by Carl Hiaasen
“You betcha,” Rolvaag said.
“Can I ask what the hell it’s doing out here?”
Unlike most of the other detectives, Rolvaag never felt comfortable lying to Captain Gallo’s face, even when it was the eminently sensible thing to do. This time he gave it a try.
“It’s for my snakes. There are too many chemicals in the water coming out of the tap,” Rolvaag said. “All that fluoride and chlorine, it’s not healthy for them.”
“And that shit is?” Gallo asked incredulously. “You’re a head case, Karl, no offense. Who else do you know has pets that need swamp water and live rats?”
The detective shrugged. Telling Gallo the truth wouldn’t have accomplished anything. He would have scoffed at Rolvaag’s field trip as a waste of time, which it most definitely was not. Using Marta’s map, Rolvaag had located by automobile a sampling site adjacent to Hammernut Farms. There he had waded barefoot into the cattails and filled three mason jars with water the color of root beer, which he’d delivered to a professor friend at Florida Atlantic University. Rolvaag’s amateur samples had revealed illegal levels of suspended phosphorus at 317, 327 and 344 parts per billion, respectively. The figures contrasted dramatically with Dr. Charles Perrone’s suspiciously consistent findings of only 9 ppb in the runoff from the vegetable fields.
Rolvaag did not share his own test results—or his damning conclusions—with Perrone’s co-workers at the water district. While politely deflecting their questions, he’d gotten the distinct impression that none of them would be heartbroken to see Chaz dragged off in handcuffs. The detective had offered no details about his investigation, for it was possible that the scientist’s fraudulent water charts were unrelated to the death of his wife. If Joey Perrone’s last will and testament was authentic, Chaz might have killed her purely for the money. If the will was a forgery and Joey’s inheritance was not an incentive, Chaz might have killed her for any one of a dozen pedestrian reasons that drove spouses to homicide.
Explaining the phosphorus scam would have brought either a blank stare or a skeptical snort from Captain Gallo, who’d have instantly pointed out the difficulty of selling such an arcane motive to a homicide jury. Nonetheless, the fact that Charles Perrone was faking the Everglades data was a valuable piece of information for Karl Rolvaag. It put the strange blackmail scheme into a more ominous context, considering what was at stake for Samuel Johnson Hammernut. Disclosure of his illicit arrangement with the biologist would be devastating, financially and politically. The pollution violations would draw hefty government fines, and bribing a state employee was a felony punishable by a hitch in prison. Even if Red Hammernut managed to escape conviction, the publicity alone would forever stain the reputation of his company. Rolvaag believed that the crusty tycoon would do whatever was necessary to protect himself from the blackmailer and also from Chaz Perrone, whose loyalty would evaporate as soon as the cell door slammed behind him.
When Gallo asked how the case was going, Rolvaag said, “Not so great. I’m getting mixed opinions on Mrs. Perrone’s will. Her brother says it’s a fake. Unfortunately, so does one of my two handwriting experts.”
“Does that mean somebody’s trying to set hubby up for a fall?”
“Possibly. Chaz hasn’t got many admirers.”
Rolvaag sneezed convulsively. It was one of those days when the captain had put on his cologne with a fire hose.
“Too bad about the will,” Gallo said. “I thought we had our lucky break.”
“Me, too.”
“So you’re finally ready to bag it?” Gallo asked hopefully.
“Unless something breaks loose, I don’t know what else to do,” Rolvaag said. In truth he knew exactly what to do: sit back and watch.
“No sense banging my head against the wall,” he added.
“You gave it a helluva shot,” Gallo said.
“Oh well.”
“By the way, Karl, I got your paperwork on the resignation. I tore it up and threw it in the trash.”
Rolvaag said, “That’s all right. I made copies.”
“Would you knock it off already?”
“I’m quitting, Captain. Seriously.”
“For Edina, Minnesota? Leaving Florida?”
“Honestly, I can’t wait.”
