Skinny Dip (23 page)

“One drink. Give me a chance to change your mind.”

“No, Chaz.”

“One lousy drink? You won’t be sorry.”

“All right, but not here. You’ll just end up trying to talk me into bed.”

Chaz was swept by relief. “Name the spot,” he said.

Ricca selected a bar at a nearby bowling alley, for its thunderous lack of intimacy. Saturday was league night and Chaz would have had more success making himself heard over a cruise-missile attack in downtown Baghdad. While Ricca went to the rest room, he fished out the bottle of blue pills and, seeking to avoid a repetition of his painful tryst with Medea, tapped only one into the palm of his hand. He swallowed it dry and checked his watch. The magic mojo potion should start working in an hour, by which time he hoped to have thawed Ricca’s heart.

When she returned, Chaz ventured a tender squeeze of her elbow, which she yanked away as if he were infected with some pustular disease. He was flabbergasted by her animosity, which seemed unshakable, and also by her self-discipline. He had plowed through three martinis before she finished half a Miller Lite. Over the symphonic clatter of bowling pins he apologized repeatedly for the “cleaning lady” reference, which he calculated to be more of a sticking point than his wife’s murder.

Still, Ricca didn’t cave.

“Time to go,” she said.

“Not yet. You’ve gotta let me finish.”

Chaz considered himself a master bullshitter, but the cheap vodka seemed to have blunted his improvisational skills. He found himself blurting, “Didn’t Rolvaag tell you about Joey’s will?”

“Nope,” said Ricca. “Anyhow, you said she was giving all her money to the animals. Yaks and pandas, you said.”

“Well, that’s what she told me. But yesterday that cop shows up at the door with a new will and asks what do I know about it. A will that Joey signed, like, a month ago!”

“Whatever, Chaz.”

“Honey, she left everything to me.”

“Why would she do an idiotic thing like that?”

Chaz leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Thirteen million bucks!”

“That’ll buy you lots of cigarettes in prison. You should learn to smoke.”

“Ha-ha,” Chaz sneered, but he was crestfallen. He could hardly believe that the news of his future fortune hadn’t rekindled Ricca’s ardor. What had happened to that frisky, free-spirited girl who tinted her pubic hair and shaved him a shamrock?

“Don’t you understand what this means?” he persisted. “Think of what we can do with thirteen million dollars—the incredible places we can go, all the cool stuff we can buy.”

“Chaz, you snuffed your wife.”

“How can you say that?”

“Take me home,” Ricca said, “right now.”

In the parking lot she remarked upon his oddly stilted gait.

“Twisted my knee,” he mumbled.

“Doing what—climbing off the bar stool? Turn around and let me see something.”

“Just forget about it.”

“Chaz, turn around.”

He was too vain to refuse. Even in the face of such impenetrable frigidity, Chaz believed that a glimpse of the thickening bulge in his pants might win Ricca over. Her reaction, however, was empty of delight or anticipation.

All she said was: “Are you serious?”

Chaz dusted off a golden oldie. “I can’t help it, honey. See what you do to me?”

“Wow. Would you like me to fix it?”

Chaz incautiously moaned in the affirmative. Ricca kneed him and he moaned again, though this time not from desire.

She said, “I want to go home. Can’t you get that through your head?”

He drove in silence, his mind blaring. Ricca was definitely going to be a problem. A humongous problem. While she couldn’t implicate him directly in Joey’s disappearance, she would be valuable to prosecutors seeking to lay out a seedy scenario for murder—the pretty mistress, to go along with Chaz’s windfall inheritance. Judging by her disposition, Ricca would be pleased to do her civic duty and testify against him. With little coaxing she would share with salivating jurors a luridly embroidered account of the affair, as well as her current low opinion of Dr. Charles Perrone as a human being. Her appearance in court would be devastating.

Chaz said, “Tell me honestly. You really think I threw Joey overboard?”

“Yep.”

“You’d believe a total stranger, some scumbag drifter who shows up at the salon and gives you a wild story.”

Ricca said, “I know when men are telling me the truth. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I know. And, P.S., he didn’t exactly look like a scumbag.”

“Are you kidding, the guy’s a fucking animal! He nearly beat me into a coma with a canoe paddle.”

“I’m so sure.”

“Check out my nose!” Chaz was amazed that she seemed to be taking the blackmailer’s side. Suddenly he remembered Tool’s intriguing revelation: The blackmailer had a girlfriend.

