Tango Key (14 page)

She smiled, a pleasant, laid-back smile. "I'm just trying to prove a point, Mr. Cavello."

"What point?"

"That you, like most of us, would lie through your teeth to protect your ass. That's all. Simple point." She stood.

"Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Cavello."

She had reached the door when Cavello said, "Detective, there's something you should know. About Eve and Alan Cooper."

"I thought you didn't know anything about their relationship."

Cavello cosseted the side of his face, tapped the cigar against the side of the ashtray. "That's not, uh, entirely correct."

She smiled. "A baby lie."

"Just listen to me, all right? Four, five years ago, Eve met Alan when she was living in Marathon and working at that drugstore that woulda been her career if she hadn't wormed her way out. And Alan, who thinks with his cock, falls for her. Pretty soon, they're living together in Marathon. He introduces her to Doug. She begins to realize just how much Alan's going to eventually inherit and decides, hey, why wait around for Pop to die when she can have Pop if she wants, right?

"So during one of those weekends, when Alan had gone into town for something, Eve comes on to Doug. Alan gets home and finds them in the sack together. Pretty soon, Eve and Alan have split up and she's tootin' all over with Doug and he and Alan are no longer speaking to each other. Then they get married and, hey, to no one's surprise, Alan is practically written out of Doug's will. Now Doug is dead. You figure it out."

Aline slid her hands in the pockets of her skirt. "What I've figured out, Mr. Cavello, is that I don't want you stepping foot off this island unless you notify me first. That means even for a spin to Key West. Have a nice day."

S
he sat with her legs propped up on the edge of the wastebasket in her office, Ed Waite's appointment book open in her lap as she watched the late-afternoon joggers in the park across the street. Not too long after she and Murphy had become lovers, she'd started jogging with him in the morning. In the beginning, they had run a mile and walked a mile, alternating like that for a total of four miles. Within six months, her speed was greater than his, even though his endurance was better. And then, last Christmas, it had stopped.

December, she thought. That was when things between them had started to change. But why? Was there some specific incident that had precipitated it? Something she'd said or done?
Why are you always so quick to blame yourself?

All right, maybe it had nothing to do with her. She tried to remember what had been going on here at work. There had been three murders in December, the most of any single month last year, a spate of home invasions up in the Cove, and two major drug busts. It was almost as if the arrival of December—and Christmas—brought out the worst in some people, and it manifested in different ways: violence, depression, nostalgia, greed.

Nostalgia: the visit from Monica's brother on Christmas Eve. Pete had been sitting on the steps of Murphy's place when they'd gotten off work, a bag of Christmas presents on one side of him and a case of beer on the other. The party, which Dobbs joined around midnight with one of his ladies, lasted through Christmas Day and finally broke up on the morning of the twenty-sixth. She had the worst hangover of her life and had spent two days in bed while Murphy, Pete, and Dobbs had taken off on Dobbs' sailboat for five days. When it was over, when Pete had gone back to his life in Boston, Murphy had settled into a blue funk that seemed to have lingered for weeks. She didn't know if something specific had happened on the trip or if it was just Pete's presence that had changed things, but either way, the net result to her was the same.

She glanced down at Waite's appointment book.
June 4: $ to Sanchez. Tele: 27-84-59
. She dialed the operator and asked how to place an overseas call to Colombia. "Where in Colombia, ma'am?"

Barranquilla or Santa Marta?
Which city was this Sanchez person in? "Uh, I'm not sure. Either Barranquilla or Santa Marta."

"I'll give you the dialing codes for both places, ma'am."

"Thanks." Aline jotted down the numbers, then tried Barranquilla first. Her Spanish was fairly good, as long as the person wasn't speaking too rapidly. But when a man finally answered on the other end with, "Aduana Digame," it took her a moment to translate: customs.

"El señor Sanchez se encuentra?"

"Mañana, señora. Mañana."

"Favor, puede decirme si el señor Sanchez es un oficial en la aduana?"

"Si. Puede llamarlo mañana."

The man hung up abruptly, and Aline sat back, smiling to herself. Sanchez was a customs official, all right, and Ed Waite—or Cooper—had paid him off. But for what? His silence? Not to inspect their bags as they came into the country? Or did he provide help in a more direct way, like maybe to smuggle something out of the country?

Many times, major cocaine hauls had come into the States through cargo shipments of flowers from Colombia. Since the Lost City was an archaeological site, wasn't it possible that artifacts had arrived the same way, with the help of Sanchez the customs man?

Her phone rang. "Homicide, Detective Scott."

"What are the ABC Islands and where are they?"

Aline laughed. A pleasant warmth suffused her. "Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao, The Caribbean. How's your nose, Kincaid?"

"Huge. And you were right about the black eyes. Eight o'clock okay for dinner?"

"If you're sure you feel up to it."

"It's either dinner with you or sitting around my place feeling sorry for my nose."

"Okay. And thanks for the plant and the T-shirt."

"You bet. See you at eight."

She hung up, her hand lingering on the receiver. Either Kincaid had the best line of bullshit on Tango Key, or her social life was about to take a rather intriguing turn. This would be her first date in three years with someone other than Murphy.

What am I doing?

She had a sudden attack of nerves. My God, she didn't know how to act on a date. She barely knew Kincaid. What would they talk about? The only thing they had in common was the murder of Doug Cooper, and she wasn't even sure how in common that was. It was obvious that the only reason he'd asked her to dinner was because he intended to pick her brain for information. Sure. He would take her someplace expensive and romantic like the Flamingo Hotel. He would ply her with drinks. He would steer the conversation this way, that way, working around to Cooper, brushing the topic, then divagating again, feinting. And when she was good and high, he would ask her couple of direct questions and she would spill what she knew.

