by Carl Hiaasen
“What the hell for?” Chaz knew it wasn’t a well-measured response, but the detective’s request had flustered him.
“For comparison purposes,” Rolvaag said.
Chaz rolled his eyes and snorted, an unfortunate reflex whenever he felt confronted by authority. It had caused him problems in college, as well.
“I don’t need much,” Rolvaag said. “A few lines in pen or pencil.”
Chaz stood up and said he’d see what he could find, which of course would be nothing. He had thrown away everything Joey had ever written to him—birthday cards, love letters, Post-its. The detective hovered while Chaz pretended to search.
“I put away most of her stuff,” he said, pawing through a bureau drawer in the bedroom.
“I remember. Where are those boxes?” Rolvaag asked.
“Storage.” Chaz thinking: Under about five thousand tons of raw garbage.
“Even just a signature would be fine,” Rolvaag said.
“Hang on. I’m still looking.”
“What about her checkbook?”
Chaz shook his head and dug into another drawer. He didn’t know where the detective was headed with the handwriting angle, but it couldn’t be good.
“Credit card receipts?” Rolvaag said.
“God only knows where she put them.”
“How about cooking recipes? Some people jot their favorite ones on index cards.”
“Joey was a fantastic girl, but not exactly queen of the kitchen.” Chaz trying to sound fondly reminiscent. “We ate out a lot,” he added with a forced chuckle.
Rolvaag suggested searching Joey’s car. “Maybe there’s an old grocery list crumpled on the floor somewhere.”
“Good idea,” said Chaz, knowing full well the futility of that exercise. Rolvaag poked around the garage while Chaz picked through the Camry, which smelled faintly of his wife’s killer perfume. Fearing another untimely erectile episode, Chaz breathed through his mouth in order to minimize his exposure.
Eventually he heard Rolvaag saying, “Well, thanks for taking a look.”
The cop was a damn good actor, Chaz had to admit. Not once had he slipped out of character. Chaz had been waiting for some subtle acknowledgment of the situation—a sidelong wink, the wry flicker of an eye. Yet Rolvaag had betrayed no awareness of the blackmail scheme while sustaining his front as a dogged and upright pursuer of clues. A less perceptive criminal might have discarded the theory that Rolvaag was the one shaking him down, but Chaz Perrone wasn’t swayed by the detective’s performance. The more Chaz thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that anybody had seen him push Joey off the Sun Duchess. Chaz remembered how careful he’d been to wait for the decks to empty first. He remembered standing alone at the rail afterward and hearing nothing but the rumble of the ship’s engines; no voices, no footsteps. The blackmailer had to be bluffing. Nobody could have witnessed the murder of Joey Perrone.
And now Karl Rolvaag, who’d plainly never believed Chaz’s account of that night, had decided in the absence of evidence to make him pay for the crime in another way.
As they returned to the living room, Chaz coyly asked, “Who’s your favorite movie star?”
“Let me think.” Rolvaag pressed his lips together. “Frances McDormand.”
“Who?”
“She was in Fargo.”
“No, I meant guy movie stars,” Chaz said.
“I don’t know. Jack Nicholson, I guess.”
“Not me. Charlton Heston is my favorite.” Chaz watched for the slightest flush of color in the detective’s face.
Rolvaag was saying, “Yes, he’s good, too. Ben-Hur was a classic.”
And that was it; not a blink of surprise, not a hint of a smile. Chaz Perrone was so aggravated that he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Anyone ever tell you that sometimes you sound like him?”
The detective seemed amused. “Like Charlton Heston—me? No, that’s a new one.”
What an iceberg, thought Chaz.
He said, “Sorry I couldn’t help with Joey’s handwriting. I can’t believe there wasn’t something of hers lying around the house.”
“No sweat. I’ll call the bank,” Rolvaag said. “They’ll have all her canceled checks on film.”
“Can I ask what this is about?”
“Sure.”
The detective removed a large envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Chaz Perrone, who couldn’t stop his fingers from trembling as he opened it. He skimmed the first paragraph and asked, “Where’d you get this?”
