Skinny Dip (21 page)

“He’s the one,” Joey said. Tool would find out anyway as soon as Mick returned with Chaz.

“He’s old enough to be your pa, ain’t he?”

“Not hardly,” she said defensively.

“Well, he’s a strong sumbitch, I’ll give him that. He hurt me good.” Tool probed thoughtfully at his Adam’s apple.

“He gets around all right for a geezer,” Joey agreed. “Say, what was your wife’s name?”

“Jean. Jeannie Suzanne is what we calk her.”

“You miss her?” Joey asked.

“Not no more. Time heals is what they say.”

“Do you think Mr. Perrone misses his wife?”

Tool said, “You tell me. He took all her pitchers down—every pitcher in the house, gone.”

“But he told you she was pretty.”

“That’s what he said, but she coulda been a hog snapper for all I know.” Tool shrugged. “I don’t get paid to figger this shit out.”

Joey said, “I’ve got to be going now. Thanks for the chat.”

Tool seemed disappointed. “You can’t hang around for when they come back?”

She shook her head. “Better not. I’ve got my orders.”

“Me, too,” Tool said with wearv frustration.

It was by far the worst night of Charles Perrone’s life.

“You done?” the blackmailer asked.

Chaz wiped off his lips and spit hard over the side, trying to purge the pukey taste from his mouth. He had no clue how the man had found out about Red Hammernut. It was the second piece of disastrous news that Chaz received in the canoe, the first being that the blackmailer had in fact witnessed Joey’s murder.

“You’re surprised that I’ve done my homework,” the man said. “So was Ricca.”

He knows about Ricca, too? Chaz thought miserably. What a nightmare.

He boxed at his head, trying to vanquish the unbearable chorus of mosquitoes. The damn things seemed to have drilled through his eardrums into the meat of his brain. Other disturbing sounds rose from the darkness of the bay; loud violent splashes, piercing cries of birds.

This is hell, Chaz told himself. That’s where I am.

“Your buddy Hammernut owns some serious farmland south of the big lake,” the man said. “I’m guessing you fake the water tests to make it look clean. Saves him a fortune, too. How much is he paying you? Besides the new Hummer, I mean.”

Chaz turned away, anticipating another blast from the flashlight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted hoarsely.

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about. So do you.”

Chaz couldn’t make out the blackmailer’s expression, but the white crescent of a smile was visible.

“And here’s another bulletin for you, Chazzie boy: Karl Rolvaag isn’t in on this deal. I’ve never met the guy in my life, and you’d better pray that I don’t.”

Chaz fought back a fresh impulse to gag. He lowered his head and waited for the sensation to pass.

“What about the fake will?” he mumbled to his kneecaps.

“What will?” the man said.

“Oh Jesus.”

“If you barf in this canoe, you’re swimming home.”

Chaz said, “I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute.”

It dawned on him that he wouldn’t even know which way to swim. The sky had cleared but the glittering constellations offered no navigational guidance, Dr. Charles Perrone being as ignorant of astronomy as he was of the terrestrial sciences.

“Whose will?” the blackmailer asked again. “Your wife’s?”

“Never mind.”

So, it -was real, Chaz thought, the document that Rolvaag had shown him. Thirteen million dollars with my name on it, and all I’ve got to do is avoid Death Row.

“Let’s say I scrape up the money,” he said.

“Yes, let’s say.” The blackmailer laughed. “Bring it in a suitcase. Now for the questions.”

“Oh, come on,” Chaz said.

“I’ve only got two. First, why did you marry her?”

Swell, thought Chaz. I’m being shaken down by Montel Williams.

“Because I really liked her,” he said impatiently. “She was fun and good-looking and sharp. I thought I was ready to settle down.”

Without warning, the blackmailer clobbered him with the paddle, the flat side landing squarely on the crown of Chaz’s head. He saw it coming even in the dimness, an arcing downward blur. On impact he let out a moan and pitched forward. The canoe rocked but did not flip.

“All you wanted,” the man said, “was a hot girl on your arm, Chazzie. A girl your buddies would notice and talk about—the female equivalent of a new Rolex. You weren’t getting married, you were accessorizing.”

