by Tom Corcoran
“I would rather continue your conversation.”
“Yes,” said Mikey. “I tend to carry momentum. And I’m seeing someone right now, so I shouldn’t be offering what I can’t deliver.”
“Why did you come?”
“I thought you were cute and I’m worried about her. I figured what the hell.”
“Obviously you know some things,” I said.
“There’s this older guy. I mean like thirty. But you can’t tell her father.”
Make an end run, I thought. “She could be in real danger, Mikey. Why did she come to the Keys?”
“My impression was that she had a little breakdown, and I don’t mean the babbling idiot kind. It was more like wanting to distance herself from something. Mommy drama. Her mother’s disgusting boyfriends, something in that area.”
“But her father thinks she’s a Goody Two-Shoes?”
“Oh, God, the idea that she’d had a dick in her hand or anywhere else. I don’t know what century he came from, but… Now I could get in real trouble.”
“Lips sealed.”
“That guy she buzzed had, like, ‘good fuck’ written on the pupils of his eyes. Like you got it, too, but don’t get the wrong idea. I started with girls, still in high school. Then I went hasbian long enough to sleep with three guys. Then I fell in love with Honey Weiss. That’s who I live with on Middle Torch.”
“Does this guy work around here, live in the Keys?”
“They call it the Mansion, the place where he works, her boyfriend. Even that nickname for the house is like the big shit secret of the universe. She freaked and told me she slipped when she said it, and I wasn’t supposed to repeat it. Anyway, he keeps a motorboat at a friend’s house somewhere on Sugarloaf. They go out and drift and mess around and she works on her all-over tan.” Mikey took a long slug from the Ice bottle. “One time driving to the college she said, ‘He loves to snorkel.’ She made it sound really good and dirty. Well, damn, I thought, who doesn’t?”
“How did Sally meet this fellow from the Mansion?”
“The first time I saw him in the grocery, she acted like she already knew him. Maybe they met one day when I wasn’t working. Or when I was back in Cecil’s office.”
“When did she have time to be dirty?” I said.
“I knew you were going to ask that. She didn’t work all the hours her father thought she did. Wednesdays she got off at 7:15 instead of 9:15. On Monday she didn’t come in until a quarter to five but her dad thought she started at two.”
“Surely Colding knew her schedule,” I said. “He must not have compared notes with Mr. Catherman.”
“He was sort of in on the thing. He got his jollies in the back room.”
“That room didn’t look too accommodating for jollies.”
“He’s a titty freak, like me. So… she let him look but no touchies.”
“She pulled up her shirt for him?”
“We all mess with him, give him shows every so often. He tries to be such a hardnose. It’s a hoot to watch him get flustered. Anyway, if her dad called when she was supposed to be there, Uncle D. made up excuses like he’d sent her on an errand or she was helping a customer. Happened a couple times.”
“Uncle who?”
“Uncle Disgusting. Don’t tell him that one, okay? She called it a pole dance without the pole, thank God, especially his. One time she came out of his office and she was like, ‘Oh my God, he wanted to see my little rug.’”
“Was that his term?”
“I guess. She called it her Mohawk, and it looked like its name, and no, I never did her. I just watched her change into her bikini a couple of times.”
“Should I talk to Alyssa?” I said. “Did she know Sally at all?”
“Our checkout wizard. She wanted you to buy lunch at Mangrove Mama’s. We loved that. She’s a dyke-in-training and deep in the dark. She might sneak up on a few facts but she’ll twist them to fit her TV philosophy of life.”
“I’d be wasting my time?”
“Never know. We don’t hang with her all that much. I don’t know where she goes.” She checked her Swatch. “I gotta get back sometime.”
“How did you get here, drive?”
She nodded. “Honey’s car is up at the Sunbeam Market. Actually, being fucked up so slightly as I am… I was hoping I could crash here a few hours, drive home whenever I wake up.”
For a scary moment I began to weigh wisdom against sport.
“Gotcha,” she said. “Okay if I nap here on the porch?”
