Free Hawk Channel Chase by Tom Corcoran Page A

hearing anyone talk over there, ever. It’s crazy, I admit it. Hammond was a total stranger who lived thirty yards from where I sleep and eat.”
    Beth nodded. “He’s been in that house since the late nineties.”
    “I knew the woman who bought it in the early nineties,” I said. “She bought it on a shoestring and paid it down with alimony. Spent five years fixing it to resell, and when she found a buyer I never saw her again.”
    “This island, it changes downhill,” said Alonzo.
    Watkins and I watched him try to scowl. His fleshy face refused to play. His expression remained the same.
    “I was a barefoot kid,” he said, “picking spanish limes, mangoes out of my yard, everybody know everybody. Sure as hell we know nicknames, their whole family, all the kids, their jobs. Key West is going away like a bar of soap, rubbed down to dime-size.”
    “I remember when you were a beat cop, Julio,” I said, “harassing hippies on Duval. I didn’t know anyone on Eaton back then, either. A lot changed, I’ll give you that. But plenty is still the same.”
    “Cayo Hueso got trampled by Woodstock refugees,” said the lieutenant. “You got another opinion, I’m sure.”
    “I take a bigger view of it,” I said. “The Navy ran the island when hippies were still beatniks. Tourists came after the longhairs grew up and blended in. If you take a longer look, the spongers, cigar rollers, railroad and hurricanes, it’s been constant change for two centuries.”
    Alonzo said, “The hippies may think they blended in, but they ruined it.”
    He hadn’t soaked up a word I’d said.
    Puzzled by Alonzo’s vehemence, Watkins tried to calm him. “You heard his complaint about part-timers, Julio,” she said. “He wants our island to stay the same.”
    Alonzo’s sullen eyes became slits as he glanced back through the screening. Now that Watkins had touched the topic, truck and moped sounds from Eaton Street became more persistent.
    “I’m worried about our crime scene,” said Watkins. “We need to make sure it’s not being contaminated.”
    I took that to mean invaded by jurisdiction poachers from county or state law enforcement. It worked as an excuse to get rid of Alonzo.
    The lieutenant shoved open the door but stopped and turned. “Lady, he’s not talking about our island. I was born here and you weren’t. He’s talking about my island.”
    He stepped out, let the door slam and marched off. Ten paces away he raised his voice. “You bring the car, Detective. I’ll walk around the block like we used to do.”
    Beth Watkins observed a few ticks of silence then said, “From what I know, he’s got a legit complaint.”
    “It’s after-the-fact whining,” I said. “The old-time Conchs have taken the money, house by house, for twenty-five years and left town with fat wallets. I’ve wondered all that time why more of them didn’t stand up for their turf, reject the profits and defend the lifestyles they bemoan in hindsight. He can bitch all he wants, but it’s like trying to hold back the wind with a sail.”
      “You’ve been saving that speech for a while.”
    “Maybe he’s the only one left who bemoans the changes,” I said. “Anyway, thanks.”
    “For chilling him out? It didn’t work too well.”
    “For not asking me to take crime scene photos.”
    She hesitated, tried to decide on her wording. “Your proximity to the deceased disqualified you.”
    “In what way, Beth?” I said. “A ‘person of interest’ or just a neighbor?”
    She gave me an odd look. “Who dragged you away from advertising photos in the first place?”
    “I still do magazine work and brochures. It’s how I make my living.”
    “You know what I meant,”she said.
    “Sheriff Liska, years ago. Before he quit your desk at the city to run for office. I must have needed cash that month. Neither of us knew it was habit-forming.”
    “They wouldn’t have called you back if you weren’t good at it.”
    “What do you know