Hawk Channel Chase (32 page)

All was quiet.

I had one stop to make before going to Polan’s. I had stashed Catherman’s envelope in my helmet and forgotten to remove it. It held Sally’s car registration, a copy of the picture page of her passport, her drivers license renewal notice, and three copies of a head shot photo. I hoped that its contents hadn’t turned into a sweat-saturated mass of fiber and bled-out, unreadable inks.

I peeled back the lining pad and found what I needed, as legible as my thumbnail: Catherman’s address printed on the upper left corner of the envelope. Scabbard Road, and why hadn’t I been able to recall that? I’d dug out the address when I had seen the tow truck haul Sally’s Miata away from Mangrove Mama’s.

“Bob Catherman lives five minutes from here,” I said to Beth. “Before we go to Frank Polan’s, I’d like to see how Bob lives.”

“Is this the life of a private eye?”

“I think so,” I said. “But I left the instruction book in my other briefcase.”

I’ve never understood why people with loads of money are compelled to buy cute mailboxes and live on streets with cute names. The folks assigned to name streets on Cudjoe must have been enthralled with swashbucklers, despots and their related gear. We ran south on Cutthroat and west on Jolly Roger. The short streets that ran northward to dead ends off Jolly Roger alternated with stubby canals that gave each home in the area salt water access. We passed Arrgh Lane and Eyepatch Street before finding the right area.

To assure myself that we were observer-free, I scouted the streets just east and west of Scabbard. There were no Dodge Chargers parked on Gangplank Lane, no Chevy Impalas on Grog Road. No other faux-stealth sedans on either street, but rolling slowly on Grog we found a spot where we could look through a spacious yard for a cross-canal view of the Porsche Cayenne parked under what had to be Catherman’s home. The elevated house was no palace compared to its neighbors, but the boats tied alongside his seawall spoke of wealth and adventure.

I pulled out my Canon PowerShot, zoomed to optical max, and took several photos of the Catherman Yacht Club. A center-console 38-foot Fountain with three Mercury 275 Verados on its transom; and what looked to be a 28-foot Skater—probably the smallest model made—but it carried two Mercury 300 OptiMax outboards.

“Living the life,” said Beth.

I agreed. “That Fountain is a seventy-mile-an-hour monster, but it can be used for deep sea fishing. That little Skater is even faster—but strictly a hot rod. Impractical and expensive.”

Beth showed a sly grin. “Bet it’s great for trolling.”

I reminded myself that she worked in a male-dominated profession. She had heard it all.

“For the money that bought those boats,” I said, “we could lay back in the most luxurious hotel in Paris, eat the best food and drink the finest wine for about two years.”

She held her right hand to her heart. “Any chance of making it one boat and one year in Paris?”

We rode around to the house on Scabbard, pulled in alongside the Cayenne. Aside from the hot boats floating out back, nothing under the house or in the yard gave clues to the pastimes or personalities of the home’s occupants. No kayaks or flower plantings or decorations. The only indication of Sally’s “legal” ground-floor apartment were mini-blinds in a two-foot-square window facing the street.

Bob Catherman descended an outside stairway and walked toward my motorcycle, nodding in admiration.

“You’re a man of fine taste,” he said. “I didn’t have time to check out this baby at the post office the other day.”

“You had other matters on your mind,” I said.

“Still do.” He paused and regarded Beth, pretended to be admiring her Ducati. She kept her eyes down, feigned attention to her gauge cluster.

In his navy Bermuda shorts, yellow button-down shirt and tassel loafers, no socks, Catherman looked like an oil executive on vacation. “Look, Rutledge,” he said, “I owe you a mess of apologies. One is for that first day I knocked on your door. I treated you like a hayseed. I shouldn’t have been so high and mighty.”

“We’re even. I reacted as if you were a sleazy solicitor full of promises and horseshit.”

He shrugged it off. “Another apology, obviously, is for last night. I can’t even begin…”

“Then don’t. It was awkward for all of us, but I don’t believe for a minute that you’re a window peeper.”

