Hawk Channel Chase Read Online Free PDF Page A

if I have to?”
    “Let’s wait another day or two,” she said, standing to leave. “Maybe if you see them tomorrow.”
    “I’ll introduce myself, ask for a progress report. Speaking of employment, why aren’t you at work today?”
    She shook her head. “They boogered up the schedule again.”
     
    I put away the groceries and took a time-out in the bamboo rocker, secure in knowing that my ceiling fan was sending me healthy air. On top of the cleansing effect Bimini had had on my brain, the beer I’d drunk during Catherman’s visit demanded that I grab a nap. Then again, the disturbing news delivered by Marnie and Carmen ensured that I wouldn’t fall asleep. My perfectly good morning had turned into a tabloid day.
    Bob Catherman carried the backing to offer me tall cash for my home. But my reluctance to locate his daughter didn’t mean I was bluffing, pushing him for more money. Every word I had spoken in defense of my photo work was true. I had no desire to be a soldier of fortune, a gumshoe, a night sneak, a fixer. I didn’t want to get rich by solving the myriad problems of the wealthy. I wanted to earn enough to keep my checking account fluid, maybe park a little for the future. I had learned over the years that solvency was a prime requirement in maintaining a Keys lifestyle. Not that it wasn’t a tougher challenge as years passed, as Key West became known to the world’s upper crust, as taxes rose to fund changes to meet the needs of a more demanding population. I took what some might call naive pride in maintaining that solvency without selling out.
    I called Detective Bobbi Lewis’s work number.
    She caught the second ring. “Call you back, Alex? Say an hour? It’s a bitch of a morning.”
    Go lightly, I thought. “What’s the matter? Robberies, car wrecks or politics?”
    She hesitated a beat too long. “A   mountain of the usual. Lemme go right now.” She clicked off.
    Shitfire, I thought. I love you too. I hung up and slapped the wall.
    The phone rang, and I was tempted to run for the door.
    So I did. After a morning of crazy bullshit, I deserved a break, a late lunch at Louie’s Backyard. Let the message service earn its keep. Give the old Triumph 650 Bonneville some air, eat a fancy-damn salad on the Afterdeck and listen to the ocean under my barstool.
     
    I took White Street, running in light traffic until I tried to turn right on Von Phister. Two wobbly tourists in the bike lane and a Dodge pickup on my ass prompted me to venture 100 yards farther. A beautiful day in paradise, and what was my hurry? I caught a green at Flagler, turned, then spotted Sam Wheeler’s funky Ford Bronco parked near the corner of Whalton. The area was residential, and Sam was supposed to be fishing. Unless the old Bronco had broken down and he had abandoned it, the only sense I could discern was that his client lived nearby. I couldn’t think of anyone who lived along that stretch. But I knew there was a plausible explanation, if Sam cared to volunteer it.
     
    In an expanded old Conch house, Louie’s Backyard dominates the beachfront where Waddell meets Vernon. The Afterdeck, wedged between an elegant dining patio and the waters of Hawk Channel, has been a refuge for twenty years. It’s a mix of fashion and funk, rich tourists and all brands of locals, pillars of the town and dregs of the harbor. I’ve been there hundreds of times and never seen the water the same color, the wind from the same direction. I probably have viewed more lovely sunsets from that deck than most people see in a lifetime. My stability has wandered each time Louie’s closed for an annual break or hurricane repairs. I worry that I am one of those terminally drawn to the combo of alcohol and salt water, a drooler camouflaged by nautical lingo and a fisherman’s ball cap. I have no desire to become one of the loopy ones.
    The peace I needed went down the tubes. I found Sheriff Fred “Chicken Neck”   Liska with one of his ops