Chaz slowly pushed himself up from the bottom of the canoe and repositioned on his knees. He touched his scalp and felt a rising knot. Meanwhile the blackmailer had resumed paddling, as if nothing had happened. He looked tan and solidly built, but he was so much older that Chaz had been completely surprised by the sudden blow. It was the sort of thing a young hothead might do.

“And the fact she was rich didn’t hurt, did it?” the man said.

“I never asked for a dime,” Chaz protested.

“Which leads to my second question: Why’d you throw her into the ocean?”

Chaz swallowed in a way that sounded like a dying bullfrog. He had no intention of admitting the crime.

“I guess you want to spend the night out here,” the blackmailer said, “alone.”

“Anything happens to me, you don’t get paid.”

The man’s laughter made Chaz shudder. “Try to understand, junior, it’s not just the money. I’m pissed.”

“But you didn’t even know her!”

“Funny, though, I feel like I do.” Calmly the man swung the paddle out of the water and batted Chaz in the face; not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to crimp his nose.

“Goddamn!” Chaz cried, a warm trickle running down his fingers.

The blackmailer said, “As you can tell, I’m taking this whole thing very personally. Tell me why you did it and I’ll row you back to the docks.”

“I just can’t.”

“Chazzie, you know that I know exactly what happened. All I’m asking you is why.”

The guy had a point. He already knew everything, and Chaz wasn’t keen on getting smacked again.

“What if you’re wearing a wire?” Chaz was pinching his nostrils, trying to stanch the bleeding. Now he sounded like a cartoon duck.

Again the blackmailer’s grin gleamed in the starlight. “You’re priceless,” he said, peeling off his T-shirt. Then he held the flashlight at arm’s length and aimed it back toward his bare chest, which was quickly darkening with mosquitoes.

“See? No hidden microphones,” he said to Chaz. “Feel better now?’

“I guess.”

“Then answer the question, please.”

“I thought Joey had busted me,” Chaz heard himself say. “I thought she’d figured out the water scam.”

“And for that you heaved her overboard? In the middle of the fucking Gulf Stream?”

“You don’t understand,” Chaz said. “If she ever blew the whistle on me and Mr. Hammernut… you can’t possibly understand the implications. The thing is, I was out of options. If only she …”

“What, Chaz?”

If only she’d given me a reason not to do it, Chaz thought. Like showing me the new will.

“Never mind,” he said.

The blackmailer began paddling with more purpose, and Chaz marveled at how briskly they were gliding across the water. Being averse to exercise, he’d never been a fan of canoes; a ski boat powered by a two-hundred-horse Mercury was Chaz’s idea of a dream ride.

“How’s the shnoz?” the blackmailer asked him.

“It hurts.” Chaz’s nose had swollen to the size of a bell pepper.

Soon they came to the long canal through which they’d entered the bay, and Chaz was immensely relieved. The blackmailer was taking him back to Flamingo.

Suddenly the man stopped rowing and leaned back. Chaz could see the shine of his sweat and hear the ravenous buzz of insects on his face and chest. “Want some bug spray?” Chaz asked.

The man chuckled. “No thanks.” He extended the paddle to Chaz and said, “Your turn, killer.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’m whipped.”

Chaz took the paddle and examined it as if it were an intricately engineered device.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve never rowed a canoe,” the blackmailer said.

“Of course I have.”

Chaz tried to remember the last time—way back in grad school, on some scummy lake in North Carolina. He and another student were helping a professor trace the dissolution of muskrat feces in bottom sediment. Chaz had ended the day with oozing blisters on the palms of both hands. He couldn’t swing a golf club for a month.

“Hurry up, Chazzie, we’re drifting back to Whitewater.”

“Sorry, but I’m not up for this. My head’s killing me.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“But I’m still bleeding, for God’s sake.”

“Did you ever see Deliverance?” the blackmailer said. “Remember what happened to the chubby guy?”

Chaz Perrone started paddling.

Twenty

Being labeled a crook was a new experience for Karl Rolvaag, and it kept him awake much of the night. He was more intrigued than indignant, for it was impossible to feel insulted by someone like Charles Perrone. The blackmail accusation was so boggling that the detective viewed it as a critical twist in the case, a clue no less important than the fingernails in that soggy bale of weed.

