by Carl Hiaasen
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 ice-cream 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 re-position 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.
Halfway around the island, Joey said, “You’re in pretty good shape for a geezer.”
Stranahan stopped midstroke and treaded water.
“What’s wrong?” she called out.
Ominously he pointed at the waves beyond her.
Joey spotted the three gray dorsals cutting the surface and let out a shriek. She kicked backward, straight into Mick’s arms.
“Don’t slug me,” he whispered after a few moments, “but those are just dolphins.”
Slowly she exhaled, blinking the salt from her eyes. “So this is how you get your thrills,” she said.
“I’m fairly harmless. You can ask around.”
The dolphins rolled away, and Stranahan lost sight of them in the sun’s glare. Joey kept her arms around his neck, which surprised him.
“That was pretty wild,” she conceded. “Better than the Seaquarium.”
“I see them playing out here all the time. You want to keep going?”
“You mean with the swimming, or the groping?”
“I’m not groping,” Stranahan said, “I’m trying to keep us afloat.”
“Your hand is on my ass.”
“Technically that’s a thigh, and it’s the easiest place to get a grip.”
“Oh, nice,” she said. “How much do you think I weigh?”
“Not with a gun to my head would I answer that question.” He ducked out of her grasp and pushed away.
“A hundred and thirty-one pounds,” Joey announced, smoothing the water from her hair. “But I’m tall. Almost five ten.”
“You look terrific,” he said. “So shut up and let’s swim. This was your brilliant idea, remember?”
Forty-five minutes later they were dry and dressed. He was fixing waffles and she was brewing coffee and the dog was baying at a boat full of snapper fishermen drifting past the island.
Joey said, “Tell me more about the blackmail plan.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” He left the kitchen for a minute and returned with the cell phone, which he handed to her. “Dial your house.”
“No way!”
“You don’t have to talk to him. Just dial the number and give me the phone.”
“He’s got caller ID. He’ll see your name,” Joey said.
“Then do star sixty-seven to block it.”
“Mick, what are you going to say to him?”
“Just do it, please.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Stranahan wedged the receiver under one ear as he tended to the waffles. He spoke in a stage voice that caused Joey to stifle a giggle.
“Is this Charles Perrone? Chaz, we don’t know each other yet, but soon you’ll be giving me a shockingly large sum of money. . . . No, this isn’t the cable company. This is the person who saw you push your lovely wife off the Sun Duchess last Friday night. . . . That’s correct. At eleven p.m. sharp, in a drizzling rain. You grabbed her by the ankles and chucked her overboard. Chaz, you still there? Oh, Cha-az?”
Joey applauded after Mick hung up. “That was Charlton Heston you were doing, right? Back in college we got stoned one night and watched The Ten Commandments and Planet of the Apes back-to-back.”
Stranahan said, “I believe I’ve ruined your husband’s morning.”
“What’d he say?”
“At first he thought I was trying to sell him digital Pay-per-View. Then he accused me of being somebody named Rolvad or Rolvag, playing a sick trick on him. Toward the end it was more of a gurgle, really. Like he’d swallowed some bleach.”
“What you just did, is that legal?” Joey asked.
“Possibly not. I’ll run it by Father Rourke the next time I go to confession.”
“You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Chaz deserved a hot little rocket up the ass.”
“Well, I admire your style.”
“Now, please tell me again,” Stranahan said, “why you married a jerkoff like that.”
Joey’s smile evaporated. “You’d never understand.”
“It’s also none of my business, I admit.”
“No, I’ll tell you why. Because three guys in a row had dumped me for somebody else, okay? Because Chaz sent a single long-stemmed pink rose to my house every day for two weeks after our first date. Because he wrote me mushy notes and called me when he promised and took me out for romantic dinners. I was lonely, and obviously he was a pro at that sort of thing,” Joey said. “And I said yes the second time he asked me to marry him, because honestly I didn’t want to get dumped again. By the way, this is an unbelievably humiliating subject.”
Stranahan said, “For God’s sake, you’re not the first woman to get conned. But then once you realized it was a mistake—"
“Why did I stay married to him? Mick, it was only two years,” she said, “and not all of it was horrible. Let me try to explain this without sounding like a bubblehead—Chaz was good in bed, and I confess there were times when that canceled out his less admirable qualities.”
“I understand perfectly,” Stranahan said. “Hell, that’s the story of my life.” He stacked three waffles on her plate. “Several of my worst marriages were based on dumb lust and not much else. You hungry?”
