Hawk Channel Chase (4 page)

“There is one other thing,” said Carmen. “Remember Carol Anne?”

“Your high school co-conspirator in craziness,” I said, “now in central Florida.”

“Right, she divorced Bobby Dudak and moved with her son Jason to Ocala the day before Hurricane Georges. As of last night and for no more than five days, Jason and his pal Russell are sleeping on my living room floor. Remind me never again. ”

“Down here early for Fantasy Fest?”

“They say they’re not here to party. They’re here to reclaim their lost youth. Russell’s dad, Ovie Hernandez, sold his house on Von Phister when the kid was three, and took him to Ocala, too. The boys want to find jobs, stick around, get in touch with what they missed growing up away from the Keys.”

“The Honda with the yawning chrome tailpipe I saw yesterday?”

Carmen nodded. “They live out of their backpacks and subsist on junk food and diet soda. They’ve got a lead on an apartment which can’t come too soon because I’m totally uncomfortable with young Russell. I don’t like the way he looks at my daughter. Maria’s twelve going on sixteen. She doesn’t need close-up college-age boys in her life.”

“Jobs doing what?” I said.

“I think they’d settle for anything. I can’t imagine they’re presenting a positive image to prospective employers. The way Jason wears his shorts, he looks like he’s got a load in his diaper. Russell has a line on washing dishes in some restaurant. He said the whole kitchen crew was about to be arrested by Immigration.”

“Pretty good inside info for a kid new to the island,” I said.

“They’ve got their ears to the ground. Or the Duval concrete.”

“Being under twenty-five helps with the language,” I said. “You want me to chat them up, be a male presence, be the bad guy if I have to?”

“Let’s wait another day or two,” she said, standing to leave. “Maybe if you see them tomorrow.”

“I’ll introduce myself, ask for a progress report. Speaking of employment, why aren’t you at work today?”

She shook her head. “They boogered up the schedule again.”

I put away the groceries and took a time-out in the bamboo rocker, secure in knowing that my ceiling fan was sending me healthy air. On top of the cleansing effect Bimini had had on my brain, the beer I’d drunk during Catherman’s visit demanded that I grab a nap. Then again, the disturbing news delivered by Marnie and Carmen ensured that I wouldn’t fall asleep. My perfectly good morning had turned into a tabloid day.

Bob Catherman carried the backing to offer me tall cash for my home. But my reluctance to locate his daughter didn’t mean I was bluffing, pushing him for more money. Every word I had spoken in defense of my photo work was true. I had no desire to be a soldier of fortune, a gumshoe, a night sneak, a fixer. I didn’t want to get rich by solving the myriad problems of the wealthy. I wanted to earn enough to keep my checking account fluid, maybe park a little for the future. I had learned over the years that solvency was a prime requirement in maintaining a Keys lifestyle. Not that it wasn’t a tougher challenge as years passed, as Key West became known to the world’s upper crust, as taxes rose to fund changes to meet the needs of a more demanding population. I took what some might call naive pride in maintaining that solvency without selling out.

I called Detective Bobbi Lewis’s work number.

She caught the second ring. “Call you back, Alex? Say an hour? It’s a bitch of a morning.”

Go lightly, I thought. “What’s the matter? Robberies, car wrecks or politics?”

She hesitated a beat too long. “A
 
mountain of the usual. Lemme go right now.” She clicked off.

Shitfire, I thought. I love you too. I hung up and slapped the wall.

The phone rang, and I was tempted to run for the door.

So I did. After a morning of crazy bullshit, I deserved a break, a late lunch at Louie’s Backyard. Let the message service earn its keep. Give the old Triumph 650 Bonneville some air, eat a fancy-damn salad on the Afterdeck and listen to the ocean under my barstool.

