Hawk Channel Chase

by Tom Corcoran

  Russell clenched his fist in the air. “The first thing that got me was a whiff of Knights Key, like this combination of fish damp and salt and seaweed. It gave me a preview of Key West smells.”

  “Okay, but before that,” said Jason, “we drove up that bridge at Tea Table Channel south of Islamorada. The road goes up and down like a dirt bike race track with green areas like city parks, bike paths snaking on either side. But seventy feet to our right and left, past that greenery, it was salt water, nothing but ocean as far west as I could see. It was the ocean with Naples one way and Havana the other.”

  “I’m for smells,” said Russell Hernandez. “I wake up every morning, the air tells me that we made the right decision to come down here, to catch up with our lives. As far as looking around town, I haven’t had time.”

  “Is Carmen around?” I said.

  Jason opened the car door, got ready to hop in. “The princess went to school and Carmen went to work.”

  “Are you all moved out? Is this it?”

  Russell said, “We travel light.” He pointed to the Hefty Bags. “Our matching luggage. That’s how we roll.”

  “Glad you wrapped up your deal so quickly.”

  “We’re not done yet,” said Jason. “We can’t exactly relax at the beach. We’ll be working in the weather and sun, so we need clothes. These Reef sandals won’t cut it.”

  “Life stays complicated, doesn’t it?” I said.

  “Damn, you said it, amigo. Complicated.”

  6

  I approached my meeting with Catherman with sporadic nausea. I blamed it on dread and distaste, denying the wave action of my hangover. Bob wanted one thing, a search for his daughter. Copeland Cormier, with Sam out of sight and Lisa running point, claimed to need information, nothing more. I wasn’t privy to his goals. I couldn’t imagine how a missing young woman might relate to his Cuban drug transfers.

  Secrecy, implied risk, and my ass on the line. Not much of a job description. I would dive in with shit for knowledge, but that was okay. Doctors with Deep Wallets, no matter their agenda, wouldn’t influence my queries. I wouldn’t have to slant my questions. I could stay focused and still cover the favor asked by the Cormiers on behalf of Sam. If I tried to connect Sam to a nineteen-year-old new to the Keys, I could drive myself nuts. It helped to believe that he hadn’t gone to the dark side. He wasn’t thumbing his nose at state and federal laws for purposes other than altruism.

  Then came the money. Now that I had taken the job, I had to take the man’s cash. If I volunteered to work for free, I could ruin my credibility. If Sally turned out to be dead, from suicide, a double suicide, or murder, I would feel lame for having charged a cent. But that was how Catherman wanted to play it. Plus, why be stupid about involving myself? Given Sam’s need to hide and Cormier’s check-ins and other clandestine actions, cash in hand made sense before I started. If only for bail money and emergency room visits.

  Before leaving the house I looked up Bokamp in the phone book. Two Lower Keys listings, neither for Mikey or the initial M, neither offering an address. If I could locate Sally Catherman’s carpool friend, she might have ideas to help my search. I wrote the numbers on a scrap of paper, stuck it in my wallet. I also grabbed my Canon camera. Small as a deck of cards, it fits in a front pocket of my shorts as well as the palm of my hand.

  Marnie’s brother, Butler Dunwoody, gave me a 1970 Triumph several years ago after someone torched my Kawasaki while I was doing Butler a favor. It’s a classic T120R, hence the locked, custom-built mini-condo that keeps it mine and protects it from rain and salt air. It’s my sunny day ride for distances beyond bicycle range, and I often invent trips off the island to free my mind of cobwebs.

  I chose it this time for low profile. Motorcycles are common in the Keys. It was less conspicuous, less memorable than my car.

  I rode the Palm Avenue bridge, checked the Garrison Bight dock where flats guides keep their skiffs. Sam’s slip was empty though he would have Fancy Fool, on a morning like this, in the Snipes or Marquesas. Also missing was Flats Broke, the Maverick skippered by Sam’s friend Captain Turk. Again, normal for this time of day, this time of year. Not that I was forgetting my locale. In Key West what is normal, ever?

