Hawk Channel Chase

by Tom Corcoran

He ambled toward me. “Man called the city, said it was a green Ford Taurus.”

  “Taurus, yes,” I said. “Color… Hold on.” I clicked my camera’s review button, clicked back four or five pictures and pressed the zoom. “Yes, green. The tag number starts with L-six-eight.”

  “Forget it then,” said the cop. “It was stolen at Searstown twenty minutes ago. It’s been dumped already. You can bet he turned onto a side street up there and jammed it into the first open spot.”

  Shit, the motor scooter was the Taurus driver’s escape vehicle.

  “Does that mean you’ve downgraded my near death?” I said.

  “Lost you there, pal.”

  “An assault with a deadly weapon is really just an unsolvable hot car beef?”

  “A bit worse than that,” said the cop. “It’s a hit-and-run with no apparent injuries. But you’re asking me to assume that it was intentional. How will you prove that in court? Or how will I?”

  I looked around. Astonished onlookers stared from the sidewalks and Fausto’s parking lot. I locked my eyes on the La Concha where a day earlier I could have performed back flips in a top-floor suite with Lisa Cormier. Something compelled me to raise the camera, zoom on the hotel, snap a photo. I kept going on zoom, photographing gawkers across the street, in front of the bookstore, the grocery, back down Bahama Street.

  “Could I see some ID?” said the cop.

  I threw him a look of disbelief.

  “Sorry, it’s the rules.”

  “Today’s my day to hate rules,” I said. “Are you going to arrest me for getting hit by a car?”

  “I have to fill out a report.”

  “And you have no name for the other guy. So bag the rule and call me a hit-and-run victim. I’m going home for a beer.”

  He puffed up, stepped closer. “I can arrest you for disobeying a legal order.”

  I held out my arms, wrists together in front of my belt buckle. “Please cuff me. I can’t wait to see how your audience reacts. Key West Citizen sales will skyrocket. Everyone will know your name.”

  The officer thought for a moment. “Tell me yours.”

  “Rutledge.”

  “You stood up for one of our detectives a couple years back?”

  “There was a deputy there, too,” I said. “I gave her a little help.”

  “You saved his life. You need a ride somewhere?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “But you might call in a BOLO for two guys on a yellow motorscooter.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Now shake my hand and slap me on the shoulder,” I said, “like the handcuffs thing was a big joke.”

  I wished I had asked him to slap my right shoulder instead of the one that hit the windshield.

  My cell phone chirped while I walked toward Southard to retrieve my bike. A local number I didn’t know. Rolling with the concept that a non-communicator can’t learn shit, I took the call.

  A voice I recognized after three words said, “The second-choice location, thirty minutes, no bullshit.” The line went quiet.

  Copeland Cormier wanted to meet me at the Pier House Beach.

  I called Duffy Lee Hall from a pay phone, a rare item these days.

  “Your man Dr. Cormier is quite the humanitarian,” he said. “He’s done stints in three countries and still oversees the surgery section of a hospital in Georgia.”

  “Which countries?” I said.

  “In the past few years he did three months in Nicaragua, three months in the Dominican Republic, and two Mexico visits for two months each. He traveled under the auspices of a group called Doctors with Deep Wallets.”

  “Any visits to the Middle East?” I said.

  “He spent five months in Iraq, back in 2004. It looks like he took humanitarian leave from the hospital. But he was employed by KRSW Global, an Alabama-based security contractor. Our best presumption might be that he provided in-country medical services to his fellow employees.”

  “What kind of security did they provide?”

  “I can’t tell, and the company went out of business last year.”

  “How about his wife and those other two names?”

  “Haven’t had time, bubba,” said Duffy Lee. “Call me tomorrow afternoon.”

  I hung up and wondered if Cormier had scuttled a replica of Sam’s skiff.

  15

  Riding my bike to the Pier House, I didn’t hug the curb. I fought the idea that my attacker might return for a sneak-from-behind rematch, a faster-paced whack. Assuming that the cop was right, that the Taurus had been quickly dumped, it made no sense to turn my head. I couldn’t guess which vehicle might nail me, and the whole process could drive me batshit. I refused to look backward. On an island known for lunatic action, I chose, for the moment, the comfort of thinking that my up-and-over had been a random, one-time event.

