Skinny Dip (10 page)

“Oh Christ,” Stranahan said.

“But first I took cuticle scissors—”

“And cut your face out of the picture.” Joey blinked. “How’d you know?”

“No comment.”

“Wife or girlfriend?”

“Spouse number three, if memory serves,” he said.

She sighed. “Next time I’ll try to be more original.”

They ate inside, Strom whining for handouts through the screen door. Stranahan was quiet, and Joey began to worry that she’d done something foolhardy, something that might ruin the plan, whatever that was.

Firmly she set down her wineglass. “If you want to yell at me for cutting up that picture, go ahead. Just remember, it’s my house, too. My stuff that he’s throwing away.”

Stranahan said, “There was no car accident in Tampa involving Chaz and a drunk driver.”

“How do you know?”

“Checked with the Highway Patrol. There wasn’t any lawsuit, either,” he said, “according to the court files. And no big settlement, obviously.”

“Meaning no nest egg,” Joey said quietly.

“Highly unlikely. You want to hear our plan?”

“If it’ll cheer me up, sure.”

“We’re going to blackmail your husband,” Stranahan said.

“I see.”

“Actually, we’re only going to make him think he’s being blackmailed.” Stranahan dipped a jumbo claw into a cup of drawn butter.

“Blackmailed by who?” Joey asked.

“Somebody who knows that Chaz murdered you.” Stranahan smiled and took another bite of crab. “Somebody we’ll have to invent, of course.”

Joey adored the idea even though she didn’t entirely get the point.

“Misdirection,” he explained. “Chaz is probably freaking out that he’s being harassed by some mysterious intruder. I’m assuming you don’t want him to figure out it’s you, at least not yet. Correct?”

She nodded emphatically.

“No offense,” Stranahan said, “but these clever little messages you’ve left for him—the dress in the closet, the lipstick in the drawer, the photograph under the pillow—those are estranged wife-type moves. Too much of that and he’ll put it all together.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“So we need to make him believe it’s somebody else who’s screwing with his head.”

“How about somebody who saw him push me off the ship?”

“Now you’re talking.”

“A secret witness who gets greedy,” Joey said eagerly. “That would be cool. But who could we make up, Mick? And how would this imaginary person know how to find Chaz? Wait a minute—how would he get into the house unless he had a key?”

“Whoa, slow down,” Stranahan told her. “I’ve got an idea how to set this up.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Joey Perrone felt better than she had in days, and not just because of the wine.

“But first it would really help to know why Chaz wanted you dead,” said Stranahan. “It would open up some creative opportunities, blackmailwise.”

Joey shrugged helplessly. “That’s all I think about, night and day.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure everything out,” he said with a wink. “This might actually be fun.”

Ten

Chaz didn’t find the photograph under his pillow until Tuesday night, because he’d spent Monday night at Ricca’s apartment in self-prescribed sexual therapy. He had blamed Joey’s lingering aura for impeding his finale in the bathtub, but leaving the house they shared had failed to solve the problem. Even in Ricca’s jasmine-scented bedroom Chaz couldn’t shake the image of his dead wife’s slinky black dress in the closet, or the wanton memories it conjured.

Ricca had worked on him as deftly as a sculptress, but the results had been unsatisfactory. For the first time in their relationship—in any relationship—Chaz had heard that most hollow and dreaded of consolations:

“Don’t worry, baby, it happens to everybody.”

In a panic he’d dragged Ricca to a nearby music store and purchased a replacement copy of George Thorogood’s greatest hits, to no avail. Even digitally remastered, “Bad to the Bone” could not rally Chaz’s bone to its usual badness. The gloom of failure followed him all the next day as he drove up and down the levees of the Everglades. It weighed on him still when he returned home, although Rolvaag’s visit had offered a brief, though grating, diversion.

Toppling into bed that night, Chaz was emotionally unprepared for yet another ghoulish shock. He stared at the picture and absently poked a finger in the scissored hole where his wife’s pretty face had been.