“Might be best.”
“Look, please don’t repeat about Cecil’s cheap thrill sessions. It’ll come back around to me, and I need my job even though it’s a beer and cigs gallery. Uncle Disgusting thinks his sty is a fucking salad salon, a thick-cut beef boutique. We’d all rather work at Murray’s Market, but you take what you can get. But I’ve got to ask this, now that I’ve blabbed my ass off.”
“Ask away.”
“I’d like a ride on your motorcycle some day.”
“That’s a question?”
She laughed. “You’re so right. Ask me your answer.”
11
Upbeat Cuban music, the great Ibrahim Ferrer, strong decibels and what will the neighbors think? Smells of dark coffee, warm Strawberry Pop-Tarts. No shirt, no shoes, parched throat, damp sheets. Damp sheets? A thick coat of night varnish on the teeth. Sensory overload when I might rather lighten up.
The sun fought its way through slits in the mini-blinds. Bobbi Lewis, dutiful and tough, would be at her sheriff’s office desk by now. Lisa Cormier, holding to her husband’s subterfuge, if not his heart, would not have come to my home. End of list, and so much for plausible alternatives. I couldn’t recall the departure of my late evening guest.
Oh, Mikey Bokamp, what have we done? Please give me details. Honey Weiss will kick my ass.
A closer inspection offered token comfort: I was still wearing the shorts I had worn to dinner. A soft, feminine voice said, “Don’t worry, I haven’t been watching you sleep.”
“What the hell have you been doing?”
“Keeping my distance.” Beth Watkins leaned against the bedroom door frame, a sultry pose, especially for that hour of the morning. She wore form-fitting khaki pants, a snug, badge-logo polo shirt and her black belly pack. “Just standing here I should be wearing an oxygen breathing apparatus.”
“I stayed up late,” I said. “Drank fancy wine.”
“You should clean up your lifestyle.”
“Every day I try.”
She laughed. “You make it a constant process.” She wiggled the photo of the Dodge Charger that I had left on my printer tray. “Surveillance?”
“Someone watching me, not the opposite. And, I might add, a huge relief.”
“You took the picture, right? It’s a Rutledge original taken by you?”
“Call it counter-surveillance. I’m going to get up now.”
“Of course, I have to ask,” she said. “What relief?”
“If you’ve been rummaging around my home without first presenting a search warrant, I’m no longer a person of interest. I beat the murder rap. Huge relief.”
She shook her head. “I’m from California where people are even more transient than Key West. That made it easier to believe that you never met the man.”
“Aside from believing that I tell the truth?”
“Allow me the slack. My disbelief makes me a better cop.”
“I now intend further relief.”
“Your coffee awaits. After your third sip I’ll tell you why I’m here. Don’t take a shower yet.”
“That’s an ominous request,” I said.
“I’m in sort of a hurry. I like these Pop-Tarts. I’ve never had this flavor.”
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, pulled on a KWPD T-shirt, and presented myself.
“Humorous,” she said.
“Ominous.”
She poured two and we took them outside. Even
with the sun up, the porch still smelled of fresh, damp night flowers. A throaty, high-revving motorcycle over on Fleming field-tested its compact exhaust system. Mikey Bokamp’s empty Smirnoff Ice bottle sat on the table, full of sugar ants.
Beth inspected it, turned her head and fixed her eyes on me. “A fine vintage.”
“Please state your mission,” I said. “Any leads, any suspects?”
“Nada. But I’ve rethought my decision not to use your immense photo talent. I have an offer for you.”
“If it’s a vanity portrait of your motorcycle, I can discount my rate card.”
“I logged onto the department’s secure server,” she said. “One of our ghoulish sergeants took bad pictures.”
“Surely the body’s been moved by now,” I said.
“Long gone. We’ve got dozens of body shots and six or seven of the immediate crime scene. I want a post-forensic review. Every room in the house.”
“What are you after?” I said. “A certain class of suspect?”