Another dog, a toy poodle, had gone missing at Sawgrass Grove. Rolvaag had never heard of binge feeding by pythons, but he couldn’t discount the possibility. Something seemed to be preying on his neighbors’ pets, and his missing snakes were prime suspects. The detective planned to mail an anonymous check for one thousand dollars to each of the grieving couples, an act that would clear not only his conscience but also his bank account.
“You’ve got a bright future here,” Gallo said.
Rolvaag tried not to appear amused.
“The man himself has taken notice of your good work,” Gallo added in a confidential tone. The man being the sheriff.
“I thought he was ticked off about me interviewing Hammernut,” Rolvaag said.
“Hell, no, Karl. He was just covering his ass is all. He’s a big fan, trust me.”
The detective did not for a moment suppose that the sheriff was a “fan,” and he could barely summon the energy to act flattered.
Gallo said, “For Christ’s sake, what have I gotta do to change your mind? And don’t say ‘Indict Charles Perrone.’ ”
Rolvaag smiled. “Don’t worry.”
The detective had accepted the fact that Perrone would never be charged with murdering his wife, even though he had most certainly pushed her off the cruise ship. What had saved Rolvaag from abject discouragement were the jars of cloudy liquid on his desk; swamp water salted with the harshest man-made fertilizers. That Chaz Perrone would betray a place as hallowed as the Everglades for money was proof of his congenital dishonesty, rancid morals and general worthlessness. Yet while the discovery of the biologist’s sleazy crime had confirmed Rolvaag’s suspicions about the so-called scientist, it was more ironic than revelatory.
Because Charles Regis Perrone was doomed.
The detective had never been more sure of anything. After sifting every wisp of information that he’d gathered, Rolvaag realized that he needn’t waste another minute trying to send Chaz Perrone to Death Row.
The man was already a goner. Toast.
He was arrogant and impulsive, and Samuel Johnson Hammernut was going to make him disappear. Even had Rolvaag wished to intercede, he would only be delaying the inevitable.
Chaz Perrone was, as his brother-in-law had observed, a hopeless fuckwit. If for a moment he feared that his fakery of the pollution data would be exposed, Perrone would immediately roll over and rat on Red Hammernut, meanwhile casting himself in the least felonious light. And who would foresee this scenario sooner or more clearly than the man who’d recruited the young biologist precisely for his cravenness and casual mendacity? Red Hammernut could smell a butt fuck coming a mile away, and he’d never stand still for it.
Karl Rolvaag could now leave South Florida with a measure of peace, if not satisfaction. Chaz Perrone would never be prosecuted for killing his wife, but he would be punished.
All that remained to nag at the detective was a solitary loose end, something that had turned up on a routine inquiry to American Express. In the twelve days since Joey Perrone went overboard, somebody had used her credit card to rent a Chevrolet Suburban, and also to purchase women’s shoes, makeup, designer sunglasses and numerous articles of fine clothing, including a two-piece Burberry swimsuit. Rolvaag didn’t believe that Chaz Perrone was reckless enough (or tasteful enough) to embark on such a shopping spree, though it was possible that one of his female acquaintances had found and pocketed Joey’s gold AmEx while visiting Chaz’s house.
“I can’t believe you’re actually boxing up all your shit,” Gallo was complaining, his knuckles planted on Rolvaag’s desk. “I can’t fucking believe you’re going through with this.”
The detective smiled apologetically. “I
miss the snow,” he said.
One more visit to West Boca Dunes Phase II. Then he could start loading the U-Haul.
Twenty-five
Charles Perrone said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Red says different.” Tool leaned against the refrigerator, gnawing a stick of beef jerky and sucking at a jumbo Mountain Dew.
“I don’t care what Red says!”
Rolled in Chaz’s right hand was the Sun-Sentinel, which he brandished like a lead pipe. A notice on the obituary page said that Joey’s brother was holding a memorial service at St. Conan’s on Thursday morning, and that Joey’s friends and loved ones were invited to “come share their memories and celebrate her effervescent life spirit.”
Spare me, Chaz thought. A photograph, taken when Joey was about eighteen, accompanied the announcement. Now the phone was ringing off the wall and that New Zealand nutcase, Corbett, had left a pushy message telling Chaz to write up a five-minute speech.
