16.

The Island

I take I-75 south and east across the southern tip of Florida. The stretch of the highway that runs through the Everglades is called Alligator Alley because many of the reptiles can be seen sunning themselves along the banks of drainage ditches paralleling the road. Accidents happen when drivers are scanning the ditches to see the prehistoric creatures.

I merge from Alligator Alley onto I-595 east, connect to I-95 north, exit onto South Dixie Highway north, leading into West Palm Beach, and then turn onto a bridge connecting the mainland to the island of Palm Beach.

There is no guard gate to prevent the hoi polloi from crossing onto the treasured island, but sometimes a Palm Beach police cruiser is waiting to follow any car that looks suspicious, meaning any vehicle costing less than the gross national product of Luxembourg. I wave at the young officer in the cruiser. He doesn’t wave back or follow me. I guess a classic Corvette passes muster.

Locals call Palm Beach “The Island” in the way that New Yorkers call their berg “The City,” as if you’re supposed to know what they mean. As far as they’re concerned, all the right sort of people do.

More than ten thousand Palm Beach residents occupy ten square miles of some of the most prime real estate in the nation. Funny thing is, you rarely see them. The shoppers on Worth Avenue, which I think of as Net Worth Avenue, are mainly tourists; Palm Beachers have personal shoppers. When you drive through the neighborhoods, with or without a police tail, you only see landscape crews perpetually manicuring the lush lawns and gardens, as well as delivery trucks and city utility crews.

For many, if not most, Palm Beach homeowners, those multi-multimillion-dollar estates are second, third, or fourth homes, rarely occupied, and then only during The Season—winter, to the rest of us. I’ve been there then, and still saw very few homeowners in the neighborhoods. Maybe they have helipads on the roofs. You can find them in the private clubs and fancy restaurants, but I wouldn’t be admitted to the former and can’t afford the latter. Actually I can afford to eat in those restaurants, but I don’t want to pay exorbitant prices for small portions.

I make my way to South Ocean Drive, which runs north and south along the Atlantic coast. The houses are fenced, gated, and hotel-sized. “Behind every great fortune there is a crime,” Balzac wrote. I remember that quotation from a college class in comparative literature. It’s a clever phrase and was perhaps true in post-Napoleonic France. But, here on South Ocean Boulevard, I get the feeling that I’ve been transported back to that time and place. Can someone really earn all the wealth that these estates represent, by honest means? Of course they can, but not me, or anyone I know.

The wind is up, creating whitecaps on the Atlantic. A few surfers are riding boards on cresting waves, ignoring the possibility that they could become lunch for a great white shark (that has happened in recent years along this stretch of coastline).

The GPS on my cell phone directs me to a large, two-story, yellow-stucco palazzo with a green slate roof and a six-car garage. A large wrought-iron gate swings open as I approach it. I notice a security camera mounted on a tall metal post. I drive through the gate, onto a circular driveway, and park near the front door of the house.

The door opens as I’m getting out of my car. A Man Mountain, in his thirties, with a bald head, wearing a well-tailored black suit and a don’t-fuck-with-me expression, greets me by asking, “Are you Detective Starkey?”

I think about saying, “No, I’m a Jehovah’s Witness,” but I figure he isn’t in the mood to hear that joke, is armed, and might be ordered to shoot unwelcome visitors on sight, so I tell him that I am the man he named.

“Are you carrying a weapon?” he asks.

“It’s in my car.”

He pats me down anyway. If he’s pleased to not find any guns, or knives, or hypodermic needles, or that I’m not wearing a suicide vest under my white polo shirt with The Drunken Parrot logo, he doesn’t show it.

“Mr. Wainwright is out by the pool,” he says, giving his name as Alexi. “Follow me.”

Just like Lance Porter. I guess that self-styled VIPs always wait for their guests out by the pool. I follow him through the foyer, living room, and kitchen to a sliding glass door leading to the backyard. The inside of the house is all antique furniture, marble floors, oriental rugs, and oil paintings hung in elaborate wooden frames on the walls. The kitchen is professional grade. I bet that Arthur Wainwright doesn’t make his own meat loaf.

Man Mountain slides the door open and remains inside as I walk onto a back patio with a marble floor and lawn furniture, an outdoor kitchen with a gas grill, a sink, a refrigerator, and a round, wrought-iron dining table and chairs. Just beyond the patio is a swimming pool large enough to host Olympic races.

A man wearing a white bathrobe rises from a lounge chair beside the pool. He looks just like the photo of Arthur Wainwright from his website, but about ten to fifteen years older. Ah, vanity, thy name is Arthur.

