Tango Key (19 page)

"Are you a friend of Mr. Cooper's?"

"Yes. Juan Plano."

My, what fortuitous timing
. The mysterious Plano from Ed Waite's appointment book just happened to be in Alan Cooper's penthouse.
"Mucho gusto, Señor Plano."

His brows arched with surprised delight.
"Y usted es . . .?"

And you are. . . Yes, who are you, Al?
"Mary Davidson.
Una americana de Panama
." She smiled. Plano smiled. Now that she'd established who she was—an American from Panama—she asked where he was from.

"Colombia. Bogota."

"Ah." She nodded enthusiastically, and lied through her teeth. "I was there many years ago. It's a beautiful city."

"It still is, yes, despite the many problems."

"You're here on business?" she asked.

He rocked his hand back and forth. "A little business, a little pleasure."

"And what sort of business are you in?"

"I am an archaeologist."

"Fascinating."

"You are a friend of Alan's?"

She shook her head and explained that she and her brother were docked at the Cove Marina, en route back to Panama. They'd seen a beautiful sloop called
Bella
which she'd been told belonged to Mr. Cooper and might be for sale. Did he know anything about it?

Plano slid his fingers through his thick black hair. "I am not quite sure about the status of the boat. It belonged to Alan's father, who, uh, died recently. You should talk to him." He quickly added, "How long will you be on the island?"

"A week. And you?"

"Five, maybe six days. We should have a drink one night. Is there a phone number where I can reach you?"

"Yes. We're staying with friends." She scribbled her home phone on the inside cover of a matchbook and handed it to him. "You're staying here?"

"In the hotel. Not in one of the penthouses." He gave a small, self-conscious laugh. "Too expensive."

"I know what you mean. Well, nice talking to you. Call and we'll have that drink." And Mary Davidson from Panama would even pick up the tab, she thought.

The dining room was strictly island fare—pastels and wicker, ceiling fans, a generous view of the expanse of green behind the hotel which the rain had nearly obscured. She realized she didn't have the faintest idea what Alan Cooper looked like. She hesitated in the doorway, glancing around at the people eating alone. The hostess strolled over, smiling the way hostesses always did. "Just one?"

"I'm looking for Alan Cooper."

"Right this way, ma'am."

Gossip, Aline thought, was ubiquitous on this island. Everyone who worked in the hotel probably knew Alan Cooper on sight.

He was seated alone at a corner table by the window, where the din of the rain seemed louder. "Mr. Cooper?"

He glanced up. "Yes?"

He was a younger version of his father, just as handsome, as debonair: square jaw, large dark eyes set deeply in a tanned complexion, longish auburn hair. A gold post gleamed from his left earlobe.

"I'm Detective Scott. I left you several messages at the desk. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure. Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, thanks."

There was a place setting across from him, and he simply turned over the coffee mug and filled it from the pot on his table. He explained that he'd just picked up his messages late last night, when he'd gotten in. "It took me a second to connect you with the name. I was expecting a man." He smiled a little, as if in apology. "I've already spoken with a Detective Bernelli. Over the phone."

"I know. I'd like to just go over a couple of things with you."

"Sure." He sat with his arm resting on the back of the chair, his smile wide, open, affable. Everything about him suggested that he had nothing to hide, that he was tickled pink, in fact, to cooperate with the authorities. "Anything."

"I'd like to know about your affair with Eve Cooper."

The smile went first. Then he drew his arm off the back of the chair and sat forward, hands around his mug. He seemed to fold in on himself like a flower. "The affair, Detective Scott, has been over for a long time."

"How long?"

He impaled her with his dark eyes. "Since before Eve and my father got married."

"Didn't you find them in bed together, Mr. Cooper? Isn't that what ended it?"

"It was a lot more complicated than that."

"Oh, really? In what way?"

"That's none of your business."

"Wrong, Mr. Cooper. It's very much my business. It seems to me that finding your father in bed with the woman you love constitutes a good motive for murder."

"In case Detective Bernelli didn't tell you, I've got an alibi for the night my father was killed."

"And it checks out, too. But there's always a chance that you hired someone to kill your father."

Had she been a man, he probably would've sunk his fist into her mouth. As it was, he gripped his coffee mug so tightly his knuckles looked ossified, and when he spoke, it was obvious that it was an effort to keep his voice level, quiet. "Believe me, Detective. If I were inclined toward murder, I'd do it myself. And as far as my alibi is concerned, there are a number of other customers who saw me in the restaurant that night, if you'd like to talk with them."

"I already have. Your alibi, as it is, checks out. At the moment, I'd like to hear about your relationship with Eve."

"Like I said, there hasn't been a relationship for more than two years."

"Which was also when you and your father stopped talking, right?"

"Yes."

"And when he essentially wrote you out of the will?"

"Yes. Although I guess you know that's changed."

"So when did you and your father make amends?" He looked at her sharply, and she suspected he was assessing how much she knew. "Who said we made amends?"

"Didn't you?"

"Of a sort." He glanced back down into his mug. "About six, seven months ago he called me out of the blue one day if we could meet for lunch or dinner. I really wasn't too keen on the idea, but he was my father, so I said sure. We had lunch a couple of days later." He paused, and everything about him seemed thick and heavy with emotion. "Things just continued from there."

"Was this before or after Eve had filed for divorce and then withdrawn it?"

This elicited another sharp glance. "Look, Detective Scott, I don't know what—"

"Hey, it's a simple question. Give me a simple answer. Yes or no. Before or after."

The seams of his jaw tightened. "After."

"So her filing for divorce had something to do with your father's urge to reconcile things with you."

