Skinny Dip

Thirteen

Mick Stranahan phoned Charles Perrone at 5:42 a.m.

"Good morning, dipshit," he said, this time doing Jerry Lewis. The Mexican writer who owned the island adored The Nutty Professor, and Stranahan had watched it often on the VCR. There were worse ways to get through a tropical depression.

At the other end of the line, Joey Perrone's husband needed a few moments to rouse himself. "Are you the same guy who called yesterday?"

"That's riiii-ghht."

Chaz Perrone said, "We should get together, you and me."

"Why?"

"To talk."

"We're talking now," Stranahan said. "You tossed your beloved into the Atlantic Ocean. I'm curious to hear an explanation."

"I didn't push her. She fell."

"That's not what I saw."

"Listen to me," Perrone pleaded, but his voice trailed away.

"Yoo-hoo? Chaz?"

"We should do this in person."

"Do what? There's eighteen hundred dollars in your checking account," Stranahan said. "That's pitiful."

"I can get more," Perrone blurted. Then, warily: "How'd you know what I have in the bank?"

"Pity-full."

"Don't hang up. Don't!"

Stranahan said, "How would you ever get enough money?"

"People owe me."

Stranahan laughed. "Are you a biologist or a loan shark?" "Okay, Rolvaag. Tell me how much you want." Again with the "Rolvaag" stuff, thought Stranahan. "I haven't decided on an amount," he said.

"Okay, when can we get together? I'm serious."

"Bye-bye, Chaz."

"Wait," Perrone said, "I've gotta ask-that voice you're doing?"

"Yeah?"

"Jim Carrey, right?"

Stranahan said, "Mister, my price just doubled."

Tool filled the bedroom doorway, demanding to know who the hell was calling so early in the morning. When Chaz Perrone said it was the blackmailer, Tool swore groggily and lurched back to bed. It had been a long, fitful night, the fentanyl patches having dried up one by one, dying like flowers. The so-called doctor had been no help whatsoever-obviously he hated the idea of Tool staying inside his house, and the feeling was mutual. But Red was the boss man, and Red said he didn't want Tool out on the street, freaking the neighbors. He was to remain with the doctor, and make sure nobody else broke in. Chaz Perrone grudgingly had surrendered the guest bedroom. Later Tool had attempted a shower, but within five minutes he shed so much tarry body hair that the drain clogged. Chaz had cleaned it out with a coat hanger; not saying a word, but Tool could tell he was ticked.

For breakfast Tool prepared an omelette, using nine eggs, a pint of clotted cream, a half pound of cheddar, assorted peppers, a pawful of pitted olives and four ounces of Tabasco. As Tool slurped down the pungent creation, the doctor reeled from the kitchen in disgust.

Afterward Tool announced he was heading out in search of medicine. "Where's the closest hospital?" he asked Chaz Perrone.

"Are you out of your mind? You can't sneak into a hospital and steal that stuff."

"Wherever they's a hospital, they's a nursing home close by. Or else a whatchacallit-a place where they put, you know, the terminals. Them that's gone die."

"You mean like a hospice."

"Right," Tool said, "where the people are too sickly to make a fuss."

"And then?"

"I look around till I find the ones with stick-on patches."

"Jesus." The doctor suddenly got quiet.

"Well?"Tool demanded.

"Does Mr. Hammernut know you do this?"

"Red don't pry hisself into my bidness."

"Smart man." Charles Perrone reached for a pen. "The nearest hospital is Cypress Creek. I'll write down the directions."

"Draw me a pitcher instead."

"A map, you mean."

Tool smiled. "Yeah, that'd be good."

He had dumped the minivan at Hertz and defected to Avis for a black Grand Marquis. The extra legroom was a treat, and the air conditioning was purely glorious. Once Tool located the hospital, he began scouting adjacent neighborhoods for likely targets. The first place was called Serenity Villas, but he backed off as soon as he realized it was an assisted-living facility. That meant that the old folks were still hoofing around pretty good, and in Tool's experience they did not part easily with their medications.

His next stop was Elysian Manor, a convalescent home run by a local church. Tool put on the size XXXL lab whites that he always carried, and entered through a rear service door. For a large man he moved unobtrusively, checking one bed at a time. Some of the patients, as frail as baby sparrows, were sound asleep; those Tool gently rolled over to inspect for patches. The patients who were awake behaved cooperatively, although one launched into a fractured monologue that Tool couldn't sort out-something about a sellout in Yalta, wherever the hell that was.

