Skinny Dip

Seventeen

A tow truck dragging a rust-pocked Cordoba nearly clipped Karl Rolvaag's unmarked sedan as he turned into West Boca Dunes Phase II. The detective noticed the battered old car on the hook, figuring that kids from across the tracks must have stolen the thing and ditched it in Charles Perrone's neighborhood. Nobody who lived there would be caught dead driving a heap like that.

Rolvaag parked next to Perrone's yellow Humvee, its leering chrome grille speckled with bug splats. Parked crookedly in the swale was a second car, a spotless new Grand Marquis. The bar-code sticker on a side window pegged it as a rental. Rolvaag touched the hood, which was cold. He heard someone hammering behind the house and walked around to the backyard, where a man he recognized as Earl Edward O'Toole was pounding a white wooden cross into the lawn.

The detective set down his briefcase and identified himself. He said, "Were you a friend of Mrs. Perrone's?"

Earl Edward O'Toole seemed thrown by the question. He shook his head negatively and went on hammering.

"Is the cross for her?" Rolvaag asked.

Earl Edward O'Toole mumbled something indecipherable. Rolvaag stepped closer in order to read the hand-lettered inscription on the cross:

Randolph Claude Gunther Born 2-24-57

Returned to the Forgiving Arms of

Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ on 8-17-02

Please Don't Drink and Drive!

"Friend of yours?" Rolvaag asked.

"My dog," said Earl Edward O'Toole, avoiding eye contact.

"That's quite a name for a dog. Randolph Claude Gunther."

"We called him 'Rex' for short."

"I never heard of one living forty-five years," the detective remarked. "Parrots can. Tortoises, too. But I'm not so sure about dogs."

Earl Edward O'Toole took another hard swing with the hammer. "Well, he come from good stock."

"What's that on your back?" Rolvaag said. "Those stickers."

Earl Edward O'Toole hesitated. "Medicine," he replied guardedly.

"For what?"

"I get seasick."

The detective counted five patches and whistled.

Earl Edward O'Toole said, "I'm takin' a sea cruise."

"Yeah? Whereabouts?"

Again Earl Edward O'Toole paused. "Haiti," he said after a moment. "Me and my ma."

"That's a fine idea. Take your mind off poor old Randolph." Rolvaag was enjoying himself. Interludes with such entertaining freaks would be rare once he got back to Minnesota.

"Can I ask why you're planting the cross here? I don't see a grave."

" 'Cause he… he died in a plane crash," Earl Edward O'Toole said, "and there wasn't nuthin' left to bury."

"But it says 'don't drink and drive.' "

"On account of the pilot was trashed at the time."

"Ah. And these other crosses?" The detective pointed toward three more, stacked flat on the grass. "Who are they for, Earl?"

"Rex's puppies. They was all on the same plane," Earl Edward O'Toole answered peevishly. "How the hell'd you know my name anyway?"

"Nice chatting with you." Rolvaag picked up his briefcase and headed toward the house, where Charles Regis Perrone was waiting cheerlessly at the back door.

The white crosses had been erected along Glades Road, west of the turnpike; four of them in a cluster, memorializing a terrible head-on. With numb resignation Chaz had watched Red Hammernut's goon uprooting the crosses, until a car screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. Two young men identifying themselves as brothers of the late Randolph Claude Gunther had leapt out of the car and angrily confronted Tool about stealing the markers. The men had brought fresh-cut sunflowers to hang on their brother's cross, and a volume of Bible verses from which to read. With Tool ignoring their remonstra-tions, the men had begun preaching loudly at him, invoking Satan and other Biblical scoundrels. Tool had responded by heaving the two brothers into a roadside canal, shredding their book of verses and eating the flowers. Chaz had looked on with the shivers.

Tool had returned to the Hummer, carrying the four crosses on his shoulders, saying brightly, "I got a whole field of these suckers at home."

"Hmmm," Chaz had managed.

"They look real nice in the ground, plus you don't gotta prune 'em like you do trees and shrubs."

"Excellent point," Chaz had said, making a mental note to call Red Hammernut first thing in the morning to plead for a new bodyguard.

After they'd returned to Chaz's house, Tool had borrowed a hammer and announced that he was planting the traffic crosses temporarily in the backyard. Chaz would have objected more strenuously if he'd known that Karl Rolvaag would be dropping by.

"How do you know Mr. O'Toole?" the detective asked at the door.

