Skinny Dip (19 page)

The bad news: The cop who thinks you murdered her finally found a motive.

Chaz placed the papers on his lap and dried his palms on the sofa. He flipped again to the last page and eyed the signature.

“Is it hers?” Rolvaag standing at the doorway, popping another goddamn Sprite.

“I swear I didn’t know anything about this,” Chaz said. “And you can put me on a polygraph.”

“Check out the date it was signed—only a month ago,” Rolvaag said.

“Joey never said one word to me about this.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Don’t you think I would have told you about it if I’d known? For Chrissakes, I’m not an idiot.” Chaz could feel his gears slipping. “Is this the real deal, or is it just part of the setup? And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

The detective said, “I couldn’t tell whether it’s authentic or not. That’s why I’m here, Chaz. That’s why I wanted a sample of Mrs. Perrone’s handwriting.”

“You listen to me—no more games!” Chaz bellowed. “No more bullshit, okay? You’re a fucking crook and I know exactly what you’re up to. This isn’t Joey’s will, it’s a goddamn fake! You couldn’t find a way to prosecute me, so now you’re going to frame me, then make me buy my way out….”

Here Chaz contemplated ripping the will into pieces for dramatic effect. However, in the back of his mind a tiny voice reminded him of the slim but sobering possibility that he was mistaken about Rolvaag; that the shocking legal instrument was legitimate. Chaz found himself inadvertently clutching it with both hands, the way Moses (at least as portrayed by Chuck Heston) clung to the holy tablets of the law.

Maddeningly immune to insult, Rolvaag said, “You can keep it, Chaz. I’ve got copies.”

Tool entered the room, his cheeks shiny with gator dribble. He asked what all the hollering was about.

“Mr. Perrone got a little upset with me,” the detective explained, “but he’s calmed down now.”

Chaz said, “Not much.”

Tool said, “Doc, you look like shit on a dumpling.”

“Thanks for noticing. Can the detective and I have some privacy?”

When the two of them were alone again, Rolvaag said, “I asked you about the signature.”

“It looks sort of like Joey’s. Close enough anyway,” Chaz said. “Whoever you got to forge it did a good job.”

Rolvaag’s expression remained unchanged. “Let me be sure I understand. You’re accusing me of fabricating this will for the purpose of implicating you in your wife’s disappearance?”

“Duh.”

“But you mentioned blackmail. I don’t get it.”

“Try the dictionary.” Chaz thinking: The fucker wants to see me squirm, forget it.

Rolvaag thought for a moment, then said, “So the plan would be that you pay me off, and I’ll make your thirteen-million-dollar motive go away. Mrs. Perrone’s will vanishes.”

“Exactly. And don’t forget your bogus eyewitness.”

“What?” The detective cocked his head slightly, as if listening for the faint call of a rare songbird. It was a reaction so nuanced as to be chillingly convincing.

“What eyewitness?” he asked.

Chaz felt his stomach turn. Holy Jesus, either this guy is really slick or I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life.

“What eyewitness?” Rolvaag said again.

Chaz laughed thinly. “I’m kidding, man.” It was a conversation for which he had not rehearsed.

“It didn’t sound like you were kidding.”

“Well, I was,” Chaz said. “You Scandinavians, I swear.”

Rolvaag quietly closed the briefcase. “I’m not blackmailing you, Mr. Perrone.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“But you should still be careful,” the detective said, rising. “More careful than you’ve been so far.”

Eighteen

Joey struggled with the list of blackmail demands, but all she truly wanted from Chaz Perrone were, besides his eternal suffering, the answers to two questions:

(a) Why did you marry me?

(b) Why did you try to kill me?

“Pick a number,” said Mick Stranahan. “This is supposed to be a shakedown, remember? How much dough can he scrape together?”

“Beats me.” Joey turned to stare out the window.

Flamingo was a fish camp in Everglades National Park, on the southernmost shore of mainland Florida. Only one road led there, a two-lane blacktop that sliced through thirty-eight miles of unbroken scrub, cypress heads and saw-grass prairies. Although they were speeding through absolute darkness, Joey sensed a pulse of unseen life all around them. The post-Miami hush was so soothing, the night so engulfing, she was unable to focus on the details of the blackmail. The deeper they drove into the Everglades, the smaller and more absurd Chaz Perrone seemed.