  I drove across Stock Island with a group of lane-changers who competed for asphalt as they’d been taught for years by on-car cameras and racing analysts. The frantic pack slowed at Rockland Channel Bridge then funneled onto “Lower Shark,” as Big Coppitt residents refer to their island. It’s their parodic reference to the exclusive Shark Key enclave one island eastward.

  Except for the new telephone switching boxes on raised platforms, I saw little evidence on Big Coppitt of Hurricane Wilma’s flooding of several years back. I recalled the aftermath, the green trees and shrubs damaged and killed by salt wind and water. Offshore mangrove islands turned reddish-brown. Of course I couldn’t see the waterlogged file cabinets and photo albums, the ruined dreams, displaced families. Like many storms, Wilma had put the worst hurt on those least capable of dealing with it. I’d been lucky at my place. Dredgers Lane had come within two blocks of turning into oceanfront property. In the weeks following the flood, when I wasn’t helping friends discard furniture and appliances, I built shelves for the waterproof containers that now held all my film files and office records.

  At 9:32 a.m. I peeled off my helmet in the Summerland post office parking lot. Catherman climbed out of a dark gray Porsche Cayenne SUV and began to walk toward me.

  Be alert to danger, I thought, even in daylight.

  I averted my eyes, fiddled with the motorcycle. I said, “See you inside.”

  He had the smarts to keep quiet and keep walking.

  In a long room lined with post office boxes, he handed me the fat envelope. The place smelled of damp paper and shampoo, though I welcomed the cool air. No one else was in that wing. No one outside could see us. Catherman looked less disheveled than the previous morning. He wore a clean polo shirt, pressed Levi’s, clean athletic shoes, a fresh shave. Studying his eyes, I saw more aging. But weak and tired, he was still a large customer.

  Inside the envelope was another envelope, presumably full of hundreds. I also found photocopies of Sally’s car registration, the picture page of her passport, her drivers license renewal notice, and three copies of the head shot with the innocent eyes that had grabbed me two mornings ago on my porch. He hadn’t found a school schedule, but I could ask her friends about that.

  I squeezed the sealed envelope between my thumb and index finger. “Unless this is fifties, it feels a little thick for three grand.”

  “It’s five grand,” he said. “That doesn’t mean a fourth day is anything but your option. We’re good for three unless you feel compelled…”

  “I won’t, but…” I split the cash into two wads, then folded and stuck them in separate Velcro-closure front pockets in my shorts. I placed the envelope with the Sally-relevant material in my helmet padding. While I did this, no one entered or left the building. We were good so far unless a well-hidden security camera had documented our rendezvous.

  “How you making out?” I said.

  “For shit, since you asked. A third of the time I pretend she went to visit her double-wide mother. The rest of the time I sit awake, making lists, thinking of things I could do. Then I think of reasons none of them will work.”

  “Did you try again to report the stolen Miata?”

  He nodded. “I spoke with an officer at the Cudjoe substation who sounded willing to help.”

  “Do me a favor, then,” I said. “Call your insurance agency and tell them it’s gone. Tell them you’ve heard talk in the Keys about a sports car theft ring working out of Homestead. Ask them to pressure the sheriff’s office to catch the thieves.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then call the deputy and tell him that you’re worried about getting dropped by your insurance company. Stress that you’d appreciate his checking for basic evidence. Especially fingerprints so the thi
ef can be identified and busted.”

  “He needs me to tell him how to do his job?” Catherman’s voice echoed in the empty room. I heard workplace joking and other chatter in the mail sorting area. No one was paying attention to us.

  “Tell him to the point of slipping him, say, fifty bucks if you have to.”

  “And set myself up for a bribery bust.”

  “I don’t think it’s illegal to pay a cop to do his job,” I said. “Or compensate him for the extra time it might take. It’s not like you’re trying to buy your way out of a citation. If they try to track a car thief and plug the right info into their system, they might stumble onto a kidnapper.”

