Free Palm Beach Nasty by Tom Turner

swipe. Her bra dropped to the carpet. He pulled her toward him, her breasts pressed up against his chest. He slid his two hands under her skirt and cupped her tight, round ass. Her hand found its way through the slit in his boxers and brought him out. In one motion he dropped her skirt and underpants and entered her. She grabbed his shoulders, then pulled herself up and put her legs around his hips, leaning back slightly.
    He was surprised—not unpleasantly—at how athletic she was.
    “Quite the little gymnast,” he said.
    She smiled up at him, her fierce blue eyes blazing, challenging him.

    T HIS TIME Lil motioned to the back room with her head and fluttered her long eyelashes.
    “Whaddaya say?” She grabbed for his hand.
    “I say, some other time.”
    “Come on, you can skip the foreplay.”
    She came up to him intending to give him a kiss on the lips, but he turned and all she got was cheek.
    He went and sat down in a love seat.
    “What’s wrong, Charlie?”
    She came over and sat in his lap.
    He looked over at the front door, worried someone might come in.
    “Relax,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “You’re always so damn uptight, Charlie.”
    “Okay, maybe so. It’s just not a real good idea . . . fornicating on the job.”
    “Funny how that didn’t bother you last time.”
    He heard the tinkle of the gallery’s bell.
    A tall, older man with a barbershop quartet mustache walked in.
    “Hello, Dixon,” she said, “picking up your Botero?”
    The man glanced over at Crawford.
    “Dixon, this is my friend, Charlie Crawford. Charlie . . . Dixon Fordman, my favorite client.”
    Fordman’s ruddy face beamed.
    Crawford stood up and shook his hand.
    Lil went to the back room and brought out a large painting covered in bubble wrap.
    The man took the painting, thanked her, gave her a kiss on the cheek and left.
    Crawford had procrastinated his Q & A long enough. He opened his mouth to ask his first question.
    “Oh, hey, before I forget,” she cut him off, “will you go with me to the Fall Ball?”
    She waved a beige vellum invitation at him.
    He had politely said “no” to the Red Cross Ball, the Susan Komen Cancer Research Ball and some other thing. What was she not getting?
    “And what exactly is the Fall Ball?”
    “This charity ball for bipolar kids, or maybe it’s diabetes.”
    “There’s a difference, you know.”
    “I forget which, doesn’t matter, it’ll be fun.”
    “Do I really look like a cummerbund kind of guy?”
    “I promise, Charlie, you’ll have a great time. Dancing, drinking, bunch of fun people.”
    The drinking part sounded okay.
    “Lil . . . one more time, I’m a cop. I’m what is known as a public servant. Servant . . . as in the cleaning lady. Or butler, if they’re still around.”
    “In Palm Beach? Oh, you bet they are. Tell you what, think about it? You don’t have to just turn me down cold.”
    He nodded.
    “Lil, I need to talk to you about Ward Jaynes.”
    She didn’t look quite so tan. “What about him?”
    “Tell me what you know about him.”
    “Ward Jaynes is an occasional client of the gallery. He’s not one of my favorite people, but I tolerate him because he’s got a lot of money . . . even though he doesn’t part with it easily.”
    Her eyes burrowed into his.
    “What are you really asking, Charlie?”
    “What do you know about his . . . personal life?”
    “Nothing,” she said, a little too fast.
    The front door bell tinkled again. She got up quickly.
    Crawford reached for her arm and held it.
    “Tell me what you know about a sixteen-year-old girl named Misty.”
    She shook her arm loose, walked away and gave the customer who just walked in a dazzling smile.

THIRTEEN
    N ick took a cab from his studio condo at the Palm Beach Princess to Spencer Robertson’s palatial Mediterranean on El Vedato. The ride had only cost four dollars. He could have taken his old Taurus and saved the money, but that wasn’t part of the plan.
    As they