Tango Key (40 page)

"Hi, Al. Yeah, sure. Let me connect you. I think he's upstairs with Bernie."

After a moment or two on hold, the chief said, "Al, there's no word yet, if that's why you're calling."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She pressed her fingers to her temple, rubbing hard, and took a deep breath. "Gene, I know where Murphy is. But it's got to just be you and me. Not a lot of cars. No guns. Just the two of us."

"Is Eve with him?"

"No."

"Give me the address," he said.

"Promise me first."

"Look here, young lady, I—"

"I'll hang up," she shouted at him. "I swear I will. He's drunk, for God's sakes. Just you and me or you can pound sand from now until next year for all I care."

Silence, then: "All right. Give me the address."

The motel was set back from the Old Post Road, in a thicket of pines, about a block from Suicide Cliff. During the season, it catered mostly to elderly people who could rent a room with a kitchenette for about a quarter of what something comparable would cost at the Flamingo Hotel in town. It was one story, shaped like an L, painted pale pink and blue, with a pool in the courtyard. Even if they had thought to check the parking lot of every motel on Tango, they wouldn't have spotted the Scirocco because it was covered with a beige tarpaulin, the kind you bought to protect a car from the sun.

Aline pulled up next to it, in front of Room 21, and waited for Gene Frederick. According to the clerk at the desk, Murphy had checked in around 8:00 P.M. the night of the fourth, under an assumed name. He'd paid two days' advance for the room, in cash.

She stared at the windows, where the curtains were drawn. She stared at the numbers on the door. The bright light bounced off the hood of her car, burning holes to the back of her brain.

She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, feeling small and miserable. She should've come here first by herself and talked to him. But she'd tried that once, in the staff kitchen at the station two days ago, and the only thing that had come of it was Eve splitting a day before she'd planned to. She could've come here and arrested him, but for what? He hadn't left the island. He evidently hadn't aided and abetted Eve in her escape, not from the sound of those messages he'd left on her answering machine. So she'd done the right thing. But right for who? For Murphy? For herself? For Frederick?

She raised her head; Frederick was pulling in alongside her. Alone, just as she'd asked. He got out, and so did she. In the light, his white hair seemed even whiter, his thinness was more pronounced. They regarded each other across the few yards that separated them. She couldn't see his eyes because he wore shades, but she could tell by the set of his mouth, the ossified cast of his features, that he was angry. Then he just shook his head as if to say he must've been nuts to have come here alone, as she'd requested, and pointed at the room.

"Is that it?"

"Yes."

He reached inside his windbreaker and brought out his .38.

"No guns." She touched his arm, then saw that he hadn't disengaged the safety.

"You forget. He worked for me for more than a decade." He said it as if he were speaking of a son he had loved—and lost.

Aline knocked on the door as Frederick stood to her left, back against the wall. There was no answer. She tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it and blinked against the dimness of the room. The air stank of spilled booze. Murphy was sprawled on the double bed near the far wall in just his shorts, the phone clutched in the curve of his arm, the right side of his face buried in the pillow. There was a bottle of Cutty Sark on the nightstand, and most of it was gone. A glass had toppled and lay in a puddle on the floor. Beside it was a photo album opened to a wedding picture of Monica and Murphy. It tore at her, that picture here, now, and she picked up the album and closed it gently and lowered herself to the edge of the other bed as Frederick shook Murphy awake.

He grunted. He grumbled. He sat up, blinking, his eyes hooded, bloodshot, turgid. He looked at Frederick for a long moment before he recognized him, then he glanced over at Aline, then at Frederick again.

"What the fuck," he muttered, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his eyes.

"Don't you listen to the news, Murphy?" asked Frederick, his gun back in its shoulder holster, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his windbreaker.

Murphy reached for the bottle of Cutty Sark, but Frederick's hand touched it first. "I think you've had enough."

"Who asked you, Gene," he spat, and then he turned his gaze directly on Aline. A profusion of emotions curled through his eyes like smoke. Confusion, betrayal, contempt. "You were right, Al. You were goddamn right. Doesn't that make you feel good?"

She wanted to curl up into a little ball and dive under the bed. She couldn't stand the way he looked at her.
He blames me. He blames me for everything
. "Where is she, Murphy?" Her voice was eerily calm, even, but beneath it she detected the systaltic pulse of a long-repressed anger, rising gradually, insidiously.
How dare he blame me
.

"How the fuck should I know?" Then he reached for the bottle again, and this time Frederick wasn't quick enough.

Murphy tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank what was left. He slammed the bottle hard against the nightstand. It toppled to the rug and rolled. Then he picked up the glass from the floor, yanked open the nightstand drawer, and pulled out a bottle of gin. He opened it. He poured some into the glass, then stared into it, let out a sound that might've been a sob or a groan, and hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered.

"Feel better?" Frederick asked, lighting a cigarette.

"No." He sat there with his hands limp between his legs, his face unshaven, his eyes sunken in his cheeks, the air around him stinking of sweat and alcohol.

"When did you see her last?" Aline asked.

"At the boat race. Right before." He stared straight ahead—not at her, but through her. "She was at the dock. I told her I wanted to talk to her after the race. Then . . . then when Cavello's boat blew . . . well, I didn't get to her place until after six. I confronted her. I . . . I accused her of planning to leave all along. We had a terrible argument and I left. I started hitting the bars. I got loaded and ended up out here, at the Cliff Bar a couple miles up the road. I bought a bottle when they closed and realized I was too drunk to drive all the way back to town. So I got a room. And I've been here ever since. Staying loaded." He looked at Frederick. "You oughta try it sometime, Gene. It'll loosen you like that." He snapped his fingers in Frederick's face, then threw his head back and laughed and laughed.