“You better damn well care what Red says,” Tool warned.
“Oh yeah?”
The deterioration of Chaz’s mental state had failed to shake his hope that the last will and testament in Detective Rolvaag’s possession was authentic, and that ultimately he’d be inheriting $13 million from Joey’s estate—at which point he could say adios to Samuel Johnson Hammernut, and thereafter never set foot in that godforsaken sump known as the Everglades.
“He says it’ll look real bad,” Tool went on, “you don’t show up at your own wife’s service.”
“I don’t care how it looks. I won’t go.”
Chaz’s nerves were still jangled from the helicopter blitz, which in his memory loop now seemed less like the chase scene from GoodFellas and more like the flying-monkey scene from The Wizard of Oz. Meanwhile, Red Hammernut had offered no response to Chaz’s accusatory phone call from the levee, and the uneasy silence only added to a cascade of anxieties. What a psychological pounding Chaz had endured since that night on the Sun Duchess—the creepy break-ins at the house; the lurking detective; the witness turned smartass blackmailer; the Ricca crisis; and now mysterious spy choppers!
Chaz’s current game plan was not to leave the walled confines of West Boca Dunes Phase II until the rest of the fucking world stopped picking on him.
“I won’t go to the service,” he repeated with ill-advised defiance.
Tool capped the jug of Mountain Dew, calmly stepped up to Chaz and decked him with it. When he tried to get up, Tool bonked him again. The second blow busted a seam in the plastic bottle, unleashing a stinging green fizz that sprayed Chaz flush in the face. Tool jerked him off the floor and said, “Somebody’s ringin’ the doorbell. Get rid of ’em.”
Chaz thrashed his head violently, collapsed to his knees and scuttled like a wounded crab beneath the kitchen table.
Tool sighed. “Swear to God, I wisht I’d had your sorry ass in one a my tomato crews.”
He trudged to the front door and flung it open. The cop was standing there, holding a briefcase. Tool nodded him inside.
“Is Mr. Perrone here?” Karl Rolvaag asked.
“In the kitchen.” Tool spun on a booted heel and headed to his bedroom for a snooze.
The detective found Chaz rocking in a fetal position beneath the table. “Bad day?” he asked.
“Stomach problems.” Chaz was relieved that his reflex to lie was unimpaired.
Rolvaag joined him on the floor. “I’ve got a couple of questions that can’t wait.”
“What else is new.” Chaz pawed miserably at his burning eyelids.
“Your wife had an American Express card.”
“So do the frigging Muppets.”
“Where is Joey’s?” the detective asked.
“Like I told you before, I got rid of all her stuff. Everything,” Chaz said. “It was too painful having it around the house. The credit card was probably in one of her purses that I threw away.”
“Which purse? The one she had on the cruise?”
“How should I know? I tossed ’em all.”
“Any chance that the card and her driver’s license were stolen?” Rolvaag asked.
Chaz uncurled slowly and rose to a sitting position. He thought about the break-ins—wouldn’t it be just his luck if the blackmailer had rifled through the boxes in the garage and found Joey’s AmEx?
“Reason I ask, the card has been used several times since your wife disappeared,” the detective said.
“Not by me!”
“Mostly for ladies’ apparel, makeup, that sort of thing.”
Chaz was honestly baffled. He hoped that it showed.
“Would any of your wife’s friends do something like that? Or any of your friends?” Rolvaag asked.
Chaz knew what the detective meant: girls Chaz might be boffing on the side. He said, “How would they get hold of her card? I’d have to be a complete idiot!”
Rolvaag’s expression indicated that the possibility had occurred to him.
It had to be the blackmailer, Chaz thought. Or maybe Ricca. Who else had been inside his house and could have swiped Joey’s American Express card?
“Hey. What about Mr. O’Toole?” Chaz blurted eagerly.
The detective smiled. “I can’t see him in a Burberry bikini, but you never know.”
“Well, maybe he’s got a girlfriend,” Chaz said, thinking: And maybe someday cows will play lacrosse.
“Hey, you know what? I bet Joey’s credit card got stolen on the cruise ship,” he said excitedly. “Those cabin attendants, they all had master keys to the staterooms.”
