Palm Beach Nasty by Tom Turner Read Free Book Online

Crawford said, staring him down. “Girl’s not some skagged-out hooker from the crack side of Cleveland.”
    “Come on, Charlie, I—”
    “Just cool it.”
    Crawford turned and went back inside. Ott followed him.
    Misty looked scared. Like she didn’t like being left alone.
    “I’ll say it again, Misty,” Crawford said. “Our job is to protect you, make sure nothing happens to you. For all we know, some guys could show up tonight.”
    That knocked a little color out of her face.
    “We need you to work with us.”
    She started to say something, then stopped.
    “What?” Crawford asked.
    “Nothing,” Misty said.
    Crawford knew now was the time to walk out, when her doubts were stacking high.
    “Okay,” he said, heading toward the door, “we’ll be in touch. You need us . . . you call.”
    They walked out the front door and got into the car.
    Ott stuck the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it.
    “Tough little cookie.”
    Crawford nodded. “Yeah, who’s got a million secrets.”
    Crawford grabbed the car door, opened it up, got out and went back inside. He told Misty he was taking her down to the station.
    When she protested, he said he didn’t want to hear it.

EIGHT
    F or one thing, Crawford wanted to get her out of the comfort zone of her house. For another, he had a genuine fear for her safety. Not that he could keep her at the station, but at least, if she was in jeopardy, she’d be safe for a while.
    She followed them in her car and they took her straight into the soft room. It was minimal on interior decoration: a black Naugahyde easy chair, a sofa with foam cushions and plastic flowers. Marginally better than the hard room next door with its stiff wooden chairs, industrial tile floor and forty-watt light. That was where they interrogated the hard-core guys.
    Misty sat down in the chair, Crawford and Ott stood. They wanted to have height on her.
    “I’m gonna say it again,” Crawford said, “whatever you tell us is confidential.”
    “But you hold back and all bets are off,” Ott said.
    She eyed him coldly.
    “We’re going to record this, too,” Ott said.
    She nodded.
    Ott flipped the switch.
    “Okay, Misty, we’re all ears.”
    Misty fumbled for a cigarette.
    “Can’t smoke in here,” Ott said.
    Crawford overruled him.
    “Just one’s okay.” He handed her an empty Coke can to use as an ashtray.
    Her hands were shaking. It took three matches to get her cigarette lit.
    “So tell us all about you, Darryl and Ward Jaynes,” Crawford said.
    She took a drag on her cigarette down to her toes.
    “Darryl kept saying Ward was our pot of gold. How we’d never have to work another day in our lives. Corvettes and caviar, he kept saying. Like he had a clue what caviar was.”
    “So Darryl tried to blackmail him?” Ott asked.
    Misty didn’t react.
    “Is that what happened?” Ott turned up the volume.
    She nodded.
    “I want the answer in words.”
    “Yes.”
    Darryl against Jaynes, Crawford thought, like David versus Goliath, minus the slingshot. He remembered a few more things he’d read about Jaynes, back when he and Jaynes were in the city at the same time. The guy was one of those very visible New York guys you read about. Self-obsessed lords of the teetering Wall Street cosmos—before anyone knew the underpinnings were rusted out and collapsing, back when everyone thought it was balls to the wall . . . up, up, and away.
    “How much was Darryl after?” Crawford asked.
    “A million dollars.”
    “I figured,” Ott said, eyeing Crawford. “Chump change.”
    “Misty,” Crawford said, “did Darryl have Jaynes on tape? Pictures? Or what?”
    She didn’t move.
    “Tell us,” Crawford said.
    She squirmed.
    “Yes, photos,” she said.
    Crawford cocked his head and looked over at Ott.
    “Of what exactly?” Ott asked.
    She sighed.
    “I never saw them,” she said. “Darryl just said they were enough to put Ward away for a long time.”
    Crawford moved a step closer to