Rolvaag stood in his ritual cold shower for nearly twenty minutes, replaying in his head the odd conversation with Joey Perrone’s husband. He didn’t doubt that the man was being extorted, but by whom? And with what sort of information?

Perrone had snidely referred to a “bogus eyewitness,” which raised in Rolvaag’s mind the tantalizing possibility of a real one. Yet such a scenario would require that the witness be nearly as venal and ice-blooded as Perrone himself; someone capable of watching a woman murdered and not trying to stop it; someone who, instead of rushing to the police, would go directly to the killer with a demand for hush money.

Given the pestilential abundance of lowlifes in South Florida, it was surely possible that Perrone’s crime had been randomly observed by someone equally degenerate. Still, Rolvaag thought it more likely that the blackmailer wasn’t a fellow cruise passenger but, rather, some enterprising scammer who’d read about Joey Perrone’s disappearance in the newspapers. In any event, the detective was not displeased that the threat had driven Perrone into such paranoid agitation that he’d accuse a police detective of masterminding the plot. Criminals in such a ragged state of mind often made reckless mistakes, and it was Rolvaag’s hope that the remorseless widower would continue on a path of self-sabotage.

Most tantalizing was the link between Perrone and Samuel Johnson Hammernut. Rolvaag had found nothing to substantiate Perrone’s flimsy story that the sixty-thousand-dollar Humvee had been a gift from his wife, with Hammernut acting innocently as a middleman. Rolvaag believed that the farm tycoon had intended the Hummer— and one could only imagine what else—as payola for Chaz. It had been Rolvaag’s observation that men like Red Hammernut were not spontaneously generous, and usually demanded something valuable in return.

What would a lazy, unscholarly biologist such as Perrone have to offer? The detective had a hunch.

Then there was the remarkable Last Will and Testament of Joey Perrone, which had excited even the laconic Captain Gallo. If the will proved to be bogus, the forger was most likely the blackmailer. What better way to turn up the heat on Perrone than to chum up the cops with a $13 million motive for murder?

However, if the will was genuine …

The detective turned off the water and stood there, dripping and thinking. He wasn’t sure if the damn thing was legit or not. One handwriting expert said the signature looked authentic; another thought it was a fake. The trust officers in charge of Joey Perrone’s fortune had a signed will in their files, but they had balked at providing a copy in the absence of a death certificate.

Whether or not the document delivered anonymously to Rolvaag proved genuine, he intended to do everything in his power to prevent Mr. Perrone from collecting a nickel from Mrs. Perrone’s estate. The surest way to accomplish that, in the detective’s view, was to lock Mr. Perrone away for the rest of his natural life. That mission had come to occupy Karl Rolvaag so exclusively that he had temporarily postponed the chore of boxing his belongings for the move to Minnesota.

He toweled off and pulled on a pair of jeans. On his way to the kitchen he noticed that another sheet of paper had been slipped under his door, presumably by Mrs. Shulman or one of her operatives. The repeat intrusion was enough to make the detective consider a blocking measure, such as shag carpeting, but he’d be vacating the apartment soon enough.

Rolvaag picked up the paper. It was a flyer featuring a color photograph of a frail-looking, rheumy-eyed dog:

LOST!!! Pinchot, 11-year old male Pomeranian (neutered)

Cataracts, diverticulitis, gout

If found, please do not approach or attempt to handle!

Please contact Bert or Addie Miller at Sawgrass Grove 9-L

$250 Reward!!!

Rolvaag was heartsick. Even though the condominium board had warned the Millers about letting their senescent pooch off the leash, the detective felt personally responsible for the fate of little Pinchot— hobbled, half-blind and easy pickings for a prowling python. Rolvaag resolved to spend the remainder of his Saturday searching the property for his escaped pets, one of which doubtlessly would be slowed by a telltale Pomeranian-sized lump. Of course the Millers would be consoled and fully compensated.

First, though, Rolvaag had one bit of leftover police work.

He picked through the loose scraps in his briefcase until he found the number for Corbett Wheeler in New Zealand. The detective was leaving a long message on the answer machine when Joey’s brother picked up the phone and said, “Start over, please. I was dead asleep.”

