Palm Beach Nasty Read Online Free PDF Page B

office door. Before he had a chance to say “come in,” Norm Rutledge did. Rutledge, who’d been chief of police for twelve years, was a relentless badger who had a reputation for riding his men twenty-four seven when they were on a big case. Crawford had no firsthand experience, since there had been no big cases since he’d been there. He’d heard, though, of a vice cop who’d gotten so incensed for constantly getting yelled at and second-guessed by Rutledge, that the guy had totally lost it and punched him out in his office. Dropped him like a sack of rocks. Rutledge, the story went, felt his face for blood, then got up slowly, while a big, toothy grin spread across his face. He had no problem taking one on the chin to get rid of a guy who didn’t play it his way.
    Rutledge walked into Crawford’s office and sat down. Crawford could see immediately it was going to be a double tic day. Rutledge’s left eye was batting away like a butterfly’s wing and his upper lip jerked up every few seconds like it had a fishhook in it. He was clutching the Palm Beach Reporter —nicknamed the Glossy because of the shiny paper it was printed on—in one hand. He was holding it, like if he dropped it, it would detonate.
    “Hello, Norm,” Crawford said.
    “We gotta get these fucking guys.”
    “No kiddin’,” Crawford said.
    “Bet I got fifty calls between last night and this morning”—Rutledge was world-class at drama—“from every reporter in the country plus the goddamn mayor, you name it.”
    Ott came barreling through the door like a ’roid-raged linebacker. “Hey, Charlie, look what—”
    Rutledge cut him off.
    “—Ott, I want you to hear this, too. We made the national media. Not for being the playground of the rich and famous. Not for having the most expensive real estate in the country. Or our low crime rate—”
    Crawford got ready for the big windup.
    “—but ’cause some guy got strung up on a fucking banyan tree.”
    Rutledge eyed Ott.
    “You got something?”
    “Nah,” Ott said, shaking his head, “just working a couple things.”
    Crawford could tell Ott was holding out. His breathing was amped up.
    Rutledge gave a long, dramatic exhale.
    “So neither of you got squat?”
    “Jesus Christ,” Crawford said. “It’s seven forty-five the morning after. Crime scene was clean. We haven’t even heard back from the techs yet.”
    Rutledge glared at Crawford. He flung the Glossy down on his desk.
    “And what the fuck is this all about?”
    The Glossy was 10 percent local news, 50 percent color pictures of formal-clad attendees at charity ball benefits, the rest glossy real estate ads.
    Crawford looked down at the headline.
    MURDER IN PALM BEACH. MAN HANGED AT SOUTH END.
    “What’s the question?” Crawford asked.
    “Keep reading,” Rutledge said.
    Crawford looked back down at it. The headline was more like a genteel announcement, rather than something that grabbed you by the throat in one-inch bold—à la the New York Post . The typeface was exactly the same size as yesterday’s front page, which announced sweeping zoning changes in the R-4 district.
    Then Crawford saw the subhead.
    ‘PAGE SIX’ DETECTIVE INVESTIGATES
    Swell, thought Crawford, just fucking swell. He thought he had left that behind, dead and buried. It referred to a seven-year-old, one-paragraph article that resulted in him taking endless abuse from everyone he knew and quite a few he didn’t.
    He was surprised the story had never hit Rutledge’s radar screen before, since most things had.
    “What’s that got to do with anything, Norm?”
    Ott craned his neck to read the article upside down. Unable to make it out, he grabbed for the paper. Crawford slapped his hand.
    Ott reacted like a spanked child.
    “Little sensitive there, Charlie,” Rutledge said.
    It was easy to see why the vice cop had coldcocked him.
    “I’m not real happy,” Rutledge said, “seeing one of my guys making headlines in that rag,