He smiles warmly, offers his hand, and says, “Detective Starkey, I’m Art Wainwright. Let’s have a drink and you can tell me how I can help you with your investigation.”

We take seats at a round white wooden poolside table under a blue-and-white striped umbrella. A heavyset middle-aged Hispanic woman wearing a crisp white-and-grey maid’s uniform appears beside us. I hadn’t seen her come out of the house. Maybe she is permanently posted behind one of the nearby Calusa hedges, awaiting a signal from her boss that he needs something.

Art looks at his gold Rolex, says, “It’s cocktail hour somewhere” (it’s 11 A.M., so they’re pulling out the wine corks in Rome), tells the maid he’ll have a mimosa, and asks me what I’d like.

I assume the Wainwright household doesn’t stock Berghoff Root Beer, so I ask for a Diet Coke. My host raises his eyebrows and says, “Well, Detective, whatever floats your boat.” Not original, but I get the point. He is a player, and I’m not. The interview has not yet begun, and I’m already behind on points.

As the maid walks toward the house, Artie boy says, “You told my assistant in Tallahassee that you’re looking into the deaths of Russell Tolliver and that couple from Fort Myers …”

“Lawrence and Marion Henderson.”

“Well, Detective, I’m afraid that, after your long drive, I can’t shed any light on that. Russ was a good man and I was shocked by his death. I’ve never heard of those other people.”

I notice that he is avoiding using the word “murder.” In my experience as a homicide detective, that either means something, or not. If detecting was easy, everyone could do it.

“I’m talking to people who knew the victims to see if there’s a connection between them,” I tell him.

He spreads his hands and says, “As I told you, I knew Russ, but not, uh …”

“Lawrence and Marion Henderson.”

“Yes, them.”

I’m finding his supposed inability to remember the names of two of the murder victims to be annoying, to the point where I’d like to punch him in his aquiline nose. But that might end the interview, so instead I ask, “Do you know any reason why someone would want to harm Mr. Tolliver?”

He leans back in his chair and looks at the sky, as if the answer is up there somewhere among the fluffy white clouds, then says, “Absolutely not.” He shrugs, spreads his hands, and adds, “He owned car dealerships, you know. Maybe a dissatisfied customer?”

When I was an unmarried patrolman, I bought a used Chevy Caprice that threw a rod as I was driving it home. The salesman and the owner of the dealership were reluctant to do anything about that. I didn’t consider killing them, that would have generated a lot of paperwork, so I mentioned my cousin, who worked for the city department in charge of licensing car lots. That did the trick.

Just as the maid arrives with our drinks, the door to the house slides open. A tall young woman with short blonde hair, wearing a robe similar to Art’s, barefoot, comes out and walks toward us.

Without standing, Art says, “Detective Starkey, this is my wife, Jennifer.”

Granddaughter is more like it. Always the gentleman, I stand and say, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wainwright.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” she says as she shrugs off her robe and drapes it over one of the chairs. She’s wearing a black, two-piece bikini the width of dental floss. Killer bod. She stands on the edge of the pool, dives in, and begins swimming laps with a front crawl worthy of Michael Phelps.

“Jennifer was an All-America swimmer at the University of Florida in Gainesville,” Art tells me. “I was the commencement speaker one year, and she was my student guide.”

When I was working a serial-killer case in Naples, a town as wealthy as Palm Beach, but lower-key, I observed quite a few of these May-December relationships. The May was always young and pretty and the December was always old and rich. Whatever floats your boat.

After being distracted by Miss May, it’s time to get to the point of my visit: “I understand you’re sponsoring a piece of legislation in the House relating to offshore oil and gas drilling in the gulf, and that Mr. Tolliver was opposing the bill.”

He sips his mimosa, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and says, “That’s correct. But, while it’s true that partisan politics have gotten quite nasty in recent years, we haven’t resorted to hiring a hit man to eliminate the opposition.” He smiles and adds, “At least not yet.”

Interesting. I hadn’t mentioned a hit man. Maybe that was significant, maybe it wasn’t. Obviously detective work is not an exact science. More of a coin toss, sometimes. It doesn’t seem like Art is going to confess, and thus lose this house, whatever cars are in that garage, his household staff, and, of course, his child bride.

He checks his Rolex again and tells me, “Unless there’s something more I can help you with (as if he’d helped me) I need to get dressed for a lunch appointment.”

Jennifer finishes her laps, climbs the ladder out of the pool, and slips on her robe.

“Jennifer will show you out,” Art tells me.

I could find my own way, but I recalled that she’d guided Art around the UF campus, with an interesting result.

“I’d appreciate that,” I say.

Impure thoughts appear unbidden along the way.