Skinny Dip - Страница 52

"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 worth-lessness. 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 craven-ness 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 swim-suit. 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.