I took White Street, running in light traffic until I tried to turn right on Von Phister. Two wobbly tourists in the bike lane and a Dodge pickup on my ass prompted me to venture 100 yards farther. A beautiful day in paradise, and what was my hurry? I caught a green at Flagler, turned, then spotted Sam Wheeler’s funky Ford Bronco parked near the corner of Whalton. The area was residential, and Sam was supposed to be fishing. Unless the old Bronco had broken down and he had abandoned it, the only sense I could discern was that his client lived nearby. I couldn’t think of anyone who lived along that stretch. But I knew there was a plausible explanation, if Sam cared to volunteer it.

In an expanded old Conch house, Louie’s Backyard dominates the beachfront where Waddell meets Vernon. The Afterdeck, wedged between an elegant dining patio and the waters of Hawk Channel, has been a refuge for twenty years. It’s a mix of fashion and funk, rich tourists and all brands of locals, pillars of the town and dregs of the harbor. I’ve been there hundreds of times and never seen the water the same color, the wind from the same direction. I probably have viewed more lovely sunsets from that deck than most people see in a lifetime. My stability has wandered each time Louie’s closed for an annual break or hurricane repairs. I worry that I am one of those terminally drawn to the combo of alcohol and salt water, a drooler camouflaged by nautical lingo and a fisherman’s ball cap. I have no desire to become one of the loopy ones.

The peace I needed went down the tubes. I found Sheriff Fred “Chicken Neck”
 
Liska with one of his ops officers, Dick Wonsetler, drinking lunch at the tide line. Like his boss, Dick was a veteran of the Key West police force. I didn’t know much of his history, but he always looked fatigued, always wore the sneer of a man who disliked his job, maybe his whole life.

Liska was the cop who had drawn me into photographing crime scenes. It had started when he was a city detective, three or four small jobs that expanded into actual sleuthing. He plugged me into several more gigs after being elected Monroe County’s sheriff and still called once in a while, despite my constant refusal of forensic work. We never talked about the times I had saved his ass. I knew that rubbing it in would only incite him to call more often. Local rules dictated that it was better to store blue chips than to spend them in public. I had never interacted with Wonsetler.

The men were seated at the far end of the bar, their backs to the water’s glare. Liska held a mixed drink in a tall glass. Wonsetler was waving an empty Corona bottle at the server, ordering a fresh one. The Afterdeck was all but empty, with three other men at the bar, a young woman working behind it and, in the heat of the day, no one at the tables. Odd, I thought, that Liska was with only one of his two operations officers. That fact suggested that it wasn’t a strategy meeting, a business lunch. It was a hump day escape.

I walked over to shake hands. Up close, Liska looked hangdog and war weary in one of his old disco shirts, the period attire he’d forsaken when he’d quit his city job to run for sheriff. “Did I miss a BeeGees concert? ABBA on the beach?”

He put a disgusted look on his face, swiped at his shirt with the backs of his fingers. “Some days you don’t give a shit.”

“Remember you once told me about a certain person having bad luck with a love affair?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I knew he was fibbing, probably for a good reason. I assumed it was because of the man to his right.

I let it drop. “No big deal. I was trying to remember a name.”

“Thanks for the background,” said Liska. “I still don’t know who the fuck you got in mind.”

“You’re sporting a cheerful outlook today,” I said.

“Do my job for a month, Rutledge. Then tell me outlook.”

I backed away. “I’m going to feel sorry for you, Sheriff, but I’m going to do it over here.” I found a tall chair at the far end of the bar, asked for a menu and, on impulse, ordered a mojito. I had a beer for breakfast. Why not rum before sundown? Just this once.

Ten minutes later the ops officer went into the restaurant. I assumed he’d gone to the men’s room. I stood, walked over to Liska but said nothing.

“Look, Rutledge, I don’t play social games. You know as well as I do, the only important gossip in town comes from dental hygienists and legal secretaries.”

“I’m not looking for trash talk, Sheriff. I need a dose of counseling.”

Liska considered my phrasing. “First, just for today, call me Fred. Second, you didn’t hear this from me. I sympathize with your plight, you might say. The lady’s got issues. She can be her own worst enemy.”

“You told me she had a fling a few years ago and got double-whammied.”