Rolvaag apologized and asked, “Did your sister have a will?”

“Yes, but let me guess. A new one has surfaced.”

“It seems so. And it leaves everything to her husband.”

Corbett Wheeler laughed. “I told you he was a fuckwit, did I not? How can he possibly believe he’s going to get away with this?”

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Wheeler. I don’t think Charles Perrone is the one who forged the will, assuming it is forged.”

“Joey wouldn’t leave that pussbucket enough money for bus fare to—”

A crackle of long-distance static obscured Corbett Wheeler’s terse commentary.

“I was hoping you had a copy of the original will,” Rolvaag interjected.

“Of course I do. But getting back to Chaz—what makes you so sure he’s not the forger?”

“Because the new will would establish him as the prime suspect in your sister’s disappearance. It gives him a big reason for killing her, which is one thing our case has been lacking.” One of many things, the detective might have added.

“To be honest,” Rolvaag went on, “I don’t think Chaz is foolish enough—or even greedy enough—to put himself at such risk.”

Corbett Wheeler hooted. “And I think that’s exactly what he wants you to think. Come on, man, who’d go to all the trouble of setting him up?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Rolvaag didn’t share with Corbett Wheeler the possibility that someone aboard the Sun Duchess had witnessed Joey’s murder. He was always careful not to raise the hopes of a victim’s relatives.

“It would be helpful to see the will that you’ve got,” Rolvaag said.

“No problem.” More static. “… It’s in a lockbox in Auckland.”

“Could you FedEx a copy?”

“How about if I deliver it in person,” Joey’s brother said.

The detective tried not to sound too excited. “That’s even better. But I thought you weren’t ever coming back to the States.”

“Me, neither, Karl. But things have changed, haven’t they?”

On the other end, Rolvaag heard what sounded like the soft pop of a bottle being opened. The detective felt a sudden craving for a cold Foster’s.

Corbett Wheeler said, “It looks like my late little sister needs someone to see after her interests. And, by the way, the real will doesn’t leave me anything, either—in case you’re wondering about my motive.”

The detective assured Joey’s brother that he wasn’t. “When will you be arriving?” he asked.

“Day after tomorrow. The service is next Thursday.”

Again Rolvaag was caught off guard. “What service?”

“The one I’m arranging in memory of Joey,” Corbett Wheeler replied with a muffled burp. “Can you recommend a nice church, Karl? Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist—doesn’t really matter, as long as there’s room for a choir.”

As Red Hammernut listened to Chaz Perrone’s story, he thought of the many blessings that had come his way, but also of the toil. A big farming operation like his was a challenging enterprise, relying as it did on rampant pollution and the systematic mistreatment of immigrant labor. For Red it was no small feat to keep the feds off his back while at the same time soaking taxpayers for lucrative crop subsidies and dirt-cheap loans that might or might not be repaid this century. He reflected upon the hundreds of thousands of dollars that he’d handed out as campaign donations; the untallied thousands more for straight-up bribes, hookers, private-yacht charters, gambling stakes and other discreet favors; and, finally, the countless hours of ass-kissing he’d been forced to endure with the same knucklehead politicians whose loyalties he had purchased.

This was no easy gig. Red Hammernut got infuriated every time he heard some pissy liberal refer to the federal farm bill as corporate welfare. The term implied contented idleness, and nobody worked harder than Red to keep the money flowing and to stay out of trouble. Now the whole goddamn shebang was in danger of falling apart because of one man.

“Pay him. That’s my advice,” Chaz Perrone said in cocksure summary. “I know it’s a shitload of money, but what else can we do?”

They were sitting in Red Hammernut’s office, overlooking the toxic though tranquil pond. Chaz and Tool had driven straight from Flamingo to LaBelle, arriving at four in the morning and nodding off like junkies in the parking lot. Chaz’s nostrils were blood-encrusted and his face was pocked extravagantly with crimson insect bites. Red Hammernut couldn’t help but stare. The man looked like a photo out of an exotic medical textbook.

“He’s got us by the short and curlies,” Chaz was saying of the blackmailer. “I don’t see where there’s any other choice but to pay him.”