“Keep going,” Rolvaag advised, and strolled off to the kitchen.
By the time Chaz finished, his heart was hammering, his shirt was damp and his skull was ringing like a pinball machine. Before him lay a photocopy of an astounding document, “The Last Will and Testament of Joey Christina Perrone.” For Chaz it was the ultimate good news/bad news joke.
The good news: Your dead wife left you 13 million bucks.
The bad news: The cop who thinks you murdered her finally found a motive.
Chaz placed the papers on his lap and dried his palms on the sofa. He flipped again to the last page and eyed the signature.
“Is it hers?” Rolvaag standing at the doorway, popping another goddamn Sprite.
“I swear I didn’t know anything about this,” Chaz said. “And you can put me on a polygraph.”
“Check out the date it was signed—only a month ago,” Rolvaag said.
“Joey never said one word to me about this.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Don’t you think I would have told you about it if I’d known? For Chrissakes, I’m not an idiot.” Chaz could feel his gears slipping. “Is this the real deal, or is it just part of the setup? And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
The detective said, “I couldn’t tell whether it’s authentic or not. That’s why I’m here, Chaz. That’s why I wanted a sample of Mrs. Perrone’s handwriting.”
“You listen to me—no more games!” Chaz bellowed. “No more bullshit, okay? You’re a fucking crook and I know exactly what you’re up to. This isn’t Joey’s will, it’s a goddamn fake! You couldn’t find a way to prosecute me, so now you’re going to frame me, then make me buy my way out. . . .”
Here Chaz contemplated ripping the will into pieces for dramatic effect. However, in the back of his mind a tiny voice reminded him of the slim but sobering possibility that he was mistaken about Rolvaag; that the shocking legal instrument was legitimate. Chaz found himself inadvertently clutching it with both hands, the way Moses (at least as portrayed by Chuck Heston) clung to the holy tablets of the law.
Maddeningly immune to insult, Rolvaag said, “You can keep it, Chaz. I’ve got copies.”
Tool entered the room, his cheeks shiny with gator dribble. He asked what all the hollering was about.
“Mr. Perrone got a little upset with me,” the detective explained, “but he’s calmed down now.”
Chaz said, “Not much.”
Tool said, “Doc, you look like shit on a dumpling.”
“Thanks for noticing. Can the detective and I have some privacy?”
When the two of them were alone again, Rolvaag said, “I asked you about the signature.”
“It looks sort of like Joey’s. Close enough anyway,” Chaz said. “Whoever you got to forge it did a good job.”
Rolvaag’s expression remained unchanged. “Let me be sure I understand. You’re accusing me of fabricating this will for the purpose of implicating you in your wife’s disappearance?”
“Duh.”
“But you mentioned blackmail. I don’t get it.”
“Try the dictionary.” Chaz thinking: The fucker wants to see me squirm, forget it.
Rolvaag thought for a moment, then said, “So the plan would be that you pay me off, and I’ll make your thirteen-million-dollar motive go away. Mrs. Perrone’s will vanishes.”
“Exactly. And don’t forget your bogus eyewitness
.”
“What?” The detective cocked his head slightly, as if listening for the faint call of a rare songbird. It was a reaction so nuanced as to be chillingly convincing.
“What eyewitness?” he asked.
Chaz felt his stomach turn. Holy Jesus, either this guy is really slick or I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life.
“What eyewitness?” Rolvaag said again.
Chaz laughed thinly. “I’m kidding, man.” It was a conversation for which he had not rehearsed.
“It didn’t sound like you were kidding.”
“Well, I was,” Chaz said. “You Scandinavians, I swear.”
Rolvaag quietly closed the briefcase. “I’m not blackmailing you, Mr. Perrone.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“But you should still be careful,” the detective said, rising. “More careful than you’ve been so far.”
Eighteen
Joey struggled with the list of blackmail demands, but all she truly wanted from Chaz Perrone were, besides his eternal suffering, the answers to two questions:
(a) Why did you marry me?
(b) Why did you try to kill me?