  Along with that shot of denial I welcomed the floral air of dusk, my favorite time of day. Cumulus clouds to the north still held the vivid purples and orange wisps of sunset. Minimal action and noise from the Rum Barrel and Two Friends Bar; a slow night in the tourism trade. That would change with Fantasy Fest only six days away, but for now it was a lovely evening—to be targeted in the tropics.

  I usually have no interest in motor scooters, but coasting into the hotel lot I noticed at least a dozen. They all sported rental company placards, blocked bike racks and took up car-sized spaces. In the dim light I saw none that were yellow.

  Again I begged myself to let it go.

  Then, more attentive, I saw a Porsche Cayenne with Florida tags, the same dark metallic gray as Bob Catherman’s. I hate coincidence and wished that I had thought to memorize Catherman’s license number. To find him in the company of Copeland Cormier would put an odd dimension to my three days of intrigue, although Sam’s comments on Sugarloaf appeared to link Sally Catherman to his Cuba trips.

  Five cars farther down the line, I saw an identical dark gray Cayenne with a Florida tag. Maybe they were all produced in the same color. I hadn’t seen more than four or five Porsche SUVs in recent years, so I didn’t know. They fit the upscale Pier House demographic, however, so seeing the second Cayenne allowed me to quit worrying about Catherman.

  I locked my bike, entered the parking lot hallway, and bemoaned the remodeling that had eliminated the open atrium. A group of people ambled around me, all dressed for dinner, wallowing in a force field of cologne and after-shave. I walked past the Chart Room Bar, the ghosts of 15,000 cocktail hours and twice that many love affairs. The room was busy, as it probably would be until the Pier House came tumbling down to make room for a more posh destination.

  Outside again, I followed a curving bricked path through a manicured jungle, a mist of chlorine. I went left, looped the pool and hung back from its mood lighting. A security guard approached, eyed me without smiling. I offered a quick, confident nod to assure him that my presence on the property was more important than his gig. He kept on walking.

  Cormier sat facing away from me in the open-air Beach Club. Another man at the table took no notice as I stopped and turned back to circle the pool in the other direction. I wanted to see if anyone was watching Cormier, or if he had other team members around the hotel. For all the Garden Building’s ground-level patios, the beach area’s square footage, there weren’t many hiding places for observers.

  I entered the Beach Building and followed an inside hallway to a double door that gave onto the sand five yards from the tideline. From that vantage point I studied the bistro. Two men and two women I recognized as locals sat at the bar. The bartender spoke into a portable phone and a tourist couple three tables from Cormier looked as comfortable in their Bermuda shorts, flowery shirts and sandals as they might in medieval armor. An unskilled acoustic guitar player with a snare drum in his iPod sang an insipid version of the “piña colada” song.

  Not five yards away from me a thin boy sat cross-legged on a coral rock toking a joint. Closer to the restaurant, a lesbian couple, arm-in-arm on a
raised walkway, stared down at playing tarpon teased to shore by underwater lamps.

  Not just a slow night on the island, but a dead night. No one appeared to be shadowing Cormier. Our meeting would be private, except for the other man at the table.

  Cormier stood as I approached the Beach Club’s raised decking. He wore his fashionable fishing outfit minus the long-billed cap and smug confidence of our first meeting. “Alex,” he said, “thank you for taking my call, for coming to see us. You’re just in time to meet Ricky Stinson.”

  Stinson wore a black, long-sleeved crew-neck T-shirt, camo hiking shorts and what looked like a matte black stainless steel wristwatch. He half-stood, supported his weight on the table and made a token effort to extend his arm. I circled the table to shake his hand and saw he also wore black high-top sneakers. We sized up each other without speaking.

  “Ricky’s part of our support team,” said Cormier.

  “Why just in time?” I said. “Is he leaving?”

