Skinny Dip - Страница 24

"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 Okee-chobee 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 Hammer-nut. 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." Hammer-nut 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?"