Tango Key (18 page)

"Got any idea what they were after?"

"Maybe Waite discovered his missing appointment book."

"I kind of doubt it. Whoever did this was a pro. No broken locks, no broken windows, and probably no prints. Pros don't leave prints. They also don't expect to encounter an irate skunk," he added with a laugh.

She smiled, imagining the scene, and then threw her head back and laughed and Kincaid said, "Hey, that's what I've been waiting all night to hear. You should do it more often."

"Laugh?"

"Naw, anyone can laugh. But not everyone can pull off a real belly laugh."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Especially when there isn't much to laugh about."

"It's not that bad."

"It's not your house that smells like this."
It's not your life that's falling apart
.

"You're welcome to stay at my place." Then, as if to make sure she understood it hadn't been a proposition, he added, "I've got an extra bedroom."

"Thanks. But I'll just move my hammock out onto the porch."

"I'll help you."

"You don't have to. Really."

He smiled. "It's been a long time since I've done something I haven't wanted to do. Got a hammer, nails, and some hooks?"

Half an hour later, the hammock was strung between a post at one corner of the upstairs porch and the corner beam of the house. It hung about five feet above the floor. Kincaid stepped back, wiping an arm across his forehead. A wind had risen and flapped the hammock like a flag. "If it'll hold me, it'll hold you," he said, and carefully eased himself back into it, widthwise.

 
The hammock creaked. It sighed. He pressed his feet against the railing and pushed off. Light from the bedroom window spilled into his face as he swung away from the railing, illumining his impossible shiners, his unshaven jaw. "God, perfect. Listen, why don't you go sleep at my place and I'll stay here."

She laughed and fitted herself into the hammock beside him and stretched her legs out, toes hooked under the netting, and gave them a good shove. They swung back, back, back even farther, and then flew forward. The wind whistled in her ears. The hammock rose up, up past the railing, over the yard, up toward the branches of the nearest banyan tree. If she raised her arms, her fingertips would brush the bottoms of the clouds that fattened the sky. She would grab hold of the yellow moon hidden behind them and lift out of her life, her skin. And then she would climb. She could shinny up its long curving spine and settle at its apex, the lady in the moon, the cop in the moon, good-bye, Earth, good-bye.

By the time the hammock had begun to slow, she was imbued with a marvelous levity. She felt light and dizzy enough to fly. She had forgotten about Murphy, the break-in, the stink in the house. She wanted to play.

She dropped her legs over the edge of the hammock, letting her feet drag to slow them down a little more, and hopped out. She wanted to play. "How about a swim?"

"In the cove?"

"Sure."

"You're on. But this time I'm coming prepared."

Aline changed into running shorts and a T-shirt, brought Wolfe in from the porch, fed him, locked up the house, and met Kincaid outside. He was crouched at the foot of the driveway, the beam of his flashlight playing over a puddle the sprinklers had created. "What is it?" she asked.

The beam slid from the puddle to a tire track that extended about three yards beyond it. The track was much wider than that of an ordinary tire. "It's not the Saab's," he said.

"Or the Honda's." She measured the width of the tire track with her hand. "Three of my hands. A pick-up, maybe."

"Or a jeep equipped for the Glades. Does Waite drive a jeep?"

"I don't know. But I'll sure check it out."

"Tonight?"

"Tomorrow."

"Good." He grinned. "Tonight you're busy." Then he cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. There weren't too many men who could pull off a kiss with a pair of shiners and a swollen nose while crouched over a puddle at the end of a driveway. But judging from the weird flutter that skipped across the floor of her stomach, Kincaid did a nice job of it.

They drove down to the beach, and Kincaid parked between the same two pines where he had last night. He opened the glove compartment and brought out a .357. He tucked it into the waistband of his slacks.

"You weren't kidding about being prepared."

"I'm really not crazy about guns," he said, and reached down to his ankle and pulled out the smaller weapon she'd seen before. He unhooked the holster and slipped it and the gun into the glove compartment, then locked it. "Can't you tell?"

"Yeah, sure, Kincaid."

From the trunk, he brought out two huge beach towels, slung them over his shoulder, took hold of her hand, and they made their way through the trees to the cove. She was suddenly not so sure about this, and now was the time to say it, to be honest about it, to tell him she was on the rebound, that it wouldn't be fair to him. Or to herself. But she said nothing. She felt like she was rushing toward an unavoidable fate, that all of this had been decided years ago, lifetimes ago, that the blueprint had been signed, sealed, and delivered before they were born. Absurd. But still she said nothing, did nothing.

They reached the cove, the sliver of beach, the flat rocks where she had shucked her clothes last night. Kincaid dropped the towels, sat down, removed his shoes, his socks, then stood again. He undressed. She liked what she saw before he lowered himself over the edge of the rock. He reappeared in the center of the cove, splashing his arms, and she was still standing there, fully clothed, watching him, her heart pounding.

"It's great," he called.

She kicked off her sandals, pulled her T-shirt off over her head, shucked her clothes and dived off the edge of the rock before she could change her mind. She swam underwater, in that absolute silence, that absolute darkness, and surfaced inches in front of him. The clouds had gobbled up the moon, the stars, but this close she didn't need any light. It was shallow enough to stand, and her feet came to rest against the cool, sandy bottom, the water cutting her off at the throat. Her arms moved with the currents.

"I figured you would chicken out," he said.

"I almost did."

"I'm glad you didn't," he said, then she felt his hands at her hips, sliding up over her ribs, her breasts, and he lowered his mouth to hers.