Oh Jesus, thought Chaz. Now it made sense. The asshole tracks down Ricca, tries to pump her for more dirt. She says no way, not unless you cut me in on the score. Next stop: Flamingo.

Ricca must have been the girl that Tool had seen on the docks. She was in on the scam!

“Just how much did you tell this guy?” Chaz asked warily.

“Which guy, the cop or the blackmailer?”

“The blackmailer.”

“Nothing, Chaz. All I did was listen.”

“Yeah, right.”

Ricca glared. “Screw you.”

“And what about Rolvaag? What’d you tell him?”

“I told him I wasn’t really your maid. I made a point of clearing up that little misunderstanding.”

“Ah,” Chaz said. “So now he knows all about us.”

“He would’ve found out anyway.”

“I suppose so.”

Ricca said, “Hey, you missed my street.”

What other choice do I have? Chaz wondered.

“Where are you going? Turn around,” Ricca demanded.

Chaz reached under the seat for the Colt .38, which he had reloaded before leaving the house. He pointed it at Ricca and said, “We’re not going home.”

“What—now you’re gonna rape me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

For twenty minutes he headed west on a road that followed the Hillsboro Canal toward the Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge, a sprawling preserve on the eastern apron of the Everglades. Ricca stewed silently while Chaz held the pistol in his left hand, dead level with her heart. He was surprised how composed he felt, how confident and clearheaded. Once, when Ricca began fiddling with the door lock, Chaz raised the .38 to her temple. His arm remained straight and steady. In the glow of the dashboard he could see Ricca staring at him with wide, fresh eyes.

Finally she was scared.

Chaz turned off on a dirt trail that led to a locked metal gate. Whistling to himself, he flicked on the high beams, aimed the Humvee down a steep embankment and rumbled along a shallow ditch until he had bypassed the barricade. Then he gunned it back up the slope onto a narrow rutted levee, where nothing but night-cloaked wilderness lay before them.

“Oh God,” Ricca said.

Chaz remained silent. Focus was essential. When he killed Joey, he never lost focus, never strayed from the script, never left the zone.

Ricca said, “Since when did you buy a gun? I thought you hated guns-“

With the tip of the blue-plated barrel, Chaz touched a button on the CD player and the Hummer filled with a blast of George T. and the Delaware Destroyers. That nasty slide guitar obliterated Ricca’s yammering, and Chaz slipped gratefully into the buzz of the music, which was better than popping speed.

He drove down the levee for another fifteen minutes before he braked and ordered Ricca out. She stood squinting into the headlights, brushing the insects away from her face and trying not to break down. Chaz felt a subtle, ugly gnawing in his gut. He would have much preferred a silent ambush, as with Joey, but Ricca had left him no such option.

“So it’s true about your wife,” she said, her voice tight.

“Yeah. I’m afraid so.”

“Chaz, how can you do this to me?”

“Same way I did it to her.” He sat on the hood of the Hummer and aimed out between the headlights. Later, Tool would help him get rid of Ricca’s car and clean out the apartment. Make it look like she skipped town.

“You can’t kill me, Chaz. You cannot do it,” she declared. “Joey wasn’t looking you in the eye the way I am. She didn’t know what was coming.”

This, Chaz lamented, is exactly the sort of sticky scene that I wanted to avoid.

He said, “What I can’t figure out—if you cared so much about my wife, how come you were sleeping with me?”

Ricca seemed to shrink.

“Well?” said Chaz.

“Because I was a fool.”

“Keep going.”

“And selfish,” she added hoarsely.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about you and the blackmailer,” he said. “Is it strictly business, or are you screwing him, too?”

Ricca bristled. “My God. You’re cracking up.” She cupped a hand over her brow so she could see him better. “Your hand’s shaking.”

“Like hell it is.”

“Take a look, Chaz.”

“Just shut up.”

“Plus, you still got a boner. What’s that all about?”

Chaz had been hoping with all his soul that she wouldn’t notice. Those fucking pills were unbelievable.

“It’s bad enough you’re pointing a gun at me,” Ricca said, “but that, too?”

He estimated that she was no more than thirty feet away; an easy shot. “Turn around,” he told her.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

The marsh beyond was teeming with jumbo alligators. Beyond the headlights Chaz could make out half a dozen pairs of large eyes, glowing like embers. Ricca’s corpse would be gone by daybreak. What the gators didn’t eat, the turtles and raccoons would.