  Stinson sneered. “I told Cope I was out of here if you didn’t show in the next ninety seconds. You hit the mark a half minute too early.”

  “That’s what my old girlfriend used to say.”

  No laughs, no smiles. My sharp dart of levity hit a shield of contempt.

  Cormier shoved a chair with his foot. “Please join us.”

  An attractive server in her twenties appeared next to the table. Her accent was eastern European, her manner graceful. Cormier asked for a refill of his vodka and tonic. I ordered a Bacardi 8 on the rocks.

  Stinson didn’t look up, didn’t speak, but pushed his empty Heineken bottle toward her. She took it away, showed no offense and hurried to fetch our drinks.

  Aside from his failed sense of humor, Stinson was hard to peg. My guess would be forty, give or take four years, with a fitness center build. His full head of brown hair started high on his forehead. It looked uniformly dark as if to mask premature gray. His eyes were sunken, unreadable. Except for an inch-long scar below his left ear, his cheeks and jaw were strong and smooth, with smile lines out of the question. A master of the frozen expression.

  “What are we here to talk about?” I said. “Sam's not making his voyages.”

  Stinson looked to Cormier for the answer. Or silently told him to answer me.

  “As I assured you two days ago,” said Cormier, “you're helping an admirable cause and helping your friend as well. We put our campaign on pause. We're not in the business of instant results, so we took a breather to let some heat dissipate.”

  I thought about Sam’s description of the ugly boat with four motors.

  “I guess you’d call a high-seas boat chase an example of heat.”

  Cormier nodded.

  “You and Sam,” said Ricky Stinson, “you’ve been friends how long?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  He stared at the table. “The boss here says you stepped up to help the man. No hesitation. What did he do, once or twice save your life?”

  I said nothing. Tried to figure out his up-north accent.

  “You two old pals from jump school? Swamp training? Same tank in Kuwait?”

  The server returned and smiled at Cormier and me as she placed our drinks on the table. She dropped the smile and handed Stinson his fresh beer. Something about her got my attention. Only after she walked away did I get it. She had Beth Watkins’s eyes. She also had Bobbi Lewis’s rear view, but those eyes…

  “Back to business,” said Cormier. “I spoke with Sam. I have been castigated for underestimating you. He asked that I apologize on his behalf for making the same mistake. I asked you to help us with the long-term payoff of self-satisfaction. But I failed to emphasize risk. By withholding information, by trying to protect you, Sam and I could have put you into greater danger. If you want to hear more about what we’re doing, I am prepared to tell you everything I know. I will answer all of your questions.”

  Stinson shifted his downward gaze to the tabletop in front of Cormier. “You’re talking to this shitbird like he’s one of us.”

  Cormier gazed off at the dark harbor, said nothing.

  “I know we’re not counting days,” I said to Stinson. “How many hours have you been in the Florida Keys?”

  “Long enough,” he said, sliding his eyes to the drink in front of me. “I hear you’re a groupie for the she-cops.”

  “Where did you study medicine, Ricky?”

  He joined Cormier in staring into the distance.

  Cormier said, “That’s not his field, Alex.”

  Like a savvy lawyer, I knew that before I asked. I almost said something about Sloppy Joe’s calling their bouncers “emotional control technicians,” but I held my tongue. Stinson was one of those boys born with a “use-by” date.

  The alleged entertainer began to moan the Buffett song, “Tin Cup Chalice.” Far too slow, off-key and ill-timed. I wished I could give him a sample of what I now knew to be Stinson’s expertise.

  “Copeland,” I said, “I appreciate your willingness to answer my questions. You didn’t have to expend all this effort. But now it worries me that you did. I don’t want to know more than I already know. I wish to hell I didn’t know any of it.”

  Cormier kept his eyes on the water.

  Stinson’s phone buzzed. He extracted it from a side pocket of his shorts and didn’t check the window before he flipped it open. He grunted, listened for maybe ten seconds, snapped it closed, returned it to his pocket. I knew from shaking his hand that he had laborer’s calluses. I could tell by the way that he handled the phone that he also had the grace of an aristocrat.

