Skinny Dip - Страница 29

A putter was propped against one of the wheelchair's tires; three shiny new golf balls were lined up on the carpet.

Stranahan sat down in front of the desk. "Does the bar association know you can walk? Or is there no rule against impersonating a cripple on TV?"

Kipper Garth bristled. "It's what they call a 'dramatic re-creation.' "

"Try 'misrepresentation,' " said Stranahan, "with the stink of fraud. How about it, jocko? Are you going to help me, or do I make the phone call?"

"Katie would never forgive you."

"She did the last time."

Kipper Garth's neck turned crimson. Many years earlier, Stranahan had voluntarily testified against him in a grievance hearing that had unfolded poorly for the lawyer. Disbarment had seemed inevitable, until a cuckolded husband had beaned Kipper Garth with a jai alai ball, knocking him out of action and thereby sparing the Florida Bar a mountain of paperwork.

"Mick, this really isn't up my alley." Kipper Garth, smoothing his necktie and brushing invisible lint from his lapels. "Here"-he reached for his Filofax-"let me give you some names."

Stranahan leaned over and grabbed his wrist. "It's boilerplate, jocko. A first-year law student could do this blindfolded."

Kipper Garth pulled his arm away, though not too assertively. He knew enough of his brother-in-law's volcanic history to avoid physical confrontation. He also knew that the wheelchair caper was but one of many transgressions that Mick had learned about and, strategically, kept to himself.

Stranahan unfolded a yellow piece of lined paper and pushed it across the desk, saying, "That's everything you'll need."

The information seemed innocuous and straightforward. Kipper Garth was sure that his secretary could format a suitable document with the office software. "All right, Mick, I'll do this for you," he said, motioning toward the double doors. "Go ahead and bring her in."

"Who?" Stranahan said.

"The client."

"Oh, she's not here."

Kipper Garth looked puzzled. "Why not?"

"Because she's missing."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, she is and she isn't," Stranahan said.

"You mean, like, Amelia Earhart-type missing or escaped prisoner-type missing?" Kipper Garth was clutching to the hope that his brother-in-law was joking.

"It's complicated," said Stranahan.

"But I'll need a signature, obviously."

"Tell you what. Just leave that part blank."

Kipper Garth felt his gut tighten. "The signature is supposed to be witnessed."

"I was counting on the blind loyalty of your secretarial staff. Hey, I almost forgot-date it in early March, would you?"

"For next year?"

Stranahan said, "No, this year. Date it four weeks ago."

His brother-in-law's voice deflated to a plaintive rasp. "Mick, come on, I could get prosecuted for this."

"Aw, they wouldn't do that to a man in a wheelchair."

"I'm serious! The shit hits the fan, I'll deny everything."

"I would expect no less," Stranahan said.

Kipper Garth held up the yellow paper and shook it. "What the hell's this all about? What have you got yourself into?"

Mick Stranahan glanced impatiently at his wristwatch. "We're wasting precious time, jocko," he said. "Chop chop."

For the second day in a row, Charles Perrone called in sick to the water district. Ricca came over and brought him lunch-a ham sandwich, nacho chips and a lobster salad. What the neighbors might think of his voluptuous female visitor was no longer high on Chaz's list of concerns; he had more urgent problems.

"What's the matter?" Ricca asked.

"You name it."

"Wanna talk?"

"Nope."

He led her to the bedroom and undressed her. Twenty-five minutes later she rolled wearily off the mattress and re-fastened her bra. "I'm sorry, baby. I gotta get back to work."

Chaz Perrone flicked at himself, as slack as a noodle, under the sheets. "I can't fucking believe this."

"Hey, it happens to all guys. Like I said before." Ricca was in the bathroom, trying to sound as if she wasn't disappointed. She emerged brushing her hair with military briskness. "You'd tell me if there was someone else, wouldn't you, Chaz?"

"Jesus."

"I don't want to be the last to know."

He said, "Keep talking and I'll be shopping the Internet for an implant."

She picked up her handbag and kissed him on the nose. "You'll be okay, baby. You're just having a tough time moving on, that's all."

"Don't start. I'm begging you."

"After the memorial, you'll be good as new," Ricca said. "Once you say good-bye to Joey, it's back to your old studly self."

Chaz scowled. "I already said good-bye."

"I don't think you have. I think that's the problem."

Minutes after Ricca departed, Chaz heard Tool come in the front door. He poked his anvil-size head in the bedroom and asked with dull indifference if everything was cool.

"Yeah. Peachy."

"Who was the girl? I seen her car here before."