“Right,” he said. “The guy bought the farm in a plane crash and that was when Deputy Lewis, before she made detective, found out he was married.”

“You also said that she’d had couple of boyfriends after that. They didn’t work out.”

“I know where you’re going, Rutledge. You’re perceptive and you’re right. Two of them were fellow deputies.”

“And of those two…”

“Both left the sheriff’s office before I took over. And, yes, one of them has been in the Keys for the past three weeks. He works for another agency and he and Lewis have been in touch. That’s all I know and all I want to know.”

“That might explain a few things,” I said.

“They’re all flaky, from time to time,”
 
said Liska. “That one I was seeing, five, six years ago?
 
She told me once… her name was Carla. I don’t think you met her. She said denial made her the happy woman she faced each day in the mirror. She worshiped her own bliss. She couldn’t find enough bad history to deny.”

“And you became excess?” I said.

“I declared myself such. Here comes Wonsetler. Go the fuck away.”

Mission accomplished, with a typical Liska send-off. Now I knew why Bobbi Lewis had been running hot and cold. The insight offered me no relief, no clues toward salvaging our romance.

I returned to my mojito. Two boardsailors, college-age kids, male and female, swooped toward the beach and changed direction in the shallows. Silence engulfed the Afterdeck. The young woman wore a huge sports bra and a skin-toned thong that was lost in the shadow of her ass crack. It was a matter of perspective and perception. I guessed that every man present would bet his own home that she’d been naked from her belly button down.

A man two stools away from me broke the spell. He leaned toward Liska and said with a slur, “Hey, I overheard. You really the county sheriff?”

Liska shrugged and stared at the man for a moment.

“What was all that horseshit yesterday, Sheriff? I couldn’t go home.”

“Am I supposed to ask you what shit?” said Chicken Neck. “You got questions, call the office.”

“Bay Point. They wouldn’t let me go to my house. They finally let me go to my house and nobody could tell me why they wouldn’t let me go to my house. That, by any doofus explanation, is horseshit, wouldn’t you say?”

I could see Liska sizing this up as far too public. “I’ll have to check and let you know. Write down your phone number for me.”

“They evacuated the neighborhood, Sheriff. You didn’t know?”

Liska stared at him.

“Come on, Sheriff, pile it a bit higher,” the man said. “We can stick a fork in it.”

Stone-faced, pissed, Liska said nothing. Everyone within earshot expected the bartender to stifle the heckler. That wasn’t happening. Miranda was about one-third the guy’s size.

“My neighbor didn’t answer his door, Sheriff. He saw them making our other neighbors leave their houses. They all had to get into their cars and drive away. So he pretended he wasn’t home. He saw all those county cars surrounding that vacant house on stilts. He couldn’t see what had their attention, but he saw more unmarked cars than he’d ever seen in one place. Car after car after car. Some of them didn’t even have license plates, Sheriff.”

“Sounds like a movie script to me,” said Wonsetler.

“My take, too,” said Liska. “UFO flick or a sea monster epic. Subtitles, flaming eyeballs.”

“Well they stayed so long that someone brought in pizza. They spread it out on the hood of an unmarked cruiser. Pizza, two-liter jugs of Pepsi, what have you. A damn picnic.”

“That wouldn’t have been our people,” said Wonsetler.

“You’re flaming out your stupid, frigging…”

Everyone but the drunk saw it coming. He was grabbed by the restaurant owner’s son and hustled toward the deck’s exit. It was probably the quickest the man had walked backward in years.

Liska nudged Wonsetler, tilted his head toward the exit. The men pushed back their bar stools, stood, and reached for their wallets. Liska waved a fifty, indicated that he’d cover the tab. He must have felt me staring at him. It took him a while to look my way. He growled, “Don’t fucking ask.”

Liska and Wonsetler walked toward the next-level dining patio so they could exit through the lobby entrance, probably to avoid the man who had been eighty-sixed. At the top of the short stairway a man in a business suit approached Liska.