First, though, Rolvaag had one bit of leftover police work.
He picked through the loose scraps in his briefcase until he found the number for Corbett Wheeler in New Zealand. The detective was leaving a long message on the answer machine when Joey’s brother picked up the phone and said, “Start over, please. I was dead asleep.”
Rolvaag apologized and asked, “Did your sister have a will?”
“Yes, but let me guess. A new one has surfaced.”
“It seems so. And it leaves everything to her husband.”
Corbett Wheeler laughed. “I told you he was a fuckwit, did I not? How can he possibly believe he’s going to get away with this?”
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Wheeler. I don’t think Charles Perrone is the one who forged the will, assuming it is forged.”
“Joey wouldn’t leave that pussbucket enough money for bus fare to—”
A crackle of long-distance static obscured Corbett Wheeler’s terse commentary.
“I was hoping you had a copy of the original will,” Rolvaag interjected.
“Of course I do. But getting back to Chaz—what makes you so sure he’s not the forger?”
“Because the new will would establish him as the prime suspect in your sister’s disappearance. It gives him a big reason for killing her, which is one thing our case has been lacking.” One of many things, the detective might have added.
“To be honest,” Rolvaag went on, “I don’t think Chaz is foolish enough—or even greedy enough—to put himself at such risk.”
Corbett Wheeler hooted. “And I think that’s exactly what he wants you to think. Come on, man, who’d go to all the trouble of setting him up?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Rolvaag didn’t share with Corbett Wheeler the possibility that someone aboard the Sun Duchess had witnessed Joey’s murder. He was always careful not to raise the hopes of a victim’s relatives.
“It would be helpful to see the will that you’ve got,” Rolvaag said.
“No problem.” More static. “. . . It’s in a lockbox in Auckland.”
“Could you FedEx a copy?”
“How about if I deliver it in person,” Joey’s brother said.
The detective tried not to sound too excited. “That’s even better. But I thought you weren’t ever coming back to the States.”
“Me, neither, Karl. But things have changed, haven’t they?”
On the other end, Rolvaag heard what sounded like the soft pop of a bottle being opened. The detective felt a sudden craving for a cold Foster’s.
Corbett Wheeler said, “It looks like my late little sister needs someone to see after her interests. And, by the way, the real will doesn’t leave me anything, either—in case you’re wondering about my motive.”
The detective assured Joey’s brother that he wasn’t. “When will you be arriving?” he asked.
“Day after tomorrow. The service is next Thursday.”
Again Rolvaag was caught off guard. “What service?”
“The one I’m arranging in memory of Joey,” Corbett Wheeler replied with a muffled burp. “Can you recommend a nice church, Karl? Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist—doesn’t really matter, as long as there’s room for a choir.”
As Red Hammernut listened to Chaz Perrone’s story, he thought of the many blessings that had come his way, but also of the toil. A big farming operation like his was a challenging enterprise, relying as it did on rampant pollution and the systematic mistreatment of immigrant labor. For Red it was no small feat to keep the feds off his back while at the same time soaking taxpayers for lucrative crop subsidies and dirt-cheap loans that might or might not be repaid this century. He reflected upon the hundreds of thousands of dollars that he’d handed out as campaign donations; the untallied thousands more for straight-up bribes, hookers, private-yacht charters, gambling stakes and other discreet favors; and, finally, the countless hours of ass-kissing he’d been forced to endure with the same knucklehead politicians whose loyalties he had purchased.
This was no easy gig. Red Hammernut got infuriated every time he heard some pissy liberal refer to the federal farm bill as corporate welfare. The term implied contented idleness, and nobody worked harder than Red to keep the money flowing and to stay out of trouble. Now the whole goddamn shebang was in danger of falling apart because of one man.
“Pay him. That’s my advice,” Chaz Perrone said in cocksure summary. “I know it’s a shitload of money, but what else can we do?”