"It would seem that way."

"Did you accompany him on any of his archaeological digs?"

"No."

You need lessons in lying, Cooper
. "You know a Colombian named Juan Plano?"

"He and Dad were friends."

"What's Plano do?"

"Do?"

"His line of work, Mr. Cooper."

"I'm not sure. I think he has something to do with these Colombian digs Dad was working on."

"So you don't know him real well."

"No."

"Not well at all."

"Yes, that's right."

"Is Mr. Plano still in Colombia?"

"How should I know?"

Aline burst out laughing. "Since he's in your suite, you'd better know."

Cooper had no snappy comeback; he looked like he'd just been caught jerking off in the men's room. Now she would let him chew things over for a while. Aline stood. "Let me know before you leave the island, Mr. Cooper. And oh, thanks for the coffee."

F
rom the lobby, Aline called Waite's office. She recognized Freckle Face's voice and identified herself and then asked what kind of car Waite owned.

"A Plymouth Fury."

"That's his only car?"

"Yes."

"What're the tires like?"

Freckle Face sighed. "What do you mean, Detective? They're just regular tires, you know."

She asked if the foundation owned a vehicle. No, Freckle Face said, exasperated. Aline thanked her and hung up, thought a moment, and dialed Ferret at Lester's Bar. She told him about the break-in and asked him to let her know if he heard anything. He laughed. "Sweet Pea, if any self-respecting home invader got blasted by a skunk, believe me, he won't be bragging about it. But I'll keep my ears open and let y'know if I hear something."

"Okay, thanks."

T
he Honda putted through the soaked and glistening hills, rain exploding against the windshield and smearing like spit. The roads were so slick that every so often the Honda's practically bald tires lost purchase and the car fishtailed. Once, it seemed to be slipping on the hill just as things did in dreams, as she had in the dream where she'd been trying to climb to her loft and couldn't. The dream where Eve had a chainsaw. Eve with Murphy in her bed. Eve.

In all fairness, Aline thought, the chief should've removed her from this case and assigned it to Bernie. She'd been prejudiced against Eve since Murphy had laid eyes on her, and the deeper she probed, the more likely it seemed that the woman had indeed killed Cooper. The scenario that seemed most probable now was that Eve and Alan had planned Cooper's death together. She'd wanted the money and she had also wanted Alan, and the only way to get both without waiting for Cooper to die was to kill him. But still, there would've been better ways to do it, less obvious ways.

Perhaps Alan's reconciliation with his father had been part of the plan. Sure, that made sense. They had reconciled, and Cooper had changed his will so that Alan would inherit almost everything. Alan then realized that if he killed his father he would get the money and Eve. In either scenario, then, the motives had been merely common—lust and greed.

But how did the missing gold frog fit? Maybe it didn't. Maybe the frog had nothing to do with why Cooper was killed.

No, that didn't feel right either. It was all connected. She knew it was. She just didn't know how.

She slowed as the road twisted and looped out over the Cove Marina. The light was the color of egg yolks, but thin, like a kind of gauze. Through it she could see the slate gray storm over the Gulf and, closer in, boats bobbing in the choppy marina waters. Then she was past it and rising up Ivy Hill toward the Cooper mansion.

The Porsche and the Mercedes were gone, probably stowed in the garage. But Eve's yellow VW bug stood in the driveway, water beaded on its shiny hood and roof. Aline pulled up behind it, grabbed her poncho, and held it over her head as she dashed toward the front porch.

Eve answered the door wearing tight shorts and a halter top. Her black hair was straighter, longer, more like Monica's, and for a split second it was Monica who Aline saw, Monica with her creamy skin and her riant blue eyes. Then she was inside the hallway, out of the rain.

Eve took her Poncho, hung it on a hook behind the door, and said, "Can I get you something?" Her hand rested lightly against Aline's arm. The numerous rings on her fingers winked and danced with light from the lamp. Her nails were painted a deep red, except at the bottom, in the half moon, where they'd been decorated with tiny, precise white stars. "You look kind of funny. You okay?"

"Yes, thanks." She ran a hand over the back of her neck, her eyes fixing for a moment on Eve's bare feet. Her toenails were painted just like her nails. "You remind me of someone, that's all."

Eve lifted her right foot and scratched at her left calf. It was the same thing she'd done the night of the murder, Aline remembered. A nervous gesture. "Monica, you mean. I remind you of Monica."

Aline stared at her, suddenly understanding where Murphy had gone last night when he'd left Dobbs' party. A cold hand squeezed at her heart, squeezed until she thought she was going to scream. "Yeah. Monica. Right," she managed to say.

Something flickered in Eve's eyes. Fear, yes, it was fear. Fear that she'd said too much. And now she bumbled through an explanation. "Murphy showed me a picture of her. When I asked him why he always looked at me so funny."

Murphy. Not Detective Murphy
: Aline's ears rang.

"I gotta tell you, that picture spooked me bad. It was like walking into a grocery store and seeing your twin when you never even knew you
had
a twin. Let's go into the kitchen. I'll get you something cold to drink."

But Aline didn't want to go into the kitchen; she wanted to know if Murphy had been in Eve's bed when he'd shown her the picture. Or if they'd been having a cozy moonlit swim off the dock out back. She shouldn't have been here. She wasn't the right person for this case. But the chief would want to know why she wanted off the case, and she couldn't tell him why. She couldn't snitch on Murphy. She couldn't say,
Well, Gene, I think Murphy's screwing Eve, and every time I'm around the woman I feel like puking.
She couldn't say any of that because he would ask how she knew.