Tango Key, page 23
She is four, swimming in a pool at the Y with her father for the first time. He holds her, he helps her float, he says, Don't be afraid, Evie. Let your head go under, and she does and it's another world, cool and silent. She is ten. She and the boy next door are playing in the yard, spraying each other with the hose. She is thirteen, soaking in a hot tub and the water turns pink with blood because she has started her period. Sixteen, and this time the water is a torrent of rain and she dances in it. Water.
When the gallon is empty, when she is sitting in a puddle of water, when it is seeping into her jeans, she leaps up and finds the second one. The third. She brings both down onto the floor with her. She clutches one against her, rocking it, and presses the soles of her bare feet against the other jug, liking its coolness against her skin, the way its sides give a little, as though the jug is filled with Jell-O.
There's something she's not remembering about this closet, something she discovered one night when she was up here. Something important. What? Do the walls slide away? Does the floor pull up? Is there a hidden window? Another door? Yes, something like that. But what? What?
Murphy had walked out of the room and . . .
That's all she remembers.
The memory flutters against the edges of her mind like a hideous moth, but she can't grab it. It soars away from her and she is alone again, rocking the jug, weeping, whispering for her daddy, rocking, rocking.
Chapter 17
The kangaroo was the first thing Aline saw when she opened her eyes. It was fixed at an angle on the ceiling above Kincaid's bed, sandwiched between posters of the Copacabana and Machu Picchu. It looked . . . well, happy. That weird little mouth that could've been a smile, those ears, that pouch, those small upper arms, and those eyes, huge and brown and soulful.
She heard thunder and, closer in, the shower, and felt a momentary regret that he was already up. She rolled onto her stomach and reached for her purse at the side of the bed, digging inside for her pocket calendar. It, like the kitchen calendar, had lots of little red L's in June, all right, and most of them were followed by a K. She made a neat red L in the slot for Friday, July 3, then slapped it shut, dropped it back into her purse, and threw off the covers.
The first thing she saw as she sat up was a Ladeco airline ticket, tucked under a corner of the phone on the nightstand. She slid it out and opened it. One-way Miami/Santiago with a return from Buenos Aires. The return date was open, but the departure date was August 1. She stared at it. A swell of something that shouldn't have been there thumped hard against her ribs. This was supposed to have been a breezy relationship, nothing more, something to get her over the hump of Murphy. And Murphy was supposed to have been an interlude, with her helping him over the hump of Monica's death. But "supposed to be" never turned out the way you expected, at least not on Tango Key.
This was what happened on an island where women outnumbered men two to one. This. This soft, subtle weave of illusion with its iridescent threads that embraced you, caressed you, intoxicated you. She slid the ticket back under the phone and sat there with her hands clenched against her thighs. I will now get up and put on my clothes and leave. I will not call Kincaid. I will not make any more marks on my calendar. I will go about my business. Find the gold frog. I will . . .
But she was standing. She was moving toward the bathroom and the din of the shower. She was opening the door. She was walking through the steam, pulling back the curtain, peeking inside. She was saying, "Hey, you didn't wait for me," and Kincaid was turning around, and he grinned and she grinned and he tossed her the soap and she missed, and it hit the floor of the tub with a thud. As she stepped in and reached to retrieve the soap, he beat her to it. Now she felt his hands against her spine, her buttocks, soapy hands that slid over her breasts and belly as she leaned back into him.
"You feel so good," he said, his mouth against her ear, a hand gathering her hair, sliding it to one side so it hung over her shoulder. Now those same hands were gliding between her thighs with the soap, moving down her thighs to her calves, her feet. She opened her eyes and turned and looked down at him, the water drumming around them. His mouth followed his hands back up her leg, leaving behind a river of fever. She slid down the wall of the shower, and he turned off the water, and in the silence, the strange, tight silence, she took him in her hands, stroking until he was hard, and he licked the beads of water from her kneecaps, making her laugh. Then he slid the bar of soap over her belly again and drew designs in the foam with the tip of his finger.