They were sitting in Red Hammernut’s office, overlooking the toxic though tranquil pond. Chaz and Tool had driven straight from Flamingo to LaBelle, arriving at four in the morning and nodding off like junkies in the parking lot. Chaz’s nostrils were blood-encrusted and his face was pocked extravagantly with crimson insect bites. Red Hammernut couldn’t help but stare. The man looked like a photo out of an exotic medical textbook.
“He’s got us by the short and curlies,” Chaz was saying of the blackmailer. “I don’t see where there’s any other choice but to pay him.”
Red Hammernut said there was never only one choice, regardless of the problem. “But lemme see if I understand the situation, ’cause you tore through it pretty fast. What about the cop? The one you thought was breakin’ into your house and talkin’ like Moses on the telephone?”
“I was wrong. It’s not him,” Chaz said shortly. “He’s not mixed up in this.”
“Which is at least one piece a semi-good news, right?”
“Except he found out from the dealership about you buying me the Hummer.”
“Well, hell,” Red Hammernut said.
“So I told him you were friends with Joey and you did it as a favor to her—got me the Hummer for my birthday. And then she paid you back.”
“That’s the best you could do? Sweet Jesus.” Red Hammernut turned to look at Tool, whose head was lolling. “You all right?”
“Just real tarred.”
“Then go lie down.”
“Yessir, that’s an idea.” Tool kicked the chair away and curled up like a bloated bear on the carpet in front of the desk. Red Hammernut shook his head.
Chaz said, “So if the detective asks you about the Hummer—”
“Don’t worry, son, I’ll give’m the same story you did,” Red Hammernut said. “Now let’s talk about this blackmail business. The sumbitch wants half a million bucks, and for some reason you think I’m the one ought to pay.”
“Red, I don’t have that kind of money.”
“My question is, What’s he gonna do if you don’t pay? Worst case? Tell the cops he saw you push poor Joey overboard.”
Chaz bleated, “Isn’t that enough?”
“First, he’s gotta prove he was on board that ship.”
“Don’t worry. He was.”
“Then it’s his word against yours.” Red Hammernut thinking how the media would go wild once the accusation became public. So far, Chaz had demonstrated no capacity for steadiness under pressure, and Red Hammernut doubted that his composure would improve once he was named a murder suspect. If Chaz had in fact killed his wife, he might come unspooled under tough questioning by the cops. That could prove catastrophic for Hammernut Farms, and even more so for Red personally.
“This asshole knows everything,” Chaz was saying.
Red Hammernut clicked his teeth. “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”
“Knows about the Hummer, the phosphorus tests—don’t ask me how, but he put it all together.”
“Bad luck,” Red Hammernut said.
It was his own damn fault for buying that H2; he’d done it only because he was sick of hearing Chaz whine about needing a four-wheel drive. The way Red figured it, the blackmailer probably hired a private eye to do a paper check on Chaz, which led him to the Hummer’s bill of sale. Once Red’s name popped up, it wouldn’t take fucking Matlock to make the connection between the farm and the biologist who was testing its waters for pollution.
“It’s a tur?
??ble fix, I give you that,” Red Hammernut said to Chaz. “But half a million big ones ain’t a very appetizin’ option.”
“But Joey left me zippo, Red. All I’ve got is what’s in the bank.”
Red Hammernut calculated that he’d slipped Chaz twenty to thirty grand in cash over the years, most of which had probably been pissed away on greens fees and lap dances.
“Relax, boys. Let’s put on our thinkin’ caps.”
Reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, Red pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and poured three glasses. Tool slurped his from a supine position.
“So, how long till he wants an answer?” Red Hammernut asked.
“He said he’d call Monday morning,” Chaz said.
“And he ain’t alone in this deal, right? You said there’s a girlfriend.”
Tool spoke up from the floor. “Name of Anna somethin’ or other. She don’t know much.”
“Good,” Red Hammernut said, though he had marginal confidence in Tool’s assessment. “She wasn’t totally scared to pieces of you?”
Tool grunted. “Didn’t appear to be.”
“Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“Chief, I give up tryin’ to figger out women a long time ago.”
“Amen,” said Chaz Perrone.
