Tango key, p.21
Tango Key, page 21
"We're not talking about your office, Cavello, and just for the record, you don't have any neat alibi for the night of Cooper's death. You were the last person to see him alive. So how about telling me where the frog is?"
"Listen, you wanna know where the goddamn frog is, you ask that whore out there on the deck. Like I told you before, she killed Doug, and I'm still bettin' she's in this with Alan. Or, hey, maybe she's in cahoots with that cop, that Detective Murphy. Ever thought of that?"
She had, but not in the way he meant it. "What's Lilly got to do with this, Cavello?"
The name elicited a reaction. He suddenly dropped his eyes. Shifted in his seat.
"Either you tell me or she's going to."
"She's just a crazy psychic, man, that's all. She works the hotels during the season."
"Uh-huh. And where is she now?"
"I don't know."
"Right. She one of the ladies you beat up on, Cavello?"
Silence.
"All right, Mr. Cavello. Let's put it this way. I've got it from a very good source that the IRS would be quite interested in your, uh, creative bookkeeping. Now either you tell me what I want to know or I'll just have to tell my contact to pass on those accounting books missing from your office to the Feds. And then, pal, you're going to have a lot more to contend with than just the local yokels like me."
His head snapped up. "You," he hissed. "You were behind it."
She smiled. "Let me put it this way. You play fair with me and I'll play fair with you. Tell me what I want to know and I'll see to it that you get your bogus ledger back. Fair enough?"
"How do I know you've even got them?"
"You'll just have to trust me. Considering the position you're in at the moment, you really don't have much choice."
He thought about it, but not for long. "Lilly's done a couple of readings for me, that's it."
"For you and who else?"
He rubbed his chin against his shoulder. "Plano. She did some readings for Plano, too."
"Concerning what?"
"How the hell should I know? Ask her."
"I would, if I could find her."
He hesitated, then said, "She'll be at a private party in the Cove Saturday night, which means she should be checking into the Flamingo on Friday."
"What else?"
"Lilly knows a hell of a lot more about Plano and the frog and all the rest of it than I do. Hell, she's supposed to be psychic, right? Ask her who killed Doug and Juan." He laughed, and she felt like slugging him. "And then, while you're at it, ask fat Ed Waite about the consulting fee Doug paid him to toodle down to Colombia with him. Ask him about that."
"For a man who claims he doesn't know anything, you seem to know quite a bit."
"Okay, sure. I made a bid on the frog. I'd been hearing about it for months from Doug, and I figured, hey, he can do it, why can't I? And yeah, he outbid me. But so what. There are games you win and games you lose. I lost this one. That isn't enough to kill a man for. But I'll tell you something else I know, miss lady detective, just so you know I didn't kill anyone. There was another guy in Doug's smuggling operation. Because that's what it was, you know. All those artifacts in that safety-deposit box—how the hell do you think those got into the country? Not because the Colombian government let them go. And not because some schmuck customs official down there got paid off. It's because there was someone up here helping Doug get the stuff in."
"Who?"
"All I know is that the guy went by the code name of 'Cracker.' Maybe it was Waite. Maybe it was that spic attorney of Doug's. Maybe someone else. I don't know."
Aline heard voices outside, peered through the window, and saw Dobbs coining on board. "I think your ride's here, Cavello. Thanks for the tips."
"Hey, what about my ledger?"
"We'll talk about it when you're out on bail."
She walked out onto the deck. Dobbs and Eve were at the bow of the boat; he was taking her statement. She stood there in her tight, very short shorts, one hand glued to a hip, which was thrust out, the other hand shading her eyes. The emerald, diamond, and sapphire rings on her fingers sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight. Her sable hair shone. Her long tan legs were cover-girl legs. Her curves were perfect. Her halter top set off her tan, slick shoulders, and even those were flawless. No freckles. No blemishes. Eve at the local high school sock hop had probably created a minor sensation. Gorgeous. Yeah, let's hear it for gorgeous, she thought.
