Skinny Dip - Страница 7

"I don't even know your last name," she said.

"Stranahan."

"And exactly what do you do, Mr. S., besides plucking damsels from the deep blue sea?"

"Actually, it wasn't so deep. Maybe twenty feet where I found you."

"Okay, that's enough. You're determined to spoil this whole adventure for me," Joey said. "It's bad enough that I apparently owe my life to some Rastafarian pot smuggler. Now you tell me I was, like, five minutes from the beach at the time of my so-called rescue."

"Would it help if I said I saw a fifteen-foot hammerhead in that very same place last week?"

"You're kidding."

Stranahan shook his head. "Seriously. It was eating a stingray for lunch."

"No shit!"

"You want limes or tartar sauce?" he asked.

"Both." Joey jumped slightly when he took his hand in hers.

"It's okay," he said, and led her outside to a picnic table on the wooden deck. She flinched at the sudden wash of sunlight, so he told her to leave her eyes covered. With no assistance she was able to find the food, wolfing down four pieces of snapper and two helpings of black beans and rice. Afterward Stranahan brought her a piece of Key lime pie and a cold beer.

"Best meal I ever had," she declared, groping for another napkin.

"I'd say you're going to be just fine."

"What's that sound-a helicopter?"

"Yep. Coast Guard," Stranahan said, watching a distant orangish speck streak across the bay.

Joey said, "Wonder if they're searching for me."

"Could be."

She shifted restlessly. "You want to go back inside?"

"Why?" said Stranahan.

"Is the sun going down? I can tell because it's getting cooler. Is it pretty tonight-the sunset?"

"I've never seen a bad one."

Joey said, "Tomorrow the towel comes off and I finally get to find out what you look like. I'm guessing a middle-aged Clint Eastwood."

"Then you're in for a major disappointment."

"But you're tall, right?" she said. "Late forties?"

"Early fifties."

"Gray around the temples?"

"You want another beer?"

"Not just yet," Joey said. "Give me your hands again."

Stranahan laughed. "I don't think so. They're awful fishy."

"You eat with your fingers! I like that."

"My table manners aren't what they used to be," he said. "Comes from living alone, I guess."

Joey said, "How many times have you been married? I know it's incredibly rude to ask but, well, I've got a hunch."

"Six," Stranahan said. "Six times." He stood up and began gathering the plates off the table.

"Jesus. I was going to guess three."

"See, I'm full of surprises."

"What happened?" Joey asked, but all she got in reply was the bang of the screen door. Moments later she heard a running tap and the clink of dishes in the sink. When Stranahan came back outside, she apologized.

"What for? "he said.

"Being so nosy. I figured you must be pissed, since you slammed that door."

"Naw, the hinges are rusted to hell is all." He placed a cool bottle in her hand. "But it's true, six ex-wives is nothing to brag about."

"At least none of them tried to murder you," Joey said.

"One came pretty close."

"Really? She go to jail?"

"Nope. Died."

Joey's breath seemed to catch in her throat. She took a long unsteady slug of beer.

Stranahan said, "Relax, honey. I didn't kill her."

"Who was she?"

"When I met her? A waitress, just like the rest of 'em."

Joey couldn't help but giggle. "You married six waitresses?"

"Actually, it was five. The last one was a TV producer."

"Oh, Mick-"

"And they were all fairly wonderful at the start. Whatever went wrong was usually my fault."

"But what in the world were you thinking? I mean, honestly, by the time you got to number six-"

"Oh, I wasn't thinking," Stranahan said. "Love isn't about thinking. You should know that."

Joey Perrone leaned back and turned her draped face toward the fading light. "The sky out there, I bet it's all pink and gold. God, I must look like a horror with this blindfold."

"Is Chaz your first husband?"

"Second. The first one died." She added quickly: "In an accident."

"That sucks."

"He was a stockbroker. Chaz is a biologist."

Stranahan said, "The no-see-ums are chewing you up. Let's go back inside."

"Funny, the only time my eyes really hurt is when I cry," she said. "If only I could stop."

"Come on, take my hand."

"No, I like it out here. The bugs don't bother me." Joey gave a defiant sniffle. "And, listen, it's not that sonofabitch Chaz Perrone that I'm bawling about. I'm ninety-nine percent sure I didn't even love him anymore."