Stranahan parked the Suburban in a cluster of cabbage palms near the campground, a short jog from the marina. By now it was ten o’clock and most of the campers, besieged by insects, had retreated to their sleeping bags. Mick fiddled with the dashboard stereo but the radio signal was spotty.

Joey said she’d never before been to the park. “Chaz refused to take me. He said it reminded him too much of work. Actually, I think the bugs creep him out.”

“The bugs.”

“Mosquitoes especially,” she said. “Then there’s the snake issue— he’s terrified of being bitten by a moccasin. At home he used to practice injecting the antivenin serum into grapefruits.”

“Boy, is he in the wrong line of work,” Stranahan remarked. “You ever wonder why? How the hell he got where he is?”

Joey had always assumed that her husband made a wrong turn in graduate school.

“I meant to ask you,” Stranahan said, “who’s Samuel J. Hammernut?”

“Some rich redneck pal of Chaz’s. I met him at the wedding,” said Joey. “Why? What’s he got to do with all this?”

“I made a few calls about the Hummer. It was bought for your hubby by Hammernut Farms.”

Joey had no idea why Mr. Hammernut would have given Chaz a brand-new SUV. “You’re just now telling me this? Who did you call?”

“Friends who do that sort of thing—trace paperwork. Friends in law enforcement,” Stranahan said. “Remember I told you this was all about greed. My guess is that Chaz has some sort of dirty arrangement with Hammernut, and that maybe you got in the way.”

“But how? What did I do?”

Stranahan told his theory to Joey, who was intrigued but skeptical. “Who ever heard of a crooked biologist?” she asked.

“Who ever heard of one with a bodyguard?” he countered.

Joey conceded the point. She had been surprised, and tickled, to learn from Mick that her husband was now being protected by paid muscle.

“Look, there are cops who take payoffs,” Stranahan was saying, “judges who fix cases, doctors who cheat Medicare. Are you telling me Chaz is too pure to sell himself—the man who pushed you into the ocean to die?”

He’s right, Joey thought. Obviously the jerk is capable of anything. She scooted closer and put a hand on Mick’s knee. He kissed her on the top of the head, but she could tell he was tense. He pointed toward the motel building and said, “Your room’s on the second floor. Stay put until you see me signal with the flashlight.” “Three blinks. I remember.”

They watched a pair of raccoons shuffle into the campground, emerging moments later with a loaf of bread and a bag of Doritos. Stranahan said, “Isn’t the idea to make him panic?” “Yeah. Tighten the screws.”

“Then what the hell. Let’s ask for half a million.”

Joey laughed. “Good Lord, Chaz doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“I bet he knows someone who does.”

They took the Grand Marquis, Tool saying that the Hummer practically glowed in the dark. Red had told them to stay cool, no matter what. Listen to what the guy has to say and tell him you’ll think about it. Don’t be a smartass, Red had warned Chaz. And don’t hurt nobody, he’d said to Tool, not just yet. Once we find out what the sumbitch wants, then we’ll figure out what to do about him.

The plan was to arrive at Flamingo early and find a spot for Tool to hide, but they got delayed because Tool made another pit stop before they hit the turnpike. Chaz didn’t bother to ask. He stayed in the car and practiced whipping the .38 out of his waistband while Tool put on his tent-size lab whites and marched into the Elysian Manor convalescent home.

Maureen was sitting up, watching television. She had brushed her hair and put a touch of makeup on her cheeks.

“Well, look who’s here,” she said. “Pull up a chair. Larry King is interviewing Julie Andrews. What a doll she is.”

“I brung you some supper.” Tool placed a covered dish on the bed tray. “It ain’t very hot. Do they got a microwave somewheres?”

“Why, thank you, Earl.” Maureen lifted the lid and said, “It smells grand. What is it?”

“Uh, chicken. Swamp chicken, they call it.”

“Doctor says I’m supposed to steer clear of fried foods, but I can’t honestly see the harm. Since I’m dying anyway, right?” She picked up a piece of fried alligator and popped it in her mouth.

