wore a shirt and trousers similar to those of the day before, perhaps the same ones.
I looked outside. Bobbi Lewis had parked her unmarked county cruiser next to Liska’s Lexus in front of the house. She stepped onto the porch behind him, smiled at me, skipped hello, and closed the door. Not that I’d expected a kiss in front of her boss. From five feet away I could smell her shampoo. Liska eased himself onto the chaise longue and pursed his lips for an extended exhale.
“You don’t believe in fax machines?” I said. “I was just working on my summary.”
“This is beyond faxing your report,” said Liska. “A couple things came up.”
“About these hangings?”
“And what else?”
I glanced at Bobbi. She peered into my eyes, perhaps noting a bloodshot effect. “Let’s get it done and behind us,” I said. “I’ve got some things happening in the next hour or so.”
Liska raised his open hand to give Lewis the floor.
“It fell to me to snoop Kansas Jack’s belongings,” she said. “We wanted to notify next of kin, and we needed clues to who dragged him outside in the middle of the night.”
Liska said, “After giving him time to dress and put on his shoes.”
“Kansas Jack may have met his killer elsewhere,” said Lewis. “He may have been followed home, or else he brought the murderer home. I spent yesterday afternoon and evening inside his house.”
“More pleasant than outside?” I said.
She sneered. “He didn’t have central air.”
“Find anything you could use?”
“Depends how you look at it. His life was a short story. Kansas Jack Mason didn’t exist prior to forty months ago.”
“So he rented instead of owned?”
“He owned the house,” she said, “but just barely. He arrived in the Keys and paid cash. The broker on Big Pine remembered him. She suspected back then that he’d spent his last penny to close the deal.”
“Where was he before he came to the Keys?”
“He didn’t exist,” she said. “No record of his paying telephone or utility bills in the United States, no Social number, no credit history, no relatives. It’ll take us a day or two to hear back on his fingerprints.”
“His income since then?”
“The neighbors say he did odd jobs that he found word of mouth.”
“Did he mix and mingle, or stay in his cave?”
“He was a happy-hour drinker, as opposed to a late-nighter, but he didn’t hang in one bar all the time. They knew him at the Tiki Bar, of course, the No Name Pub, and the bar at Mangrove Mama’s. No one at Boondocks knew his name, and none of those other places had seen him this week.”
“I don’t suppose his neighbors heard or saw anything odd,” I said.
She shook her head.
“So you’ll send his prints to Kansas?”
Finally she looked away from me. “The nickname’s a problem. I always thought they came from other people, but these days, in the Keys, a lot of nicknames are self-imposed. People want to puff up their self-image, be Bonefish Bruce, or Pedro the Pirate, or Bad Bob. State handles are bargain models. You get them when people can’t recall shit about you except where you lived in a prior life. Women take only the state names, like Carolina or Texas. Men get the state plus their first name. Hence, Kansas Jack.”
“What the problem?” I said. “You think he made up the part about his home state?”
“Kansas doesn’t fit his style. No argument, he was a lowlife. But you look around his yard, inside his house, he was tuned to the Keys like he’d been here for fifty years. He was a walking survival manual.”
Liska snorted. “Except he didn’t survive.”
“You remember who sold you this house, Alex?” said Bobbi.
“Sure. A retired man, Horace Fields, nicknamed Weedy, originally from Michigan. We made our deal on a handshake.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“I haven’t thought about him for years. Can I make you coffee?”
“Already had it,” she said. “Back to Weedy,
I looked outside. Bobbi Lewis had parked her unmarked county cruiser next to Liska’s Lexus in front of the house. She stepped onto the porch behind him, smiled at me, skipped hello, and closed the door. Not that I’d expected a kiss in front of her boss. From five feet away I could smell her shampoo. Liska eased himself onto the chaise longue and pursed his lips for an extended exhale.
“You don’t believe in fax machines?” I said. “I was just working on my summary.”
“This is beyond faxing your report,” said Liska. “A couple things came up.”
“About these hangings?”
“And what else?”
I glanced at Bobbi. She peered into my eyes, perhaps noting a bloodshot effect. “Let’s get it done and behind us,” I said. “I’ve got some things happening in the next hour or so.”
Liska raised his open hand to give Lewis the floor.
“It fell to me to snoop Kansas Jack’s belongings,” she said. “We wanted to notify next of kin, and we needed clues to who dragged him outside in the middle of the night.”
Liska said, “After giving him time to dress and put on his shoes.”
“Kansas Jack may have met his killer elsewhere,” said Lewis. “He may have been followed home, or else he brought the murderer home. I spent yesterday afternoon and evening inside his house.”
“More pleasant than outside?” I said.
She sneered. “He didn’t have central air.”
“Find anything you could use?”
“Depends how you look at it. His life was a short story. Kansas Jack Mason didn’t exist prior to forty months ago.”
“So he rented instead of owned?”
“He owned the house,” she said, “but just barely. He arrived in the Keys and paid cash. The broker on Big Pine remembered him. She suspected back then that he’d spent his last penny to close the deal.”
“Where was he before he came to the Keys?”
“He didn’t exist,” she said. “No record of his paying telephone or utility bills in the United States, no Social number, no credit history, no relatives. It’ll take us a day or two to hear back on his fingerprints.”
“His income since then?”
“The neighbors say he did odd jobs that he found word of mouth.”
“Did he mix and mingle, or stay in his cave?”
“He was a happy-hour drinker, as opposed to a late-nighter, but he didn’t hang in one bar all the time. They knew him at the Tiki Bar, of course, the No Name Pub, and the bar at Mangrove Mama’s. No one at Boondocks knew his name, and none of those other places had seen him this week.”
“I don’t suppose his neighbors heard or saw anything odd,” I said.
She shook her head.
“So you’ll send his prints to Kansas?”
Finally she looked away from me. “The nickname’s a problem. I always thought they came from other people, but these days, in the Keys, a lot of nicknames are self-imposed. People want to puff up their self-image, be Bonefish Bruce, or Pedro the Pirate, or Bad Bob. State handles are bargain models. You get them when people can’t recall shit about you except where you lived in a prior life. Women take only the state names, like Carolina or Texas. Men get the state plus their first name. Hence, Kansas Jack.”
“What the problem?” I said. “You think he made up the part about his home state?”
“Kansas doesn’t fit his style. No argument, he was a lowlife. But you look around his yard, inside his house, he was tuned to the Keys like he’d been here for fifty years. He was a walking survival manual.”
Liska snorted. “Except he didn’t survive.”
“You remember who sold you this house, Alex?” said Bobbi.
“Sure. A retired man, Horace Fields, nicknamed Weedy, originally from Michigan. We made our deal on a handshake.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“I haven’t thought about him for years. Can I make you coffee?”
“Already had it,” she said. “Back to Weedy,
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