“Pick a number,” said Mick Stranahan. “This is supposed to be a shakedown, remember? How much dough can he scrape together?”
“Beats me.” Joey turned to stare out the window.
Flamingo was a fish camp in Everglades National Park, on the southernmost shore of mainland Florida. Only one road led there, a two-lane blacktop that sliced through thirty-eight miles of unbroken scrub, cypress heads and saw-grass prairies. Although they were speeding through absolute darkness, Joey sensed a pulse of unseen life all around them. The post-Miami hush was so soothing, the night so engulfing, she was unable to focus on the details of the blackmail. The deeper they drove into the Everglades, the smaller and more absurd Chaz Perrone seemed.
Stranahan parked the Suburban in a cluster of cabbage palms near the campground, a short jog from the marina. By now it was ten o’clock and most of the campers, besieged by insects, had retreated to their sleeping bags. Mick fiddled with the dashboard stereo but the radio signal was spotty.
Joey said she’d never before been to the park. “Chaz refused to take me. He said it reminded him too much of work. Actually, I think the bugs creep him out.”
“The bugs.”
“Mosquitoes especially,” she said. “Then there’s the snake issue—he’s terrified of being bitten by a moccasin. At home he used to practice injecting the antivenin serum into grapefruits.”
“Boy, is he in the wrong line of work,” Stranahan remarked. “You ever wonder why? How the hell he got where he is?”
Joey had always assumed that her husband made a wrong turn in graduate school.
“I meant to ask you,” Stranahan said, “who’s Samuel J. Hammernut?”
“Some rich redneck pal of Chaz’s. I met him at the wedding,” said Joey. “Why? What’s he got to do with all this?”
“I made a few calls about the Hummer. It was bought for your hubby by Hammernut Farms.”
Joey had no idea why Mr. Hammernut would have given Chaz a brand-new SUV. “You’re just now telling me this? Who did you call?”
“Friends who do that sort of thing—trace paperwork. Friends in law enforcement,” Stranahan said. “Remember I told you this was all about greed. My guess is that Chaz has some sort of dirty arrangement with Hammernut, and that maybe you got in the way.”
“But how? What did I do?”
Stranahan told his theory to Joey, who was intrigued but skeptical. “Who ever heard of a crooked biologist?” she asked.
“Who ever heard of one with a bodyguard?” he countered.
Joey conceded the point. She had been surprised, and tickled, to learn from Mick that her husband was now being protected by paid muscle.
“Look, there are cops who take payoffs,” Stranahan was saying, “judges who fix cases, doctors who cheat Medicare. Are you telling me Chaz is too pure to sell himself—the man who pushed you into the ocean to die?”
He’s right, Joey thought. Obviously the jerk is capable of anything. She scooted closer and put a hand on Mick’s knee. He kissed her on the top of the head, but she could tell he was tense. He pointed toward the motel building and said, “Your room’s on the second floor. Stay put until you see me signal with the flashlight.”
“Three blinks. I remember.”
They watched a pair of raccoons shuffle into the campground, emerging moments later with a loaf of bread and a bag of Doritos.
Stranahan said, “Isn’t the idea to make him panic?”
“Yeah. Tighten the screws.”
“Then what the hell. Let’s ask for half a million.”
Joey laughed. “Good Lord, Chaz doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“I bet he knows someone who does.”
They took the Grand Marquis, Tool saying that the Hummer practically glowed in the dark. Red had told them to stay cool, no matter what. Listen to what the guy has to say and tell him you’ll think about it. Don’t be a smartass, Red had warned Chaz. And don’t hurt nobody, he’d said to Tool, not just yet. Once we find out what the sumbitch wants, then we’ll figure out what to do about him.
The plan was to arrive at Flamingo early and find a spot for Tool to hide, but they got delayed because Tool made another pit stop before they hit the turnpike. Chaz didn’t bother to ask. He stayed in the car and practiced whipping the .38 out of his waistband while Tool put on his tent-size lab whites and marched into the Elysian Manor convalescent home.
Maureen was sitting up, watching television. She had brushed her hair and put a touch of makeup on her cheeks.