With his tongue, he inscribed tight circles around her nipple until it was taut, distracting her from the light touch of his adventurous finger that slid down the center of her and home. She moved her hips against the pressure of his hand. He kissed her again. He picked her up, carried her into the bedroom, and lowered her to the bed. His hand never left, his finger sliding, teasing, then moving in quick, tight circles against her until she could barely breathe. She whispered, "You're making me crazy."
"That's the point." He slid his tongue along her lower lip as though he were savoring it like wine. "It's me, Al. Ryan. Not Murphy."
He breathed the words into her. Her lungs filled with the words. Her awareness shrank to a small orb of sentience, then expanded like a brilliant light until she seemed to be in two places at once—on the bed with Kincaid and somewhere near the ceiling, watching. She could see the muscles tighten in the back of Kincaid's legs as he entered her. She saw her own hands against his back, kneading his spine, his shoulders, his buttocks. They rolled. The sheets slipped off the bed and puddled against the floor. She saw herself rising up over him, her hair a twisted dark river against her back. She was there, inside herself, insider her own bones, and yet she had also shed the boundaries of her skin and melded into something greater, into the light that pulsed with the essence of whatever it was she and Kincaid became together. The ribbon of braided light that they were suddenly exploded in the center, spewing shards of blinding color, reds that beat like tiny hearts, blues that glistened like a sun struck sea, greens deeper than emeralds.
Outside, the rain poured down and wind rattled the windows and the part of her that had floated away returned, settling into the curve of his body, as snug as a ship in a harbor.
When she awakened again, Kincaid was on the phone, his back to her. Aline rolled onto her side and drew her finger down his spine. He glanced around and smiled. ". . . yeah, I'll give her the message, Ferret, thanks. . . . What?" He laughed. "Okay, I'll pass that on, too." He hung up and slid back under the sheet next to her, his hand cruising over her arm. "Ferret says there's been no word on who broke into your place and got blasted by your little friend. He figures it was someone from off the island, otherwise he would've heard about it by now."
"Whoever it was, I'm kind of grateful," she said, turning on her side so she faced him.
"You are?"
"Sure. Otherwise you might not have stuck around that night and we might not have ended up at the cove."
"So I have a skunk to thank for that, huh?" He chuckled and kissed her, then peeled the sheet away from her skin.
His mouth slid along the ridge of her collarbone. "You going into work?" he asked, his hand pressing against the inside of her thigh.
"Not if you keep doing that."
"This?"
"Hmmm."
"And this?"
"Unfair, Kincaid."
"How about this?"
"That, too."
He raised his head. "Oh, I'm also supposed to tell you that Ferret thinks it's time you bet two grand on a sure thing."
"Hmmm," she murmured, and he laughed softly and went back to what he'd been doing.
At 8:30 sharp that evening, Aline and Kincaid were at Lilly Monroe's door in the Flamingo Hotel. With Ed Waite a no-show, Aline supposed Lilly would be delighted to have some other sucker fill the slot. And, hey, why not two suckers?
But the muscle guy who answered the door looked from Aline to Kincaid, then down at the sheet of paper in his hand and shook his head. "Got one name here only. Ed Waite."
"Ed Waite won't be able to make it," Kincaid said.
"Lilly only does one reading at a time."
"We're married. We need a reading together. We'll pay her the two hundred bucks."
Muscle Man hemmed. He hawed. Aline's impatience grew to almost immedicable proportions. It would've been easier to have greeted Lilly at the door when she checked in and whisked her down to the station for questioning.
But if nothing else, undercover broke the routine. It was fun to be someone else for a minute or an hour, fun to pretend you were an American from Panama or a woman who needed the wise Lilly's counseling at a hundred bucks a shot.
"Yes or no?" Kincaid snapped. "We don't have all night."
