Skinny Dip - Страница 30

Ricca Jane Spillman held a cosmetology license from the state of Florida, so it was simply a matter of figuring out where she worked. Stranahan made a pit stop in Hallandale to find a pay phone, ripping a sheaf of beauty-salon listings from the Yellow Pages. He narrowed his search to the western suburbs of northern Broward, and after only fifty-five minutes of blind calling he located Chaz's girlfriend. She was a senior stylist/colorist at a shop called Hair Jordan, and by chance she happened to have an opening at 5:30 p.m.

Like many of Boca's finest establishments, the salon was shoe-horned into a coral-colored strip mall. Mick Stranahan parked the rust-eaten Cordoba in the rear, where it was less likely to draw stares. He drew a few himself as he walked through the door of Hair Jordan in his grease-stained shirt, faded khakis and scuffed Top-Siders. Taking cover behind a magazine, Stranahan attempted to immerse himself in the travails of Eminem, a deep though conflicted young man. Apparently wealth, fame and unlimited sex are nice, but true spiritual happiness must come from within.

"Mr. Smith? Hi."

It was Ricca, motioning for Stranahan to follow her. "You can bring the magazine if you like."

He was somewhat embarrassed by his hair, which was tacky with salt and piled oddly to one side, a result of the windy boat ride across Biscayne Bay. Ricca said nothing about it, but during the shampoo she commented admiringly on his deep tan. Stranahan said that his job kept him out in the sun.

"Yeah? Where do you work?" she asked, lightly toweling his head.

"On a cruise ship."

"Oh."

Stranahan watched her expression closely in the mirror. "You ever been on one?"

"A cruise? No," Ricca said, less bubbly than before.

"The ships are like a city, they're so big."

She removed a pair of shears from the sterilizer. "How short do you like it-tops of the ears?"

"I was thinking of a buzz cut, like Clint Eastwood had in that Grenada movie."

"Okay."

"Just kidding," Stranahan said. He let her work in silence for a few minutes-Ricca obviously distracted-before he started up again. "Do you get seasick? Lots of people do."

"Sometimes," she said. "What exactly do you do on the ship? Your job, I mean."

"Security."

"Oh wow."

Stranahan bowed his head to accommodate the arc of her trimming. "As I said, it's like a city. Good citizens, bad citizens."

"But it's mostly drunks, right? They don't have, like, serious crimes out there."

"You'd be surprised," he said. "Just the other night, some guy pushed his wife overboard."

The snip-snip-snip of the shears ceased. Ricca's eyes locked on Stranahan's in the mirror.

"That's not funny, Mr. Smith."

"Oh, I'm dead serious," he said. "Took her by the legs and flipped her over the rail."

"Oh my God."

Stranahan put on an apologetic smile. "Here I am, trying to talk you into a tropical cruise, and I end up scaring you with some awful story. I'm sorry, I really am."

"No, it's my fault for asking."

Ricca's hands were trembling so badly now that she slapped the scissors down on a tray; picked up a comb and started dragging it mechanically through his half-cut hair.

Stranahan felt sorry for her. He felt sorry for any woman who'd bought into Charles Perrone's bullshit.

In a small voice she asked: "What'd they do to the guy?"

"He got away, believe it or not."

"B-but… how?"

"At least he thought he did." Stranahan winked. "The sonofabitch didn't know that someone saw the whole thing. Me."

By now Ricca was in no condition to handle sharp instruments, so Stranahan removed the shiny barber's sheet from around his neck.

Stepping back from the chair, Ricca said, "Who are you?"

Keeping her voice low so that Mr. Jordan, the owner, wouldn't know that something was wrong.

Stranahan took out a twenty and placed it on the tray beside the scissors. "Chaz didn't tell you how it went down?"

She shook her head stiffly. "He said it was a accident."

"Oh no, it was murder. Premeditated."

"Why d-didn't you, like… stop him?"

"Happened too fast. One second she's standing there, the next she's shark chum. Just like that!" Stranahan snapped his fingers sharply.

Ricca jumped. "No way. Chaz said he was sleeping when it happened."

"He's lying to you, Ricca," Stranahan said. "He's an extremely bad person. A coldhearted killer, if you want the truth. My advice is to find yourself a new boyfriend."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Chazzie's future business partner. Tell him I dropped by."

"How'd you find me? You'd better go right now."