Just as suddenly as he'd started laughing, he stopped. He tipped the bottle of gin to his mouth and sipped at it, grimacing.

"Where's the rendezvous going to be, Murphy?" asked Frederick.

His eyes turned dull, as opaque as cue balls. "Rendezvous?" He laughed, a swift, bitter sound that cut Aline to the bone. "What rendezvous?"

Frederick paced now. "You know what I think, Murphy? I think you and Eve have been real clever about this. I think you knew we'd have one or both of you under surveillance. I think you left her house that night and then returned, knocked out Aline, chloroformed her, and drove Eve to the marina. You figured you'd meet up with her in a couple of days or maybe a couple of weeks, once the heat was off."

"No, Gene," interrupted Aline. "You're wrong. He left messages on her machine. You'd better listen to them before you start making accusations and—"

"Messages?" He exploded. "What the fuck do messages on a machine prove, Aline? It just means that Murphy knew we'd be searching Eve's house. He knew we'd see the machine. He knew we'd listen to those goddamn messages. It just makes the whole scenario more plausible." He nodded to himself and puffed on his cigarette. "Very clever, Murphy. Really. Now why don't you tell us how you two pulled off Cooper's murder. And the Colombian's. And Waite's. And about the dynamite that blew Cavello to kingdom come. And while you're at it, tell me about the seven-million-dollar frog. I'm real curious about that frog."

"Oh, man, do you ever have it wrong." Murphy laughed. It was a high, nervous sound, the sound of a cornered animal. "I didn't kill anyone."

"But you've got your doubts about Eve, don't you, Murphy?" Aline said.

He glared at her. She saw the contempt again, the betrayal, but this time it didn't affect her. This time it just enraged her. Color suffused her face, blood pounded in her ears. "Don't look at me like that," she said. "Don't blame me. You created the situation, Murphy. Not me."

"I think you'd better step outside, Aline," said Frederick.

I think you'd better take a hike, pal.

"Your presence is just complicating things."

"Sure, Gene," she snapped. "Whatever you say." She whipped her purse off the bed, opened the door, and slammed it behind her. The heat slapped her in the face and poked her in the center of her chest, exerting so much pressure she thought for sure her heart would burst.

She leaned back into the door, stared at the white concrete sidewalk, and wished . . . oh Christ, she didn't know what she wished. That Kincaid would walk up to her. "That bad?"

Her head jerked up. Kincaid was perched on the hood of the Saab, parked on the far side of Frederick's car, sunglasses riding low on the bridge of his nose, his sandy hair damp at the temples. Behind him, still inside the car, was Ferret, who stuck his hand out the window and waggled his fingers. She smiled in spite of herself and walked over.

"How . . ."

Kincaid jerked his thumb toward Ferret. "Ask Wonder Boy there. The word went out for Murphy, and this was where the word led us. I don't suppose Eve's in there, too."

She shook her head and stepped to the passenger window. Ferret wore reflective shades in which Aline could see miniature duplicates of herself. "Does the word have any news about Eve? Or about where that dynamite came from that blew up Cavello's boat?"

Ferret tipped a can of Coke to his mouth. She watched his Adam's apple bulge as he swallowed. Then he smacked his lips and drew his hand across his mouth. "The word, Sweet Pea, is not Biblical, okay? It ain't, as they say, all-knowing. However, I have it from a good source that the dynamite that blew Cavello's black and sordid soul into mañana was not purchased from any of the usual sources on Tango or in Key West. You might also be interested in knowing that the word has gone out to several high-level investors that there is a gold frog for sale. However, these, uh, investors, are not touching this one."

"Sale by whom?"

He held up a stubby index finger. "Ah. Yes. Well. I don't have an answer on that yet. As I said, the word is not all-knowing, Sweet Pea. But I think my friend Ryan can shed some light on the situation."

Kincaid's shadow fell over her and spanned the roof of the Saab. He touched her shoulder, and for an instant the heat of his hand burned through the cotton of her blouse. She turned sideways, so she could see both him and Ferret. "About five minutes after you left this morning, Carlos Ortiz called. He said he had something to give you, but that the instructions specifically stated that if he went to the cops, there would be no deal. So I swung by his place on my way over to Ferret's and picked it up." He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

Inside was a note typed on plain white bond paper:

Mr. Ortiz:

A certain gold amphibian is for sale. If you're interested, be in front of Pepe's Cafe on the boardwalk at 3:00 for further instructions. Do not go to the police, otherwise there will be no deal.

A Concerned Citizen

"The other investors you mentioned, Ferret. They got notes like this?"

"Ayup."

"In the mail?"

"Right."

"How many people are we talking about?"

"Two."

"Does one of those people include Alan Cooper?"

"He's not exactly in my circles, Sweet Pea, so I don't know."

A part of her said Murphy was behind it, that this was how he and Eve had planned to raise money for their exodus, their new life. She'd never thought of Murphy as larcenous, but then she no longer knew the man he had become under Eve's tutelage. As long as there was some doubt about his role, it seemed prudent to let him go, because if he knew where Eve was, he would lead them to her.

Kincaid said, "You going to tell Frederick about the note?"

"You don't think I should?"

Kincaid scratched at his beard and glanced at Ferret, as if for support. Ferret crooked his finger at her and she leaned into the window. "Sweet Pea," he said softly, "it's like this. I, personally, trust four people in the world. Myself, Bino, you, and Ryan. I know without a doubt that whatever I say to those four people goes no farther than those four. You catch my drift?"

She caught it, but wondered if they knew something they weren't telling.

F
rederick was on the phone when she stepped inside the room, and Murphy was in the shower. ". . . that's right. Room 21. Thanks." He hung up and glanced at her. "I thought you left."