“Druggies looking for stuff that’s easy to resell,” said Beth. “With the jails overcrowded, you can’t believe how many dopers and burglars get early release.”
“Okay,” I said.”Addicts and heavy users know what flips fast. Game consoles, iPods, hard drives, laptops and cameras.”
Beth turned her head for a moment, toward Eaton Street. “That’s what makes Hammond’s place so strange. The laptop was still on his desk. There were plenty of things that dirtbags would have scored, small objects of value.”
“How was he killed?”
“For starters, he was hit on the head with a candlestick.”
“Sounds like a childhood board game.”
Watkins ignored me. “That was step one. It knocked him down or out cold. He was strangled, garroted, with an electric cord attached to a hair dryer.”
“A hair dryer in his dining room?”
“How do you know where it was?” she said.
“Colonel Mustard told me.”
She wasn’t humored.
“Your words, Detective,” I said, “as Julio Alonzo would be my unwilling witness. You hoped Carmen’s ill will didn’t extend to the man’s dining room. Maybe not your exact words, but close.”
“Okay, okay. I don’t know why the hair dryer was in his dining room, but you asked the question and none of my people did. That’s why I want you in there to look around. You’re good for a full-day rate if you can start in half an hour and work for two. Or less if that’s all you need.”
“You want my photos in your files so the sheriff’s office won’t claim-jump your case.”
“That might help… I’ll admit that,” she said. “They’ll be less likely to steal my thunder. The sheriff or the state. If the pictures give me ideas or, better yet, clues.”
“I have to face a motivational issue. If I didn’t care about the man prior to his death, what compels me to give a crap now?”
“Forget him,” she said. “Care about murder, the crime, the manner of death.”
“But you said his lifestyle could have contributed.”
“Do it for me. Make his life the pavement on the road to my approval.”
“You set the bar so high,” I said. “How long did you watch me sleep?”
“Don’t worry. No tent poles, no audible rudeness.”
“Does your approval win me free coupons and fun tickets, or fewer felony accusations?”
“He was your neighbor…”
“Even though I didn’t know him,” I said. “I’ll do it for his dog.”
“That dog’s going to need a new…”
“I travel too much. She’d spend her whole life at the kennel.”
Watkins went for the door. “Take pictures. Help me find a killer.”
“Just like that? B follows A?”
“Remember this about cops, Alex,” she said. “Having unsolved cases or being proved wrong makes us feel useless. More important, we don’t want bad guys to get away. Who’s driving a Dodge Charger and watching you?”
I clammed.
“You asked what I knew about Bay Point,” she said.
“That I did. And you paired that with the Charger? Now we both have secrets to discuss.”
“Later. After Jerry’s mess.”
The kitchen wall phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the local number on my caller ID. Facing down my intense, debilitating fear, I picked up but said nothing.
“At noon, let us pray,” the man’s voice said. “Yes, no?”
It was Copeland Cormier wanting to meet again at the chapel.
I paused for a mental picture of Sam driving away on Bad George Road. “Yes,” I said and hung up, stepped away. The phone rang again.
Sally Catherman’s name on the ID. Her father, trying to weasel a status report.
At this point did I owe him that? I’d warned him that I’d be solo for a day or two. My main concern was for Sam. If I answered to comfort Bob or to learn anything he might have for me, how many other people would listen in? I knew for sure that I was wallowing in bad soup. His daughter was probably dead and her car was locked in an impound lot. What the hell else did I need to know?
I let it go to my message service. The listeners probably got to hear it anyway.
Sorting my camera equipment took a few minutes. The bag was still filled with gear I had taken to Bimini. Flash deflectors, a diffuser, a mini-tripod, Ziploc bags. I whittled it down to two cameras, backup batteries and two oatmeal raisin granola bars for emergency use. I added my digital voice recorder, a twelve- and a six-inch plastic ruler, a notepad and a pen. If she wanted me to wear them, Watkins could provide rubber gloves. I changed into dark shorts and a shirt that couldn’t be ruined by leftover fingerprint dust. The last thing I did was to print out a full-day job invoice, no location fee, no mileage charge, payable in thirty days.
