Air Dance Iguana Read Online Free Page A

the hired greeter, like they have in Wal-Mart. He could have been waiting for a bus or doomsday. He didn’t look like he cared which came first.
    We drove thirty yards of two-track concrete before Bohner’s tires crunched on scallop shells and dirty marl. The manufactured homes on Trailer Heaven Lane were presentable with paint schemes more stylish than their shapes. Sea Cloud Terrace was a step down—old trailers and several parked cars sporting primer paint and mini-spares.
    Bohner waved at another deputy, slipped past a roadblock at Pearly Gate Court, and parked a few yards from the action. Liska had asked for my opinion and a few pictures. I took one camera, shoved my bag into a shadow on the car floor, and made sure Bohner clicked the locks. Approaching the scene, he took his time, swiveled as he walked, as if his legs were hinged to his shoulders. He was my ticket in. I slowed my pace so I wouldn’t arrive first.
    This end of the trailer park looked like a motor court in the style of Florida, 1952. Any form of maintenance had last been done before 1992. It now was a museum of disuse and poverty; the “estates” were Nomad car trailers and weathered Winnebagos parked a lifetime ago. Fenced yards held remnants of long-dead palms. Two Hobie Cats sat on a vacant lot, their faded hulls crusted with mildew. Plastic bags hung from thin shrubs like out-of-season holiday streamers. The stench of a rancid Dumpster fought down the odor of death. Most residents had replaced their broken glass with cardboard flats. The most common window treatment was the black garbage bag. Two sour-faced women in stretched tops and cheap sneakers sat on slat steps in front of their open doorways. I suspected that oxygen reached their lungs only through cigarette filters.
    I came around a corner and caught sight of the murder victim. Like Kansas Jack, he was hung from a davit.
    Bohner spit out his gum. “Christ,” he said. “They didn’t tell me he was a swinger, too. Couple more of these, we could make wind chimes.”

3
    We approached a cluster of uniforms, hairy eyeballs from no one I knew. A stocky man who looked like a retired Marine turned to check us out. He wore slacks, an open-neck dress shirt, and a beige sport coat. He approached and reached his hand toward me.
    Bohner butted in. “This is Rutledge, Detective. He’s—”
    “I can see the camera, Deputy. Sheriff Liska called and said to expect someone special.” He half smiled and studied my face as if he wanted to recognize me. “I’m Detective Chet Millican. Dressed as you are, I take it you’re undercover FDLE.”
    Local-level cops always held the Florida Department of Law Enforcement in awe.
    “I’m a civilian,” I said.
    Millican looked me up and down. “Ex-cop?”
    I shook my head, tried not to stare at his military-perfect silver crew cut.
    His patronizing smirk went cold. “Tallahassee consultant?”
    “No,” I said, “I’m a freelance photographer. Anything but weddings and babies.”
    Our discussion began to draw attention from nearby uniforms and forensic personnel. He shook his head and inhaled enough air to double his size. “Take your cameras off my crime scene. Deputy, take him back where he came from.”
    “Call the boss,” said Bohner.
    Millican sneered and exhaled to show his exasperation. “I still got a hard time calling him boss,” he said. “It was plain Chicken Neck back in the city. If I wanted it bad enough, I might take credit for making up that nickname. Why isn’t our surefire detective right here right now? You don’t see hangings all that often, unless they’re suicides in a locked room. In the old days this would interest the hell out of him.”
    Bohner said nothing.
    Millican quieted his tone. “I’m starting to think Fred Liska’s reputation exceeded him.”
    “That makes him not your boss?” I said.
    Millican jerked as if I had slugged him. He stared up an empty flagpole for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ve