Rolvaag conceded it was possible. “In any case, you might want to notify American Express and cancel your wife’s account.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Chaz said, although he’d never get around to doing it. In idle moments he would find himself daydreaming about the many slender, dark-skinned beauties who worked aboard the Sun Duchess, and wondering which of them was now lounging on a beach in Aruba, sunning herself in a new Burberry two-piece.
When Rolvaag returned to the office, Captain Gallo intercepted him at the door. “Mrs. Perrone’s brother is here. He looks like he’s auditioning for an Outback commercial.”
Corbett Wheeler stood in the waiting area, chatting earnestly with a spindly, gap-toothed woman whose crack-addled offspring had just been caught stealing the air bags out of a marked police cruiser. Wheeler wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long cowboy-style coat, and he carried a wooden staff that looked sturdy enough to pound fence posts. When Rolvaag walked up and introduced himself, Wheeler thrust a large brown envelope at him.
“My sister’s will,” he said. “The real will.”
“Let’s go back to my desk. You want some coffee?”
Joey’s brother idly leafed through a book of mug shots while Rolvaag studied the old will. It divided Joey’s fortune among several charities and conservation groups, the largest share going to the World Wildlife Mission. The detective took out the document that had been sent to him and carefully compared the two signatures. Although they were not identical, they weren’t so dissimilar as to rule out the newer one as a forgery.
Corbett Wheeler held up the mug-shot album and asked, “Who are these people?” His expression was that of an anthropologist who had stumbled upon evidence of a lost tribe.
“Known burglars,” Rolvaag replied.
“That’s amazing. These are only the known ones?”
“Just the ones who work the beaches. We’ve got four more volumes that cover the rest of the county.”
Corbett Wheeler closed the album. “That lady I was talking to earlier—is her son’s picture in here?”
“If it’s not, it will be.”
“Lord. How do you do this every day without going mad?”
“Actually, I’m moving back to Minnesota.”
“Good for you. And they’ve got no crime up there?”
“Sure, but it’s seasonal,” Rolvaag said. “Breaking and entering is hard work when it’s twenty below. Th
e crowbar tends to freeze to your fingers.”
He laid the two wills side by side on the desktop, so that Joey’s brother could examine the signatures. “I’m no expert,” Corbett Wheeler said, “but yours looks like a trace job.”
“A pretty good one, if it is.”
“Well, Chaz Perrone has had plenty of opportunity to practice.” Corbett Wheeler was well aware that the fake will had been drawn up by Mick Stranahan’s shyster brother-in-law, then signed by Stranahan with deliberate though subtle imperfections. Corbett had a role to play, as Stranahan did.
“Joey wouldn’t leave a penny to Chaz. Take my word for it.”
“I wish I could,” the detective said.
“Meaning you haven’t got enough to arrest him.”
“Correct.”
Corbett Wheeler shrugged. “Too bad. But you know something? I’m a firm believer that what goes around comes around.”
Rolvaag thought of Chaz’s dicey status with Red Hammernut, but he said nothing. “Would you mind if I came to the service?”
“Noon tomorrow. Be my guest.” Corbett Wheeler leaned closer. “The bereaved widower will be delivering a eulogy.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Joey’s brother stood up and shook Rolvaag’s hand solidly. “Thanks for trying.”
“It’s been a tough case, unfortunately.”
“What happened on that cruise ship was no accident, believe me. That low-life yuppie turdhopper shoved my little sister overboard.”
Rolvaag said, “That’s what I think, too. Proving it is the pisser.”
He accompanied Corbett Wheeler to the waiting area, which had been taken over by a troop of visiting Boy Scouts. Rolvaag himself had been a Scout when he was a teenager, back in the Twin Cities. His most enduring memory was of the day he’d nearly sliced off his thumb while whittling a miniature totem pole.
“They do any sheep farming up in Minnesota?” Corbett Wheeler asked.
“Yes, I believe they do.”
“You should give it a try, Karl, if you ever burn out on police work. The lamb is a universal symbol of innocence, you know.”