  Or a martial arts expert.

  “So, one more time,” I said, “why are we here? I got turned off by your drunken performance yesterday, so now you want to play me with intimidation?”

  Still no response from either man. I dug deeper.

  “Okay, play me. When I’m through shivering in my boots, will I be compelled to try harder? Get scared away? Maybe leave town? Did you ask me to this dream resort so we could all go backward?”

  “Whoa,” said Ricky Stinson. “With the doctor, here, you might get away with that kind of yammering. But don’t think you can jack me around.”

  “I don’t recall talking or referring to you,” I said. “Are you over-compensating for a poor self-image, or just trying to justify your salary?”

  “Boys, boys,” said Cormier. “You keep pissing at each other like that, your splashing might soil my drink.”

  Stinson let a huge belch. Not too damned aristocratic.

  From somewhere in the restaurant, three college-age girls stumbled onto the beach singing along with the last few lines of “Tin Cup Chalice.” They looked to be children of wealth, dressed for dinner and fortified by drink. As the lyric ended they began their own song, a sorority ditty, part foul-mouthed, part cute, about searching for their dream date in Nantucket. Performing for themselves and anyone else who cared to watch, they struck jutting-ass and tits-up poses, tried to look alluring, or helpless when they sang their naughtiest lines. At the end of each verse the women removed an article of clothing. None of them wore bras. If their goal was nudity, it would be a short song.

  A crowd of maybe ten or twelve began to assemble, to offer applause and hoots of encouragement. When the ladies were down to their panties, or thongs for two of them, one reached into her stack of duds and pulled out a small camera. She ran around the others, snapped a half dozen topless photos. She put the camera in her shoe as they started the verse that promised full nakedness. On the final line, they paused as if the big moment had arrived. Then they burst into laughter and knelt to pick up their garments. One counted to three, at which point they stood up, faced away, mooned the Beach Club and ran toward the Beach Building annex.

  Our eastern European server went onto the sand to collect the plastic cups tossed there by the girls. She lifted a thong by her pinkie finger, gave it a look of disgust then dropped it.

  “Assholes,” said
Stinson. He reached over and flicked his fingernail against my drink glass. “Did you think we didn’t see you cruise the pool when you got here?”

  The phone call. An observer had watched me arrive.

  “I trusted you out of the gate,” said Cormier. “I told you everything.”

  “And I assured you that I’d keep my mouth shut. I’d do nothing that might put Sam in jeopardy. Now you’re going a step beyond my loyalty to Sam. You’re trying to force me into keeping my mouth shut.”

  “Crossed my mind,” said Cormier. “And Ricky’s, too. You don’t think Sam still needs your help?”

  Shit, I thought. Good guy, bad guy has gone to bad guy, bad guy.

  “It’s not what I think,” I said. “It’s what I don’t know. I thought we were in agreement, neither of us would endanger Sam. Now your mind is envisioning a possible betrayal, and I have to think the same of you, Dr. Cormier. From now on it’s what he tells me, not you.”

  Cormier said, “Don't think for a minute that Sam is our only resource. You don’t think that five or six other honest boat owners live in the Keys? We knew from the start that we'd have to be flexible.”

  “Starting now,” I said, “I’m out of your loop, deep in the dark and five steps removed. I don’t want intrigue, insider knowledge, fail-safes, plans or tough guys. Thanks for the drink.”

  Cormier glanced at my empty glass. “By the way, Rutledge, my wife, for all her upbeat alertness, her good looks and positive take on things, has been an alcoholic since college. I still love her dearly and I would hope that anything you might witness, anything in questionable taste, you might keep to yourself. Grant her the sadness she has never outgrown.”

  I nodded.

  “Should she take a liking to you, please know you are not the first nor last. I ask only that you do us a favor. Treat the situation with dignity.”

  “My shoes will grow wings,” I said.

  The remark puzzled Cormier for a moment, then he appeared to accept it as I had meant it. He stood and his expression changed, became hard. “You want out,” he said, “but there is no out.” He began to walk and Stinson stood to follow him.