Hawk Channel Chase

by Tom Corcoran

  “There’s a dead woman in this storage box,” I said. “I don’t know who put her in there, but I didn’t want to shuffle around and fuck up potential evidence. I called the city and spoke with Detective Watkins.”

  He scanned the yard, left to right. “You think we’re going to check each blade of grass for DNA? Maybe pull forensic fibers off the backs of lizards?”

  Why not, I thought. It might snare a murderer. But the rational Rutledge said, “I would never presume to know your job.”

  He held the gun with only one hand. “Do you know the dead woman?”

  “I know her name,” I said. “I wouldn’t call her a close friend. I also know her husband.”

  “Where is he? How can we reach him?”

  “That I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “Because I don’t fucking know.”

  “Where did you buy the attitude, numbnuts, New York City?”

  “No way,” I said. “I got it on loan from Lieutenant Julio Alonzo.”

  The pistol quivered in his hand. “He’s my father-in-law.”

  Oh, fuck, I thought. That’s how this guy got his job. He should already have run procedures second nature to any cop, ordered me face down with my fingers laced behind my neck, made sure I wasn’t armed. Instead he asked how I knew Alonzo. I figured the fellow would panic if I told him that Julio had come to my home two days earlier to question me about another murder. He might shoot me for drill, go for his hero merit badge and guarantee his job for twenty-two more years.

  So I guessed and lied: “I think I met Julio playing softball about ten years ago. He was one hell of a competitor.”

  “Too bad his knees gave out,” said the tech. “He flat loved the game.”

  Good guess. The pistol barrel dropped an inch. It was pointed at my groin. I wanted it back up to my neck. Where the hell was Beth?

  Her voice came from out front: “Alex?”

  “Back here,” I shouted. “Back here talking sports.”

  Beth assured the scene tech that he could put away his weapon. She asked his permission to approach the shed, then used her laminated ID card to pry open the door.

  She lowered her voice: “Do you know her?”

  “Lisa Cormier from Atlanta, the wife of Dr. Copeland Cormier, one of Sam’s fishing clients.”

  “Sam knew her?”

  “I believe so,” I said. “I’m not positive.”

  “Go on.”

  “That’s all I know.”

  We looked over at the scene technician. Next to him stood Julio Alonzo in his lieutenant’s uniform, his eyes on me like grease on a T-shirt. We hadn’t heard Julio arrive.

  Julio said, “How long has the body been in there, Detective?”

  Beth held her answer long enough to show that she wasn’t buying the sexist demands of an underling. “My guess is less than four hours, Lieutenant.”

  Julio backed down a notch but not completely. “Has Rutledge shared with us how he spent his day?”

  I glanced at Beth. Her wary expression translated to a request. Please leave her out of it, if possible.

  “I loafed around the house all morning, Lieutenant. About 11:30 I took my motorcycle out of this shed and rode up the Keys. I visited two friends, Mr. Bob Catherman then Mr. Frank Polan, both on Cudjoe. I had a late lunch at Boondocks and paid the bill about ninety minutes ago. I’ve got a credit card receipt in my wallet. It probably shows the date and time. Forty-five minutes ago I had a conversation with Deputy Chris Ericson, one of your old department colleagues, on Blimp Road on Cudjoe. After that I rode down Old Papy Road and the only person I saw was another deputy parked, I assumed, on a detail. If he can’t recall my motorcycle, he certainly can verify his presence at that remote spot. Then I drove straight back here and found the body.”

  Alonzo looked at Beth Watkins. He shrugged, disappointed, and said, “We’ll have to check all that. Come out to my car, Rutledge. I’ve got a few more questions.”

  “I need him right here for the time being, Julio,” said Beth. “Plus, alibis don’t come much tighter than that.”

  Alonzo angled his face and talked to the ground. “I hear titanium alibis eight hours a day, Detective, all due respect.”