"Your boy's inside, Jack."
"Bring him out, will you?"
He didn't look at her when he said it. The authoritarian ring to his voice was the same she'd heard that night at the station, when he'd walked in on her and Eve and told Aline to knock it off. It annoyed her. "He's your charge now, Jack. I've got to shove off."
Everything about his body language as he strode toward the cabin doorway said he was irritated. He stopped in front of her. Slid his sunglasses back into his khaki hair. The sun struck his eyes, washing the blue from them until they seemed as faded as an old work shirt. "You called in, Al. Technically, he's your arrest."
"I don't care for your attitude, Jack. I haven't cared for it since the night you interrupted Eve and me. The only thing you have on me is seniority. And unless they've changed the rules, that doesn't give you the right to order me around. Now if you don't want to bring him in, fine. Don't. I will."
In the subsequent silence, the sun heated up the right side of her face. The briny odor of the water seemed to inspissate in the air until it devoured the smell of diesel, of fish. She heard the whistle of a tug, chugging into shore, and closer, the soft lapping of the current at the sides of the boat as it rocked gently, almost unobtrusively, at its moorings. The silence couldn't have lasted more than ten seconds at the most, but it seemed longer than that before Dobbs flashed a smile and squeezed her shoulder.
"Goddamn, listen to us. I'm sorry, Allie. I didn't mean—"
"I know. Forget it. Everyone's just real uptight these days."
"You talked to Murphy?" He lowered his voice to a near whisper.
"No. You?"
"Nope. I thought I'd swing by the boatyard sometime later. See how he's doing."
Aline glanced toward Eve. "I think, Jack, that he wouldn't know he was doing bad even if things got worse."
Then, as if Dobbs needed to assure her there were no hard feelings by connecting with something they both were interested in, he said: "Oh, hey, when you see Mark Finley, tell him that Welcome, Chaos book by Kate Wilhelm he recommended is really tops. Catch you later."
Welcome, Chaos: yeah.
Aline spotted Kincaid's white Saab baking in the sun as she pulled into the parking lot of the Flamingo. He wasn't in it, however, so she walked inside, checking the bar and then the restaurant. She found him sitting alone at a table next to the window, but the place to his right held the remains of someone else's lunch.
"My favorite guy," she said, coming up behind him. He tipped his head back so she could almost see the underside of his beard. It was full now, the deep hue of honey, speckled with gray. He smiled. She caught the faint scent of his skin, a scent that was specifically Kincaid's, of soap and wind and the sea.
"I conjured you," he said.
She laughed. "God, how neat." She moved to the chair on his left and sat down. "How'd you do it? Telepathy? Mind control? What?"
He touched his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes. "I'm lusting, Al. Get your buns over here." He opened his eyes and grinned. "How's that?"
She leaned forward and reached under the table, sliding her hand over his thigh, inching her fingers toward his groin. "How bad are you lusting, Kincaid?"
"Bad. Let's get a room," he replied with a straight face as her fingers slid over the bulge in his jeans. "You're going to get us thrown outa here, Al."
"Not to mention that I'll get stuck with the bill," said Carlos Ortiz, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
Blood rushed into Aline's cheeks, and she sat back with an embarrassed laugh. "Hi, Carlos."
Kincaid muttered, "Can't take her anywhere in public."
"Amigo, that we should all have such problems."
"I've got some news. First, Lilly the Mentalist—"
"—has a room reservation here for Friday night," Kincaid finished. "I just found out a while ago. The manager has been trying to get in touch with you, Al. To let you know."
"And Ryan has already signed up for a reading," Ortiz said. "Perhaps she will do the two of you for the price of one, eh?"
"Signed up where?"
"At the desk."
"Okay, I bet you don't know this," she said, and told them what had happened on Eve's sloop. "According to Cavello, every one of those artifacts in the safe-deposit box was smuggled into the country. Cooper was working with someone here who helped him get the stuff in. Code name, Cracker."
