Skinny Dip

Nine

One spring evening in 1896, a prominent Pennsylvanian named Hamilton Disston blew his brains out in a bathtub. He had become gravely depressed after depleting his inheritance on a grandiose campaign to drain 4 million acres of Florida swamp known as the Everglades.

Although Disston died believing himself a failure, he was later proven a pioneer and an inspiration. In the years that followed, one version or another of his rapacious fantasy was pursued by legions of avaricious speculators-land developers, bankers, railroad barons, real-estate promoters, citrus growers, cattle ranchers, sugar tycoons and, last but not least, the politicians they owned.

Those wetlands that could not be dried, paved or planted were eventually trenched out and diked into vast reservoirs by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Billions of gallons of freshwater that for eons had flowed freely as a broad marshy river toward Florida Bay was now held captive for siphoning by agriculture, industry and burgeoning municipalities. First one cross-state highway and then another transected the southern thumb of the peninsula, fatally interrupting the remaining southbound trickle from Lake Okeechobee. What precious water made it to the heart of the marsh often arrived tainted by pesticides, fertilizers and mercury.

To protect farms and subdivisions from frequent flooding-the unsurprising consequence of having occupied a bog-hundreds of miles of canals were dug to carry the overflow out to sea during the rainy summer months. Engineers employed a string of pumping stations to manipulate the water levels according to whim and weather, heedless of the historic natural cycles. Inevitably the Everglades and all its resplendent wildlife began to die, but nobody with the power to prevent it considered trying.

It was, after all, just a huge damn swamp.

Toward the latter part of the twentieth century, a series of severe droughts shattered the cocksure assumption that there would always be plenty of water to steal. Those whose fortunes depended on luring home buyers and tourists to South Florida now contemplated the dreadful possibility that the infernal granola-head environmentalists had been correct all along. If the Everglades dried up or succumbed to pollution, so might the vast underground aquifer that supplied drinking water from Palm Beach to the Keys. Growth would come to a gagging halt, and the dirty fortunes that accompanied it would evaporate faster than jizz on a griddle.

This apocalyptic scenario was laid out before Florida's politicians, and in time even the most slatternly among them were extolling the Everglades as a national treasure that must be preserved at all costs. Officeholders who had for decades abetted its destruction now delivered quavering oratory lamenting its demise. During election campaigns, they shamelessly contrived to be photographed kayaking around the East Cape or hiking Shark Valley, drowsy alligators and snowy egrets prominent in the background. Saving the Everglades became an apple-pie cause embraced by both political parties, and voters responded avidly.

Sadly, there wasn't much left to save. Ninety percent of the original 'glades already had been developed, converted to agriculture or otherwise debauched. The only untrampled remnant was a national park, the waters of which were of dubious purity. Nonetheless, in the late 19905 the United States Congress and the Florida Legislature allotted a boggling $8 billion to restore a natural and unpolluted flow to the fabled river of grass. Many decent and well-meaning people believed this to be a moral imperative.

Then there were those such as Samuel Johnson Hammernut, whose sole interest in sustaining the Everglades was to make sure that his thirteen thousand acres of lettuce, cabbage, sweet corn, tomatoes, radishes, escarole and parsley would have cheap and unlimited irrigation forever. Red Hammernut cared only slightly less about the imperiled wildlife than he did about the wretched souls who toiled for dirt wages in his crop fields, held captive to his employment with imaginary debts imposed by violent crew bosses.

As for the pollution issue, Red Hammernut intended to continue using the vast marshlands as a latrine, and to hell with the law. A pragmatic fellow, he'd watched closely as the bureaucracy of the Everglades restoration project evolved, and he had taken measures to safeguard his stake. Eight billion dollars was an unholy shitload of dough, and Red Hammernut calculated that no less than a third of it would be ripped off by lobbyists, lawyers, consultants and bid-riggers favored by well-placed politicians. The remaining windfall would be spent more or less earnestly, if not efficiently, by a phalanx of municipal, state and federal agencies that would seldom communicate with one another.

Prominent among these was the South Florida Water Management District, which was recruiting field biologists to test for harmful substances in farm runoff. It was a specialized mission, one that held some potential to complicate Red Hammernut's life.

Conveniently, the members of the water board had been appointed by the governor, to whose re-election campaign Red Hammernut had donated large sums of money and the use of a Cessna Citation. Therefore it was no surprise to Red Hammernut that his phone call to the water board was so genially received, or that his recommendation of a bright young job applicant was so promptly acted upon.

After that, it was easy arranging for the newly hired biologist to be assigned to the same water-testing district in which certain large vegetable farms were located.

On paper, Dr. Charles R. Perrone looked like the real deal.

Red Hammernut had his mole in place.

"It's good you're staying busy," Karl Rolvaag said.

Chaz Perrone nodded stoically.

"Your supervisor said she told you to take the whole week off, even longer if you needed."

Chaz frowned. "You spoke to Marta? What for?"