  Beth Watkins stared at Julio until he walked away. She kept her gaze on the scene tech. He stepped back about ten feet.

  “Who knew we were gone?” she said.

  I’d already formed the answer, while waiting alone with the body. “Colding, Polan, Catherman and the three women in the grocery. Unless someone saw us ride out of the lane or you gave your name to the man mowing his lawn on Bay Point… but he doesn’t know my name. Other than that, no one.”

  “You went inside to get a shirt before you rolled the Triumph out of this shed. Did you call anyone?”

  I thought back six hours. “I called Duffy Lee Hall. I didn’t mention our ride up the Keys.”

  Beth peered around my shoulder, asked the scene tech to give her two more minutes, then said, “Before more cops show up, tell me again what you did after I rode away from Blimp Road.”

  I told her about Deputy Ericson’s accusation of my flaunting the speed limit, our exchange of words, and my trip to Old Papy Road, wanting to take a picture of the Mansion but being bluffed off by the deputy I didn’t know.

  “Perfect,” she said. “And simple. Polan, that lunch receipt, and Ericson will make your alibi. Unless one of them mentions my name, we don’t have to connect the two of us, officially.”

  “Give the case away,” I said. “Why risk blowing it? I can take the heat.”

  “It’s not like you’re a suspect, Alex. Let’s see how it unfolds. But promise me you understand that keeping our ride confidential is a workplace tactic, that’s all. I don’t like my personal life juked around the office.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “And I promise not to blame you for having a murder dropped in my lap. My privacy’s sure to suffer for a while.”

  Her eyes thanked me. “Now comes the difficult part. It’s hard enough to move dead people at night. How did anyone get her into your yard in broad daylight?”

  “I’ve mentally worked every possibility.” I pointed to the hedge and fence.

  Beth shook her head. “Hammond’s place is on Eaton Street, Alex. There’s no driveway. Only the front door and the gate alongside the house. Unless they carried her body down the sidewalk, she would have to ‘arrive alive,’ as your Florida license tags used to say.”

  “Okay, let’s back up a bit,” I said. “Why was she put here except to screw with me?”

  “Maybe she came alone and her killer found her here. Would she have any reason to come to your home?”

  I said it too quickly: “Persistence.”

  “We’re making progress,” said Beth, mock optimism in her voice. “She hit on you.”

  “She asked once, two days ago.”

  Beth set her jaw, dropped her eyelids as if focusing. A professional pose for a personal question. “Did you…”

  “I got the impression she wasn’t used to being turned down.”

  “I’m being stupid and out of line,” she said. “I apologize.” She pulled the Maglite from her belly pack and opened the shed door for another look. The light showed the weed trimmer’s power cord around Lisa’s neck.

  “It looks, or was made to look, like she was killed right here,” said Beth. “Choked with an electrical wire.” She looked over at the fence. “A fresh version of Jerry Hammond’s murder, except the public doesn’t know how he was choked.”

  “I think it’s phony,” I said. “Two bits says that the power cord is too rotten to hold tension enough to strangle her. It would break apart before it did the job.”

  “Okay,” said Beth. “Let’s hold that thought, because what I’m seeing as a first impression, it almost looks like she undressed herself. I don’t see any bruises or scratches. In a violent sexual attack, buttons and clasps are the first things to go. But the fro
nt-hitch bra is undone instead of ripped. Her pants are off both legs instead of just one, and they’re here in the shed. Her panties are pulled down instead of torn off or pushed aside. Her pubic hair looks clean. It actually looks freshly combed. This is totally unlike any other rape-murders I’ve studied or seen.”

  “You think the scene is staged?” I said.

  “It’s as if she was undressed to make it look like a sex crime. I think we’ll find out she wasn’t raped. Also the power cord is not the only similarity in the two. With Hammond there was a sex angle we haven’t divulged.”

  “Evidenced by?”

  “Exposure,” she said. “His unit was out of his fly. He died with his dick out.”

  “Those are legal terms, Detective?”