  I knew it was wrong the instant I said it. Catherman caved as if he’d been kneed in the nuts.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “That’s all right, Rutledge.” He tapped his forehead. “The concept has been up in here for two days. Just hearing someone else say it out loud…”

  “I like to work backward from the full-bad chance. That way we don’t skip details. Clues that could take us to less-bad. Or give us a shot at neutral.”

  Catherman appeared to accept my strategy. “Do you always wear a crash helmet?”

  “Always, and always long sleeves.”

  “Protect yourself if the bike goes down.”

  “I don’t think much about accidents,” I said. “The hours I spend on the cycle, I worry about sunburn. Which days does Sally go to school?”

  “Every day but Tuesday, yesterday. But different times every day.”

  “Please leave before I do. But one last thing. Any boyfriends here or in Sarasota?”

  “No way,” said Catherman. “Her school work kept her too busy. Back in Sarasota, I wouldn’t know. She never mentioned or called anyone.”

  “Does she ever go up the Keys, say shopping in Key Largo or Miami?”

  He shook his head, began to walk away. “I would have told you all these things yesterday morning. She went from home to school to work and back home.”

  “No social life at all?”

  “What do you mean? She wasn’t a hermit. I didn’t keep her in a cage. She and her girlfriends went to the beach a couple times. I tried to take her out to dinner once a week. The Square Grouper, Boondocks, that place at the end of Drost Road.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That gives me a better picture.”

  “One last thing,” he said as he went for the exit. “Don’t contact her mother. Let me take care of that side of things.” He pushed on the exit door and dropped his sunglasses. One lens popped out when they hit the tile floor.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “Not me, I hope,” said a woman trying to enter the post office. She hurried past him before he could muster an apology.

  Outside, threading my chin strap, I saw them. The dark blue Dodge Charger on the far shoulder tipped me off. It sat an inch higher than the showroom version of that sedan and ran 18-inch wheels, telltales of a cop-duty handling package. A stubby antenna poked up from the center-rear of its roof. The driver had dropped his window six inches or so.

  Any observer could see the open map and assume some daffy tourist had gotten his ass lost on the only road in the Keys. The other, thinking himself clever, had backed his maroon Impala between two forward-facing pickups in front of the hardware store next door. He was staged for a quick exit. Both cars had “probable cause” window tint, dark enough to justify a traffic stop for a civilian. It had taken thirty years for non-local police to understand the stealth value of tropical duds south of Miami. They still weren’t compelled or budgeted to drive blend-in vehicles. They’d have been less obvious in old Jeeps or Broncos. Even pink Bentleys or chrome-plated Hummers.

  A promo sign in front of the hardware store said: “Small enough to know you, bigger than we look.” The irony allowed me a two-second smile.

  Catherman was behind another car waiting to pull out of the lot. It crossed my mind that I had forgotten to ask him to stay away from the grocery. I wanted him to go south and the Charger to follow. The six-cylinder Impala would be easier to evade and, unless they had an additional car to tail me, I would be free to roam in fewer than ten minutes.

  Or maybe not, on the only road in the Keys. From where I stood, with twenty-four miles paved westward and ninety to Florida City, US 1 was a fool’s freedom, no matter his vehicle. I couldn’t outrun anyone.

  The Porsche Cayenne’s left turn signal eased my concern. Catherman pulled into the center lane and blended quickly into southbound traffic. I feigned inattention while the driver of the Charger dropped his map and raised his window. With a Honda van between me and the Impala, I snapped a picture of the Charger. He gave Catherman a five-vehicle head start then joined the flow.

  I shifted into first, rolled slowly to a vending box and pretended to peruse newspaper headlines. Sure as hell, my movement inspired Impala. He inched far enough forward to give himself a 180-degree view. He also gave me a clear view of his small-radius “poverty” hubcaps on black wheels. Why don’t they just paint badges on the side of their cars?

  From that point onward I was solid on several things. Catherman and I each had a shadow, so someone knew of our meeting in advance. That meant his phone was tapped and my license tag number was now in the mix. It also gave probability to my home and cell lines being monitored before day’s end.

  The obvious fact: Cormier understood the playing field.