“Good, huh? “Tool said.

Maureen nodded eagerly as she chewed. And chewed.

“The food they serve us in here is a horror,” she whispered. “Fresh poultry is a real treat.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it. Now I better go.”

“Already? Please sit and visit.”

“I got a ‘portant bidness meetin’.”

“At night? What kind of business, if I might ask.”

“Bodyguardin’,” Tool said.

Maureen’s blue eyes sparkled. “That’s so interesting, Earl. What sorts of people do you guard? Dignitaries? Diplomats? Show business types, I bet.”

“Not hardly.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“The job I’m on now, he’s a doctor,” Tool said, though he considered the title a hype job, as attached to Chaz Perrone.

“A doctor—well, that’s something!”

“Only he don’t work on people. He’s, like, some kinda scientist.”

Maureen said, “He must be very important, to need personal protection.”

“Don’t get me started.”

“Is he with you now? I’d enjoy meeting him.”

Tool said, “He ain’t no charmer, trust me. Thinks the world of hisself but, I swear, the nigras and spies used to pick tomatoes for me had more common sense than—”

Maureen’s bony fist shot out and nailed Tool in the soft declivity below the sternum. He bent double and heard himself deflate like a tractor tire.

“Earl! Shame on you!” she said. “Don’t you ever use that kind of hateful language around me.”

He hung on to the bed rail, slowly straightening himself.

“What would your mother do,” Maureen went on, “if she were alive to hear you talk like that?”

“Sh-sh-she’s the one I learnt it from,” he wheezed. “Her and my daddy both.”

“Then shame on them, too. Here”—she handed him a Dixie cup from the bed tray—”drink up. You’ll feel better.”

“Damn,” Tool said, gulping at the water. The crazy old witch had really thumped him. In his whole life he couldn’t remember anybody ever throwing a punch at him and getting clean away with it. Once he’d damn near crippled a couple of sorry beaners just for lookin’ at him funny-like in the package store.

Staring now at Maureen, as frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, Tool knew he could have killed her with the back of his hand. Strangely, though, he didn’t want to. And it wasn’t as if he was holding back the urge, he just plain had no desire to harm the woman, despite what she’d done. He wasn’t pissed, either, which was even more confusing. What he felt—and he wasn’t sure why—was sorry.

He heard himself say so.

Maureen reached out and plucked at his sleeve. “And I’m sorry, too, Earl, for striking you. It wasn’t very Christian of me,” she said. “How are you fixed for medicine?”

“Fine, ma’am. The patches you give me this mornin’ ought to last for the weekend.”

“You know, my husband was a Chicago police officer.”

“You tole me, yes’m.”

“One time he used the word nigger. I heard him let it slip,” Maureen said. “He was on the phone to his sergeant or somebody. He said, ‘Some nigger robbed a Korean grocery and we chased him into Lake Michigan.’ When he hung up, I tapped him on the shoulder—he was a big fella, too—and I said, ‘Patrick, if I ever hear you use that hateful word again, I’m taking the kids and moving back to Indianapolis to live with Aunt Sharon.’ And you know what?”

“He never done it again.”

She smiled. “That’s right, Earl. Do you believe God made each of us in His own image?”

Tool said, “I ain’t always so sure.” He crossed his arms across his belly in case she took another swipe at him.

“To be honest, some days I wonder myself,” Maureen said. “They’ve got one nurse here, Earl, I swear she’s on loan from the depths of hell. Talk about the b word! But here’s what I believe—can I tell you? Then you’re free to be on your way.”

“Sure,” Tool said.

“I believe it’s never too late to change. I’m eighty-one years old, but I still think I can be a better person tomorrow than I am today. And that’s what I’ll believe until I run out of tomorrows,” she said. “Oh, one more thing—you promised to go see a surgeon.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“About the bullet in your you-know-what.”

“I been real busy,” Tool said.

“Young man, you listen here. Life’s too darn short to be dragging around that kind of a personal burden.”

“Yes’m.”

“Now get a move on, before you miss your meeting,” she said. “And be careful tonight.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Whatever it is you’re up to.” Maureen flashing him a sideways glance. “Go on now, Earl.”