“Your meter runs down about this time tomorrow, right?” he said. “I assume you’ve been talking to Sally’s fellow employees.”

“The young women in Colding’s are torn up by all this,” I said. “It’s been a task to gain their confidence, and I think there’s more to learn. I would hate to see my efforts tank before I get to dig deeper.”

He kept his eyes on Beth. “What are you saying?”

“Let’s not upset them more than we have to,” I said. “I’d appreciate your shopping at Murray’s Market for a few days.”

Catherman faked a chuckle. “What am I, a loose cannon?”

“Just the sight of you will stir them up. No disrespect intended, you’re also a man with emotions. We boys think we can stifle them, but we can’t fool all of the women all the time.”

“Gotcha,” he said, “and well-put.”

“Couple of fine boats out back.”

“And I wish they were mine.” Catherman pointed to a work site two homes to the north. “My neighbor is having new davits installed. I’m temporary parking, but it sure classes up the real estate.”

“Bob, about that subject,” I said, “you made several offers on Dredgers Lane three days ago. I’ve known my neighbors for years, and several of them are making plans that amount to life-changing moves. Are those offers good to go, or is there something we all need to know?”

“All on the level,” he said, “though we can’t close all the deals on one day. There will be appraisals and due diligence and such. I’m sure you’re more up to speed than some of those… your neighbors.”

“Could be true,” I said.

He shifted his eyes back to Beth on her Ducati. “Can I ask one favor?”
 

I tilted my head, non-committal.

“Maybe I don’t have to say this, what with our working arrangement.” He paused to form his phrasing. “If something—anything—pops up that’s, say, south of the law, my daughter in a jam, but not only that, I’d like to get a call before you notify the cops.”

I couldn’t imagine the mess of guilt and helplessness and denial in his mind. Yet something about his phrasing caught me wrong enough to instantly ease my mind about accepting his nickel—to work, in truth, for Sam.

“You bet, Bob,” I said. “I read somewhere that good private eyes always report first to their clients.” I was fairly sure I’d seen it in a detective novel written eighty years ago.

Missing the sarcasm, he checked his watch. “I’ve got a lunch meeting in five, just up the road at Square Grouper. I’m going to have to let you go.”

“Do you mind if I ask, is Sally your only child?”

“Yes, she is, Alex. I’ll wait for your call.”

So patient, so social and businesslike, I thought, as he runs task delegation to a new low.

Frank Polan’s home was a half-mile from us, straight across Cudjoe Bay, but a two-mile ride on the island’s streets. I planned to make it quick. I didn’t want to be late for lunch at Boondocks.

Even people who own homes in the Keys dream of a place like Polan’s. His double lot is low on the ocean side yet faces northwest, away from the neighbors, for plenty of sunset cocktail hours. There’s a boat ramp, installed before rules about such things changed, a T-shaped dock with two elegant boats alongside, a dozen mature palm trees, a scattering of shaped shrubs and, always a sign of sophistication, an outdoor shower. As a small matter of fastidious obsession, he keeps his home in great shape. I imagined that five or six weeds a year might sprout in Polan’s pea rock and be annihilated within fifteen minutes of their discovery.

We parked our motorcycles under the house behind Frank’s spotless SUV and a mid-sized, freshly washed, two-door Mercedes. Climbing the stairway to his open deck, Beth paused to unzip her riding suit and admire the placid bay view. The earlier clouds had scattered. Two kayakers paddled westward along the far shore near the waterfront homes we’d just passed on Jolly Roger. An elderly heron atop a dock piling watched a lone cormorant skim the flat water.

“I could stand it,” she said.

“Wait until you meet Frank. He’ll flat steal your heart.”

“You own the damn thing,” she said. “I hope you’ll defend it.”

I almost tripped up the steps.

“Or at least get a good price on the flip,” she added.

Frank had heard our arrival. “The slider’s unlocked,” he called out. “Come on in.”