Red Hammernut said there was never only one choice, regardless of the problem. “But lemme see if I understand the situation, ‘cause you tore through it pretty fast. What about the cop? The one you thought was breakin’ into your house and talkin’ like Moses on the telephone?”

“I was wrong. It’s not him,” Chaz said shortly. “He’s not mixed up in this.”

“Which is at least one piece a semi-good news, right?”

“Except he found out from the dealership about you buying me the Hummer.”

“Well, hell,” Red Hammernut said.

“So I told him you were friends with Joey and you did it as a favor to her—got me the Hummer for my birthday. And then she paid you back.”

“That’s the best you could do? Sweet Jesus.” Red Hammernut turned to look at Tool, whose head was lolling. “You all right?”

“Just real tarred.”

“Then go lie down.”

“Yessir, that’s an idea.” Tool kicked the chair away and curled up like a bloated bear on the carpet in front of the desk. Red Hammernut shook his head.

Chaz said, “So if the detective asks you about the Hummer—”

“Don’t worry, son, I’ll give’m the same story you did,” Red Hammernut said. “Now let’s talk about this blackmail business. The sumbitch wants half a million bucks, and for some reason you think I’m the one ought to pay.”

“Red, I don’t have that kind of money.”

“My question is, What’s he gonna do if you don’t pay? Worst case? Tell the cops he saw you push poor Joey overboard.”

Chaz bleated, “Isn’t that enough?”

“First, he’s gotta prove he was on board that ship.”

“Don’t worry. He was.”

“Then it’s his word against yours.” Red Hammernut thinking how the media would go wild once the accusation became public. So far, Chaz had demonstrated no capacity for steadiness under pressure, and Red Hammernut doubted that his composure would improve once he was named a murder suspect. If Chaz had in fact killed his wife, he might come unspooled under tough questioning by the cops. That could prove catastrophic for Hammernut Farms, and even more so for Red personally.

“This asshole knows everything,” Chaz was saying.

Red Hammernut clicked his teeth. “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

“Knows about the Hummer, the phosphorus tests—don’t ask me how, but he put it all together.”

“Bad luck,” Red Hammernut said.

It was his own damn fault for buying that Hi; he’d done it only because he was sick of hearing Chaz whine about needing a four-wheel drive. The way Red figured it, the blackmailer probably hired a private eye to do a paper check on Chaz, which led him to the Hummer’s bill of sale. Once Red’s name popped up, it wouldn’t take fucking Matlock to make the connection between the farm and the biologist who was testing its waters for pollution.

“It’s a tur’ble fix, I give you that,” Red Hammernut said to Chaz. “But half a million big ones ain’t a very appetizin’ option.”

“But Joey left me zippo, Red. All I’ve got is what’s in the bank.”

Red Hammernut calculated that he’d slipped Chaz twenty to thirty grand in cash over the years, most of which had probably been pissed away on greens fees and lap dances.

“Relax, boys. Let’s put on our thinkin’ caps.”

Reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, Red pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and poured three glasses. Tool slurped his from a supine position.

“So, how long till he wants an answer?” Red Hammernut asked.

“He said he’d call Monday morning,” Chaz said.

“And he ain’t alone in this deal, right? You said there’s a girlfriend.”

Tool spoke up from the floor. “Name of Anna somethin’ or other. She don’t know much.”

“Good,” Red Hammernut said, though he had marginal confidence in Tool’s assessment. “She wasn’t totally scared to pieces of you?”

Tool grunted. “Didn’t appear to be.”

“Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“Chief, I give up tryin’ to figger out women a long time ago.”

“Amen,” said Chaz Perrone.

“Well, let’s assume the girlfriend knows what the blackmailer knows,” Red Hammernut said, “and proceed from there. Who’s ready for another belt?”

Tool raised his glass for a refill. “When can I go home, Red?”

“Soon as this mess is over. Won’t be long, I promise.”

“I miss my yard. All them pretty white crosses.”

“Just hang in there, son,” Red Hammernut said. “You’re doin’ a world-class job.”

Chaz Perrone cleared his throat. “To be honest, Red, there’s room for improvement. No offense, but it needs to be said.”

Red Hammernut hoped Chaz would have more sense than to complain about Tool in Tool’s presence, but he was wrong.