For three years there had been only Murphy, and she had expected to be inundated by an enormous guilt. But she wasn't. She had expected to respond to him just as she had always responded to Murphy, but that didn't happen either. Kincaid was a different country, and beneath his hands, his mouth, she became a different woman.

This woman was playful. She slid away from him, as elusive as a ghost, and slithered between his legs as she passed. When he spun and caught her, fixing her legs at his waist, she locked her ankles behind him and moved against his hand as he stroked her, the water now cool where she was hot. A desperate keen of desire slid from her mouth.

Then she broke away from him, diving under again, swimming toward the shoals. When he reached her, she was propped up on her elbows in the shallow waters, legs stretched out in front of her. He leaned over her, kissing her mouth, her eyes. His tongue slid around a nipple, licking away the salt. "You taste good," he whispered as her arms locked at his waist, and his hand roamed again, sliding down over her belly, the curve of her hips, between her legs, and now his mouth followed, pausing here, there, as if mapping the terrain. He coaxed her knees apart, and his tongue moved in a slow slide from her knee down the inside of her thigh. His mouth covered her, and her thoughts fluttered away from her like pigeons, up through the windy night, until there was nothing but the hot, tight flood of sensation and the sound of her low, broken moans. He slid inside her with a familiar ease, his movements slow and deep and languid, the warm currents washing around them, through them, beyond them.

A
line could barely see through the windshield.

The rain was coming down hard and fierce, as if to compensate for the weeks of its absence. The Honda's wipers whipped back and forth, groaning, straining, threatening to quit. If they did, she was going to junk the car, it was as simple as that. She would drive it out to Ferret's garage and haul her bike out of the back and pedal to the nearest car dealer. She would go into hock for fifteen grand and buy something dependable, something new, something that hugged the road and whispered through the hills like Kincaid's Saab.

The thought of Kincaid, here, now, as the Honda slipped and skidded down Hurricane Hill, made her a little breathless. She would've preferred spending this rainy day in bed, with a dozen repeat performances of last night. But when the rain had awakened her, blowing into her face, drenching the hammock, she was alone on the porch. He had left a note tacked to her fridge that was distressingly brief:
I'll call. K

She did not think he would.

She had not been totally inured, after all, to Bernie's dire warnings in the beginning about Kincaid going through women like Kleenex.

Men like Kincaid did not call the next morning, or the morning after that. Men like Kincaid slipped into your life and then out. Fast. So you accepted it for what it was and went about your business. As she was doing.

As she hoped to do.

At the bottom of the hill, the Honda skidded around the curve, sputtered, and she slammed it into second gear. "You will not stall," she grumbled. "You will not." And the sputter smoothed out and the car ran like a dream for the next five miles, as if powered by her will alone, and didn't die until she turned into the parking lot of the Flamingo Hotel. By then, it didn't make any difference.

"Go ahead and die for good if you want," she scolded. "Go on. See if I care."

 
She wiggled into her poncho, slid the hood over her head, and got out of the car. There was something almost comforting about the tap dance of the rain against the hood. She didn't even bother darting toward the front door. She walked. Her shoes got wet. They were old shoes—sandals that had seen worse weather than this—and the rain was warm against her feet. When she reached the awning on the front porch, she slipped the hood back, unzipped the poncho, took it off, shook it. She had braided her hair, and now she rolled off the rubber band at the end and combed her fingers through the braid, loosening it. Better. Much better. She could breathe.

She pushed open the double doors and went inside.

The Flamingo Hotel was a wonderful old place set back on three acres of land intersected by horse trails and the Tango Inlet. A trellis formed a roof over the front walk, which was thick with ivy and flaming vine. It continued at least three yards into the lobby, along the walls. She supposed that somewhere in those gleaming green leaves, those bright orange buds, were lizards zipping here and there along the highways of branches, oblivious to the fact that they were actually indoors.

There was something infinitely appealing about that kind of innocence. Perhaps next time around one could request a life as a lizard. Nothing permanent, you understand. She didn't want to be stuck as a reptile on the evolutionary scale. It-would just be a 1ittle experiment, a respite in which the greatest worry would be nabbing that annoying mosquito and avoiding the neighbor's cat.

At the desk, she asked for Alan Cooper's room number. The clerk, a young insipid thing who was obviously a transplant from the mainland, said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, we can't give out room numbers. I'll ring the room for you."

Aline slapped her I.D. on the counter. "It's not open to debate."
Sweetie
.

"Oh. Well." An embarrassed giggle. She turned to the computer terminal, and a moment later said, "Room three-fourteen. The penthouse with the view."

Alan Cooper sure wasn't wasting any time enjoying Daddy's inheritance. The penthouses at the Flamingo, even in the off-season, started at around three hundred bucks a day.

She took the stairs because she needed the exercise. Because she felt like she had fat thighs this morning and hips that were a shade too generous and a rounded little belly just begging for more of last night. She decided she would start running again, decided it as she found herself puffing by the second flight, heart racing frantically.

By the time she reached the third floor, she was almost certain she was in the beginning throes of heart failure. Perspiration pimpled her forehead, her upper lip, her back. She held on to the railing to catch her breath. As she passed a room with an untouched breakfast tray out front, she gulped down the glass of water.

Outside of room 314, she raised her hand to knock, then stepped closer, listening. Voices. The TV? Or was Alan Cooper on the phone? She rapped on the door. She heard someone cough. A chain was disengaged. The man who opened the door wore jeans and a pale blue guayabera shirt. He was tall, lean, with dark hair and wonderful dark eyes and a smile that had probably melted the hardest of hearts in its time. "Yes? I may help you?"

A Latino
. "I'm looking for Alan Cooper."

"Ah. He is downstairs. Having breakfast in the dining room. I may help you with something?"