Skinny Dip (12 page)

“I didn’t sleep much,” he mumbled.

“That’s because I wasn’t there to tire you out.”

“Some crank called first thing this morning.”

“A breather?” Ricca asked. “I get those all the time.”

“No. Just a crank.” Thinking about the mystery phone call, Chaz felt his palms go damp.

Ricca asked if he had given any more thought to holding a memorial service for Joey.

“What is it with you?” he said irritably. “I already told you I hate funerals. Light a goddamn candle if it makes you feel better.”

Ricca said, “Doesn’t have to be a major production. Rent a chapel, get the priest to say a few words. Maybe some of Joey’s friends would like to share their feelings, too.”

Chaz stared out the window.

“It’s important, baby,” she said. “For closure.”

He exhaled scornfully, blowing invisible smoke rings.

“One chapter of your life has ended,” Ricca went on, “and another is just beginning.”

Jesus, Chaz thought. She’s about as subtle as a double hernia.

“Besides, it’ll look bad if you don’t do something in Joey’s memory. It’ll look like you don’t even care that she’s dead.”

Ricca had a point. Eventually he might have to stage a service for the sake of appearances. He was surprised that Detective Rolvaag hadn’t called him on that, too.

The crooked, blackmailing sonofabitch. It had to be him, the voice on the phone.

“Chaz, are you listening to me?” Ricca said.

“Do I have a choice?”

She made a sad-sounding noise. “Baby, I’m just trying to be here for you.”

Right, thought Chaz. Here, there and everywhere.

He said, “Maybe I’ll arrange a memorial for later. In a couple weeks.” Thinking: After all this heavy-duty shit is behind me.

Ricca remained in the car while he went inside the bank. Later, at lunch, she got around to asking what was in the paper bag.

“It was jewelry,” Chaz said. “I was putting it in a safe box.”

“Your wife’s jewelry?”

“No, Liz Taylor’s. She asked me to hold it for her.”

“Don’t have to get snotty,” Ricca said.

Chaz mustered an apology. “I’ve got a jillion things on my mind.”

“You wanna stop over my place for a fashion show? I just got a new box of thongs from Rio.”

“Not today, sweetie. I’ve got to haul a major load of trash out to the county landfill.”

Ricca froze, a forkful of linguini halfway to her mouth. “Let me get this straight: You’d rather go to a garbage dump than get laid?”

Chaz said, “Come on. It’s not that simple.”

At least he hoped it wasn’t.

Twelve

On the drive back to Miami, Joey started thinking about the last time she and her husband had had sex—in their cabin aboard the Sun Duchess, less than five hours before he tossed her overboard. She couldn’t recall that Chaz had behaved any differently in bed; his performance had been typically voracious and unflagging. It infuriated her to think he could have enjoyed himself with such abandon, knowing that before midnight he would murder his partner in pleasure.

“I need you to explain something about men,” she said to Mick Stranahan, “because I truly don’t understand.”

“Fire away.”

“Chaz and I did it on the ship while we were getting ready for dinner. This is the night he tried to murder me!”

“As if everything was hunky-dory.”

“Exactly,” Joey said. “How could he even get it up?”

“I believe it’s called ‘compartmentalizing.’ “

“And you’ve done this yourself?”

“On rare occasions,” Stranahan said.

“Examples, please.”

He answered hesitantly. “Well… there was one time I made love to a woman forty-five minutes before I moved out.”

“And you knew you were leaving?”

“Yep. I’d already rented my own place.”

“And she had no clue? None whatsoever?”

“Evidently not,” Stranahan said, “judging by her reaction.”

Joey was watching him closely. “Well? Don’t stop now. Going to bed—was that your idea or hers?”

“They say it relieves stress, and God knows I was stressed.”

“Oh please,” she said. “You just wanted one last taste.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“Men are such slugs.”

Stranahan kept his eyes on the traffic. “For what it’s worth, I would never toss a woman off a ship after having wild sex with her. Or even tame sex.”

“Spoken like a true gentleman.”

“And may I submit that your husband—”

“Don’t call him that anymore. Please.”

“All right,” Stranahan said. “May I submit that Chaz is light-years beneath common male slugdom. He is one coldhearted prick, and let’s not forget it.”

Wearily, Joey slid down in the seat. “What’s it called when you start hating yourself?”

“A waste of energy.”

“No. Self-loathing, I think. All these questions keep banging around my head. What the hell were you thinking, Joey? Why didn’t you see through this guy? How come you put up with all his •whoring around? Mick, we’re talking about a serious deficiency of self-esteem here.”

She felt a hand lightly brush one of her cheeks. He was checking for tears. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m so over that.”

“Figure we’ve got almost one healthy ego between us. That ought to be enough.”

“Why are you helping me?” Joey heard herself ask.

“Because I miss chasing after guys like Chaz. It was the best part of my job, sending shitheads up the river.”

“You’re not just trying to get in my pants?”

Stranahan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You know, I’d be just fine if you didn’t keep bringing up the subject.”

“God, I’m starved. Let’s grab something to eat.”

“We’ll be home in an hour,” he said.

Joey didn’t argue. She knew how much Mick hated the city.