The lack of visitors was one reason that Tool favored nursing homes over hospitals. Why people spent so little time with their ailing mothers and fathers, he didn't know, but it was a bankable fact. In only one room at Elysian Manor did Tool encounter a relative perched at a patient's bedside-Tool excusing himself with a wave, and moving on down the hall. Nobody in authority displayed the slightest interest in his presence; the harried nurses assumed he was a newly hired orderly, turnover being universally rampant at geriatric facilities.

He hit pay dirt in no. 33, a private room. The patient, a bony-shouldered woman with permed silver hair, was curled up, sleeping with her face to the wall. The back of her cotton gown was untied, revealing on her papery gray skin a crisp new patch of fentanyl. Tool crept forward and began to peel it off. The woman spun violently, her knobby right elbow nailing him like a cudgel between the eyes. Rocking backward, Tool groped for the bed rail to steady himself.

"What're you up to?" The woman's fierce blue eyes were clear and alert.

"Changin' out your patch," Tool mumbled.

"But they just gave me a new one an hour ago."

"Ma'am, I just do what they tell me."

"I believe that's a load of bull crap," she said.

This is no good, Tool thought. She's too damn ornery.

"They'll bring you more," he said. "Come on now, roll over."

"You're sick, too, I can tell. Is it cancer?"

Tool fingered the rising lump on his forehead. "I ain't sick," he said, glancing at the door. He expected somebody to barge in any second.

"I'm Maureen." The woman pointed at a straight-backed chair in the corner. "Pull that over here and sit. What's your name?"

Tool said, "Nice and easy now. Lemme take off that patch, then you can go back to sleep."

Maureen sat herself up, plumping a pillow behind her head. "I must look terrible," she said, touching her hair. "I wasn't sleeping, for your information. In my condition, who could sleep? Pull up that chair, I'll give you what you want."

All Tool could think about was the warm embrace of the drug, deep and delicious. He dragged the chair over to Maureen's bedside and sat down.

"You're in pain, aren't you?" she inquired.

"Damn straight. I gotta bullet up the crack a my ass."

"Yow."

"That's how come I need the dope," Tool said. "So, what d'ya say?"

He didn't want to take it by force. She was a scrapper and he'd have to get rough, maybe even strangle her…

"How did you happen to be shot?" she asked.

"Huntin' accident."

"And they couldn't remove it surgically?"

"Guess not," Tool said.

"My late husband was a police officer in the city of Chicago, Illinois. He shot a man once."

"Not up the ass, I bet."

"It was in the shoulder," Maureen said. "The fellow was a hardened criminal. He robbed a gypsy cab. Are you a criminal?"

"Not to my way of thinkin'." Tool was perspiring through his medical whites. He fought the urge to tear the patch from the old coot's hide and bolt for the door.

Maureen said, "All right. I can see you need the medicine more than I do." She turned and presented her bare back, gesturing over one shoulder. "Go ahead and take it, but please be careful. I tend to bleed for no darn reason these days."

Tool started at a top corner of the patch and peeled carefully downward, as if removing a decal. "They'll bring you more," he assured Maureen. "Tell 'em it come off while you was in the bath."

"I don't have a tub, young man. They bathe me with a sponge."

"In bed? Don't that make a mess?"

Maureen said, "I miss my privacy, I really do."

After Tool was done, she rolled over to look at him again. "I'm eighty-one years old, but I feel like a hundred and ten. Please tell me your name."

"Earl." Tool scarcely recognized his own voice. Nobody left on earth called him Earl.

"Is your mother still alive?" Maureen asked.

"Nope. Not my daddy, neither."

"I'm sorry, Earl. I hope it wasn't cancer."

"That's what you got?"

Maureen nodded. "But some days I feel pretty chipper. Some days I surprise myself."

Tool stared at the flesh-colored patch in his hand, thinking: Why couldn't she have been asleep? Or at least a veggie?

"No, you keep that," Maureen said, patting him on the arm. "I want you to feel better."

" 'Predate it."

He was three steps toward the door when he heard: "Earl, could you pop in and visit me again sometime?"

Tool stopped and turned. "Ma'am, I… I don't really work here." "Oh, I know." Her blue eyes were dancing. "What do I look like, some sort of nitwit?"

Rolvaag was working on his resignation package when Captain Gallo came over and said, "Tomorrow's the last day you waste on Perrone."

"Yes, I remember," Rolvaag said.