"Grief counselor," Chaz said.

Tool eyed the doctor's trousers and boxer shorts, which were crumpled in a heap by the bed. He said, "When my momma passed, they sent a Pentecostal preacher by the house."

"Everybody's got their own way of coping. Did you find your stick-ems?"

"Just one so far. But it's brand-new." Tool pivoted to exhibit the shaved spot where he'd slapped the fentanyl patch on his shoulder blade. "Maybe I'll go crash for a spell," he said.

Charles Perrone waved. "Sweet dreams."

He waited until Tool disappeared into the guest room, then reached into the nightstand and took out his new gun. Overwhelmed by the selection at Wal-Mart, he'd gone to a pawnshop in Margate, where an imaginatively tattooed neo-Nazi had sold him a basic Colt.38. Sitting in bed now, Chaz hefted the blue-plated pistol from one hand to the other and wondered about its murky provenance. For all he knew, it could have been used in some vicious robbery, or even to kill a person. There was a box of hollow-point bullets in the drawer, but Chaz was hesitant to load the weapon. He'd once heard on CNN that homeowners who buy guns for protection are about fifty times more likely to shoot themselves, or be shot, than they are to cap an intruder. Since he'd never fired anything more powerful than a BB rifle, Chaz inserted the bullets with the utmost care.

After returning the.38 to the drawer, he sank into a melancholy rumination. What if flaky Ricca was right? He'd purged every remnant of his dead wife from the house, and still his pecker remained obstinately on strike. Although he'd never confess it to Ricca, the only time Chaz experienced the slightest twitch of spontaneous lust was when he thought about Joey. That morning in the shower, for example, he'd been going over the crime moment by moment in his head-why, he didn't know. Remembering the tang of the ocean; the drizzling rain on his face; the amber lights lining the rails of the deck; the low, heavy drone of the ship's engines.

And Joey's ankles. That's what had done it for him-remembering how silky and warm her ankles had felt when he'd grabbed them. God, what outstanding legs!

Feeling a blissfully familiar pulsation, Chaz had peeked down to greet his little perpendicular accomplice. Avidly he had hunched over on himself, kneading and tugging to no avail, until finally the hot water ran out and all was lost.

So, it's possible that Ricca is right, he thought. Maybe his subconscious hadn't yet let go of Joey, though it was only the sexual part of the marriage that he missed. Otherwise I'm as steady as an ox, Chaz assured himself; I did what had to be done. Sooner or later his wife would have caught him screwing around and, out of spite, ratted on him for faking the Everglades data. She would have ruined everything-his credentials as a biologist, his secret pact with Red, his whole golden future.

Because she knew the truth. Of course she did. Hadn't she seen it with her own eyeballs, him forging the water charts?

I only did what was necessary, Chaz thought, and I could do it again.

On impulse he snatched the phone and dialed a golfing buddy, a well-known wild man on the weekend club scene. "You know those pills you tried to feed me at Richardson's bachelor party? I've got a friend wants to try the stuff."

"A friend. Sure, Chaz."

"Jesus, they're not for me! My wife just died, in case you hadn't heard. What kind of a heartless prick do you think I am?"

"Sorry, man. I'm really sorry. How many does he want? Your friend."

"I don't know-what's in a starter kit?" Chaz asked. "Haifa dozen?"

"No problemo."

"And you said they're stronger than what doctors give out?"

"Oh yeah. The FDA definitely would not approve."

"Where you at now? Have you got 'em on you?"

"I'm hitting a bucket of balls at Boca Pines North. Your friend's in a hurry, huh?"

"Yeah. I think he's got a hot date."

"Meet me at the clubhouse in, like, an hour."

"Perfect," Chaz said. "I owe you one."

"Hey, don't worry about it." Then, after a discomfited pause: "Man, it's really terrible what happened to Joey-that's gotta be so fucking rough. How you hangin' in?"

"Oh, some days are better than others," said Chaz Perrone.

After leaving Kipper Garth's law office, Mick Stranahan went back to Dinner Key to see if Joey had returned to the marina. There was no sign of his kayak or the rented Suburban.

Stranahan didn't feel like driving up to Boca, but he couldn't wait in Coconut Grove all afternoon; these days he had no patience for anything but fishing. From his billfold he retrieved a scrap of paper on which he had written the tag number of the blue Ford belonging to Chaz Perrone's mistress of the moment. Only two investigators at the State Attorney's Office remembered Stranahan favorably enough to help, and he phoned one of them as he headed north on the interstate. By the time he passed the county line, Stranahan had a name, age, address, marital status and occupation.