Read Online Hawk Channel Chase by Tom Corcoran - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Corcoran
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supposed to sit and wait for the phone to ring? No fucking way.”
“Do whatever you please, Mr. Catherman, but I won’t play tag-team. I go solo or I stay home.”
No response.
“It’s your call,” I said.
“Can you disabuse me of the thought that you’ve come aboard only for the money? I fear that you’ll go through the motions with no concern for results.”
“You came to me in the first place,” I said. “Where was your fear of my intentions this morning?”
“I’ve had all day to think about everything in my world.”
“I’ve built a photo career by giving my clients their money’s worth. This time the difference is my lack of experience. But you have your opinions on that.”
For some reason I suspected that his protracted silence was just for effect.
“I live on Cudjoe,” he finally said. “It’ll take me thirty-five, forty minutes to drive into town.”
“That won’t work for me,” I said. “Have any deputies called you back on your missing person report?”
“Nope, not a word. Like I said before, they didn’t really take a report.”
“Did you go to the substation on Cudjoe as well as the sheriff’s office on Stock Island?”
“Only the main office. That’s where I spoke with that unpleasant woman.”
“Can you meet me at 9:30 tomorrow inside the post office on Summerland?”
“I’ll have money with me,” he said.
“Bring me three grand. I’ll give you three days, then it ends. Also, bring me more pictures. I’d like to see a variety. And a copy of her car registration… Her class schedule, too, if you can find it.”
“How about four days for five grand?” he said.
“No.”
I walked back to the bar. Lisa Cormier’s drink glass was gone. The bartender held a wine bottle just above my glass.
I shook my head. “My turn to drink rum, rocks.”
“Gotcha.”
“One other small detail,” I said. “I know you didn’t send those untouched appetizers back to the kitchen. My supper plans are down the tubes. There’s plenty for both of us, right?”
5
A voice ordered me to clean out the boat. I was awakened by the stench of fish left in the sun for days in an Igloo cooler. My pillow felt crusty and stank of booze drool. The odor was my breath; the pain behind my forehead the result of poor judgment or a crappy job of counting my drinks. The upside was that I wasn’t waking in someone’s hedge, wasn’t a guest of the city. I recall feeling odd relief when Bobbi Lewis had postponed our Last, my presumption, Dinner, and half-wishing that Lisa Cormier had slipped me a motel key instead of relaying her husband’s request that I deal with Catherman. I wasn’t sure I had the balance to stand and brush my teeth. I had no choice but to get out of bed. My bladder was calling the shots.
Twenty minutes later the coffee had done its trick. My hair was contained, the clothing was no longer yesterday’s. Small matter that my eyes needed flushing, my face could have used a sandblasting.
I thought seriously about returning to dreamland.
“Rutledge? Are you home?”
The voice of Beth Watkins, a Key West detective with maybe a year on the job, stood at the screen door. I’d be happier to see her smile than she’d be to view the wreckage of Rutledge. I began to ask why I hadn’t heard her Ducati motorcycle in the lane but shut up when I saw her glum expression. Lieutenant Julio Alonzo, in his stretched-out city uniform, lurked on the stoop. Julio had pegged his gaze on an indeterminate spot about six feet off the ground and halfway to the lane pavement.
She had that look on her face. Someone close to me was hurt or worse.
I opened the door, stood aside to let them enter. “Who died?”
“What makes you think anyone’s dead?” said Watkins.
“The gloom in your eye, for starters. The phrasing of your question confirms it.”
“One of your neighbors died.”
That category included Carmen, her daughter and her parents. I
“Do whatever you please, Mr. Catherman, but I won’t play tag-team. I go solo or I stay home.”
No response.
“It’s your call,” I said.
“Can you disabuse me of the thought that you’ve come aboard only for the money? I fear that you’ll go through the motions with no concern for results.”
“You came to me in the first place,” I said. “Where was your fear of my intentions this morning?”
“I’ve had all day to think about everything in my world.”
“I’ve built a photo career by giving my clients their money’s worth. This time the difference is my lack of experience. But you have your opinions on that.”
For some reason I suspected that his protracted silence was just for effect.
“I live on Cudjoe,” he finally said. “It’ll take me thirty-five, forty minutes to drive into town.”
“That won’t work for me,” I said. “Have any deputies called you back on your missing person report?”
“Nope, not a word. Like I said before, they didn’t really take a report.”
“Did you go to the substation on Cudjoe as well as the sheriff’s office on Stock Island?”
“Only the main office. That’s where I spoke with that unpleasant woman.”
“Can you meet me at 9:30 tomorrow inside the post office on Summerland?”
“I’ll have money with me,” he said.
“Bring me three grand. I’ll give you three days, then it ends. Also, bring me more pictures. I’d like to see a variety. And a copy of her car registration… Her class schedule, too, if you can find it.”
“How about four days for five grand?” he said.
“No.”
I walked back to the bar. Lisa Cormier’s drink glass was gone. The bartender held a wine bottle just above my glass.
I shook my head. “My turn to drink rum, rocks.”
“Gotcha.”
“One other small detail,” I said. “I know you didn’t send those untouched appetizers back to the kitchen. My supper plans are down the tubes. There’s plenty for both of us, right?”
5
A voice ordered me to clean out the boat. I was awakened by the stench of fish left in the sun for days in an Igloo cooler. My pillow felt crusty and stank of booze drool. The odor was my breath; the pain behind my forehead the result of poor judgment or a crappy job of counting my drinks. The upside was that I wasn’t waking in someone’s hedge, wasn’t a guest of the city. I recall feeling odd relief when Bobbi Lewis had postponed our Last, my presumption, Dinner, and half-wishing that Lisa Cormier had slipped me a motel key instead of relaying her husband’s request that I deal with Catherman. I wasn’t sure I had the balance to stand and brush my teeth. I had no choice but to get out of bed. My bladder was calling the shots.
Twenty minutes later the coffee had done its trick. My hair was contained, the clothing was no longer yesterday’s. Small matter that my eyes needed flushing, my face could have used a sandblasting.
I thought seriously about returning to dreamland.
“Rutledge? Are you home?”
The voice of Beth Watkins, a Key West detective with maybe a year on the job, stood at the screen door. I’d be happier to see her smile than she’d be to view the wreckage of Rutledge. I began to ask why I hadn’t heard her Ducati motorcycle in the lane but shut up when I saw her glum expression. Lieutenant Julio Alonzo, in his stretched-out city uniform, lurked on the stoop. Julio had pegged his gaze on an indeterminate spot about six feet off the ground and halfway to the lane pavement.
She had that look on her face. Someone close to me was hurt or worse.
I opened the door, stood aside to let them enter. “Who died?”
“What makes you think anyone’s dead?” said Watkins.
“The gloom in your eye, for starters. The phrasing of your question confirms it.”
“One of your neighbors died.”
That category included Carmen, her daughter and her parents. I
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