  “What do you want, Alex, penicular appendage? At this stage of our investigation I’m aiming for clarity.”

  “Maybe he was aiming for the toilet, taking a pee.”

  “He wasn’t found near the bathroom,” she said.

  “So… he was surprised while pissing and chased to another room by a pizza cook. The hair dryer now becomes a weapon of opportunity. Did anyone check the commode water for content?”

  “A favor just for me, Alex. Stop theorizing right now.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but I still need to ask a couple of questions. Is Hammond’s house vacant now?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “I probably should have asked you this one yesterday. Did Jerry Hammond have a girlfriend or a part-time roommate?”

  “None that we discovered. Why?”

  “Someone else was spending time there. There was food for two. One was a health nut. The other was purely opposite—a comfort food junkie. If there’s a link between the two murders, it may be that second person.”

  “You forgot to tell me about food for two?” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I was too wrapped up in the computer, the missing hard drive. But I noticed the other day that this shed can be seen from his rear deck. Whoever killed Jerry could have staked out my yard for the next murder to happen.”

  Beth pinched her lips together in a tight line. “I’ll think about it. This afternoon one of his pals offered a $25,000 reward for information leading to his murderer. It’ll be in the Citizen tomorrow.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a worthwhile tip,” I said.

  “Never happens. I’ll get two dozen bogus leads which will waste my time. Rewards always carry the blatant message that the cops aren’t capable of doing their job.”

  I pointed at Lisa Cormier’s body. “Where’s her husband right now and who will notify?”

  She thought a moment. “I hope to hell that’s not my job.”

  I walked around my house to meet Julio, feeling as if I was being sent to a scolding stool in a classroom corner. But there was no sign of him, and unmarked cars, squad cars and vans had invaded the lane.

  I excused myself from penance, and finally remembered to call Marnie. I let her phone ring once, hung up, and walked over to the home of Carmen’s parents, Hector and Cecilia Ayusa.

  Cecilia opened her front door as I climbed the stairs. “Don’t tell me why the police, Alex. I don’t want to know.”

  “How about Hector?” I said. “Is he interested?”

  “He’s takin’ a nap,” said Cecilia. She gave me what looked like a thumbs-up but angled her hand and raised her elbow so she could mimic someone drinking from a bottle, his precious Spanish brandy. She kissed the tip of her thumb and said, “You come back at suppertime, one hour, Alex, see my grumpy husband.”

  “Did you see any new people in the lane today?”

  “No, Alex. I been packing my sheets and my dishes, not looking out windows. You know we going to Ocala, don’t you?”

  “I would miss you if you moved. I’d think about you up in that cold weather, all your porch plants freezing at night.”

  “No, they won’t do that, Alex. It’s still Florida.”

  “They had frost warnings in November last year.”

  Cecilia looked baffled. “Frost?”

  Beth Watkins stood in the lane staring at me as I left the Ayusas’ porch. My eyes were distracted by two cops stringing plastic yellow crime scene tape around my screened porch.

  “The forensic boys kick you out?” I said.

  “For an hour or so,” said Beth. “Speaking of which, I have rough news for you. Your home is part of our investigation. You won’t be staying there tonight.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “You’ll just have to bunk with the investigating officer.”

  “I can’t even go inside for my toothbrush and a change of underwear? I really need to get a portable flash drive off my desk.”

  “I own one of the largest toothbrush storage facilities in the Keys. Dr. Goldner gives me one every time I get my teeth cleaned, but I use a battery-powered model. I take home all the freebies in hope of a situation like this.”

  “Why do you still have so many on hand?”

  “I’m as fussy about my sex as I am about my teeth. And you won’t need underwear unless you’ve browned-out the pair you’re wearing. I don’t allow clothing in my bed.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got at least forty minutes. Let me show you your mandatory accommodations for the evening.”

  “Do you have that device with you?” I said. “The one that downloads a camera memory card?”