Walking Grinnell, I watched traffic crawl each way on Eaton. Gawkers drawn by instinct to yellow crime scene tape. Fortunately there wasn’t a crowd when I turned the corner. A uniformed cop whom I knew only as Frinzi stood on Jerry Hammond’s stubby walkway, face-to-face with a man of medium build, high blood pressure, short light brown hair, and a tightly trimmed beard. Frinzi looked displeased and bored. The belligerent man claimed to be a “soul-pal, and not what you think” of the deceased. Beyond a quick solution to the heinous murder, he demanded a first search of Jerry’s home for “mementos.”
I stood away from the men, scoped the house. By Key West standards it was a modest one-and-a-half-story Classic Revival. By the look of its paint it probably was restored in the 1990s. The front door and corresponding interior hallway were offset to the right. The window curtains at the peak suggested that Hammond had converted his compact attic to a sleeping loft. Every window in the house was wide open, either a devil’s swap of reducing death stench by turning off the air conditioning or, more to my liking, fresh plus cold air and a big utility bill for Hammond’s estate. I looked up to see Watkins at the front door. She directed the officer to let me pass.
“No drop cloths, brown paper to walk on?” I said.
“Useless out here from the get-go,” said Watkins. “The sidewalk was open to use before he was found. Three different mail carriers, a UPS delivery woman and who knows who else. I was the first detective on scene, so I disqualified it.”
“Mail carriers he worked with?”
“You’re here to bring me up to speed?”
“If it pissed you off, you can fire me,” I said.
“We checked them out.”
“The front porch?” I said.
“Documented and processed. Cat piss, lizard skeletons and toxic dust bunnies. That residue circle under the trellis is dried tequila, no salt. The snoop team leader claimed he tested for sneaker tracks and scrape marks.”
“How do I treat it?”
Watkins shrugged. “Inside and out, you walk anywhere. They did their thing, they gave the whole place a green light. Could I ask you to look at th
ese?” She motioned me in the door, opened a manila envelope and pulled out a half dozen five-by-seven informal portraits of men, one per picture. Each faced the camera and sat or stood in a local setting, or somewhere that looked just like Key West. “You’re a man about town,” said Beth. “Do you recognize anyone?”
“I’m a what?”
“You know a lot of people.”
“This is an outdoor town, Beth. Everyone knows more people than if they lived somewhere cold or rainy.”
“Speech over? Tell me if you know these fellows.”
I knew two by name. A charter boat captain and a Duval Street shop owner. Three I didn’t recognize. I looked carefully at the last one. “I know his face but not his name.”
“Know him from where?”
“He hangs at the Green Parrot. I saw him once at the Half Shell and wondered how he had unglued his regular bar stool from his ass.”
“You never spoke with him?” she said.
“Never introduced. I can’t recall even nodding hello.”
“That’s Jerry Hammond.”
“So I knew him but I didn’t know him,” I said. “Who are these others?”
“People we want to talk with.”
“Look on the laptop for his Christmas Card list.”
Her face tightened, then relaxed. “Okay, assuming you weren’t being facetious, that’s a good idea. That’s why you’re here. The charter captain and shop owner, do you know if they’re gay?”
“I have no idea. Who was the guy on the sidewalk when I arrived?”
“We interviewed him yesterday, and I just took his picture. He had a rock-solid alibi which, like his name, we don’t need to discuss just now. Do you want some mint toothpaste?”
She smeared a streak just under my nose and led me inside.
Hammond’s decor confirmed that our tastes varied in more ways than music. I quickly absorbed the scene analysis mess. Lengths of disposable plastic measuring tape, a crop of small flags, mini-memorials to mark spots of interest (though I saw no blood), fingerprint lift kit smudge and general disarray. Beyond that, his front rooms had the warmth and coziness of a hotel lobby. But it all looked fresh, new.