Stranahan said nothing. He was an expert on dying relationships, the grinding hollowness that sets in until someone makes a move.

"But what Chaz did out there," she went on, pointing at the water, "it just hacks me off royally. You've got no idea."

Yeah, I do, Stranahan thought. The question was hanging there, so he went ahead and asked: "Then what's making you cry?"

"Oh, I suppose it's realizing that my whole life adds up to this one moment and this one place and this one"-she swept an arm angrily- "stinking, lousy situation. No offense, Mick, but half-blind on an island with some stranger isn't really where I expected to be at this point in time. This isn't the shape I expected to find myself in at age thirty whatever."

"Listen, you're going to be okay."

"Oh right. After my fucking husband, pardon my French, threw me fucking overboard on our fucking anniversary cruise! How exactly does a woman put something like that behind her, huh? How does one 'get past' that sort of personal setback?"

Stranahan said, "Seeing him hauled off in handcuffs might help the healing. Why don't you let me call the police?"

Joey shook her head so vehemently that he thought the towel might fly off. "The trial, Mick, it's going to be a nightmare-my word against his. He'll probably say I got trashed and fell over the rail. That's what he's already told the Coast Guard, I'm sure. Four years ago I got a dumb DUI up in Daytona, which Chaz's lawyers will dig up in two seconds flat. 'Kindly get up on the witness stand, Mrs. Perrone, and tell the court how your tennis-pro boyfriend dumped you for a swimsuit model, so you drank a whole bottle of cabernet and parked your car in the middle of A1A and went to sleep-' " "Okay, calm down."

"But I'm right, aren't I? My word against his." Stranahan allowed that things could get ugly in court. "It's none of my business, Joey, but is there money involved? Would Chaz have gotten rich if you'd died?" "Nope."

"Not even life insurance?"

"None that I know of," Joey said. "Now you see why I'm so… I don't know, dazed. Him trying to kill me doesn't make sense. He wanted a divorce, all he had to do was say so."

She asked Stranahan what he would do in her place. "Take off the wedding ring, for starters," he said. Joey sheepishly tugged the platinum band off her finger and palmed it. "Then what?"

"I'd go straight to the cops," Stranahan said, wondering what other options she might be contemplating. He decided not to ask, as a breeze kicked up and seemed to carry away Joey's anger.

"You're smiling. That's good," he said.

"Because it's wet and it tickles."

"What tickles?"

"Mick, please tell me it's the dog."

Stranahan peeked under the table. "Strom, you're a very bad boy," he said, reaching for the Doberman's collar.

"Guess he likes me," Joey said with an acid chuckle. "But they all act that way, at first."

Detective Karl Rolvaag belonged in the Midwest. This he knew in his heart, and he was reminded of it every day when he went to work.

Practically anywhere in the upper Midwest would have been fine; Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota or even the Dakotas. There the crimes were typically forthright and obvious, ignited by common greed, lust or alcohol. Florida was more complicated and extreme, and nothing could be assumed. Every scheming shitwad in America turned up here sooner or later, such were the opportunities for predation.

"I don't care much for Mr. Perrone," Rolvaag remarked to his captain.

"Already?"

The captain's name was Gallo. He was fond of Rolvaag because Rolvaag made him look good by closing many difficult cases, though socially the detective wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs.

"You think he pushed her?" Gallo asked. "Not like we could ever prove it if he did."

Rolvaag shrugged. "I just don't care for him is all."

They were having coffee at a truck-stop diner on Road 84. It was nearly midnight and Rolvaag was in a hurry to go deal with the rats that might or might not be scampering loose inside his car.

"The dead wife," Gallo said, "tell me again how much she's worth?"

"Thirteen million, give or take. The trust officers are working up some numbers."

"But hubby's not in line for a penny, right? Not even life insurance?" asked Gallo.

"Not that I can find, but it's still early in the game."

"Be awful dumb for him to lie about something like that."

"I agree." Rolvaag snuck a glance at his wristwatch. It had been six hours since he'd left the pet store. He hoped the rats hadn't nibbled a hole in the shoe box.

"What's the next of kin say about young Chaz?" Gallo asked.

"Mrs. Perrone's parents are deceased and her only brother lives on a sheep farm in New Zealand."

Gallo frowned. "Christ, that's an expensive phone call. Try to keep it short and sweet."