"Real spy shit," Kincaid drolled. "I don't suppose Cavello had any idea who Cracker is."
"He claims he doesn't. But he threw out a couple of maybes." She glanced at Ortiz. "You among them, Carlos."
He poked his aviator glasses back on his nose. "I'm a natural. I had access to the safe-deposit box."
"You sure Eve didn't have access?"
"Let me put it this way. She never had a key and, to my knowledge, didn't even know it existed. But it's possible that she found the key and pieced things together. It's also possible that the frog never made it as far as the safe-deposit box."
"Wouldn't Alan have had access to the box, considering his reconciliation with Doug?"
"Sure. It's possible. And that's exactly the problem. At this point, Aline, everything is possible."
Even Murphy planning an escape with Eve, she thought, but didn't say it. She wouldn't say it, not unless she was absolutely sure. "Carlos, until the estate has gone through probate, what's Eve living on?"
"She had money in her own account. Their prenuptial agreement entitled her to about five thousand a month for household expenses, clothing, and whatnot. I imagine she saved quite a bit of that. She also has some valuable pieces of jewelry, and perhaps she has sold a few."
"The Mercedes is in her name, right?"
"Yes."
"And the Porsche?"
"No, in Doug's name. It's part of the estate."
"The boat?"
"Dual ownership. She can still use it until the estate is settled, since she's inheriting it. Why?"
"Just wondering," she replied, and changed the subject.
The manager of the Flamingo Hotel was a man named Ben Vickers, who'd been a friend of Aline's father. He had thick white hair and wore bifocals that rode low on the bridge of his nose. He bussed Aline on the cheek as he greeted her.
"She made the reservation last night," Ben said, referring to Lilly. "Our social director is the person who's been booking her for the last two seasons, so I've never dealt with the woman personally. But I understand she's something of an eccentric. Anyway, I thought you might be interested in the list of people who've signed up to see her. The sheet's arranged in half-hour time slots from eight to midnight Friday evening and eight to four on Saturday. All but two slots are filled."
"How'd all these people know she was going to be here?"
"The social director says Lilly always takes out an ad in the Tango Tribune about a week before her arrival. She charges a hundred the half hour."
Then the woman was doing a far sight better as a psychic than she was doing as a cop, Aline thought.
She perused the names on the sheet. Ed Waite had the 8:30 PM slot on Friday evening. "You have any PR material on her?"
Vickers smiled, whipped a folder off his desk, handed it to her. "You bet. Frankly, I think it's just hype, Aline. Even Uri Geller never sounded this good."
The packet contained the usual PR stuff—newspaper and magazine clippings, a brief bio sheet, and a professional black-and-white photo of Lilly. According to the bio sheet, she divided her time between South Florida and the Big Apple, where her clients included "some of the biggest names in show business." Whatever that meant. The clippings were glowing, of course, and ranged from publications like the L.A. Times and The Miami Herald to obscure metaphysical magazines that were undoubtedly published in someone's basement. But an article from The Tampa Tribune, dated a little more than two years ago, was particularly illuminating.
According to the Tribune, Lilly Monroe had been hired by several anthropologists who were excavating a bog called Little Salt Springs just north of Tampa. She was credited with having pinpointed the location of a human skull said to be over 12,000 years old. In an article from a Phoenix paper, she was mentioned in connection with the excavation of an Indian burial ground. Fate magazine called her "one of the most impressive psychic archaeologists of the decade."
"Ben, may I have copies of these three articles?"
"Sure."
A few minutes later, Aline hurried out of the hotel, a file tucked under her arm.
Ed Waite was hunched over his table of artifacts, just as he had been the first time Aline had been here. It was as if this particular frame of his life had been frozen in the cosmic movie projector and it was only now, with her arrival, that it whirred forward again. He glanced up and said, "I'm really very busy, Detective Scott." He took a bite of the half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a paper plate to his left and washed it down with a sip of Diet Coke.