She said, “I’m not turning around!”

“Then hold still.” Chaz sighted down the short barrel, gripping the .38 with both hands the way he’d seen it done a thousand times on television.

Jesus, she’s right. I’m shaking like a damn wino.

“Chaz, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Hold still, I said.”

“This is a major mistake. The fuckup of all fuckups___”

He held his breath and pulled the trigger. Ricca shrieked but did not fall.

“You rotten little cocksucker!” she cried, hopping up and down. “That’s not even funny!”

Swell, Chaz thought, she thinks that I missed on purpose. Or maybe that I’m shooting blanks.

He stiffened and again took aim, wondering: How in the name of God did I not hit her? She’s a hundred times bigger than that frigging rabbit.

The second shot caught Ricca in the left leg and spun her one full rotation. To Chaz’s surprise, she still didn’t go down.

“Look what you did!” She clutched at the punctured limb. “Are you fucking crazy?”

Incredible, thought Chaz. I should’ve brought a buffalo gun.

Another mosquito stung his cheek and he swatted himself so violently that he slid off the hood of the Hummer. Ricca capitalized on the distraction, gimping into the darkness with surprising swiftness. Chaz collected himself and took up the chase, lengthening his stride when he spotted the blur of gray sweat togs ahead of him. He was closing the gap, when suddenly Ricca vectored off the rutted path and, to his profound amazement, dove headlong into the swamp.

Chaz aborted the pursuit instantly, for nothing so terrified him as the prospect of entering the piss-warm water of the Everglades in total darkness—gagging on soggy duckweed, being lashed to ribbons by the serrated saw grass, and finally getting sucked one leech-covered leg at a time into the inky, inescapable muck.

Not me, thought Dr. Charles Perrone. No thanks.

As Ricca tried to swim away, he stood on the embankment, firing his pistol until she rolled over and sank with a gasp. Before long his ears stopped ringing and the water glassed off and the night hummed back to life. Chaz peered at the spot where Ricca had gone down and observed nothing but a fleet of water beetles skating back and forth in the reflected starlight. Something substantial splashed farther away, in a thicket of lily pads. Probably just a coot or a garfish, Chaz thought, but why push my luck? The place is lousy with gators, and I’m out of bullets.

He jogged back to the Hummer, spun a nifty 180 and headed back toward town. His heart was thumping like a baby sparrow’s, but he felt lightened and liberated and pleased with himself for turning the hated, haunted swamp into an accomplice.

Twenty-two

Karl Rolvaag said, “You look lovely this morning, Nellie.”

“Coming from a degenerate like you, that makes me want to hang myself. You heard about poor Pinchot?”

“I did,” the detective said. “They find him yet?”

Mrs. Shulman was bobbing from side to side, trying to see past him into the apartment.

“Poor Pinchot isn’t here, Nellie.”

“Then you don’t mind if I look around?”

“Actually, I do.” Rolvaag didn’t want her to notice that the snake tank was empty.

She snarled, “I wouldn’t put it past you, kidnapping some poor little puppy for your own depraved pleasures. You probably made a video of it. You probably put it out on the Internet!”

Daffy old bat, thought Rolvaag.

“I did not feed Bert Miller’s dog to my snakes,” he said, almost adding: But accidents happen.

Mrs. Shulman said, “Well, you certainly enjoy hearing those helpless little mice shrieking in agony. Just imagine how much fun a Pomeranian would be!”

“That’s a totally irresponsible accusation.” The detective choked down a sneeze. Nellie Shulman had drenched herself in a perfume that stunk like rotting gardenias.

“Then why can’t I come in? It’s Sunday morning, after all.”

“Because you called me a degenerate,” Rolvaag said.

“Well, you are. Anyone with a thing for snakes is a sick, sick bastard.” She tried to sneak past but he lowered a shoulder and blocked her. “The Millers are devastated!” she declared.

Rolvaag already felt terrible. He had searched the grounds of Sawgrass Grove for three hours, but the only snake he’d found was an ornery black racer that bit him on the thumb of his left hand.

“I saw you prowling around outside yesterday,” Mrs. Shulman said, “hunting for more tasty little dogs.”

“Nellie, have you been mixing your medications again?”