I'm not that easy.

Okay, scratch the booze scenario. The more probable version of this little vignette was that she would realize she was attracted to him. He would sense it, of course. He would take advantage of it. They would go back to his place. They would become lovers. She would tell him what she knew.

And then she would never hear from him again.

Ridiculous. She was in love with Murphy.
Aren't I?
Just because they'd been going through a rough period didn't mean the relationship was falling apart.
Does it?
No, of course not. All right, he needed space; it didn't mean the need was anything permanent. It was a phase. A breather. No problem. He would breathe and so would she.

She thought about the look on his face when he'd walked into Eve Cooper's living room.

He's gonna breathe with Eve.

He wouldn't. He wouldn't get involved with the primary suspect in a homicide.

Unless she looked like Monica, and then he wouldn't be able to help it, would he?

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to ignore the quick burning in her chest that said she was right. "Hi, cutie."

Her hands dropped away from her eyes as Dobbs strolled in, shutting the door behind him. "Cutie?" she laughed. "Please."

"Dahlin'. How's that?" He sank into a chair and lifted his feet onto the edge of Aline's desk and locked his hands behind his head. "My dahlin' Ah-leen."

"Better."

"Murphy's losing it, Al."

She wasn't so sure she wanted to hear this, but what she wanted evidently hadn't been taken into consideration, because Dobbs continued. "He and I had the worst argument we've had in fifteen years."

"About what?"

"Eve Cooper, what else?"

She definitely didn't want to hear this.

"He's convinced she's innocent."

"Maybe she is."

"Oh, c'mon, Al. She's the best suspect so far in this murder."

"That doesn't make her guilty, Jack."
Why am I defending the woman?
No, she was defending Murphy, not Eve. She was defending him because she knew—
knew
—that what she had thought might happen, would happen. It possessed the inevitability of a preordained event, if there was any such thing. Murphy and Eve Cooper would become lovers, and it would start because she was a Doppelganger for a dead woman. Aline could almost feel the separateness of their lives rushing toward each other, seeking union, two parallel lines that would not only cross but braid together.

"He's not going to compromise himself, Jack," she said, wishing she really believed that. "He's been a cop too long."

Dobbs' gaze was implacable. "If you really believe that, Aline, then you're as blind as he is."

"Hey, you're the one who said he knew what was what that night at Eve's."

"So I changed my mind."

"Exactly what're you saying? That he's going to fall in love with the woman? Screw her? What?"

"I think he's already gone, Al," he said quietly. "I don't think he had a chance right from the moment he walked into her house."

The tightness in her throat let loose and her eyes filled with tears and she covered her face with her hands but it didn't help. The tears slipped through her fingers and rolled down the backs of her hands. Dobbs touched her arm. "Hey, it's not worth it, okay? He's just got to work through it on his own. We all loved Monica. That's the kind of person she was. We got over it, you and I. Murphy never did. Maybe it's part of what happens when you lose your wife to murder. Or maybe it's just something in Murphy that keeps hanging on, Al. I don't know. I just don't want to see him fuck up his career."

She nodded and, after a couple of seconds, sniffled, composed herself. "Jack, when Monica's brother was here at Christmas, what happened on that sailboat trip you guys took?"

"Not much. We drank a lot. Played some poker."

"And reminisced?"

"Sure."

"One time, not too long after she was killed, Pete and I were talking about things. He made this remark about how he thought Monica might've been having an affair like for six, seven months before she was killed. Did Murphy ever say anything to you about it?"

"The only thing he ever told me was that they were having some problems. I mean, hell, she was gone three or four days a week because she was finishing up her doctoral classes in Miami. Money was tight. The department was being shuffled around. They were both under a lot of stress. But I think Pete's way off base about Monica having an affair with anyone. Christ, even if she'd been the type, Al, she just didn't have the time, what with classes and driving back and forth between Tango and Miami." He paused. "Why? What made you ask that?"

She shrugged. "Eve. Monica. The past. I don't know."

Dobbs gave her shoulder a quick squeeze as he stood. "I love ya, kid. Stop by the house tonight if you want. Roxie and I are throwing a real informal party."

"I thought you and Bernie had shit patrol."

"The chief pulled two guys from vice, and they're on tonight. I've got a fridge full of food and booze."

"Mind if I bring someone?"

"What's she look like?"

She laughed. "Down, buckey. You'll be with Roxie. Besides, it's a guy."

"Yeah? Anyone I know?"

"Nope."

"Bring him." Dobbs leaned into her desk. "Good ole dependable Al with another man. It's great. I love it. Murphy won't, but what the hell. It might be just what he needs."

Good ole dependable Al
: wrong, she thought.

She stood, slung her purse over her shoulder, and marched out of her office and down the hall. She had two and a half hours before her date with Kincaid to make herself gorgeous.

Chapter 8

A
line stood naked in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, moving her hand in tight, circular motions across the glass, clearing away the steam from her shower. There were, she decided, certain problems with trying to make yourself gorgeous when you weren't. Makeup, clothes, and hair could only do so much. The proof lay in the innate arrangement of bones and muscles, the shape of eyes and mouth and chin, the disbursement of curves. Gorgeous was Eve Cooper and Monica. Gorgeous was the woman who rolled out of bed in the morning and had only to brush her teeth and run a comb through her hair.