Too vividly he remembered the circumstances of the photograph, which had been taken the previous New Year’s Eve at a ski lodge in Steamboat Springs. He and Joey had just emerged from their room after one hour and seventeen minutes of spectacularly rowdy sex. It was the only time Chaz had ever tired before his wife, and he’d signaled breathless surrender by making a T with his hands in the manner of a sacked quarterback. He and Joey were still laughing about it later when they’d handed the camera to the bartender.

Now, hunched over the photo, Chaz should have been worrying about who had retrieved it from the closet and, literally, defaced it. He should have been wondering when the act of venomous mischief had occurred, and how the perpetrator had entered the house without breaking a window or prying a doorjamb. He should have been summoning the hulking hairy bodyguard, Red’s goon, to find out if any suspicious persons had been lurking in the neighborhood.

But instead Charles Regis Perrone found himself thinking of that night only four months ago in Colorado, reliving in erotic detail how the woman he fondly once called “my monster blonde” had turned him inside out. Soon Chaz found himself saluted by a formidable hard-on, which sent him scampering in unwarranted optimism to the bathroom. There he labored doggedly, his face crimson and contorted, until one and then both of his fists cramped. No relief would be forthcoming.

Chaz glared down at himself and cursed. My cock was never faithful to Joey while she was alive, he thought, so why all of a sudden now? It was crushing to consider that whatever puny conscience he possessed might manifest itself in such a humiliating way.

“I didn’t want to kill her!” he shouted at his chafed and shrinking tormentor. “She gave me no choice!”

Chaz tore the photograph to shreds over the toilet bowl. After checking the doors and windows, he gobbled a half dozen Maalox chewables and collapsed on the living room sofa. Tomorrow he’d get the locks changed and call the alarm company and move Joey’s jewelry to his personal safe-deposit box at the bank. Afterward he would scour the house one more time until nothing remained of his deceased spouse, not one blond eyelash, to arouse him against his will.

Then, on the way back from the county landfill, he’d stop at Wal-Mart and buy himself a gun.

“You wouldn’t happen to have herbal tea, would you?” “The best I can do is coffee,” Karl Rolvaag said. “Poison,” said Rose Jewell with a frown. “No thanks.”

She was about forty years old and fearlessly attractive. The detective office had come to a standstill when she’d walked in—white cotton pullover, tight stonewashed jeans, high heels. Her hair was a wattage of blond unknown in Minnesota, the land of blondes. Even Rolvaag was slightly nervous.

“I’m Joey’s best friend. Was Joey’s best friend,” Rose said, “and I just want you to know, she would never, ever kill herself. If that’s one of your theories.”

“It’s too early for theories,” Rolvaag said, which wasn’t true. He was certain that Charles Perrone had pushed his wife off the Sun Duchess. He was equally sure that proving it would be impossible without a corpse, evidence or eyewitnesses.

Captain Gallo had thought it interesting that Mrs. Perrone’s fingernails were found embedded in a bale of marijuana, but he said it proved only that she’d survived the plunge—not that she had been shoved. Her husband giving the wrong time she’d left their room was suspicious, Gallo agreed, but it wasn’t enough on which to file charges.

“And she didn’t get bombed and fall off the ship, either,” Rose was saying. “I saw that business in the newspaper about her having all that wine—what a bunch of bull! I’ve never seen Joey drunk, not even close to drunk. Not since her DUI.”

“How was her marriage?”

“Chaz Perrone was a total slut. He cheated on her all over town.”

“Did he ever try with you?” Rolvaag asked, somewhat startled at his own nerve. Perhaps Rose’s frankness was contagious.

She smiled and crossed her legs in a way that made the detective feel like a fumbling teenager. “If Chaz ever laid a hand on me,” she said sweetly, “I would’ve kicked him in the raspberries. But no, I never even met the guy.”