“Well, look who’s here,” she said. “Pull up a chair. Larry King is interviewing Julie Andrews. What a doll she is.”
“I brung you some supper.” Tool placed a covered dish on the bed tray. “It ain’t very hot. Do they got a microwave somewheres?”
“Why, thank you, Earl.” Maureen lifted the lid and said, “It smells grand. What is it?”
“Uh, chicken. Swamp chicken, they call it.”
“Doctor says I’m supposed to steer clear of fried foods, but I can’t honestly see the harm. Since I’m dying anyway, right?” She picked up a piece of fried alligator and popped it in her mouth.
“Good, huh?” Tool said.
Maureen nodded eagerly as she chewed. And chewed.
“The food they serve us in here is a horror,” she whispered. “Fresh poultry is a real treat.”
“Well, I’m glad you like it. Now I better go.”
“Already? Please sit and visit.”
“I got a ’portant bidness meetin’.”
“At night? What kind of business, if I might ask.”
“Bodyguardin’,” Tool said.
Maureen’s blue eyes sparkled. “That’s so interesting, Earl. What sorts of people do you guard? Dignitaries? Diplomats? Show business types, I bet.”
“Not hardly.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“The job I’m on now, he’s a doctor,” Tool said, though he considered the title a hype job, as attached to Chaz Perrone.
“A doctor—well, that’s something!”
“Only he don’t work on people. He’s, like, some kinda scientist.”
Maureen said, “He must be very important, to need personal protection.”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Is he with you now? I’d enjoy meeting him.”
Tool said, “He ain’t no charmer, trust me. Thinks the world of hisself but, I swear, the nigras and spics used to pick tomatoes for me had more common sense than—”
Maureen’s bony fist shot out and nailed Tool in the soft declivity below the sternum. He bent double and heard himself deflate like a tractor tire.
“Earl! Shame on you!” she said. “Don’t you ever use that kind of hateful language around me.”
He hung on to the bed rail, slowly straightening himself.
“Sh-sh-she’s the one I learnt it from,” he wheezed. “Her and my daddy both.”
“Then shame on them, too. Here”—she handed him a Dixie cup from the bed tray—“drink up. You’ll feel better.”
“Damn,” Tool said, gulping at the water. The crazy old witch had really thumped him. In his whole life he couldn’t remember anybody ever throwing a punch at him and getting clean away with it. Once he’d damn near crippled a couple of sorry beaners just for lookin’ at him funny-like in the package store.
Staring now at Maureen, as frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, Tool knew he could have killed her with the back of his hand. Strangely, though, he didn’t want to. And it wasn’t as if he was holding back the urge, he just plain had no desire to harm the woman, despite what she’d done. He wasn’t pissed, either, which was even more confusing. What he felt—and he wasn’t sure why—was sorry.
He heard himself say so.
Maureen reached out and plucked at his sleeve. “And I’m sorry, too, Earl, for striking you. It wasn’t very Christian of me,” she said. “How are you fixed for medicine?”
“Fine, ma’am. The patches you give me this mornin’ ought to last for the weekend.”
“You know, my husband was a Chicago police officer.”
“You tole me, yes’m.”
“One time he used the word nigger. I heard him let it slip,” Maureen said. “He was on the phone to his sergeant or somebody. He said, ‘Some nigger robbed a Korean grocery and we chased him into Lake Michigan.’ When he hung up, I tapped him on the shoulder—he was a big fella, too—and I said, ‘Patrick, if I ever hear you use that hateful word again, I’m taking the kids and moving back to Indianapolis to live with Aunt Sharon.’ And you know what?”
“He never done it again.”
She smiled. “That’s right, Earl. Do you believe God made each of us in His own image?”
Tool said, “I ain’t always so sure.” He crossed his arms across his belly in case she took another swipe at him.
“To be honest, some days I wonder myself,” Maureen said. “They’ve got one nurse here, Earl, I swear she’s on loan from the depths of hell. Talk about the b word! But here’s what I believe—can I tell you? Then you’re free to be on your way.”