"Yeah, all right. Lilly's on the phone. So come on in and have a seat."
He opened the door wider and they stepped into a suite that smelled of honeysuckle. A card table was set up in the middle of the room. In the center of it was a deck of Tarot cards, an ashtray, a glass of ice water, two chairs on one side, and a big comfortable leather chair for Lilly on the other. Muscle Man knocked on the adjoining door. "Lilly?"
"Coming right out, hon," she called.
Aline and Kincaid took their seats, and a moment later the door opened and a woman in a chatoyant silk jumpsuit the color of ice sailed into the room. She had short, curly red hair that was heavily sprayed and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. Her lashes were thick with mascara. Aline guessed she was in her early forties and trying to look fifteen years younger.
"Sorry to keep you folks waiting." She glanced quickly toward Muscle Man, frowning slightly, as if she were asking why there were two clients, instead of one.
"Ed Waite can't make it," Muscle Man said.
"No, I don't suppose he can." She looked at Aline, then Kincaid, her soft gray eyes like little balls of dough. "But I never do two readings for the price of one."
Kincaid removed four crisp fifties from his wallet and set them on the table. He rested his fingers lightly against them. "We're willing to pay for two."
"Ah. Well. No problem." She reached for the money. Kincaid's fingers tightened over the bills.
"A hundred in advance, a hundred on delivery."
She took umbrage at the implication that her reading might not be worth the second hundred, and sniffled. But she didn't argue. She took two fifties from the pile, set them aside and Muscle Man walked out onto the porch. He settled into a chair, feet propped on the railing. He was far enough away, Aline thought, to give them privacy, but close enough to fulfill his function as a bodyguard.
"Well, let's see what the cards hold for you folks this evening. You're lucky. You're catching me still fresh. I can sure feel the vibrations rolling off you two. Hmm." She shuffled the cards as she spoke. "You married?"
"Why don't you tell us?" Kincaid said.
"Hon, I don't see legal bonds. I see bonds of the heart. And that's what I'm seeing here. Loud and clear. Yes sir."
Aline looked down at her hands to hide her smile. Just then, Lilly moved her feet out from under her chair. She was wearing open-toed sandals, and her toenails were painted the color of raspberries.
I know those toes. These were the same raspberry-painted toes she had seen that night in Plano's room.
She was no longer smiling when she glanced up.
Lilly, who continued to shuffle the cards, was explaining how they worked. She asked if they understood. Kincaid nodded. Aline nodded. Lilly smiled and also nodded. "Cut the cards, both of you, into three piles, left to right. Then we'll get started."
"Actually, I have a rather specific question," Aline said.
"I usually take the questions after the reading, dear."
"But this is something that might show up in the cards."
"I think we should wait until—"
"A friend of mine was murdered, and I want to know if the cards can tell me who did it," Aline went on, swinging her foot out, then back, as she smoothed her hands over her skirt. She hoped she looked nervous.
"A murder? Really?"
"Yes. His name was Juan Plano. He was the one who recommended you."
"Plano." She didn't avert her eyes, didn't do anything to indicate that the name was familiar. She was laying out the cards now, in the shape of a cross. "I don't think I know the name. But then, I read for so many people, it isn't possible to remember all the names, you know."
"You worked with him on a couple of archaeology projects."
Aline and Kincaid exchanged a glance. Wait, said his eyes. For what? asked her frown.
But he'd turned his attention to Lilly's cards. Aline didn't know anything about Tarot, but the first five cards sure didn't look promising. A devil, a crumbling tower, a fool, the world, and the high priestess. "My, what have we here," said Lilly. "Your obstacle, folks, seems to be a breakdown in communication." She tapped a raspberry nail against the crumbling tower. "The devil who's responsible for the breakdown in communication is someone you're close to."
"Does the devil have a name?" asked Kincaid.
"Hon, the cards don't give me names."
"As a psychic, can't you pick up names?"
"I'm a psychic counselor. There's a difference."