“Well, let’s assume the girlfriend knows what the blackmailer knows,” Red Hammernut said, “and proceed from there. Who’s ready for another belt?”
Tool raised his glass for a refill. “When can I go home, Red?”
“Soon as this mess is over. Won’t be long, I promise.”
“I miss my yard. All them pretty white crosses.”
“Just hang in there, son,” Red Hammernut said. “You’re doin’ a world-class job.”
Chaz Perrone cleared his throat. “To be honest, Red, there’s room for improvement. No offense, but it needs to be said.”
Red Hammernut hoped Chaz would have more sense than to complain about Tool in Tool’s presence, but he was wrong.
“Take last night,” Chaz pressed on. “I end up all alone with that psycho blackmailer in the middle of the frigging Everglades. In a canoe.”
“You’re alive, ain’t ya?” Tool said.
Red Hammernut couldn’t see over the edge of the desk, but it sounded like Tool was scratching himself.
“Yeah, I’m alive. No thanks to you,” Chaz snapped. Then, appealing to Red: “The bastard hit me over the head with a paddle. And look what he did to my nose!”
Red Hammernut tried to sound sympathetic. “Guy’s got a mean streak, that’s for sure.”
“I thought the whole point of having a bodyguard,” Chaz griped, “was to protect me from shit like this.”
Tool raised his head and, by way of rebuttal, said: “Thar weren’t ’nough room in that canoe for all three of us.”
“Then how about the other night at the house?” Chaz needled. “The man kicked your ass.”
“We ain’t gonna talk about that,” Tool said.
“Water under the bridge,” Red Hammernut agreed.
“He’s gotta be fifty years old, at least,” Chaz went on, “and he damn near killed you!”
Tool’s tone hardened. “Now you’re just tellin’ stories, boy.”
Red Hammernut’s patience ran out. “Both of you, I swear, just shut the hell up. This ain’t no kindygarten.”
Chaz fidgeted while Red slowly sipped his drink. Tool dozed off and began to snore.
After a few edgy minutes, Chaz let it rip. “What do you think, Red? About paying the guy.”
“I think you got some brass balls, considerin’ you’re the one got us into this train wreck.”
Chaz looked wounded. “Why? What did I do?”
Red thinking: That’s the $500,000 question.
“This is serious,” Chaz persisted. “Whoever this guy is, he could take us all down.”
Of that fact, Red Hammernut was keenly aware. “Wait outside, son. I need to have a word with Mr. O’Toole.”
“Good idea.” Chaz headed confidently for the door. “Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
Red Hammernut walked around to the other side of the desk. With the toe of an ostrich-skinned boot he nudged Tool in the rib cage. The big man looked up dolefully and blinked.
“Red, please don’t send me back to Boca fuckin’ Raton.”
“How ’bout I double your pay to a thousand a day?”
Tool sat up. “The doc kilt his wife.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right,” Red Hammernut said.
“He had a woman over, did I tell ya? Ain’t been widowed a week and already he’s pokin’ poon.”
“If he were the Pope of Rome,” said Red, “I wouldn’t need your help.”
Tool, still itching, unhooked the straps of his overalls to improve access. “Truth is, chief, I ain’t cut out to be no bodyguard.”
“Truth is, that ain’t your job description. Not anymore.”
Samuel Johnson Hammernut winked and slapped an envelope fat with cash on the desk. Tool brightened.
“I’ll take another drink,” he said.
Red passed the bottle.
Twenty-one
Joey was baking in the sun, stretched out on the seawall, when she saw the glint of an airplane high overhead. It made her think of her parents and she had to smile, picturing that doped-up circus bear in the co-pilot’s seat of the doomed Gulfstream. Hank and Lana Wheeler had lived and died with a flair that Joey envied. In that spirit she removed the top of her bikini and tossed it on the dock. It landed on the nose of Mick’s Doberman, who awoke with a curious snort.