"I won't take up much of your time. I just need a couple of answers."
He sighed heavily, patted his abdomen, eased himself back onto a stool, and gazed at her. The medical medallion looked like a big smudge of dirt against his shirt.
"Okay, what?"
She gestured toward the medallion. "You allergic to something?"
"Penicillin. I'm also a diabetic. But I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss my medical problems." Then, as though this had reminded him about his medication, he removed a plastic vial from his pocket and tapped a pill into the palm of his hand. He washed it down with a gulp from his can of Diet Coke, set the vial on the table, and folded his plump hands together. "So?"
"You neglected to tell me a few things, Mr. Waite."
"Like what?"
Such innocence, she thought.
"An eighty-thousand-dollar consulting fee that Cooper paid you to travel to the Lost City to appraise a gold frog. That's just for starters. There was also no mention of a two-day trek into the mountains with Doug and Juan Plano to see the frog, Mr. Waite. And on top of it, you didn't bother telling me that Plano was seeking bids for the frog and that Doug set the floor at seven million. What else did you forget to mention?"
For the first time, his hubris deserted him. His skin turned the color of powdered sugar. She could see him weighing various answers in terms of their consequences to him. He rubbed the side of his face. He looked down at his artifacts, stroked one, then glanced up again. "I'd like to know who took my appointment book, Detective Scott. It disappeared the same day you paid me a visit."
He smiled a little; she felt like rubbing it out, and leaned toward him. "I don't give a good goddamn who took your appointment book, Mr. Waite. I want some answers or I'm taking you in. Those are your choices."
His cheeks puffed out. "Look here. From the beginning, I've been guilty by association. That's why I didn't say anything. Okay, Doug paid me a consulting fee. So what? That's not against the law."
"Who's Lilly?"
"I don't know."
"Really? You have an appointment with her on Friday night, but you don't know?"
His mouth fell open.
"Okay, let's try something else. How was the frog smuggled into the States?"
"I don't know."
"Who's Cracker?"
"A cracker, Detective Scott, is what you eat."
"Cracker, Mr. Waite, is your code name, isn't it? You're the guy who's been helping Cooper smuggle his artifacts in on this end. How'd you do it? Through some arrangement with customs because of your archaeological work? Is that it?"
He patted at his damp face with a hanky.
"You were helping him get the stuff in here, figuring it would eventually finance your foundation from now into the twenty-first century, right, Mr. Waite?"
"Detective, if you're making a formal charge, I'd like to call my attorney before I say anything else."
"Go right ahead, Mr. Waite."
"Then I'm under arrest?"
"I didn't say anything about arrest. Yet."
"Then I don't have anything else to say."
"You have twenty-four hours to think things over, Mr. Waite. I'll be back tomorrow with a warrant for your arrest unless I hear from you before then."
She got as far as the front door before a shriek from Waite's office jerked her around again. Freckle Face, who was sitting at the computer out front, had already leaped up and flown toward the hall. By the time Aline reached his office, Waite was in convulsions on the floor, Freckle Face on one side of him and another woman on the other side, and a third woman on the phone.
Waite's arms flailed, his skin turned blue. Freckle Face reached into his mouth and grabbed his tongue. He continued to buck against the floor as Aline stood paralyzed in the doorway, watching. She heard the woman on the phone say, "Anaphylactic shock." The word didn't connect with anything until a few minutes later when the paramedics had cleared the other women from the room and one of them was injecting Waite with epinephrine.
She picked up the vial. Acetohexamide (Insulin): Take one capsule three times a day with meals.
She was betting at least some of these capsules had been doctored with penicillin.
Chapter 16
Dusk. The Saab sped north along the Old Post Road, three cars between it and Murphy's red Scirocco. Lightning sutured the sky to the east, and the warm air spilling through the sunroof smelled of rain.