Rumors of multiple infidelities did not, in Captain Gallo’s biased view, automatically make Charles Perrone a murder suspect. In three weeks Rolvaag would be heading back to Minnesota, and it was dismaying to know that his final case in Florida would end in failure—a cold-blooded killer escaping justice. The captain had made it plain that he saw the Perrone investigation as a dead end and that no more time or manpower would be committed.

Often Rolvaag imagined Mrs. Perrone alone in the ocean, clinging so fiercely to that floating bale that the tips of her nails snapped off one by one. The daydream was more haunting for its detail, since Chaz Perrone had provided a snapshot of his wife to the police and Coast Guard. In the photograph, taken on a beach somewhere, Joey Perrone was dripping wet. The morbid irony had been lost on her husband but not on the detective, who could now envision Chaz’s victim—her blond hair slicked back, her cheeks sparkling with beads of water—as she must have looked when she burst to the surface after that long, harrowing fall.

Except for the smile. Joey Perrone would not have been smiling after her husband threw her overboard.

Rolvaag said, “What do you think happened on that cruise, Miss Jewell?”

“I know what didn’t happen. My friend didn’t jump and she didn’t fall.” Rose stood up and slung her handbag over her shoulder. “I just wanted somebody to know, that’s all. I wanted it written down in a file somewhere.”

“It will be. I promise.”

Rose touched his arm. “Please don’t give up on this case,” she said, “for Joey’s sake.”

Rolvaag didn’t have the heart to tell her that it would take a miracle for him to nail Charles Perrone.

On the way home, the detective stopped at the downtown branch of the library to read up on the Everglades. It seemed peculiar that a man so openly averse to nature would study biology and then take a job in a humid, teeming swamp. That Perrone didn’t even know which way the Gulf Stream flowed betrayed a certain flimsiness in his academics. His ideals were no less murky and suspect. Rolvaag was particularly bothered by Perrone’s casual comment about running over snakes with his gas-sucking SUV, and also by the flippant manner with which he’d dismissed the notion of recycling a pop bottle. Was this a guy who cared about the fate of the planet?

How odd that Chaz Perrone had aimed his career toward the study of organic life when he displayed no concern for any other than his own. However, if a clue lay in the sad and complicated story of the Everglades, Rolvaag couldn’t find it. Perrone’s connection to such inhospitable wilderness remained a riddle, and time was running short.

Driving back to his apartment, Rolvaag recalled his own failed marriage and found it impossible to imagine a scenario under which murder would have been an option. In this exercise the detective felt handicapped by his heritage—Norwegians were natural brooders, not given to the sort of volcanic emotions associated with domestic homicides. But then, Rolvaag hadn’t understood the majority of criminals he had sent off to prison, regardless of their crimes. Shooting an icecream vendor for thirty-four bucks and change was no more comprehensible to him than launching one’s attractive (and, by all accounts, faithful) spouse over the side of a cruise liner.

Why had Perrone done it? Not for money, as there was no insurance payoff, no inheritance, no jackpot whatsoever. And not for love, either—if Chaz had wanted to dump his wife and run off with one of his girlfriends, divorce would have been relatively easy and painless. Florida was a no-fault jurisdiction that dealt perfunctorily with short, childless marriages. Moreover, Mrs. Perrone’s substantial personal wealth made her an unlikely candidate for alimony.

Gallo’s right, Rolvaag thought. I’ve got zilch for a motive.

When he arrived home he saw that a newspaper clipping had been slipped under his door. It was the story of a man in St. Louis who had been strangled and then nearly devoured by an enormous pet python, which he had foolishly neglected to feed for several months. The snake’s gruesome repast had been interrupted by a concerned neighbor, who scampered for help. Paramedics skilled with the Jaws of Life arrived and retrieved the victim’s grossly elongated body, dispatching the sated reptile in the process. Above the headline, in violet ink, was a familiar spidery scrawl: “This should happen to you!”

