Free Hawk Channel Chase by Tom Corcoran

wasn’t about to trivialize by guessing, popping out names.
    Watkins stared at me. Her skin was pasty, her hair more brown than yellow, as if she hadn’t been outdoors in weeks. She wore a white polo shirt embroidered with a city logo, pressed dark blue slacks and a fanny pack-type pouch on the front of her belt. Alonzo now stared at the back of her neck, his eyes the tone of the ocean’s surface on a chill, cloudy day.
    “Well?” I said.
    “You knew someone was dead?”
    “What’s with the tone, Watkins? Are you here to inform me of a passing or to question me as a crime suspect?”
    Watkins kept her eyes locked on mine. “Tell me about your friendship with Jerry Hammond.”
      “That’s not a name I know,” I said. “Would you like some coffee?”
    Alonzo moved sideways, a macho shuffle that let him block the doorway. What was I going to do, escape the prison of my own home?
    Beth Watkins stared and said nothing.
    “No one named Hammond has lived on Dredgers Lane as long as I’ve been here.”
    “Mr. Hammond lived on Eaton Street.”
    “Another world, Detective.”
    “It’s the next street.” She pointed. “You hear that truck?”
    I hadn’t noticed the truck’s rumbling exhaust until she mentioned it. Had I conditioned myself to ignore vehicles droning fifty yards away? “This lane hasn’t changed in years,” I said, “which is one reason I stay. Houses on Eaton get sold and remodeled and sold and bought again. It’s a flipper’s bazaar with vultures and temporaries and part-timers who hang just long enough to cut their dream deals. I have no reason to socialize with anyone over there.”
    “Over there is your back fence.”
    “My side fence. I never met my side fence neighbor. Only his dog.”
    “That’s a bit strange, this close, you never met,” she said.
    “His taste in music sucked. I was forced to share too many loud evenings with Barry Manilow. I took that as a sampling of the man’s personality.”
    “You never introduced yourself? No fence talk about bush trimming, maybe borrowing a rake?”
    “Never laid eyes on him.”
    “Everyone in this town knew Jerry Hammond,” said Lieutenant Alonzo, his Conch accent a reminder of past years. His put-down phrasing alerted me, told me to ignore him, to keep my attention on Watkins.
    “Is this Hammond a victim or a bad guy?”
    She let down her guard. “Maybe both, you never know. Could be, the bad got him killed.”
    “When?” I said.
    “Nobody had seen him for two days,” said Watkins. “A friend of his called and we sent in an officer. The place was unlocked.”
    “Last night or this morning?”
    “A few hours ago,” she said. “It was daybreak by the time we got the prelim scene crew assembled.”
    I imagined a traffic snarl on Eaton with detectives’ cars and forensic vans. But I couldn’t miss it: a fast-moving Harley suggested that the street was clear.
    “Why does everyone know this man?” I said.
    “He worked the post office for twelve years,” said Alonzo. “He retired last summer. Then he volunteered at that Bahama Village music school.”
    “He worked with Carmen for twelve years?” I said. “She never mentioned him. He was her neighbor, too.”
    Watkins angled her head to check the lane toward Carmen’s house. “We’ve heard that he and Ms. Sosa did not share mutual respect. No one ever got a reprimand, but there was a history of minimal cooperation.”
    “Ah, strife. That can happen in the workplace,” I said.
    Watkins nodded. “We need to hope it didn’t carry over to his dining room.”
    “Don’t even think she could do it,” I said. “Carmen’s so anti-violence, she once tried to hire me to kick my own ass when I’d pissed her off.”
    “She may be able to give us some ideas.”
    “She’s a good judge of character.”
    “You never even saw him, say, through the hedge?”
    I shook my head. “I heard him or some frequent guest of his sing along with Barry, but I can’t recall