"Reason I mention it, I got a call from the man."

"No kidding."

Gallo always referred to the sheriff as "the man."

"He asked what you were doing up in LaBelle yesterday, and I didn't have a real swift comeback," Gallo said, "seeing as how I've been in Florida thirty fuckin' years and never had a reason to go there."

Rolvaag explained that he'd been tracking a lead in the cruise ship case.

"And that took you to the office of Mr. Samuel Johnson Hammer-nut," Gallo said. "I hope you know who he is."

"A farmer," the detective said.

"No, a millionaire CEO farmer with heavyweight clout. Soon as you leave, Hammernut calls his asshole buddy, the sheriff of Hendry County, who right away calls the sheriff of Broward County-that would be my boss and yours-and wants to know who the hell's this Karl Rolvaag? Next thing I know, I get a call asking how come you're hassling a fine upstanding citizen like Red Hammernut?" Gallo spread his arms as if awaiting crucifixion. "And what is my response, Karl, besides stuttering like some sort of mental defective? What can I possibly say to the man?"

Rolvaag capped his pen and sat back. "It's interesting that Hammernut would react that way. Don't you think?"

"Are you dicking with me, Karl?"

"No, sir. I'm only trying to finish my resignation papers."

Gallo said, "Aw, knock it off."

"I'm serious about the job in Minnesota."

"Yeah, whatever," the captain said. "Just tell me how a rich Cracker like Hammernut could possibly fit into your case-and I use the word loosely."

Rolvaag informed Gallo about the man staking out Perrone's house. "He used one of Hammernut's credit cards to rent the minivan."

"And that's all?"

"So far. But it's strange, you've got to admit. Why would anyone be tailing a recently widowed man?"

"Karl, we can't go to a grand jury with strange. The whole damn human race is strange," Gallo said. "You and your choice of roommates, for example. Some people would say that's slightly shy of normal."

Rolvaag said, "Lots of folks keep pet snakes."

"I'll explain to the man it was just a dry hole, your road trip to LaBelle."

"Okay. If it'll make your life easier."

"What about you? And don't give me any more horseshit about moving back north," Gallo said. "Just tell me what you want, Karl. A raise? Weekends off? I can't promise anything, but sometimes miracles do happen."

The detective said, "I think Mr. Perrone pushed his wife off that ship. I probably can't prove it in the short time before I leave here, but that's what I believe. Could you give me a couple more days to work the case?"

What bothered Rolvaag the most were the broken fingernails that he'd found in that bale of grass. He couldn't stop thinking of Joey Perrone, desperate and terrified, trying to hang on in the waves, all the while pondering the dreadful thing that her husband had done; hanging on in the chill and the darkness until finally her arms went numb and she slipped into the sea.

"No way," Gallo was saying. "Sorry, Karl, I'm pulling the plug."

"Suppose I came up with the motive."

"In the next, what, twenty-four hours?"

"You betcha."

"Then I'd have to reconsider. Sure I would," Gallo said. "But it'd better be fucking brilliant."

"Maybe I'll get lucky." Rolvaag sounded far more confident than he felt, having no theory, no hunch, not even a wild guess as to why Chaz Perrone had so casually murdered his wife.

The generator broke down before Stranahan could start breakfast. He was still working on it when Joey Perrone awoke and came outside.

"The joys of island living," she said.

"Old Neil was right. Rust never sleeps."

Stranahan was wearing cutoff jeans and no shirt; dripping sweat, grease smeared like war paint on his face and chest. Joey asked if he wanted some help, and he said what he really needed was dynamite.

"That bad, huh?"

"I'll fix it eventually," he said, twirling a mallet. "In the meantime there are some delectable bran flakes in the cupboard."

Joey asked to borrow his cellular. He pointed to the boat, where the phone was recharging on the battery plug, and went back to banging on the generator. Twenty minutes later, Joey returned with a pitcher of tea and a bowl of fruit from the kitchen. They walked down to the dock and sat down, Joey tickling the water with her toes. Strom blinked at them from the shade of his favorite palm.

"I'm getting worried about using my credit card," Joey said.

Stranahan assured her that American Express didn't know that she was missing, and didn't care as long as the payments got made. "They don't read the newspapers. Unless somebody calls up and cancels the card, it stays active," he explained.

"The balance is automatically deducted from a private money-market account, but the monthly statement is mailed to the house. What if Chaz gets nosy?"