"Sure," Stranahan said. "But you should know that Dr. Perrone's life is about to get infinitely more complicated. Keep the car running."

"Get out!" she whispered.

Stranahan ate dinner at a Thai joint at the other end of the mall. Ricca's blue Ford was gone when he passed the salon on the way out. Either she was on her way to confront Chaz or was hurrying home to bolt the door, fix herself a drink and contemplate the disquieting fact that she was dating a murderer.

The short drive to West Boca Dunes Phase II took nearly thirty minutes in rush hour traffic. Stranahan was homicidal by the time he turned down Chaz Perrone's street, but he grinned at the sight of the rented Suburban-his yellow kayak strapped to the racks-parked in the driveway of the fugitive telemarketers. He pulled in next to the green barge, rolled down the window and waited for Joey to do the same. Nothing happened. Peering through the tinted glass, Stranahan realized with a pitching heart that the Suburban was empty.

"Hell," he said, and turned his gaze on the Perrone residence. Joey had snuck inside again, which was problematic, since her husband's yellow Hummer was parked out front. So was a dark sedan, either a Grand Marquis or a Crown Vic.

Stranahan was out of his car and moving quickly when a third vehicle rolled up behind the Humvee. It was a white Toyota or possibly an Audi-Stranahan couldn't be certain in the twilight. He shoved his hands in his pockets and slowed to a casual stroll, watching as a woman with frizzy red hair and wind-chime earrings got out of the car.

As Stranahan neared the house, the front door swung open and there was Charles Perrone, holding what looked like a bottle of wine. With the other hand he beckoned the red-haired woman inside.

So it's a party, thought Mick Stranahan. How nice.

Fifteen

Joey Perrone had planned nothing more sinister than a shopping trip. At Dinner Key she hauled the kayak out of the water and tied it on top of the Suburban. Then she drove to Merrick Park, where she purchased a shoulder bag, a bikini, four pairs of Italian shoes, a canvas ball cap and hilarious Versace sunglasses. She was feeling almost human by the time she stopped at the Andalusia Bakery in search of a Key lime tart.

Then out of nowhere it hit her again, the fact that her husband had very nearly murdered her. If she hadn't known how to dive, she wouldn't be alive to enjoy the sunshine on her bare arms, Norah Jones on the radio, the scent of new purse leather. It had been Chaz's wish for her to end up in the steaming belly of a shark, or nibbled to pieces by crabs and needlefish.

That asshole, thought Joey, and headed straight for the interstate. Fifty minutes later she was removing the spare key from the bird feeder in her backyard. She entered the house through the rear door and turned off the alarm. A heavy chill took hold of her as she prowled through the familiar rooms; there was no trace of her anywhere.

From past incursions Joey was aware that Chaz had removed the obvious reminders-photographs, clothes, CDs. Now, though, even more was missing. Paintings and pencil sketches that she had picked out were gone from the walls. A crystal figurine of a dolphin that she'd given him for Valentine's Day had been taken from the bookcase. Four silver candle holders, a wedding present from her brother, had disappeared from the china cabinet. Her antique jewelry box was nowhere to be found.

Even in the kitchen, Chaz had expunged all traces. Where was the orchid that had hung in the window? Her coffee mug? The copper pot she'd bought for boiling his precious fucking spaghetti? It was as if she had never lived there, never been there, never existed.

Joey took a steak knife from a drawer and stalked to the bedroom with the notion of slashing his new silk sheets, which smelled like they'd been laundered in stale sangria. Chaz, so particular about Joey's perfumes, evidently let his bimbos drench themselves with any maggot-gagging aroma that happened to be on sale.

She raised the knife over her head, but that was as far as it got. This is pathetic, she thought, and not very original. She dropped the knife and flopped down on the bed-her side of the bed. She stared at the popcorn ceiling as she had hundreds of nights before, only now she felt like an intruder.

Which she was.

She had to give Chaz credit. He had thoroughly erased her from the home that had once been theirs. Joey's shoulders started shaking and her knees drew up, and she realized she was sobbing. It made her angry-no, furious-to be crying over a man who wanted her dead.

Just stop it! she told herself. Stop right now.

This isn't about losing Chaz. This is about pride and self-image and all that Dr. Phil crapola. How could my own husband come to hate me so much? What did I ever do to him?

"Nothing."

This Joey stated aloud, between sniffles.

"Not a damn thing."

She sat up, dabbing at her eyes with the top sheet.