Tango Key (16 page)

"Because of Lucy?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I think it was because of what Doug was. Please, don't misunderstand me. We got along well enough. He was one of my best clients, and he definitely had his endearing moments. But basically he was not a very likable man. He tried to control everyone and everything in his life, including Eve. It worked for a while, and then she just . . . rebelled, I guess. Filed for divorce. She withdrew the petition within two days. I suspect she evaluated the realities—namely, a prenuptial agreement that very clearly stated she would be entitled to nothing in the estate if she divorced Doug within seven years."

"Why seven years?"

Ortiz took another sip of his Corona. "I don't know, really. Perhaps the seven-year itch." He smiled. "With Doug, one could never be entirely certain of anything."

"Except that he was a shit," Kincaid commented.

"Crudely put,
amigo
. But probably quite true. After Eve withdrew the divorce petition, several months passed. Then Doug changed his will so that Eve would inherit the Mercedes, which was already in her name, a sum of $15,000, her personal jewelry, and the sloop. Lucy's share was lowered to a hundred thousand, and except for a couple of perona1 things that were to go to Ted Cavello and Ed Waite, Alan inherits everything else. If he dies before the estate has gone through probate, she inherits his share and vice versa. Aline frowned. She had finished her Bailey's while Ortiz had been talking, and now she slid her fingers up and down the sweating sides of the glass. "Then that would make Alan a strong suspect."

"Except for one thing. Neither Alan nor Eve knew about the change in the will. I've spoken to them both since—today, as a matter of fact—but before Doug was killed, neither of them knew."

"Unless Doug told Alan."

"As far as I know, they hadn't spoken in more than two years."

"Because of Eve, right?"

Ortiz nodded. "You know that story?"

"I've heard one version of it, yes. That Alan found his father and Eve together."

"That's more or less the same version Doug told me. Except that according to him, she never really loved Alan."

"Which justified it in his own mind," Kincaid remarked.

"Supposedly. The other disturbing thing about all this is Doug's archaeological collection. Originally, it was supposed to go to the foundation, with Ed Waite named as trustee of the artifacts. But they must've had a falling out, because now the artifacts are supposed to go to Alan. Doug gave me an inventory sheet of the artifacts in his estate. Some—the less valuables ones—are in his safe at home. The others are in the safe-deposit box. When I got back to Tango today, I checked the artifacts in the bank against those listed on the sheet. One piece is missing. Only Doug and I had access to that box, so it's unlikely, the piece was stolen. That means either Doug removed it for some reason or it was never there to begin with. If it was removed, I want it found."

"But you didn't know this when you hired Ryan."

"No. I wanted him to look into the death, period."

"What piece is missing?"

"A frog."

La Rana.

"A frog? What kind of frog?"

"A gold frog that is probably fifteen hundred to two thousand years old. It is, according to an archaeologist friend of mine in New York, one of the most coveted artifacts in the world. In fact, for many years it has existed only in legend."

Ortiz cocked his head. "Ah, well. The value of anything—even legends—depends entirely on what someone is willing to pay for them. But if a Van Gogh can go for forty million, then who knows, eh? To be quite frank, Detective Scott, I didn't pay much attention to this inventory sheet when Doug turned it over to me. I had never even looked at the artifacts in the safe-deposit box. It's only been since this afternoon, when I realized the frog was missing, that I understood exactly what that box contained."

"Where's the frog from?"
A little ole place called the Lost City?

"It dates back to the Tairona Indians, a pre-Columbian culture that existed in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains. In 1975, the largest Tairona site was discovered. La Ciudad Perdida. The Lost City."

Fortunately, the waitress arrived again to take their orders, which gave Aline a little time to decide just how much she wanted to reveal, if anything. She decided that for the moment it was prudent to keep her mouth shut.

When the woman left, Ortiz resumed his story. He explained what he knew about the city, which was basically what she'd discovered from the articles. The site, he said, was now accessible by helicopter, but not to the general public. Several groups of archaeologists, engineers, and architects were studying the ruins, and he didn't know how Doug had gotten permission to enter the area.

"My archaeologist friend in New York says the Tairona Indians were among the best gold craftsmen of the pre-Columbian cultures. When the Spanish arrived in the sixteenth century, of course, they plundered the gold and a lot of it was melted down and sent back to Spain. Supposedly, the Taironas salvaged some of the gold by burying it. In the early years before the site was officially 'discovered,' grave robbers were pretty common and some of the remaining gold was lost then."

"Including the frog?" Aline asked.

Ortiz shrugged. "No one knows. But the Colombian government has soldiers stationed up there, guarding the place now."

"Did the frog have any particular significance in their culture?"

"It was one of their deities. There's supposedly a tremendous boulder at the entrance to the Lost City which resembles a frog. According to Doug's inventory, the artifact itself is a foot high and measures eight inches at the base. The eyes are three-carat emeralds, and the frog is twenty-four-karat gold."

"Mr. Ortiz, without including the frog, how much is Doug's estate worth?"

"I initially placed the value at around six million, with property, cars, and so on. But after talking to my friend in New York, I realize I grossly understated it. Even if you discount the historic value of these artifacts, we are talking about twenty artifacts in all that are eighteen- and twenty-four-karat gold with inlaid sapphires, rubies, and emeralds."

"Just a rough estimate, Mr. Ortiz," she prodded.

"If the missing frog is included . . ." He thought a moment. "Somewhere between twenty and twenty-five million."