It was the first time Chaz had heard the thug's actual name.

"He's just a friend of a friend."

"The friend being Samuel Johnson Hammernut?" Rolvaag said.

"Yes, well, actually he was an acquaintance of my wife's. I barely know the guy."

"Mr. O'Toole or Mr. Hammernut?"

"Neither of them," Chaz said innocently.

The detective rubbed his chin. "That's sort of strange."

"What do you mean? 'Strange' how?" asked Chaz, on the verge of a blowup. The cop was toying with him, like a cat batting around a ball of yarn.

"Your Humvee-one of Mr. Hammernut's companies purchased it for you," Rolvaag said, "according to the records at the dealership."

Oh shit, Chaz thought.

"You hardly know the man and he's buying you a sixty-thousand-

dollar sport-utility vehicle?" Rolvaag now actually scratching his head, just like that flaky Columbo character on television. Chaz was seething on the inside but he managed to look calm.

"Let me explain," he said to the detective. "The Hummer was a birthday present from Joey. Red knew-Mr. Hammernut-he knew the salesman personally, so he got a really sweet deal. Joey paid him back later."

"With a check, or a wire transfer? Actually, it doesn't matter. Either way, the bank should have a record."

Chaz Perrone shrugged. "I don't know how she handled it. It was her money."

Now they were sitting in the kitchen; Chaz with an untouched beer, the cop with his usual Sprite. During lulls in the conversation, sizzles and pops could be heard from a frying pan on the stove.

Chaz leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Can we please cut all this ridiculous bullshit? Just tell me how much you want."

Rolvaag seemed genuinely baffled.

"Oh, come on," Chaz said. "Save me that god-awful trip to Flamingo." - "You're losing me."

Not wishing to spook the crooked detective, Chaz didn't want to come right out with the word blackmail.

Rolvaag said, "You should be aware that I've already spoken to Mr. Hammernut in LaBelle. He described Mr. O'Toole as a former employee, not a friend. Said he hardly remembered him."

Chaz sat back and crossed his arms. "Fine. We'll play it your way."

Like I've got a choice, he thought.

Glossy with perspiration, Tool lumbered into the kitchen to check on the entree. "Three more minutes," he announced, and walked out.

"He's staying here with you?" Rolvaag asked.

"Yeah. While his double-wide gets fumigated."

"What's with the highway crosses?"

"I'm not sure," Chaz Perrone said, "but it might have something to do with him being a deranged, half-witted sociopath."

"Right."

"He claims to be carrying a bullet slug in the crack of his butt."

"Everybody's got problems," Rolvaag said.

"Is there, like, a particular reason you're here?" Chaz inquired. Besides the sheer sadistic joy you obviously get from busting my balls.

"Yes, of course," said the detective.

"Then can we get to it, please? I've got a three-hour drive to the middle of nowhere, thanks to you."

Rolvaag reached for his briefcase, but then Tool reappeared, briskly toweling his sweaty torso. With uncharacteristic buoyancy he asked if anybody was hungry.

"Because I could eat a bus," he said, forking crispy hunks of alligator tail from the frying pan onto a platter.

Apparently, Rolvaag will be staying for supper, Chaz thought, and I'm helpless to stop it. He hoped that Tool had efficiently disposed of the illegal reptile carcass.

"I hope you like chicken," Chaz said to the detective.

Tool let out a cackle. "We're talkin' major chicken. Serious fuckin' swamp chicken."

"Smells delicious," Rolvaag said, "but no thanks. I've got a lasagna waiting at home."

"And my stomach is acting up again," Chaz chimed in, with barely masked relief. Gnawing on the deep-fried ass of a prehistoric lizard was not his notion of a gourmet experience. In fact, only imminent starvation could have induced him to consume anything from the sullied waters of Hammernut Farms.

"Then I'll eat the whole fucker m'self," Tool said eagerly.

So barbaric was the gustatory spectacle that Chaz Perrone and Karl Rolvaag retreated to the living room, the detective pausing to admire the re-stocked aquarium.

"Those little blue-striped fellows-are they wrasses?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Chaz thinking: Do I look like frigging Jacques Cousteau?

"You were about to ask me something," he said, "before we got interrupted by Chef Cro-Magnon."

Rolvaag sat on the sofa and opened the briefcase. Leafing through a file folder, he said, "Yes. I need a sample of your wife's handwriting."

"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."