Tango Key (7 page)

"Eight-thirty."

Dobbs consulted his watch. "That's ten minutes from now."

She shrugged. "So?"

Dobbs brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. "Give him room, Al. That's all he needs. Just a little room."

"But it's not what I need," she replied, and walked off toward the house just as Murphy was trotting down the front steps.

"See you at work?" Murphy asked, pausing on the bottom step, winking an eye shut against the glare of the sunlight.

"Sure."

"I checked the air conditioner, Al. It works fine."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

He gave her arm a perfunctory squeeze, and then he was gone, hurrying down the driveway with Dobbs. She knew by the way he moved that he had already forgotten her, that he was immersed completely in that place that was peculiar to men, that state of mind that was free of women.

A
line liked everything about the Tango Key police station—the bright mango-colored trim around its long windows, the knots in its pine walls, its snugness. The two-story building backed up to an alley that separated it from the old docks where the fish boats unloaded. Directly in front of it was the Tango City Park, and just around the block was a string of some of the best restaurants the island had to offer. But what she liked best about the building was her office.

Located at the end of the hall on the second floor, it was shaped like an old-fashioned keyhole. The shape was due to the way the picture window curved outward, suspended over the sidewalk like a window in a gothic novel, in one of those spooky houses where the wind moaned through the eaves and things went bump in the night. The shutters on the window were on the inside and were actually French doors that she'd bought at a rummage sale and which Murphy, of course, had installed. She flung them open and light streamed into the room. It spilled over her cluttered desk, the stack of pink phone messages, the half-dozen plants that looked healthier than she did, and shot across the dove gray rug to the door, where Claudia Bernelli stood with her hands on her hips. Bernelli: skin-tight jeans, short blond hair, taffy eyes, multiple gold chains around her neck.

"I leave town for two days, and everything busts wide open," she said.

"You left town?"

She rolled her eyes. "Miami, Al. I went to Miami to see my folks. Danny's out of school so I figured it was time for him to see his grandparents. This is my cycle for the heavy mother routine, remember?"

"Vaguely."

Bernelli strolled into the room and folded her very thin body into the chair in front of Aline's desk. She lit a cigarette with a quick snap of her lighter. "Miami was the pits. But from what I hear, things here haven't been so terrific, either. I mean, Doug Cooper? Gimme a break. Cooper was like the heavy social anchor in the Cove." She leaned forward, arms resting at the edge of the desk, brows arching, the four gold chains around her neck tinkling like wind chimes. "So who did it? The widow?"

"She looks like a good contender, yeah."

"I knew it. Fuck, I knew it. You take one look at the woman and you got her pegged, Al. Woman who looks like that, with her poor-girl background married to a guy so much older, with lots of jack . . . well, hell, doesn't take a Sherlock to figure that out."

"You know her?"

"I ticketed her once for speeding. She was in that junky VW bug of hers, hauling ass at eighty-five up the Old Post Road. I might be mistaken, but my guess is she'd been breathing a lot more than sea air up those pretty nostrils."

"So that's what these Cove ladies do with their free time, huh."

Bernelli shook her head. "The Good ol' Girls in the Cove have never accepted her. She's still an outsider. By the way, Dobbs called me early this morning and gave me the rundown. He says he doesn't want to get anywhere near this one, so I guess it's you and Murph."

"Murphy said it's all mine. I think he's a little afraid of the whole thing. Because Eve looks so much like Monica."

"I always knew she reminded me of someone, I just couldn't figure out who. But that's who, all right. Dobbs says Murphy acted like he had his head up his ass last night." She glanced around. "Got an ashtray, Al?"

Aline opened the bottom drawer of her desk and brought out the half-shell she kept there just for
           
butts.

"So how can I help you out, Al?"

It was one of those questions Bernelli had been asking since the ninth grade, when Aline had rescued her from a group of bullies on the playground of Tango Junior High. Bernelli, a scrappy tomboy from Chicago who'd been in school for two days, had gotten herself into a fix because of her mouth. The guy who'd taken umbrage at her remark about the size of his genitals had backed her into a corner and threatened to beat the shit out of her unless she took back what she'd said. And because Bernelli's physical stature—which hadn't changed much in twenty years—was sadly lacking in terms of defense, Aline had intervened. She'd gotten a bloody nose out of the deal—and a friend for life.

"You can field the media calls for me." Aline held up the stack of phone messages. "They've started already." She read them off: "
The Tango
Tribune
,
Miami
Herald
, Channel 10, Channel 4 . . ."

Bernelli rubbed her hands together and grinned. "Oh good. I'm just itching to take on someone."

"Field the calls, Bernie. Don't start a major war."

"What kinda of statement you want me to give? Do we say he was decapitated and we have no head? Or what?"

"They already know that. Tell them no head, no suspects. Period."

"Agreed. What else?"

"Would you mind calling Cooper's son in Marathon and finding out where he was last night? I'll give you the number."

"Done."

"What do you know about Ted Cavello?"

She made a face. "He's a short little fellow who's got a bad complex about his height. He's been managing the Cove Marina for the last four, maybe five years and is a totally obnoxious human being. He got into some shady land deals up north, but he was never convicted. He's one of these macho types who has never taken a female cop seriously, so you'll have problems with him. I stopped him for running a light, and practically had to threaten him with arrest before he would turn over his license. That kind of macho."

"We have anything at all on Cooper?"

"No. I already went through the computer files. And the only thing on Eve is the speeding ticket. I also called Carlos Ortiz, Cooper's lawyer, but he's at a convention in Miami. Mondays are not good days for getting in touch with lawyers.''

But Mondays were excellent days for contacting a few other people she knew. "Listen, I'll be out for a while. Just in case the chief's looking." She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder.