  Another zinger: I had mentioned the bank envelope during the phone call. The listeners didn’t know how much the envelope held. But I could bet they would love to confiscate it, make me go to a judge to explain and justify my ownership.

  In no hurry to lead the Impala to Colding’s Grocery, I kept staring at the USA Today and Miami Herald boxes. I needed to stop thinking like a criminal and tally facts from the beginning. A girl was missing. A senior agency had told the sheriff to bug off from a crime scene. A large number of agents had been mobilized. All lips were sealed. The public had no knowledge that a problem existed.

  What would bring law enforcement heavies to town?

  Work it through. Keep mimicking my study of front pages. I needed to think like a headline scribe. Refugees from Haiti or Cuba delivered by smugglers who charged by the head. Refugees killed and dumped to elude the Marine Patrol or Customs. Or killed because the payoff man didn’t show at the drop point. Rival human-cargo gangs wanting to prove points, gain dominance. None of them, I thought, were big enough. It could be only one thing.

  Nothing brought out horsepower, relentless investigation and door-pounding like the murder of a federal agent. If publicity had accompanied the scramble, the whole nation might know that an officer was dead or imperiled.

  A fresh stream of two-beat scenarios rushed my thinking. Agents were targeted but the wrong two people were killed. The death of a crooked cop demanded a quick solution with zero publicity. A blown undercover operation or a dead federal informant, both of which required massive disconnect to escape the blame game. Sally murdered because her father was smuggling humans, drugs or cash. After all, this was Florida. Or a non-event that had been politically chain-yanked into a mudbath.

  On top of all that, Copeland Cormier felt that his pharmaceutical transport scheme had been put on the ropes by some aspect of the ongoing circus.

  Still it was hard to connect the big scenarios with young Sally Catherman, a student new to the Keys. Unless she was dating someone on the smuggling team. Or a murdered cop. Or had dumped a jealous man with a gun and a badge.

  If these fellows were as thorough as I now believed, they would have another team member watching Colding’s. No matter where I went they would know.

  I had been grossly underpaid.

  The only thing left to outrun was my imagination. I probably couldn’t do that, either. I checked oncoming, twisted the throttle, and fell in behind a northbound pickup truck.

  7

  As I neared Colding’s, a quarter-mile north of the post office, the truck in front
of me turned on East Shore. With open road ahead, I decided to drag the Impala a few miles farther to see if I could shake him or force him to commit to being on my butt. It would tell me how badly he wanted to monitor me, and I like going fast. Traffic had thinned, typical for the tourist off-season.

  Going up the Niles Channel Bridge slope, not knowing what patrols might lurk beyond the crest, I kept it under sixty-five. Except for a flock of dive-bombing gulls above the bridge, my spook and I owned the highway. Once I hit the summit and could see most of Ramrod Key, I cracked it open, ran it up to eighty-five. It took him longer to reach speed but he hung with me, not bad for an Impala. It confirmed his gig. He ran fast knowing he could badge his ass out of a ticket.

  Halfway across Ramrod I braked hard and went left into the Boondocks lot. To inform me that he was a true prick while I was a minor-leaguer, he didn’t slow, missed me by two feet, then continued up the road. I expected to see him duck into the Chevron or the Looe Key Tiki Bar so he could loop back to monitor me, but he kept on rolling toward Middle Torch. The decline of my importance offended me. Maybe I had been passed to another babysitter. No matter what, I wanted to make a call.

  Common sense told me that the coin phone outside Colding’s Grocery was already a police party line. On the other hand, they couldn’t tap every damn box in the county. I didn’t see a booth at Boondocks Grille so I rode the quarter-mile to the Chevron. A deputy in a county green-and-white came toward me, southbound, cruising easy. Timing is everything. I had been lucky on my speed run. Also, the cop hadn’t needed to whip back northward to chase a speeder. The Impala had slowed or pulled over.

  I called his home first. It was more wishful thinking than a hunch. I thought Liska would be able to speak more freely without subordinates lingering within earshot. No matter the conversation, I could read his mood, especially compared to his liquid lunch on Monday at Louie’s. I expected his answering service.