Tango Key (17 page)

"I thought you stayed away from cops just on principle."

"I do. But I'm making an exception." He flashed one of those winning smiles again, downshifted as they approached a curve in the road, and extended his right hand. "Deal?"

"Deal." They shook on it, and she proceeded to tell him about Waite's appointment book. "My theory is that Cooper's last trip to the Lost City was to purchase the frog—maybe from this Juan Plano fellow, maybe from someone else. I think Sanchez, the customs official in Barranquilla, helped him and Waite smuggle the thing into the States."

"So bring Waite in for questioning."

"Not yet. I need to snoop around a little more first. I want to know what Cavello's part in all this is."

"Then you're going to have to be underhanded about it. That's the only way you'll get anything on Cavello."

"How underhanded?"

"Illegal entry, B and E, like that."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time."

He laughed. "You make it sound like the department condones it."

"The way I figure it, Kincaid, the system protects the bad guys. That means the good guys have to get information any way they can, and then find the legal evidence that'll put the bad guys away."

"A twist on Robin Hood."

"Not really. Robin Hood was just a thief who believed all rich men were bastards who'd gotten rich at the expense of the poor. I'm not talking rich or poor. I'm talking system. The system stinks. A cop who works strictly by the system's rules burns out within five years—less if it's a city like New York or Miami. So the alternative is to do whatever you need to do however you can and then use the system to your advantage."

"And then pay the consequences if you're caught."

"I don't intend to get caught."

D
obbs' place was one of eight homes on a quiet dirt road half a block from the beach five miles west of town. It was a small, tidy A-frame crowded with his various collections: sci-fi books, old glass insulators, marbles and baseball cards, antique guns displayed in a case next to an impressive array of antique knives and swords, and a collection of typewriters which included one that had belonged to Hemingway. It had been a gift from Aline, who had inherited it with her father's Key West bookstore when he'd died.

In the garage, there were other collections—two old-fashioned floor freezers that worked, stained glass taken from the windows of condemned buildings, every issue of
Life
from 1950 to 1963. If nothing else, boring was not a word that fit this house.

Especially tonight.

The first person Aline saw as she and Kincaid stepped into the din of music and the thick smoke in the air was Murphy. He and Roxie, Dobbs' buxom lady of the evening and the dispatcher at the station, were yukking it up on the bottom step of the staircase that led to the second floor. Bernie and Dobbs emerged from the kitchen doorway, carrying trays of food, which they set on the table along the far wall. "Help yourselves to drinks," Dobbs called when he saw them. "Bar's open."

Kincaid touched her elbow, guiding her toward the bar. "What'll it be?" he asked, his mouth close to her hair so she could hear him.

"Anything cold."

As he fixed them a couple of drinks, she glanced toward Murphy. He had seen her and was rising from the step now, threading his way through the crowd, coming toward her. He stopped at the end of the bar, looking from her to Kincaid, then back at her, as if trying to decide whether they were together, and if so, what it meant.

Kincaid, still wearing his sunglasses, handed her a drink, then saw Murphy at the end of the bar, leaning into it. "Get you something?" he asked loudly.

Murphy shook his head and came closer, his gaze skipping back to Aline, taking in her clothes. "Hi, Al."

"Hi."

He didn't seem to have any idea where to go from there and looked, in fact, guilty as hell. "I was going to call you," he began.

She ignored that. "Steve Murphy, Ryan Kincaid."

"Nice to meet you," Murphy said as he and Kincaid shook hands.

"Same here. It's Detective Murphy, isn't it?"

"Right. Aline and I work together in homicide." He glanced back at her. "Could I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure." She set her drink on the bar. "Be right back, Ryan."

Kincaid nodded; she felt his eyes follow her and Murphy around the corner. Aline stopped. "What is it?"

"Not here. It's too goddamn loud." He took her hand and led her through the utility room to the garage. A sense of triumph kicked steadily inside her. She'd actually managed to incite jealousy in Murphy.
Me, good ole dependable Aline
. Then he closed the door and turned on the lamp over Dobbs' workbench and she saw his expression, a hybrid of pain and inebriation, and she felt like a heel.

"What's going on, Al?" he asked, slurring his words. He shut the door and leaned against it. "You mind telling me that?"

She backed up to one of the floor freezers and crossed her arms at the waist. "I could ask you the same question, you know."

"Just because I don't call you one night?"

Something jabbed her in the back, and she looked around and saw a padlock securing the freezer lid. She stepped to the side. "You wanted space. I'm giving you space. But I'm also taking my own space."

He dug his hands in his pockets. Looked at the floor. "So who is he?"

"A private eye who was hired by Cooper's attorney to find Cooper's murderer and recover an artifact that's missing from his collection."

He raised his eyes, frowning. She could see he was having a difficult time making connections to the Cooper case. "Look, I'd better get back inside, Murphy."

"Al . . ." he stammered, "I'm sorry if. . . I mean. . ."

He looked like he was in pain, and she went soft inside, as soft as an undercooked egg. "Oh, Murphy," she whispered. "What's happened to us?"

He opened his mouth, his eyes raw with silent supplication, but before he spoke, the door opened. It was Dobbs. "You guys aren't being sociable."

"I'm not feeling real sociable," Murphy snapped.

"Well, my garage isn't the place to blow steam, man. C'mon back inside."

"I'll pass." Murphy walked over to the wall and hit the switch to open the garage door. It trundled open, and the hot night air rushed in. Murphy weaved past Dobbs' Firebird, into the driveway packed with cars, and out into the street. She started to follow him, but Dobbs put a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't, Al. Let him stew."