She flicked a papery hand toward the door, and returned her attention to the television.

They got all the way to Florida City before Tool spoke, which was fine with Chaz Perrone. He wasn’t thinking about the blackmail meeting; he was fantasizing about what it would be like to have $13 million, in the stupefying event that the will bearing Joey’s name turned out to be authentic. The irony would be epic, for she wouldn’t have left Chaz a nickel if she’d suspected him of forging the Everglades data. Since it was dated only weeks ago, the will could be legitimate only if Joey hadn’t figured out Chaz’s deal with Red… .

Meaning he had murdered her for no reason, or at least the wrong reason.

Contemplating the possibility made him light-headed and queasy. Unless otherwise convinced, he’d stick to the more plausible hypothesis that Karl Rolvaag had fabricated the document to intimidate him.

“I’m hungry,” Tool grumbled, wheeling sharply into the parking lot of a Miami Subs shop.

“Bring me a Coke and some fries,” said Chaz.

“Git it yourself.”

Chaz hid the .38 under the front seat and followed Tool into the restaurant. Chaz had begged and pestered for a new bodyguard, but Red Hammernut had refused, saying Tool was rock-solid.

Rock-headed is more like it, Chaz thought. They sat in a booth, Tool wolfishly attacking a turkey sub the size of a football.

“Where’s the gun?” Tool, spraying half-mulched lettuce.

Chaz pointed at the car through the window.

“Ever shot anybody?” Tool asked.

“No.”

“Ever shot anything?”

“Birds,” Chaz said.

As a kid, he’d used a BB rifle to snipe at the sparrows and warblers that woke him in the mornings.

Tool said, “You got no bidness with a gun ‘less you practice. I been shot by a joker once already and that’s plenty.”

“Stop worrying.”

At the entrance of Everglades National Park, a ranger inquired about their lack of fishing gear and camping equipment. A notice taped to the kiosk warned against bringing firearms inside the park.

“We’re meeting some friends,” Chaz said. “The Thornburghs. They’re in a brand-new Airstream, Michigan plates. Got an Irish setter named Mickey that rides up front. Did they come through here yet?”

“Couldn’t say. I just now came on duty.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find ‘em.” Chaz, waving pleasantly.

A mile down the road, Tool spoke up. “Where the fuck’d you come up with that one?”

“Pretty good, huh?”

“What’s a Airstream?”

Chaz said, “A motor home. You know, like a Winnebago, only not so clunky. He sure went for it, didn’t he?”

“And that bullshit about the dog—you just all of a sudden thought that up?”

“Yep.” Chaz couldn’t tell if Tool was impressed or disgusted.

“I never seen nobody could lie such a way.”

“Hey, sometimes you’ve got to think fast,” Chaz said. “That ranger, see, it’s none of his business if we’ve got fishing poles or whatever in the car. But I can’t come out and say that to his face, so I cook up a story and off we go.”

Tool nodded, both hands on the wheel. “Pretty damn smooth,” he said.

The sky was clouded and starless. Ahead of them, speared by the twin beams of the headlights, was a canvas of blackness. At first Chaz thought they were riding through a rain shower, but the splattering sound turned out to be a hail of bugs hitting the windshield. When a marsh rabbit appeared on the center stripe, Tool casually swerved to miss it. Chaz told him to stop the car right away.

“Why, you gotta take a piss?” Tool coasted the sedan off the pavement and braked.

“Turn us around,” Chaz said.

“What for?”

“Hurry!”

Tool made a flawless three-pointer and headed slowly back up the road until they came to the rabbit, which hadn’t moved. Chaz reached beneath the seat and took out the pistol. Tool blinked at him slowly, like a drugged toad.

Chaz said, “You told me to practice, right?”

“Not on a fuckin’ bunny.”

“It’s just a big overgrown rodent,” said Chaz, betraying an ignorance of taxonomy that would have appalled his colleagues but was lost on Tool. “A rat with big ears,” he added, stealthily opening the car door.

Tool said, “You shoot that thing, you’re gonna eat it for breakfast.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Doc, I ain’t kiddin’. My momma used to tell us, ‘Anything that dies, fries.’ Ain’t right to waste a critter just for sport.”