82 Desire

you to get the papers. Then in the end he refused to give me the address. You have to call him to get it.” She gave him a number on a scrap of paper. “Go do it now.”
    There was no name on the paper. He dialed and said simply, “I’m Dina’s friend.”
    “What’s your name?”
    Not knowing what she’d told him, he said, “I have two names.”
    “Yeah. Russell Fortier’s the real one. Russell, you’re a dead man if I find out Dina’s been to Miami with you.”
    Russell was unaware that probation officers talked so tough.
    He said, “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to your sister.”
    “My sister? Is that what she told you?” He got a huge laugh out of that one. “Look, here’s what you do. You got a boat? Dina says you got a boat.”
    “Pearson thirty-eight.”
    “Save it. I don’t know from boats. Sail it on down there and tie up at Dinner Key. Be there at four o’clock today and somebody’ll meet you. You got twenty-five thousand dollars?”
    “Are you kidding? You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “You got it or not?”
    “I can get it.”
    “Cash only—half up front. The guy’s name’s Lou.” He hung up, and when Russell returned, Dina wasn’t there.
    She’d left a note: “Sorry to say I’ve got a secret or two myself. Hope things work out for you.”
    Damn, the woman was mercurial. He went to get $25,000 out of the bank before setting sail, mentally composing the anonymous letter he was going to write.
    She might be weird, she might be strange, she might even be a Mob princess—but she sure was smart. This was a solution that would protect Bebe and might even give Russell a choice or two.
    ***
    Skip’s lieutenant called her in the morning, after Beau’s murder. “How’re you doing on the Fortier thing?”
    “Great. Fortier’s alive and living in Fort Lauderdale—or, at least, he passed through there. Frankly, I don’t think he killed Beau or Allred, because why go to Fort Lauderdale and then come back?”
    “Who did kill them?” Kelly McGuire was wearing an emerald green blouse perhaps a tad too bright for her paleness. But other than that, she was, like Cappello, the very personification of crispness—pink-red hair pulled back on the top and left long in back, tube-shaped silver earrings that made her long face longer, the merest touch of pinky-coral lipstick. You wanted to call her Madam Chairman, just for the way she looked. And she could stare you straight in the face and say, “Who did kill them?” like she might say, “What time is it?” Like she expected a serious answer. Something about the woman was scary.
    Skip wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Finally, she shrugged. “Still working on it.”
    McGuire smiled, which made her look almost friendly. “You need some manpower. Let’s give Beau to somebody else.”
    That was the last thing Skip expected her to say. At first she was deeply offended: She could handle the damn case herself. But then it occurred to her that, frankly, she did need some manpower—as long as it was a help, not a hindrance.
    Holding her breath, she said only one word: “Abasolo?”
    McGuire nodded. “Let’s see how he feels about it.”
    They called him in and asked him. “Fine,” he said, giving Skip a what-the-hell-is-this look and, afterward, they compared notes.
    “Her idea,” Skip said. “She thought I needed help. I didn’t want to get stuck with O’Rourke, so I said you might do.”
    Abasolo stared after the lieutenant. “She’s—uh— different.”
    “Yeah, but in a good way or a bad way?”
    He chewed his lip. “Might be good,” he said, staring at her some more. “Might be just fine.”
    Skip thought he was speaking beyond the professional level. “She’s married,” she said.
    “Her husband cheats on her.”
    “What on earth makes you think that?”
    He shook his head. “She’s just got that look.”
    “Want to go get coffee?” Skip wanted to talk with him outside the building.
    “You got something on your mind, don’t you? Sure, let’s do.”
    Abasolo and Skip were happily ensconced at the Plantation Coffeehouse, well into a latte and a cappuccino, respectively, when Skip said, “Look, let’s just partner up on the whole thing. It’s all of a piece, and I think that’s what McGuire had in mind. It’s almost like—” She didn’t want to say what she thought.
    “What?” Abasolo said. “It’s almost like what?”
    “Like she’s a mind reader. Look, I wouldn’t want to