  “It’s in my car. I’ve also got a portable flash drive.”

  “Can I borrow both?” I said. “I need to run a quick errand.”

  “Just as well. I need to sit in my car and think this through.”

  “Think about the proximity factor,” I said, “a possible connection between Lisa Cormier and Jerry Hammond.”

  “The timeline doesn’t work,” said Beth. “We arrested the guy who did Jerry Hammond three hours ago, thanks to the pawnshop video and his fingerprints on the hard drive. He’s a young punk full of wise-mouth and denials. I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to interview and intimidate him.”

  “Hernando DeBary?”

  “You were right about the fake name. It’s Russell Hernandez.”

  “That’s who pawned the hard drive?”

  “Got him on video. He’s admitted buying the drive from what he called a street person. And he’s claiming innocence on anything else. I’ll rip his story like a wet Kleenex.”

  “He does yard maintenance, not pizzas, Beth. Did you compare his shoe size to the footprints?”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He and his buddy Jason were Carmen’s houseguests for the first couple nights they were in town. They’ve been on the island less than a week. I think they got here Sunday.”

  “Fuck,” said Beth. “You’re sure?”

  “Easy enough to check out. Jason Dudak’s mother is Carmen’s best friend. There must be some way to track their travels.”

  “Well, double-fuck.” She inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly. “That screws up the murder and the string of burglaries.”

  “It might save you from a dead-end Q-and-A session,” I said.

  She inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly. “Maybe you got it right when I asked who knew we were gone. It’s some kind of horseshit set-up. Someone saw us ride out of the lane.”

  24

  The police allowed me into the yard to retrieve my Triumph and helmet. They looked like kids but I could tell by their approach, rigging lights, stadium lights, dividing my yard into sections, that they meant business. One tech wore a blue nylon jacket with CSI: CAYO HUESO on the back. Probably custom-made on Southard Street at Ramona’s Shirt Put-On. It spoke to the man’s affection for his job and the sense of humor the techs must need for continued mental health.

  It helped my humor that I didn’t see the one who had pointed a gun at me.

  Beth was waiting by her parked car on Fleming. She smiled on one side of her mouth and handed me a small thumb drive and her image storage device. “Be home in time for dinner, honey. No fair buying pajamas.�
��

  “I’d better find some curbside Viagra,” I said.

  She licked her index finger, touched it low on her right hip and made a sizzling hiss through her teeth. “I will make sure you don’t need it.”

  I grinned, and she grabbed my arm.

  “I’m under so much damn pressure right now,” she said. “Tell me you like me. Tell me I’m not making an idiot of myself.”

  “I like you very much. Thank you for asking. I’d kiss you right here but we don’t know who’s watching.”

  “Where will you kiss me?” she said.

  “On your cute boca chica.”

  I rode down Eaton trailing crab-slow traffic, along Simonton past evening cruisers, people walking from sunset at Mallory Square. Four weeks into autumn, the temperatures hadn’t changed much but the evening air smelled colder. Not like chimney smoke cold, but crisp and welcome in the year’s last days of Daylight Savings.

  The Pier House entry gate dude gave me a hairy eyeball. I told him I was a Chart Room regular, and he waved me through. No fools, several other cycle owners had claimed the best spots in the lot. Defensive parking is wise in a town catering to drinkers. I settled for a remote corner shielded by an oversized croton bush and chose not to leave my helmet behind.

  With Happy Hour in full swing on Duval, I wasn’t sure I would find any of the party-hearty college girls in the Beach Building annex. I rode an elevator to the second floor where a bedraggled young woman answered my knock. She wore a long, flimsy robe and looked like the aftermath of a long and voluminous intake of shots and drafts. Air escaping the room carried odors of a morning saloon. I was reminded of a Navy ship’s forward berthing compartment at six a.m. in a foreign liberty port.

  She looked at my empty hands. “You’re not the food. Bitches said they’d send up food.”