“Sometimes I think about killing Chaz. Seriously,” she admitted. “Last night I dreamed I beat him to death with one of his umbrellas. Is that crazy?”

Stranahan said she’d be crazy not to feel angry. “But this is a much smarter way of dealing with it. With any luck, neither of us will end up in prison or the nuthouse.”

“Did we really accomplish anything today? I mean, besides watering the lawn.”

“Definitely.” Stranahan patted his breast pocket. “The chart I took from Chaz’s backpack is used for recording phosphorus levels at water-sampling stations. Those were probably the numbers he was writing down that day he wigged out on you.”

“Phosphorus—is that the same as phosphate?” Joey asked. “Like in fertilizer.”

“Yes indeed.”

“Not good for the Everglades.”

“Not according to what I’ve read, no,” Stranahan said.

Joey was struggling to make it all fit. “Okay, say Chaz was slacking at work. Instead of schlepping out to the boonies, he sneaks off to play golf. Later he cooks up a bogus water chart to fool his boss.”

“Sounds like our boy.”

“Then I come home unexpectedly, ask one innocent question,” Joey said, “and he’s so paranoid that he thinks I’ve figured out the whole scam. Caught him red-handed.”

“And then he loses it.”

“Yeah, but hold on. Do you really believe he tried to kill me over that? Over fertilizer?”

“I’m not saying this is the whole answer. It’s just a piece of the puzzle,” Stranahan said.

Joey was skeptical. It seemed entirely possible that Chaz’s tantrum two months ago had nothing to do with what had happened last week on the cruise ship. Even if he’d been fudging some scientific data, the guy wasn’t exactly trading in atomic secrets.

She said, “Before this is over, I want a one-on-one with him. Can you make that happen?”

“Joey, it all depends.”

When they got to Dinner Key, Stranahan parked the Suburban next to the old Cordoba under the ficus tree. A chilly rain started falling as they reached the skiff, and they shared a poncho on the choppy ride out to the island.

Karl Rolvaag drove north on U.S. 27, the glistening sedge of the Everglades giving way to cane fields as far as he could see. At Lake Okeechobee the detective headed west on State Road 80, toward the town of LaBelle. He was taking his time, enjoying the wide-open drive. The flat farmlands checkered in shades of green reminded him of western Minnesota in the summer.

The address of Red’s Tomato Exchange turned out to be the same as that of Hammernut Farms. Rolvaag followed a straight gravel road for a half mile until it dead-ended at a modern brick complex that belonged in a suburban office park. The receptionist peered at Rolvaag’s badge, made a quiet call and then offered him coffee, soda or lemonade. A woman identifying herself as Mr. Hammernut’s “executive assistant” appeared and led the detective to a conference room overlooking a stagnant though perfectly circular pond. On the paneled walls of the room were framed photographs of governors, congressmen, Norman Schwarzkopf, Nancy Reagan, Bill Clinton, the three Bushes and even Jesse Helms—each posing with a shorter, reddish-haired man, whom Rolvaag assumed to be Samuel Johnson Hammernut. Undoubtedly the pictures were displayed to remind Hammernut’s guests that they were dealing with a heavy hitter. From his own hasty Internet research, Rolvaag had learned that Hammernut’s enterprises extended well beyond Florida; soybeans in Arkansas, peanuts in Georgia, cotton in South Carolina. Plainly he made important friends wherever he chose to do business. He’d also gotten into occasional trouble for brutal labor practices and a casual disregard for pollution laws. That he had skated away with only comical fines was hardly surprising to Rolvaag, considering Hammernut’s deep-pocket connections with both political parties.

“Call me Red,” he said after a sniffling and somewhat unimposing entrance. “Damn allergies get me every spring. What can I do you for?”

The detective told Hammernut about the unusual man in the minivan at West Boca Dunes Phase II. “The license tag came back to a Hertz agency. They said the rental was billed to a corporate credit card—Red’s Tomato Exchange.”

Hammernut nodded. “I own that company, yessir. And half a dozen others.”

“You know a person named Earl Edward O’Toole?” “Not off the toppa my head. Did he say he worked for me?” “I didn’t speak with him personally, but I got a good look. He’s a very distinctive individual,” Rolvaag said. “How so?”

“Sizewise.”

“We hire lotsa large fellas out here. Lemme ask Lisbeth.” Hammernut leaned across the table and poked a button on the speaker phone. “Lisbeth, we got anybody on the payroll name of Earl Edward”—he turned back to Rolvaag—”what was it again?”

“O’Toole. That’s what was on the car-rental contract.”

“O’Toole,” Hammernut repeated for Lisbeth, who said she would check. Less than a minute later the phone buzzed. This time Hammernut turned off the speaker and snatched up the receiver.

“Hmmm. Okay, yeah, I think I ‘member him. Thank you, darlin’.”

The detective opened his notebook and waited.

Hammernut hung up and said, “That big ole boy used to be a crew boss round here, but not for some time. I don’t know how he come to get hold of that credit card, but I aim to find out.”

“Do you know where he works now?”

“Nope. Lisbeth says he left on account of medical problems,” Hammernut said. “It’s hard, runnin’ a crew. Maybe he just got broke-down and wore-out.”