"Then how do you locate artifacts at archaeological sites?
"Like you did at Little Salt Springs?" Kincaid asked.
"Through dowsing. Now, this card . . ." Her raspberry nail slid to the next card, the fool.
"I thought dowsers tried to locate water, not artifacts," Aline remarked, noting that Lilly didn't like the direction in which the questions were taking them. Small signs of distress appeared in her face—a twitch under her right eye, the roll of her lips as she pressed them together.
"My dear, dowsing can be used to find anything. I'd be happy to answer your questions later, but let's get on with the reading right now, okay?"
"Is dowsing how you found the gold frog, Lilly?" asked Kincaid.
She gazed at him, squinting her gray eyes as though she were nearsighted, then suddenly scooped up the cards. "The reading is over. Good-bye. Pete," she called. "See them out."
Muscle Man hurried into the room. "You heard Lilly. The reading's over."
"I'm afraid it's just starting, friend. Have a seat," said Aline, and dropped her police I. D. on the table.
Lilly sat back with a deep sigh, her raspberry nails clicking against the cards as she shuffled them. She spread the cards in a fan on the table, then folded her hands on top of them. "The frog. Everyone's interested in the goddamn frog. Including me. Sure, I helped Juan find the bloody thing. He steered me in the right direction and I narrowed the choices. He was supposed to pay me a percentage on the sale."
"How much of a percentage?"
"Two percent."
Not bad, Aline thought, doing some rapid calculations. Two percent of seven million was a hundred and forty grand. "And what happened?"
She snorted. "He never paid, that's what happened."
"You went to Colombia without a retainer fee?" Kincaid asked. "Come on, Lilly. You don't look that stupid."
"Five thousand. That was what I was paid up front."
"When?"
"Around December of last year, I guess it was."
"And that was when you found the frog?" Aline asked.
"Well, no. I returned in April. That was when we found it."
Kincaid prodded: "For another five thousand retainer fee?"
"I bet you're a Leo, aren't you?" She wrinkled her nose as if she'd just smelled something unpleasant. "You Leos just love to prove you're right. Yeah, okay. Ten thousand in all in retainer fees. But that's nothing compared to two percent of what was paid for the frog."
"By Doug Cooper," said Aline.
Those gray eyes seemed heavier, weighed with some onerous burden as they slid toward Aline. "Yes."
"You knew Cooper?"
"I'd met him. And just so we don't have any misunderstanding, I was in Jacksonville the night he was killed. And I can prove it." She glanced back at Muscle Man. "Pete, in the bedroom. Find that Jacksonville folder, will you?"
Muscle Man got up and walked into the other room. No one spoke until he returned and set a folder in front of Lilly. She opened it and turned it toward Aline and Kincaid. "There. Airline tickets from Miami to Jacksonville, hotel stub, the appointment sheet for readings at a private party on the night of the seventh and during the day on the eighth."
"Whose name is at the top here?"
"The woman who gave the party."
"And this is her phone number?" Lilly nodded.
Lilly nodded.
"Then I'm sure you won't mind if we call her and verify your story," said Kincaid, getting up and walking over to the phone at the other end of the suite. Muscle Man's eyes followed him.
"Were you on the island the night of Juan's murder, Lilly?"
"I was staying at the Pier House in Key West."
"That isn't what I asked."
Panic: it bloomed briefly in her eyes, a flare of light inside the soft gray. "Yes. I was on Tango. I wanted to talk to Juan about the money he owed me. I'd called him, I'd left messages for him, and he never bothered returning them. So that night I decided to just pay him a visit. But when I got here and called the room, it was late and he didn't answer."
"What time was that?"
Aline's advantage was that she knew what time Lilly had been in Plano's room because she had also been there. It was possible that Lilly had killed him in the stairwell first, and then rushed to his room to look for money, but Aline doubted Lilly had killed anyone. Her only mistake was getting caught in the middle of Cooper's game.