From out on the water came a rowdy hooray, followed by the sound of clapping. Joey spun around and blushed—two men were motoring slowly past the island in a dark green flats skiff, no more than fifty yards from the shore. The men were in their late twenties or early thirties and wore loose-fitting pastel fishing shirts of the style found in high-end outdoor catalogs. Strom shot to attention, shook free of the bikini top and began to bark. When Joey covered her breasts with her arms, the fishermen booed. She lay down and closed her eyes, hoping they would go away. She had come to cherish the solitude of the island, and to appreciate Mick’s antipathy for uninvited visitors.
Strom was clattering up and down the dock in a slobbering rage that would have deterred most sensible persons, but the glimpse of a half-naked woman had obliterated what scant common sense was possessed by the young men in the green skiff. Joey could tell by the engine noise that they were edging closer.
Idiots, she thought.
Even in the middle of Biscayne Bay there was no avoiding this distinctly male brand of bad behavior. A sea breeze delivered their randy chuckles and lewd low-toned commentary, one of the men offering a favorable critique of her legs while the other speculated hopefully on the presence of a tattoo. In vain Joey prayed that their frat-house blather would be drowned out by Strom’s manic barking. Yet when she looked up again, the boat was no more than sixty or seventy feet from the seawall.
“Hey, babe,” one of the men said. “Let’s see those tits again.”
Joey could easily imagine Chaz in that skiff, making the same smirking, cloddish approach to a total stranger. Calmly she got up and walked to the shed where Mick stowed his fishing tackle. He’d been teaching her how to cast a spinning rod, and it seemed like a good opportunity to practice her accuracy. Distracted by a second sighting of her breasts, the two fishermen failed to take note as Joey tied the large plastic minnow to the line—a hefty deep-sea plug bristling with multiple sets of treble hooks.
Strom circled deliriously as Joey advanced, weapon in hand, to the end of the dock. The young man in the bow of the skiff was emitting a gargling sound, presumably in appreciation of Joey’s physique, as she drew back the spinning rod. His gaze never left her chest, so he didn’t see the fishing lure arcing brightly through the noonday sky. Joey wasn’t sure if she snagged his shirt or the flesh of his neck, but in any case she jerked hard enough to spill the
howling imbecile into the water.
She had reeled him halfway to shore when Strom, surrendering to ancient instincts, sprung off the dock and lustily attached himself to the thrashing angler’s thigh. His companion bellowed in alarm but gave no thought to heroics; instead, he jammed the skiff’s throttle into reverse and backed smartly away from the island.
The tumult was still in evidence when Mick Stranahan arrived a few minutes later in the Whaler with Rose, Joey’s worldly friend from the book group. Strom released his grip on the fisherman and paddled somewhat ineffectively toward Mick, who with Rose’s assistance hauled the slippery dog into the boat. Making no move to unhook the swimmer, Stranahan bit through the fishing line and instructed the driver of the skiff to come fetch his dumbass partner. The cucumber-sized lure remained attached like a garish brooch to the floundering man’s shirt. Joey also spotted a ragged hole in his cargo shorts—Strom’s zestful contribution—as the man clambered over the gunwale of the skiff, which immediately departed at top speed.
The wild scene seemed surreal to Rose, who hopped off the Whaler, hugged Joey ferociously and exclaimed, “You’re the hottest-looking dead person I ever saw!”
Joey noticed that Rose had bleached her shoulder-length hair to a hue of blond that would have impressed the Gabor sisters. She wore a pullover, black tights and white high-top sneakers—on her way to the gym, no doubt, when Mick had intercepted her.
He pointed toward the receding speck that was the green skiff, heading for the mainland. “Those jackasses give you a hard time?”
“They tried,” Joey said, “but Strom and I taught ’em some manners.”
Mick pulled her close, kissed her neck and whispered: “Better put your top on. You’re getting fried.”
While Rose and Joey caught up, Mick set the picnic table and fixed a lunch of conch chowder, grapefruit salad, sardine sandwiches and sangria. It was a coolish day and they took their time, Rose frequently interrupting Joey’s story to rail against Chaz Perrone.