Going Dark(44)
“Why?”
“If Prince wanted to get Levine out of the way so he could have unhindered access to the plant, the video might give us some idea how he pulled it off. If it does, that gives us probable cause. I bring Prince in, take a look at his island while we’re doing it. We get him in a room, mess with his head, maybe he’ll slip, blurt something, give us a reason to take down the rest of his ELF friends. Problem solved.”
“A guy’s going to make a video of a murder?”
“A certain kind of guy, yeah.”
“What kind is that?”
“One who thinks he’s smarter than anyone in the room.”
“Except for you.”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Except for me.”
They were quiet for the rest of the drive, and when she dropped him back at his motel on Key Biscayne, she kept the motor running.
“Buy you a beer?”
She shook her head, staring at the windshield with a stiff smile.
“Or we could raid my tequila stash. I make a nasty margarita.”
“Don’t think that’s wise.”
“Yeah, we might get tipsy, lose control, do something we’d regret.”
“We already did.”
Frank sighed to himself. He’d had hopes, but she sounded resolute.
“So you coming along tomorrow, take another look at the croc attack?”
“I have things on my desk,” she said, distant now. All the witty banter evaporated.
“Yeah, yeah. Got to keep that desk clear. Know the feeling.” He opened the door, got out, considered rephrasing the drink offer, but saw how rigid she was sitting behind the wheel. “I’ll let you know if I see anything in the movie. Then we should talk. Go over the force-on-force plan. I like a couple of your ideas.”
She turned, leaned toward the open door, fixing him with a tough stare. “I’m going along, Frank. You know that, right? I’m one of the six.”
“You good with a laser pistol?”
“Just so you know. I want in on this.”
“Seems to me you earned it.”
“Damn right I did. Damn right.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That stunt with the lighter, Frank, that was childish.”
“Yeah. I got carried away.”
She looked across at him, things happening in her eyes, some kind of struggle he couldn’t decipher.
Then she reached out and switched off the ignition. “Okay, tell me.” She released a long breath. “What’s the best tequila you have?”
She had to use the john. While she was in there running water, Frank hummed a tune to himself, broke some ice out of the trays, and measured the limeade and the Patrón and the Grand Marnier. Margaritas were like a lot of things: the difference between a good one and a great one came down to money. The expensive stuff was expensive for a reason.
His room was the only efficiency in the motel. A half-assed kitchen behind a rattan counter. A small living area that he’d furnished with secondhand art deco chairs, a couch, and tables made from some variety of blond wood and fashioned with smoothly curved edges. He’d painted the walls a pale salmon, kind of adventurous for a bachelor pad, but it seemed right because the color came from the same palette as the sunrises that woke him every day.
He’d hung some Haitian watercolors on the walls. Not the bright, garish ones the Haitians were famous for, but muted blue and white with some darker blues. Scratch paintings. Layers of different-colored paints were applied to the board, and the artist scratched them away delicately to create the outlines of fishermen and birds and a few primitive sailboats plying the smooth waters, and the mountain ranges overlooking the harbor at Port-au-Prince. He was proud of those paintings. He knew the Haitian taxidriver who’d painted them, a guy who’d finally started selling enough of his stuff to quit cabdriving and paint full-time.
When he finished making the drinks, Nicole was still in the bathroom.
“Salt or no salt?” he called out.
She opened the door a crack and peeked out at him. Through the slit he saw she’d shed her clothes and was showing a glossy sliver of her right leg.
“You like yours with salt, Frank?”
“Sure. Salt’s great.”
Nicole opened the door an inch, Sheffield holding his breath. Then she stepped into the room. She had a much better physique than he’d imagined, and he’d imagined it a lot. Lanky with wide shoulders and narrow hips, long legs that were muscled like a distance runner’s. Her clothes disguised the taut heft of her breasts. Her nipples were strangely tiny and as dark as chocolate chips, and a fine dusting of golden down around her navel was lit by a slant of afternoon sunlight. Her flat, athletic stomach sloped down to a triangle of feathery wheat.