"Just routine," said the detective. "Anyway, she said you insisted on coming back to work, and I told her it could actually be a healthy thing."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do-hang around the house all day and get morbidly depressed? No thank you."

They were standing in the kitchen, Chaz with a Budweiser in his hand and Rolvaag sipping a Sprite. The detective had shown up at the front door not five minutes after Chaz had returned from work.

"I'm really beat," Chaz said for the third time.

"Yeah, it was a scorcher out there today." Rolvaag had seen on the news that an early spring snowstorm had hit the Twin Cities; he sitting in air conditioning in Florida. It was fairly astounding.

He said, "Marta explained what you do on your job, and it sounds real interesting. I bet you run into plenty of snakes out there."

"Well, I run over plenty of 'em with my truck." Chaz, unable to resist the smartass quip. "Look, I'm not trying to be rude, but, man, I am seriously whipped."

"Of course. I understand." The detective finished off the soda and raised the empty bottle. "Do you recycle?"

Chaz made a dunking motion toward the trash can. "Let God sort 'em out," he said.

Rolvaag placed the bottle on the counter. "There was just one point I needed you to clarify about that night on the Sun Duchess."

"You know who you remind me of? That TV cop, Columbo. He never quit with the questions," Chaz said. "I bet that was your favorite show, am I right?"

"To be honest, I never watched it."

"But I'm sure other people must've told you the same thing-that you remind them of Columbo. Not the way you look, but how you never let up. In a nice way, though."

Rolvaag said, "What night is the show on? I'd like to see it."

Chaz shook his head. What a hopeless dweeb. "It was canceled, like, a hundred years ago. Anyway, what did you want to ask me about?"

The detective seemed relieved to get back to business. "Just one thing, really. Are you certain about what time Mrs. Perrone left the stateroom?"

Chaz experienced a disconcerting twitch in his colon. "Three-thirty in the morning, like I told you before. I remember looking at my watch."

"And there's no chance your watch was wrong?" Rolvaag's tone was unbearably neutral. "The reason I ask, we've found some evidence raising the possibility that your wife went into the water a few hours earlier than you told us."

The detective was leaning against the countertop, his hands shoved casually in his pockets.

Chaz said, "That's impossible."

"I'm sure there's an explanation."

"What kind of evidence did you find?"

Rolvaag winced apologetically. "Afraid I can't discuss it."

Locked in his desk at the office was the test confirming that the fingernail tips removed from the marijuana bale belonged to Joey Perrone.

Chaz said, "This is my wife we're talking about-and you're saying you can't tell me?" He felt his cheeks redden, but that was actually a good thing; he was supposed to look angry. "Did you find her body or not? Goddammit, I've got a right to know!"

Rolvaag said, "No, sir, we didn't recover a body. That I can tell you for a fact. Or even a body part."

"Then what the hell was it?"

Chaz was racking his brain. Joey hadn't been carrying her purse, so it had to be a piece of clothing that had washed ashore somewhere at odds with the computer model of where her body should have floated, factoring in that night's currents and wind.

"Is this why you wanted a DNA sample?" Chaz demanded.

"It's an active investigation. Certain aspects must remain confidential for the time being," Rolvaag said. "I'm sorry, Chaz."

It was the first time the detective had used Charles Perrone's nickname, and the sudden informality only heightened Chaz's anxiety. He'd seen enough TV homicide shows to know you were in deep trouble when cops started acting like they were your asshole buddies.

"I've lost my wife and you're playing head games," Chaz said, acting hurt and disappointed. "Just come out and say so if you think I'm lying."

"I think people make mistakes."

"Not this time."

"But you'd been hitting the wine pretty hard that night is what you told me. That's not always good for the memory," Rolvaag said.

Chaz twisted the cap off another beer and drank slowly, stalling to let his emotions settle. It occurred to him that the detective had unwittingly provided a way out. The Coast Guard had ended its search for Joey, so what was the point in arguing about when she'd gone overboard? If there was anything left of her, which was unlikely after four days at sea, it wouldn't really matter how far south she was found. One could always blame a shark or some other deep-water scavenger for carrying her remains out of the search grid.

Chaz hung his head. "I was pretty hammered, that's true. Maybe I did get confused about the time Joey left. Or maybe I misread my watch." For effect he tapped the crystal of his inexpensive Timex, which he wore only on sampling days in the Everglades.

As usual, Rolvaag's expression was unreadable.

"Those are two possibilities," the detective said. "Something to think about anyway. Thanks for the pop."

Chaz laughed. "The what?"

"The cold drink," Rolvaag said. "By the way, somebody's staking out your house-some big hairy guy in a minivan, parked down by the corner. The tag comes back to a rental agency."

"Oh?" Chaz thinking: Wait until I tell Red.

"Any ideas?"

Chaz poked his head out the doorway and looked down the street. "I've got no earthly clue who that man is," he lied. "How do you know that it's me he's watching?"

"Wild guess." Rolvaag smiled. "You've got my card. Call if you need anything."