She winced as the Scirocco screeched away from the curb, then Dobbs threw the switch and the door clattered noisily down again, closing with a frightening finality like a curtain at the end of a play.

H
er drink was where she'd left it, but Kincaid wasn't. He stood at the end of the bar, talking with Bernie. Aline tipped the glass to her mouth and knocked back half of what tasted like a gin-and-tonic. It burned a path down her gullet and brought tears to her eyes. The sense of triumph or whatever she'd felt when Murphy had led her back to the garage had become an aphotic gloom which the music pounding from Dobbs' CD player only worsened.

"You going to introduce me to your friend?" Dobbs asked, pouring Stolichnaya vodka over a hill of ice in his glass.

"Only if you refill this." She held out her glass and watched as Dobbs dropped ice into it from the bucket, then tilted the bottle over it. "Thanks."

They joined Kincaid and Bernie, who tossed Aline an explicit look that shouted,
You got rocks in your head? I told you about this guy.
Aline made the introductions. Kincaid had removed his sunglasses by now, and as Dobbs commented on his shiners, Bernie said, "Allie, you want to help me with some stuff in the kitchen?"

Not really
. Whatever Bernie had to say didn't have anything to do with stuff in Dobbs' kitchen. But she nodded just the same and followed Bernie because she was too tired to resist. The mixture of gin and vodka had zipped straight to her brain, and what she wanted most at the moment was to unscrew her head, set it down somewhere, and pick it up in the morning.

"Where's Murphy?" asked Bernie, opening the fridge and removing a tray of crescent rolls with stuff oozing out the ends.

"He left."

"He wanted to know what I thought of Eve."

"That's nice."

Bernie set the tray on the counter and looked over at her. "He's fucked, Al."

"So I've heard." She finished her drink and set the empty glass in the sink. "What are those things, anyway?" She pointed at the crescent rolls.

"Avocado and cheese. He was at Eve's house this evening before he came here," Bernie went on.

"No law against that." Aline picked up one of the crescent rolls and bit into it. The avocado oozed over her tongue.

"You seem to be missing the point."

"Bernie, I know what the point is. What the hell do you want me to do about it? Murphy's a grown man, and you and Dobbs are acting like he's twelve years old and still wearing diapers. I can't prevent him from seeing Eve Cooper. And I can't prevent him from falling in love with her, if that's what he's doing. And I sure can't change the fact that she looks like Monica. So let's drop it, all right?" She polished off the rest of the roll. "I'm going home. See you tomorrow."

But Bernie caught her arm as she turned around. "Wait."

Aline sighed. "Kincaid, right? C'mon, just say it, Bernie, so I can get the hell outa here." She faced her and slid her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "He's a toad, he uses women shamelessly, he withholds information . . . anything else?"

"Yeah." Bernie smiled and drew her fingers through her short blond hair. "He's exactly what you need right now. Screw him and be happy."

Why was it, she wondered, that the people you loved dispensed advice like pieces of candy when you didn't need it? Didn't want it? Weren't even looking for it? Maybe it was the way she dressed. Maybe she looked like a kid playing dress-up. Maybe she would just get blitzed and not worry about it. "Right, Bernie. See you tomorrow."

I
t was nearly midnight when Kincaid's Saab swerved into Aline's driveway and stopped. She thanked him for dinner and he thanked her for the party. They were both so cordial, she thought, that an outsider would've had the impression that they'd been on a blind date which had failed miserably. But then she noticed that he wasn't looking at her, but peering through the windshield toward the house. She followed his gaze, frowning, trying to pinpoint what was different, but her head was pounding from the gin and the vodka, and Kincaid pegged it first.

"Didn't you leave the porch light on when we left?"

"Yeah, I did."

And the light was now off.

They got out of the car. Aline reached into her purse for the .38 Super, and she and Kincaid moved swiftly and silently toward the front stairs. They positioned themselves on either side of the door, and as Kincaid reached out to try the knob, she saw his weapon and wondered where it had come from. "It's unlocked," he whispered.

She nodded. "I'll cover you."

He turned the knob and threw open the door. He stepped into the hall, Aline right at his heels. They hadn't gone more than a foot when she smelled it—a malodorous cloud that clung to the air and seemed to thicken in it even as they stood there.

"Skunk," said Kincaid, whipping a handkerchief from his back pocket and pressing it over his nose.

"Shit." She swept past him, turning on lights as she went, certain that whoever had been here hadn't stuck around once Wolfe had let his stuff fly.

The fetid smell was worse—much worse—in the living room. The ladder to the sleeping loft lay on its side. A lamp had been overturned. The coffee table it had been on had spun in a ninety-degree angle, as if the interloper had stumbled into it on his flight to the porch, where the sliding glass doors stood open.

Aline called for Wolfe as Kincaid hurried around, opening windows. She found him on the porch, huddled into a tight little ball of glossy black and white fur. She called to him before she approached, and clicked her nails against the floor. He lifted his head. He sniffed. He blinked his tiny black button eyes. Slowly, she extended her hand so he could smell it. He nudged the back of her hand with his nose and she picked him up, stroking him, then set him back on the porch.

When she returned indoors, Kincaid had turned off the air conditioner and switched on the ceiling fans. All the doors and windows were open, but the smell was still bad. "I hear tomato juice is good for this kind of thing," Kincaid remarked.

"Yeah, it works great. It'd also ruin my furniture."

"Does anything seem to be missing?"

"Maybe in my den."

The clutter in here was a little embarrassing, but if Kincaid noticed, he gave no indication. He simply walked over to the window and opened it, then leaned against the sill, watching as she checked her drawers, files, the storage closet. "Everything seems to be here," she said finally.