"The chief's not in town, either. How about we meet at the Pink Moose around one for lunch?" Bernelli grinned; it deepened the dimple on her chin.

"Perfect."

L
ester's Bar had once been a soda fountain. It still had the twirling stools at the counter, ornate spigots which had flowed with Dr. Pepper and root beer, and huge glass containers filled with beef jerky, smoked sausage, and hard-boiled eggs soaked in vinegar. The movie posters on the walls attested to old man Lester's penchant for Hitchcock: THE 39 STEPS, NORTH BY NORTHWEST, DIAL M FOR MURDER. There was a gilded cash register and a jukebox that played only golden oldies. Nothing in the place dated beyond the early sixties, as if it had gotten stuck in a time warp.

Half-a-dozen customers sat at the bar, and Roy Orbison crooned from the jukebox. "Only the Lonely:" just the sort of coincidence she could do without this morning. Aline spotted Ferret in his usual booth, sitting with a tall, lanky fellow with hair so blond it was nearly white. She walked over to the booth, where the table was strewn with racing forms for the dogs and a list of players for the week's jai alai games.

Neither man seemed to notice her. "Hi, Ferret."

He drew his thin, hungry face away from the table, slid his dark sunglasses low on his nose, and peered at her over the rims His black hair was very short, almost a brush cut and made his face seem even sparser than it was. His lips drew away from his teeth in a Ferret version of a grin. "I'll be goddamned. Sweet Pea. Long time no see." He patted the booth beside him. "Sit yourself down. This is Bino

Bino glanced up from the forms. His milk white skin was as thin as tissue paper. He had a long, slender nose and almost no mouth. Aline saw tiny versions of herself in his reflective sunglasses. She wondered if he had pink eyes. He nodded at her and returned to the racing forms and Aline sat down next to Ferret. "Any good bets?"

"Depends on how much you want to play."

Aline did some quick mental arithmetic, robbing Peter and Paul to pay Ferret. "How about three-fifty."

His weasel-head bobbed. "Sure thing. I think I can find you something for three-fifty which you can double."

"In how many days?"

"A week."

"Okay." She reached into her purse for her wallet and counted out the bills.

"Glad to see you came prepared, Sweet Pea."

"This, I want you to know, was going to pay my electric bill and my Visa bill."

Ferret played an imaginary violin.

"Is your cut still fifteen percent, Ferret?"

"For you, Sweet Pea. Everyone else pays twenty. Ain't that right, Bino."

"Ayuh," he mumbled, studying the form in front of him.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I've got something I think you'll like."

She reached into her purse and brought out a paperback copy of
The Stranger Beside Me
, Ann Rule's story about her long-time friendship with Ted Bundy. Ferret picked up the book, read the front and back covers, then turned to the last page and read that, too. Six years ago, when her bookstore was just beginning to turn a small profit, Aline had started a Learn-to-Read program in conjunction with a junior college on the mainland. It was targeted toward the small blue-collar segment of Tango's adult population, and Ferret had been one of the first people to sign up. Since he didn't believe in getting something for nothing, he'd given her tips on the jai alai games. Ever since, he'd been her bookie. She had lost halfa-dozen times, but her wins had been sufficient enough to keep her coming back.

"Hey, this looks interesting," he said. "Thanks a lot." He set the book aside, laced his long, skinny fingers together, and regarded her with his shiny black eyes. "Now tell me what you're really doing here."

"You can't guess?"

"Doug Cooper. The dead lawyer."

"Right."

Ferret sat back, thinking, his eyes narrowing to slits. She had never asked Ferret where he got his information. She didn't want to know. But enough of what he'd told her over the years had checked out so that when he talked, she listened.

"Some things you gotta know about Cooper, Sweet Pea. He was a hunter. Back in the old days when he was married to his first wife, he'd bring back trophies from his African safaris. Then his wife got on him about it, so he quit hunting animals and started hunting other game—cases that would get him media attention, artifacts, women. His greatest trophy was Eve. But before her, there was a woman named Lucy Meadows. He handled her divorce about twelve years ago, and as far as I know, they was still screwing around. Dynamite-looking woman, an ex-model, but not a make-over case like Eve, right? Lucy owns Safari Travels. Way I hear it, she may be coming into some big moola with Cooper dead."

"What was his relationship with Ed Waite, the man in charge of the archaeological museum?"

"Artifacts. You know about Cooper's digs?"

"A little."

"You know he got Cavello outa a scrap?"

"What kind of scrap?"

"Cavello likes to beat up on women. Beat up on a friend of mine over in Key West and Cooper paid her off to keep her mouth shut." Ferret rubbed his jaw. His eyes opened a little wider. "I think there's a guy you oughta talk to. Name's Ryan Kincaid. He's a private detective."

"He lives on Tango?"

Ferret's lips drew back from his teeth again. "For twenty years."

Twenty years?
"How come I've never even heard the guy's name?"

Ferret laughed and slapped his palm against the table. The racing forms scattered, and Bino glanced up, annoyed. "She wants to know how come she's never heard of Kincaid if he's lived here for twenty years."

Bino grinned. "Loner."

"Tell the truth, Bino," admonished Ferret.

"We're not so sure Kincaid's even from this planet, ma'am. How's that."

"C 'mon." Aline couldn't tell if they were joking with her or what. "Who is he?"

"A part-time dick, full-time traveler, wholesale weird duck."

"So why should I talk to him?"

"Oh, I think you'll find he knows a few things. He lives at the end of Acacia Drive. Look for the white Saab out front. Gotta warn you, though. He rubs some folks the wrong way. But tell 'im you're a friend of mine; it might make him more diplomatic. In the meantime, I'll see what other things I can dig up from the Tango streets, Al."