July 5, 7:15 P.M.

I
t is nearly dark in the house now. He holds tightly to her arm as he leads her into the dusty hall. He stops at the bathroom door, makes her stand with her back to it, so she's facing him. Then he removes the top of a lantern on a wall hook to Eve's right, reaches into his pocket for a wooden kitchen match, strikes it on the jamb. The sudden flare hurts her eyes.

He lights the lantern and tells her to step into the bathroom. She does. He holds up the lantern, pointing out the toilet paper on the back of the john. "I've got to take the lantern, babe. When you're finished, just say so."

She stands there as he backs out of the room, taking the light with him. The door whispers shut. The blackness closes around her, a comfort, a cool protective wave. Her chin drops to her chest, and she squeezes back tears and nearly collapses with relief. She hoists her skirt, which is still slightly damp. Her hands tremble. The insides of her wrists throb.

As she relieves herself, her body is suddenly a litany of pain, as if the pressure that has built up in her abdomen is now burgeoning to her joints, her bones. She is almost too weak to stand. She is definitely too weak to attempt an escape. She needs food, water. The point is to stay alive, to bide her time, to remain alert and watch for an opportunity—and then seize it.

"Hustle, babe." He raps on the door. "I want to get dinner started and heat up some water for your bath. I even bought you some bath oils. And some perfume. And you'll like the outfit I chose. I know you will."

Maybe it is the sound of his voice or simply the fact that she is standing here in the dark smelling like piss, but the whole thing suddenly strikes her as funny. She presses her hands to her mouth and giggles. This is how she felt the first night of her life as Doug's wife.
Like it was all a fucking joke and any minute I was gonna come to and realize nothing had changed. That I was still some dipshit kid in Arcadia, inhaling dust and airplane glue.

Glue. Coke. Oh God, what she wouldn't give for a big fat line of coke right now.

"Babe?"

"Yeah. I hear you. You can open the door."

The light from the lantern turns his face the color of pus. He holds up a cord. "This won't hurt as much as the rope."

"Don't do me any favors." She holds out her wrists, and he sets the lantern down momentarily as he winds the cord around them.

"Miss Tough Lady," he remarks, a slight smile changing the shape of his mouth. "Miss Tough Lady from Arcadia. Shit, I've been through Arcadia. There's nothing there."

"Wrong. There's a bar and there's a prison."
And there are dozens of women who never got out,
she thinks
, women who're growing old and fat on their bitterness.

"You think I'm going to prison?" He laughs. He picks up the lantern in one hand and takes her roughly by the arm with the other, leading her out into the hall. "Is that what you think?"

"I think Sparky's got your name written on it."

"The chair?" He really laughs now, he howls with laughter. "Not a chance in hell, babe. Not a chance."

In the living room, the floor has buckled, the furniture bleeds stuffing, dust and junk cover the floor. No light comes in through the windows because they're covered with blankets. The heat is sticky, pungent.

They emerge into the kitchen. There are no blankets covering the windows here, but the panes are so dirty the evening light barely penetrates. Four lanterns flicker from various points in the room. One illumines the old wooden table. It is covered with a red-and-white checkered plastic cloth. A plastic glass holds a bunch of wildflowers. Two places have been set; the plates and silverware are plastic. She isn't sure whether he is courting her or whether this is to be her last supper.

A small, battery-operated fan on the counter purrs, trying vainly to cool the room. Next to it are three two-and-a-half-gallon containers of water from Publix, pots and pans, packages of fresh fruit. On the floor near the counter, which has been wiped clean, is a cooler.

"This is our home, babe."

"Y
ou sure you feel up to a party?" Aline asked.

"As long as I can keep my sunglasses on. Point me in the right direction."

"South. Back to the ordinary end of the island."

Kincaid backed out of the parking space and honked as Ortiz passed in a silver BMW. "So what'd you think?"

"Off the record?"

He laughed. "I'm not a reporter."

"But you're working for Ortiz."

"That doesn't mean I tell him everything I know."

She glanced over at him. "I hear you can't be trusted, Kincaid."

"Oh, brother," he laughed. "I know where that came from. Bernelli, right?"

"Yup."

"And the story is that I withheld information or something from her on a robbery case, correct?"

"Or something."

"Well, it's partly true. I was going through a divorce at the time, and I wasn't feeling too great about women. My attitude toward them was like Bernelli's toward men. I guess I did withhold some information longer than I should have."

She wondered if that had happened before or after they'd slept together. "That's your defense?"

"You going through a divorce now?"

"Nope."

"No yuck feelings toward women?"

"No more than usual."

She chuckled. "Okay."

"Does that mean I passed?"

"It means I'll think about it."

The Saab whispered south on the Old Post Road, which wended the periphery of the island like a giant anaconda. Its name had originated during the twenties, years before the bridge had been built that connected Tango to Key West. Once a month, the postman had arrived by ferry on the east side of the island and then made his way on foot or on horseback, delivering mail to the backwoods folks who lived here then. By the time people started building homes on Tango, the dusty road had been widened and paved. Now it was a scenic landmark that passed under integuments of branches and into the starlight again, looped out near the cliffs, curled past Pirate's Cove, shot straight across from there to the cat's right ear, where the old Pleskin farmhouse was located, then wandered in a lazy S southward to town.

"How about if we look at this like we're partners," Kincaid suggested. "Anything we say doesn't go beyond the two of us."