"Right," said Chaz. When goats learn ballet.

He stood at the bay window and watched the prying detective drive away. When the phone began to ring, he almost yanked it out of the living room wall.

What the hell's happening? he wondered dismally. Wasn't I supposed to be home free by now?

Off the hook.

Cruising.

Instead, that goddamn cop is still snooping around, some sadistic perv is sneaking into my house and messing with Joey's stuff-and now I've got to deal with some knuckle-dragger of a bodyguard that Red's dredged out of a sinkhole somewhere.

When Chaz answered the phone, the man named Tool was on the other end.

"That guy that just left?"

"What about him?" Chaz said.

"Want me to go after him?"

"And do what?"

Tool grunted. "I dunno. Bust his spleen."

Chaz sighed. "He's a cop."

"Yeah, so?"

Unbelievable, Chaz thought. "Leave him be, please."

"It's your party," said Tool. "Hey, I gotta go take a dump. You gone be all right?"

"I think I can manage."

Chaz stripped off his clothes and propped himself under a hot shower for twenty minutes. Try as he might, he still couldn't see where he'd made a single mistake in the plan, not one wrong move.

The crime was perfect. It was the rest of the world that was fucking up.

"I lied," Joey Perrone said.

This was after a day of doing largely nothing; swimming, sunning, losing herself in a John D. MacDonald paperback that she'd found in Mick Stranahan's tackle box.

"I lied to you," she said again.

Stranahan didn't look up. He was cracking stone crab claws by whomping them with the flat side of a spoon. It was all in the wrist, he'd explained. Fragments of shell were flying around like shrapnel.

"Lied about what?" he asked.

"About not touching anything in the house when I went back inside to take a pee. There was a stash of pictures in the hall closet."

"Wedding pictures, that sort of thing?"

"Wedding, honeymoon, vacations. All shots of Chaz and me," Joey reported, "in happier times."

"Why were they in a closet?"

"Because my shitheel husband pulled 'em off the wall," she said, "probably within five minutes after he got home from the cruise. I guess he couldn't even stand to look at my face."

Stranahan brushed an orange fleck of crab claw from her cheek. "Tell me what you did."

Joey spun away. "Another glass of wine, sir. Please."

"What did you do with the photos?"

"Not all of them. Just one," she said. "All I did was take it out of the frame and slip it under his pillow."

"Oh Christ," Stranahan said.

"But first I took cuticle scissors-"

"And cut your face out of the picture." Joey blinked. "How'd you know?"

"No comment."

"Wife or girlfriend?"

"Spouse number three, if memory serves," he said.

She sighed. "Next time I'll try to be more original."

They ate inside, Strom whining for handouts through the screen door. Stranahan was quiet, and Joey began to worry that she'd done something foolhardy, something that might ruin the plan, whatever that was.

Firmly she set down her wineglass. "If you want to yell at me for cutting up that picture, go ahead. Just remember, it's my house, too. My stuff that he's throwing away."

Stranahan said, "There was no car accident in Tampa involving Chaz and a drunk driver."

"How do you know?"

"Checked with the Highway Patrol. There wasn't any lawsuit, either," he said, "according to the court files. And no big settlement, obviously."

"Meaning no nest egg," Joey said quietly.

"Highly unlikely. You want to hear our plan?"

"If it'll cheer me up, sure."

"We're going to blackmail your husband," Stranahan said.

"I see."

"Actually, we're only going to make him think he's being blackmailed." Stranahan dipped a jumbo claw into a cup of drawn butter.

"Blackmailed by who?" Joey asked.

"Somebody who knows that Chaz murdered you." Stranahan smiled and took another bite of crab. "Somebody we'll have to invent, of course."

Joey adored the idea even though she didn't entirely get the point.

"Misdirection," he explained. "Chaz is probably freaking out that he's being harassed by some mysterious intruder. I'm assuming you don't want him to figure out it's you, at least not yet. Correct?"

She nodded emphatically.

"No offense," Stranahan said, "but these clever little messages you've left for him-the dress in the closet, the lipstick in the drawer, the photograph under the pillow-those are estranged wife-type moves. Too much of that and he'll put it all together."

"Yeah, you're right."

"So we need to make him believe it's somebody else who's screwing with his head."

"How about somebody who saw him push me off the ship?"

"Now you're talking."

"A secret witness who gets greedy," Joey said eagerly. "That would be cool. But who could we make up, Mick? And how would this imaginary person know how to find Chaz? Wait a minute-how would he get into the house unless he had a key?"

"Whoa, slow down," Stranahan told her. "I've got an idea how to set this up."

"I'll bet you do." Joey Perrone felt better than she had in days, and not just because of the wine.

"But first it would really help to know why Chaz wanted you dead," said Stranahan. "It would open up some creative opportunities, blackmail-wise."

Joey shrugged helplessly. "That's all I think about, night and day."

"Don't worry. We'll figure everything out," he said with a wink. "This might actually be fun."