Joey nodded.
“Me, too,” Stranahan said. “Maple syrup, butter, or both?”
“The works.”
“Thattagirl.”
They were interrupted by Strom yelping in pain. Stranahan ran outside, with Joey close behind. The dog lay at the end of the dock, pawing at an angry knot on his snout. Joey sat down and pulled the whimpering animal onto her lap.
In the water, no more than a hundred feet away, was the boat with the snapper fishermen; four of them, chuckling as they pretended to tend their baits. Stranahan spotted an egg-shaped piece of lead on the dock, and slowly he bent to pick it up.
“What’s that?” Joey said.
“Two-ounce sinker.”
“Oh no.”
Stranahan called out to the men in the boat. “Did you guys throw this at my dog?”
The fishermen glanced over, murmuring among themselves, until finally the largest one piped up: “Damn thing wouldn’t shut up, bro.”
Bro? Stranahan thought. So that’s what I’m dealing with. “Come over here,” he said. “We need to talk.”
“Go fuck yourself!” shouted another of the fishermen, a smaller version of the first. “And your puta girlfriend too.” Defiantly he swung back his fishing rod and cast a heavy yellow jig at the dock. It landed short, making a hollow plonk in the water.
Stranahan said to Joey: “Please take Strom inside the house.”
“Why? What’re you going to do?”
“Go.”
“No way am I leaving you alone out here with those morons.”
“I won’t be alone,” he said.
Stranahan counted three separate breaches of etiquette for which the fishermen deserved rebuke. The first was the casual manner in which they’d violated his privacy by coming so close to the island. The second was their contemptible assault on a rather dull-witted beast that was merely doing its job. The third was the coarse insult directed at Joey Perrone, who had done nothing to provoke it.
From the kitchen window, Joey could see the boat motoring toward the dock, all four of the fishermen now standing in anticipation of a fight. Stranahan disappeared briefly inside the shed. He emerged with what he later would identify as a Ruger Mini-14, a semi-automatic rifle of formidable caliber.
The intruders’ boat was equipped with a ninety-horsepower Mercury outboard, into which Stranahan methodically fired three rounds. The men could be seen throwing their arms high in frantic gestures of surrender, and their fearful pleas were audible to Joey even through the closed windows. She couldn’t make out Stranahan’s precise instructions, but the fishermen dropped to their knees, leaned over the gunwales and began paddling with their arms. The visual effect was that of an addled centipede in a toilet bowl.
Joey tied Strom’s leash to a leg of the kitchen table and hurried outside. Stranahan stood with the rifle on one shoulder as he watched the boat laboring crazily toward the mainland.
“So, that’s your gun,” Joey said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m impressed.”
�
��They were, too.”
“What you did just now, was it legal?”
Mick Stranahan turned to look at her. “Please don’t ask me that question again.”
Eleven
Tool twisted the AC knob to maximum high and it still felt like a hundred damn degrees inside the minivan. American-made, too, which he thought was disgraceful. Florida, of all places, you don’t rent out vehicles with cheap-ass air conditioners.
Not even nine in the morning and already Tool was sweating off the fentanyl patches. To cool down, he removed his boots and overalls, then chugged a liter of Mountain Dew that he’d picked up at the Circle K on Powerline. Fiddling with the radio, he miraculously located a decent country station. Shania Twain was singing about how much fun it was to be a woman, though Tool couldn’t see how that could be true. Just about every female he’d ever known, starting with his mother, seemed perpetually pissed off at the human race. Or could be it was just me in particular, Tool thought.
At half-past nine, the man he was bodyguarding emerged from the house and hurried up the street toward the minivan. Up close he looked shiny and clean-cut—awful damn young to be a widower, Tool mused. You couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the guy’s old lady.
Charles Perrone motioned him to roll down the window. “Have you seen anybody strange hanging around?”
“Whole goddamn place is strange, you want my opinion,” Tool said. “But no, I ain’t seen nobody ain’t supposed to be here.”
“You sure? Because I think they got into my house again.”
“Not while I was here they didn’t.”
The man looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. “Somebody mutilated one of my favorite pictures,” he said.
Tool was skeptical. “You want, I’ll follow you to work and hang close today. Just in case.”
Charles Perrone said he wasn’t going to work. “How come you’re not wearing any clothes?” he asked Tool.
“ ’Cause inside this van it’s hotter’n a elephant fart. Hey, Red says you’re a doctor.”