The house smelled of chicken that Frank had grilled on his porch, on a small propane-fueled hibachi, and of broccoli he was steaming in the kitchen. The cold air in his living room fogged my sunglasses but I couldn’t miss, dead center on the Persian rug, a workout rowing machine.

“It’s a light lunch I have three times a week,” he said. “Six ounces of chicken and eight ounces of broccoli. Which, of course, I pee out everything except the good protein and antioxidants.”

“Chicken’s a known oxidant,” I said.

Polan’s voice a drawn-out, distressed whine: “No.”

“You could know this but you refuse to recognize the existence of the Internet,” I said. “You’ve never heard of H-two-cluck side effects?”

He rolled his eyes, whispered, “Fuck you,” slipped me my wad of hundreds, and turned his attention to Beth. “So what magazines have you been in?”

“None, I hope,” she said.

“You’re not a fashion model?”

“You were right, Alex,” she said. “I like this guy.”

Frank patted my shoulder. “See, Alex? I’m not so bad. They all like me, like that one last night. She and I got very drunk so we quit after the first try. She got dressed and went home at two then called me at ten to apologize. Talk about your perfect date. I might call her again. Plus I’ll put her in my book.”

“Doing some writing, Frank?” I said.

“I’m a thinker, I know that about myself,” said Polan. “I’ve been thinking about starting my autobiography. I’ve lived an interesting existence, and I think it’s time. I’ll call it
Snowball to Hell
.”

“How does Hell relate to your life?” she said.

“I’m not sure yet. But you have to agree, it’s a catchy title. When I’m drinking, I’m prolific and I make a lot of sense. I figure the meaning will come to me while I’m writing the book.”

“May I use your bathroom, Frank?” I said.

He screwed an odd expression onto his face. “Can I tell you something first?”

“About the bathroom?”

“No, I’ve heard you’re an expert. But let me say, I always knew you took pictures, but I never knew you were so good.”

“How did you find out, Frank? I hope you didn’t take someone’s word for it.”

“I was walking around Key West a week ago, you know, killing time and I like to walk. Sometimes I walk three or four hours in a row, so I went into this little art gallery on the south end of Duval. That’s not a weird or faggy thing for me to do, is it? Go into an art gallery?”

“I don’t think it is, Frank. In recent years I’ve seen numerous heterosexuals in art galleries.”

“So I’m in this gallery and really liking the pictures on the wall. I asked the fellow working there if he knew the artist. He tells me they’re photos by Alex Rutledge, so I told him you were a great friend of mine and I bought one of them. Right there and then I paid him cash. Maybe you’ll make a few bucks, put some gas in your motorcycle. Then I found the perfect place to hang it.”

“You’re making me feel good, Frank.”

“But don’t take this wrong, because I really like the photo. And it’s black and white so it matches the tile in the master bath.”

“Wonderful, Frank. My art found a place in your home.”

“So you’re not upset, it’s in the bathroom?”

“Well, I should tell you, the bathroom is a very humid place, Frank. The damp air could damage the mat and the photograph.”

“Well, I can live with that. If it gets fucked up, I’ll just buy another one because I can afford a few more. I’ll take the chance that the price doesn’t go up, and either way you’ll make more money. Am I talking to the soul of the artist here?”

“Loud and clear, Frank. As only you can.”

I returned to the living room to find Polan washing dishes and Beth studying the framed reproductions of classic paintings on his walls. “Frank, what kind of fish do you catch off your dock?” she said.

 
“I don’t fish,” he said. “Not off the dock, not off the boats. It’s far too messy. When I want fish I go to the store. Better yet, I go to a restaurant. I can afford to eat out, so why catch fish?”

She watched him finish the dishes. “You’re a man who thinks things through to their completion, I can tell. If you don’t mind my asking, why two boats?”

“Luxury and sport. The one with the forward cabin is for overnights or supper parties, if the girl wants to cook. The other one will do fifty-five knots and it draws only eight inches, perfect for the backcountry.”