"Another reason we should work fast," said Stranahan, "before the billing cycle ends. He'll probably just toss the statement into the trash, but if he opens it, then we've got a problem. He'll see that you're continuing to spend money."

"Yeah. Neat trick for a corpse." Joey turned her face upward and squeezed her eyes closed. "The sun still hurts."

"It hasn't even been a week. Next time we go to the mainland, we'll find you some cool shades."

She said, "I dreamed about Chaz again last night."

"Killing him?"

"Worse." Joey rolled her eyes. "Can you believe it, Mick? Even after what he's done, I'm still having sex with the guy in my sleep."

"It's emotional withdrawal, that's all. Like when you try to kick caffeine, suddenly the whole damn world smells like Folger's."

Joey worked her lower lip. "Maybe I actually loved that creep up until the end. Maybe it was more than physical, and I can't admit it."

Stranahan shrugged. "Don't look at me, I'm the crown prince of dysfunctional. What's important is figuring out how you feel about him here and now, before we make another move."

The dog ambled over and stretched out on the warm planks beside Joey. "That was my brother I called earlier," she said. "The people who take care of my money contacted him because someone saw in the paper that I was lost at sea. Corbett told them to sit tight. They can't do anything without a death certificate anyway."

"Chaz hadn't called to snoop around about the trust?"

"Nope. My brother was surprised, too." Joey smiled ruefully. "In a weird way, I wish Chaz had done it for my money. Then I could almost understand," she said. "But killing somebody just to be rid of them- man, it's hard not to take it personally."

"That's not why he did this, Joey. You'll see." Stranahan put an arm around her, and she let her head drop lightly against his shoulder. "What does Corbett think you should do?"

"He likes the idea of me driving Chaz clinically insane," she said. "Float around like a ghost, he says, until the bastard loses his marbles."

"It could happen."

"Oh, guess what else?" Joey lifted her head. "This detective keeps calling Corbett to talk about Chaz-the same guy Corbett spoke with on Monday, and now he's calling back, leaving messages."

Stranahan said, "So the heat's on, just like you wanted."

"It would be fun to think so."

And one more reason to be careful, thought Stranahan. The trick would be putting the cop into play without exposing themselves. "Did your brother tell you the detective's name?" he asked.

"Rolvaag. Karl Rolvaag," she said, "with a K, not a C."

"I'll be damned."

"I even wrote down the phone number," she added, "in lipstick, unfortunately, on the deck of your boat."

"No problem," Stranahan said cheerfully.

"What's so funny?"

"Chaz. He thinks the cop is the blackmailer. On the phone this morning he even called me Rolvaag."

Joey was delighted. Then: "Hey, wait a minute. You talked to Chaz and you didn't even tell me?"

"You were sleeping," Stranahan said.

"So what!"

"In a languid state of undress. Frankly, I was intimidated."

"Mick."

"That's a compliment, by the way."

"Was I snoring?"

"Moaning, actually. If I'd known you were dreaming about Chaz, I would have thrown you under a cold shower."

Joey took a playful swing and he caught her fist with the palm of his hand. "Go wash up. I got you all grimy."

She said, "Buddy, if you're not careful…"

Giving Stranahan a look that reminded him of Andrea Krumholtz, his very first girlfriend, on the night she'd slipped off her bra and tossed it out a window of Stranahan's father's car. For Mick, sixteen at the time, it had been a sublimely instructive moment.

To Joey he said, "Guess I'd better get back to work."

"You sure about that?"

"There's five pounds of lobster in the freezer. It would be a mortal sin to let it spoil."

She said, "Okay. Go fix your stupid generator."

Stranahan finished the job two hours later, arms aching, knuckles raw. He went looking for Joey to give her the news, but she wasn't reading in bed, or sunning on the seawall, or roughhousing on the dock with the dog. In fact, she wasn't anywhere on the island.

Strom wagged his nub but offered up no information. The Whaler was still tied to the pilings, so Stranahan wasn't completely shocked to throw open the doors of the shed and find the yellow kayak missing. By then Joey was so far gone that the hunting scope was useless in spotting her. He climbed the roof to better scan the water, but all the bright specks turned into sailboats and Windsurfers and water bikes. He thought about taking the skiff and hunting her down, but he also thought about how bone-tired and grungy he was, and how good a cold beer would taste.

As soon as he hopped off the roof, the Doberman started yipping and whining reproachfully, nipping at his heels all the way to the kitchen.

"Oh, shut up," Stranahan said. "She'll be back."