Free Air Dance Iguana by Tom Corcoran Page B

Haskins, his first name given, not a nickname. The wife is Tinky, short for Tinkerbell. Shaped like her old man. A family friend got her out of here, took her to a home on Sugarloaf Boulevard.”
    I pointed to the woman in dark slacks, a buttoned blue top, and aviator sunglasses who stood under the house writing in a spiral notebook. “Is she related to the victim?”
    “She’s the new detective with the city police,” said Bobbi. “Her name’s Beth Watkins. She came from California two weeks ago and by coincidence rented the house next to me on Aquamarine.”
    “She works for the city and she’s out here on Bay Point?” I said.
    “She wanted to observe county crime-scene procedures in case she needed to coordinate in the future.”
    The Watkins woman glanced up and saw us looking. Her hair was short, straw-blond. She looked thirty, give or take, comfortable with herself, with a pleasant calm about her. Lewis waved her over.
    Beth Watkins recognized my name when Lewis introduced us. She reached to shake hands. “Your name came up at the city this week,” she said. “You’re the photographer who saved a detective’s life.”
    “And you were hired to fill that detective’s slot?” I said.
    “Yes and no,” she said. “A man recovering from a gunshot wound, no police department would tell him to pack it in. I believe, officially, he’s on indefinite medical leave and I’m covering his workload. Whatever he does in the future, my job sticks. Meanwhile, I’d better get back to taking notes.”
    “Nice meeting you,” I said.
    She flickered a smile. “I saw you arrive on that Bonneville. It’s an 800, right?”
    “It’s a 650,” I said.
    “What, like a ’70 model?”
    “Exactly. It’s a T-120R.”
    “Sharp.” Watkins turned and walked toward the under-house shade.
    Bobbi started back to the street. I had seen all I wanted to see, so I followed. “What’s Liska’s opinion of this spree?” I said.
    “He thinks we’ll lose the whole cluster to the state cops.”
    The Florida Department of Law Enforcement had a reputation for claim-jumping high-profile cases. They also had a rep for clearing tough ones. “Maybe they’re headline-needy this year,” I said. “Speaking of which, this morning’s headline could be the reason for this.”
    “I agree,” she said. “Plain and simple suicide.”
    “The rope is similar to the other two, but if he killed himself with that knot, he lived up to his name. My guess is a family dispute with a copycat factor. Whatever it is, you ought to get ready for an insurance nightmare. The FDLE might do you a favor.”
    “I’d rather keep the investigations,” she said. “I think the first two are linked, but this one’s self-induced.”
    I couldn’t imagine someone taking himself out the slowest way possible. “I’ll bet you a naked boat ride.”
    “Are you betting that it’s linked to the other two?”
    “No, just that it’s a murder,” I said.
    Bobbi reached inside her car and popped the trunk release. “You don’t want to know?”
    “Why you won’t take my bet?”
    She shook her head. “Why that schmuck is working for me.”
    “Orders are orders, right?”
    “I guess so.”
    I started the Triumph and felt the wet tap of summer, a raindrop on my wrist. I didn’t want to ride through weather with my camera gear, but it was better than hanging out where I was a lump on a log. I rolled to the Overseas Highway. The useless traffic jam was worse than before. Bohner and the deputy at East Circle continued to block all access to Bay Point. Confused residents were U-turning, pulling to the shoulder, jamming the Baby’s Coffee parking lot. A group of college-aged kids tossed a Frisbee on the north shoulder.
    I checked the sky. Blue sky and blue water on the bay side. The squall was just south of me, moving westward.
    Bixby would conclude his photo debut in a downpour. Welcome to the tropics.
     
    Al Manning’s across-the-street neighbor got to me