Rolvaag went through the motions of scribbling in his notebook. “Can you think of any reason Mr. O’Toole was hanging around that particular neighborhood in Boca? He didn’t hurt anybody, but still it’s a matter of concern for some of the residents—you can understand.”

“Oh hell yes,” Red Hammernut said. “If he’s the same ol’ boy I’m thinkin’ of, he could scare hot piss out of an igloo.”

Rolvaag managed a chuckle. “Mind if I take a look at his personnel file?”

“What file? Ha!” Hammernut roared. “We got, like, index cards. Half these fellas, we’re lucky they cop to their real names. That’s a problem with your itinerant labor.”

The detective nodded commiseratively. “You’d tell me, I’m sure, if your records showed that Mr. O’Toole had a history of violence or mental instability.”

Hammernut sneezed and groped in his pockets for a handkerchief. “Psychos ain’t much use on a farm operation like mine. Somebody turns out to be a goony bird, he don’t last long.”

“But you get all kinds, I bet,” Rolvaag said.

“You say this boy hasn’t hurt nobody, right? I’m curious how come you drove all the way from Broward County to check up on him. Is he what you call ‘under investigation’?”

The detective had no intention of telling Red Hammernut the truth—that he was fishing for leads in a possible homicide; that he had nothing better to do than track down some dumb gorilla who seemed to be surveilling his prime suspect; that he needed an excuse to get out of the office anyway, before Captain Gallo tossed a new case in his lap.

“No, but you’re right. Normally this is worth a phone call,” Rolvaag said, “or even a fax. But some of the folks who live in that neighborhood where Mr. O’Toole was seen … how can I put this? They’ve been very loyal supporters of our sheriff—”

“Meaning they give serious bucks to his re-election campaigns,” Hammernut cut in, “so when they got a problem, the sheriff, he takes a personal interest. Right?”

“I’m glad you understand.” Rolvaag let his gaze wander appreciatively across the photographs on the wall. “I had a feeling you would.”

Hammernut smiled sagely. “Works the same way everywhere, don’t it? Politics, I mean.”

The detective smiled back. “Anyway, I’m supposed to make sure this O’Toole character isn’t some sort of serial killer waiting to pounce on unsuspecting Republican housewives.”

Another cataclysmic sneeze erupted from Hammernut, who swabbed daintily at his florid nose. “You go on home and tell your sheriff not to worry about ol’ Earl Edward whatever. He won’t bother nobody. I’ll see to it.”

Rolvaag put away his notebook and rose to leave. He considered tossing out the name of Charles Perrone to see what reaction it might elicit, but he changed his mind. Red Hammernut was too sharp to admit having a connection to the scientist, if there was one.

The detective said, “You can prosecute Mr. O’Toole for using that credit card.”

“I could do that. I could also get him some, whatchacallit, private counselin’.” Red Hammernut winked. “Big and hairy as he is, I got some boys even bigger and hairier. Know what I mean?”

The detective had not mentioned O’Toole’s startling pelt, which meant that Hammernut plainly remembered the man more clearly than he’d let on.

At the door, the bantam tycoon slapped a hand on Rolvaag’s shoulder and asked if he wanted to take home a crate of fresh-picked escarole. Rolvaag said leafy greens gave him indigestion, but he thanked Hammernut just the same.

Driving back toward the highway, the detective swerved to miss a baby snake that was sunning itself on the gravel. It was a speckled king, the size of a child’s necklace, and right away the detective noticed it was grossly deformed. The snake had been born with only one eye, and on the ebony tip of its nose was a growth the size of an acorn. Rolvaag knew it probably wouldn’t survive much longer, but he released it in a nearby grove anyway.

Thinking: Poor little guy. What a lousy roll of the dice he got.

Red Hammernut remembered the day he first met Charles Perrone. Lisbeth had fluttered into his office, saying there was a young man wanting to see him about a job; a persistent young man, she’d said, wouldn’t speak to anybody but the boss himself. Red Hammernut’s first impulse was to call security and have the impertinent punk heaved off the property, but then he glanced at the man’s resume and said what the hell, give him five minutes. Red Hammernut was curious to know why anybody with a master’s degree in marine biology was so keen on working for a vegetable farm.

Chaz Perrone walked in wearing a blue blazer, tan trousers and a club tie. He pumped Red Hammernut’s hand, installed himself on the other side of the desk and started yakking like he was pushing time-shares. His cockiness was so annoying that Red Hammernut couldn’t help interrupting now and then with a belch, but after a while the young man started making a certain amount of sense.

Perrone opened a file and took out a recent newspaper clipping that Red glumly recognized, the headline reading local farm cited as glades polluter. The article was about a series of water samples taken downstream from Red Hammernut’s vegetable operation. Phosphorus had been measured in suspension at 302 parts per billion, nearly thirty times higher than the legal limit for runoff into the Everglades. By itself, Hammernut Farms was flushing more fertilizer per gallon into South Florida’s water than the state’s largest cattle ranch and sugarcane grower combined, an act of pollution so egregious that even Red Hammernut’s powerful cronies in Washington dared not intercede.