Free Tango Key by T. J. MacGregor

would've come to her even if it had meant confronting Doug. There was no one else to call; everyone she knew on Tango Key was someone she had met because of Doug. The few women she knew in the Cove tolerated her only because Doug had more money than their husbands did. In the end she called Doug herself, and he drove down into Tango, and for the first time in weeks they had made love like it mattered.
    But it didn't matter.
    It never did.
    Whenever he hit after that—never very hard, never hard enough to leave bruises or marks that showed—she knew it meant he wanted her. She got used to it. She grew to like it.
    She began to understand that she yielded a kind of power over him when she said, "Get the belt, Doug," or "Hurt me a little, honey." And sometimes, when he was doing it to her, things in her head got very mixed up and she thought about hurting him back. Hurting him bad. Hurting him bad enough to kill him.
    His whistling has stopped. His footfalls are like a giant's. They stop in the doorway.
    "Hi, babe. You got yourself into a kind of mess, didn't you."
    And then he laughs.

Chapter 5
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    T he Pink Moose Tavern was set back in a holt of pines on the Tango Inlet. The second floor was an open, long shaded deck with ceilings fans and an S-shaped bar. During the season, when the snowbirds swelled the island's population to three or four times its usual size, you couldn't find a table after ten A.M. or even a stool at the bar. But this was June. The snowbirds had been gone since Easter, and Aline and Bernie had their pick of seats.
    "If we weren't on duty, I could stand an ice-cold Corona," said Bernie, studying the menu as if she'd never seen it before, when in fact the menu hadn't changed in ten years. In the end Bernie ordered what she always did—a thick roast beef on rye. Aline stuck with her favorite as well—the pita bread special.
    "You owe me, Al," said Bernie, lighting a cigarette. "I must've fielded a dozen calls after you left the office. I mean, Christ, even the New York Post called. A decapitation is big headlines. Gory stuff. I fully expect that by this afternoon the National Enquirer will have called. Also, I talked to Alan Cooper, and then later to his mother. She, her new husband, and Alan own the Green Turtle Inn in Marathon. According to her, Alan worked until two this morning at the restaurant.
    "Mothers have been known to lie for their sons."
    "True, true. Anyway, he'll be here in a couple of days for the memorial service and then the reading of the will."
    "You believe his mother?"
    "She gave me the names of a half-dozen people he waited on that night. I think we should check with them, too. You talk to Ted Cavello?"
    Aline shook her head. She had dropped by the Cove Marina, but Cavello, she was told, was leading a charter fishing trip and wouldn't be back until late tonight or at dawn tomorrow morning. "I checked at the Hibiscus Inn, though, where he and Cooper had dinner. According to the maître d', they had the Early Bird Special and were both gone by five-thirty, six o'clock."
    "And Ed Waite?"
    "Home sick with the flu."
    "How convenient."
    Their iced teas arrived. Bernie sipped noisily at hers and said, "That's the noise my ex used to make every morning when he drank his coffee, Al."
    "I know. You've told me that a dozen times."
    "Have I?" She wrinkled her nose. "Well, hell. Did I ever tell you how he also had his coffee with a shot of Kahlua?"
    "For breakfast? Gross."
    "Yeah. But in all fairness to him, that was only toward the end." She sat forward now, chin resting in the palm of her hand. "Find me a nice, normal single guy, Al, and that'll wipe out any favors you owe me for the next twenty years."
    "You can have Murphy."
    "No offense, Al, but there's something a little off about Murphy. I love the man dearly, don't get me wrong, but cops are not normal."
    "Male cops, you mean."
    "Absolutely." She grinned. "I need a guy who's good in the sack." Up came her thumb. "Not