakes and they fire me on the spot.”
    Nick forced a laugh.
    “Hey, buddy . . . you mind?” said a voice, halfway down the bar.
    He realized he was seriously neglecting his other customers. A woman was waving and pointing at her empty glass. He saw a guy at the far end, stabbing a finger at his mouth, like in five seconds he was going to die of thirst. He was sure the patrician patrons at the Poinciana weren’t ill-mannered like these louts.
    “Be right back.”
    In a whirl of glasses, ice cubes, bottles, olives and lemons, Nick made four drinks, then returned.
    “Back to my favorite customer.”
    She gave him a cockeyed grin. The fourth Blast had kicked in.
    “Fanghu . . . Nig.”
    Christ. She better not be driving.
    He realized there was so much more he needed to get out of her. He decided to call her a cab. It would be a terrible thing if she stumbled out of Viggo’s, got into her car and plowed into a ficus tree.
    Once he got everything out of her that he needed . . . she could slam into a brick wall going a hundred, for all he cared.

SIX
    Crawford was at the station house at six the next morning. He usually punched in at eight. But he knew that in Palm Beach you caught a case like this once in a lifetime and damn well better make the best of it.
    A half hour later, Ott walked into Crawford’s office.
    “So this guy who works in my building knew all about the crime scene, like he was there,” Crawford said, putting his lukewarm Dunkin’ Donuts down on his desk.
    Ott nodded and plunked himself down opposite Crawford.
    “I get the idea Rutledge never taught his bags to keep quiet about crime scene shit,” Ott said.
    “I hear you,” Crawford said. “Or much of anything else.”

    T HE NIGHT before, Misty Bill had ID’ed her brother.
    The three had gone to the Criminal Justice Complex at Gun Club Road, and met with the forensic investigator, who had given her the option of identifying Darryl from a picture. But Misty insisted on seeing her brother. They had cleaned up Darryl as best they could, but his face was bloated, discolored and bruised on the left cheekbone, a towel covering his chest. A signboard with a case number was on top of the towel.
    Crawford saw a few tears fall onto the towel, then watched as Misty slowly bent down and kissed her brother on the cheek. A second later as she straightened out, her legs buckled and Crawford stepped forward quickly and caught her before she fell. She smiled at him, said “thank you” and walked out the door.
    Crawford and Ott started going through databases, seeing what they could dig up on Darryl Bill. Ott had logged on to one known as Autotrac and was now on another called DAVID, which stored records of everything from shoplifting and moving violations on up to misdemeanors and felonies. Crawford was surfing a site called Florida Crime Information Center. Judging by Misty’s reaction to cops showing up on her doorstep, they were pretty sure they’d find a sheet on Darryl. And just to cover their bases, Crawford decided to add Misty to their search. Something told him she might be a few merit badges shy of Girl Scout.
    Crawford was on his second Dunkin’ Donuts coffee when he heard a knock on his