Rolvaag chuckled, thinking: That makes two people who’ll be happy to see me go—Chaz Perrone and Nellie Shulman.

The detective’s own two snakes were coiled together in a large glass tank in the corner of the living room. They were not pure white in the way of some albinos, but rather a creamy hue with exotic tangerine saddle marks. In the urban outdoors their unnatural brightness could have been a fatal trait, but the pythons were safe in Rolvaag’s apartment. They displayed no gratitude whatsoever, and seldom moved a muscle except to eat or reposition themselves in a shaft of sunlight. Still, Rolvaag enjoyed observing them. That a twerp like Perrone would purposely kill something so primal and perfect angered the detective in a way that surprised him.

He shoved a frozen lasagna into the oven and picked through the papers in his briefcase until he found the scrap he was looking for. He dialed the Hertz office in Boca Raton and identified himself to an assistant night manager, who was exceptionally cooperative. By the time Rolvaag hung up, he had obtained the name of the hirsute thug in the minivan staking out the Perrone residence, and also the name of the company that was paying for the rental.

Red’s Tomato Exchange, whatever that was.

Joey Perrone shook Stranahan awake. “Mick, I just thought of something!”

He sat up on the couch and rubbed his eyes. “Time?”

“Five-forty-five.”

“This better be good.” He reached for the lamp, but she grabbed his arm.

“I’m not dressed,” she said.

Even without lights the house wasn’t that dark. Joey was wearing a white cutoff T-shirt and bikini-style panties, the sight of which mitigated Stranahan’s grumpiness.

“Tell me what you remembered,” he said.

“A fight that Chaz and I had about two months ago. I was supposed to fly to L.A. for a wedding but the weather at the airport was horrible, so I turned around and drove home. I won’t get on a plane if there’s a cloud in the sky.”

Joey said she’d walked in and found her husband at the dining room table, entering numbers on a chart. “I was looking over his shoulder and all I said was, ‘How do you remember them all?’ Because he wasn’t using any notes, just jotting down the figures one after another. So it was like, ‘Wow, how can you remember them all?’ Completely innocent and friendly—and he nearly jumped out of his chair. Went absolutely batshit.”

“That’s all you said to him?”

“It was the craziest thing. He started screaming, stomping around, waving his arms. Told me to quit spying on him and mind my own damn business,” Joey said. “It was just like the day I asked about the new Hummer—only this time he called me the c word. That’s when I decked him.”

“Excellent.”

“A right cross to the chops. Chaz isn’t exactly tough as nails.”

“But you seeing those charts set him off. Do you know what the numbers meant?”

“He never told me. But part of his job is measuring stuff in the water out there, some type of pollution,” Joey said. “I’m guessing it had something to do with that.”

“You really slugged him?” Stranahan asked.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe that’s what did it, Mick.”

“Did what? Make him decide to kill you?”

“Maybe it was too much for his ego.”

Stranahan told her not to mistake arrogance for pride. “A guy like Chaz can revive his ego with the palm of his hand.”

“Still, I never saw him freak like that before,” Joey said.

“It’s important. I’m glad you told me.”

“Hey, are those genuine Fruit of the Looms?” She reached over and tweaked the waistband.

Stranahan slapped a pillow over his lap. Obviously Mrs. Perrone was overcoming her shyness.

She said, “The sun’s almost up. How about a swim?”

“Ha-ha.”

“Three laps around the island. Come on, I’m serious.”

“I thought you were terrified of sharks,” he said.

“Not if there’s two of us in the water.”

“And one of us is old and slow. I get the picture.”

“Oh, don’t be such a pussy,” Joey said.

“Excuse me?”

But off she ran, barefoot in her underwear. Stranahan heard the bang of the screen door, followed by a splash. When he reached the dock, there was nothing to do but dive in and try to catch up. Strom watched quizzically but made no move to join them.