Skinny Dip

  By now the pythons had taken notice of little Petunia, hopping madly at Mrs. Shulman’s slippered feet. The reptiles raised their milky heads and feathered their rosy tongues, tasting the air. Rolvaag could feel their coils tightening in expectation.

  “Easy, fellas,” he whispered.

  Nellie Shulman’s pinched, mean eyes widened to fearful bulges when she saw the snakes begin to twitch.

  “You sick perverted bastard!” she cried, and slammed the door.

  When the detective returned to his apartment, the phone was ringing. He let the machine pick up.

  “Karl, get your ass in here pronto.” It was Captain Gallo. “We’re going on a helicopter ride. There’s another situation.”

  “What a surprise,” Rolvaag murmured to himself.

  In a way he felt sorry for his boss, who was a smart cop but sometimes oblivious to the laws of the jungle. Gallo had been genuinely flabbergasted only the day before, when the sheriff had called to report that the body of Samuel Johnson Hammernut had been discovered along Route 441 in western Palm Beach County.

  It was a most unnatural death, Mr. Hammernut having been fatally impaled on a roadside cross bearing the name of Pablo Humberto Duarte, a prominent podiatrist who had died in a car crash at that location. One rainy evening, Duarte’s Mini Cooper had been creamed by a hit-and-run driver who was never apprehended. And while the seat-belt reminder stenciled on the memorial marker was a commendable gesture, no mere safety harness would have saved the doctor’s life, the Mini Cooper having been reduced on impact to the approximate size of a bagel toaster.

  Because of the ritualistic appearance of the Hammernut homicide, Palm Beach detectives were sniffing for a connection between the farm tycoon and the podiatrist. One theory: Duarte’s family had somehow identified Hammernut as the fugitive hit-and-run driver, setting the stage for a macabre act of vengeance.

  Rolvaag had gotten a chuckle out of that one. Gallo had not. It made him nervous that a wealthy and influential citizen interviewed by one of his detectives had turned up murdered ten days later.

  “Look on the bright side,” Rolvaag had told him. “It’s out of our jurisdiction.”

  The captain’s mood had failed to improve overnight. When Rolvaag arrived at headquarters, Gallo pulled him into his office and shut the door.

  “We’re flying out to the Everglades,” he said momentously.

  “Okay.”

  “You aren’t going to ask why?”

  “I can probably guess,” the detective said.

  Looking uncharacteristically harried, Gallo gnawed rather savagely on his lower lip.

  He said, “Karl, I need some friendly guidance here.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “That’s my question: What do I want to know?” The captain tried to wink, but it came off as a tic. “If you were me, Karl, in my position, would you really want to dive into this Perrone mess? Give it some thought, okay?”

  As they waited to board the helicopter, Gallo asked Rolvaag what he was carrying. It was a large Rubbermaid container with air holes punched in the lid.

  “My snakes,” Rolvaag said. He had not come to his decision lightly.

  Gallo looked appalled. “Are you fucking serious? What if the damn things get loose?”

  “Just don’t tell the pilot.”

  Rolvaag enjoyed the flight, which took them over Fort Lauderdale and across the western suburbs, then north along the Sawgrass Expressway into Palm Beach County. It was boggling to realize that an elevated ribbon of dirt was essentially all that separated 5 million raucous, distracted human beings from the prehistoric solitude of the Everglades. The detective regretted that during his hitch in South Florida he hadn’t spent more time on the other side of the levee; the sane and peaceful side.

  “The Palm Beach S.O. invited us out of courtesy,” Gallo was explaining, still eyeing the box of pythons. “Whatever they feel like sharing is up to them. It’s their case.”

  “Thank goodness,” Rolvaag said.

  Against the tans and greens of the savanna, Charles Perrone’s Humvee appeared first as a metallic twinkle and then as a bright yellow beacon. As the helicopter drew closer, Rolvaag could make out a couple of squad cars parked on the dike, along with a four-wheel drive that he assumed belonged to the feds. A Loxahatchee park ranger had been first on the scene.

  As soon as they landed, Rolvaag and Gallo were greeted by a young Palm Beach sheriff’s detective named Ogden. He showed them the suicide note that had been found in the Hummer.

  “ ‘Swan costume’?” Gallo flicked at the paper. “What the fuck is that all about?”

  Ogden shrugged.

  “Did you find a body?” Rolvaag asked.

  “Not yet. We’re still looking,” Ogden said.

  The search airboat could be heard roaring in zigzags through the tall grass. Rolvaag would not have been surprised if the remains of Joey Perrone’s husband were recovered, but he would have been astonished if the death turned out to be a true suicide.

  Ogden said, “I understand you interviewed the subject several times after his wife’s accident. Did he seem depressed enough to do something like this?”

  “Actually, he didn’t seem depressed at all,” Rolvaag said. “He seemed like an insensitive jerk.”

  Gallo felt professionally obliged to elaborate. “Karl had some theories about Mr. Perrone’s possible involvement in his wife’s disappearance. Nothing ever panned out.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Rolvaag, thinking: Try to make a murder case in two lousy weeks with no corpse.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” Ogden asked.

  “A few days ago, at a church service for Mrs. Perrone.”

  “Was he upset?”

  “Not particularly. He was hitting on his wife’s best friend.”

  “Nice guy,” Ogden said.

  “A real prince. Good luck,” Rolvaag told him.

  “What’s in the box?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Rolvaag picked up the heavy Rubbermaid tub and trekked down the levee. Once safely out of view, he angled down the embankment and set the container on the ground. It wasn’t an ideal solution, Rolvaag knew. As an imported species the pythons didn’t belong in Florida but, unfortunately, their native India did not figure in the detective’s immediate travel plans. At least here the snakes would be warm and relatively safe, as they were too large and powerful to be bothered by hawks, raccoons or otters. Rolvaag was more worried about the dangers from pesticides and other chemicals, recalling the grossly deformed baby snake that he’d found at Hammernut Farms. All he could do was pray that the water here in Loxahatchee was cleaner.

  He popped the lid off the plastic box and waited for the pythons to stir in the sunlight. First one and then the other tentatively rose and poked a blunt nose over the rim. Rolvaag marveled as he often did at their sinuous grace. They were the purest of predators, alluring yet devoid of emotion; a brain stem with a tail.

  “So long, guys. Do your best,” Rolvaag said.

  Trudging back toward the police cars, he couldn’t help but observe that the vivid hue of Chaz Perrone’s Hummer matched almost exactly that of the crime-scene tape surrounding it. It was Rolvaag’s belief that Red Hammernut had eliminated Perrone out of fear that the biologist might reveal their corrupt covenant. Another possibility was that Chaz foolishly had tried to shake the farmer down for more money. Regarding the grisly fate of Mr. Hammernut himself, Rolvaag surmised that he had succumbed during some sort of disagreement with Earl Edward O’Toole. The hired brute collected highway crosses just like the one upon which the tycoon farmer was kabobed.

  Under ordinary circumstances Rolvaag would have shared all he knew and suspected with young Detective Ogden. Not today, though, for Rolvaag was impatient to get home and pack. Anyway, what would be accomplished by bringing the kid up to speed? His boss probably wouldn’t give him enough time to put a dent in the case.

  Later, as Ogde
n walked them to the helicopter, he said, “We’ll call you when we find the body.”

  “If he’s wearing a swan suit,” said Gallo, “I want to see a picture.”

  On the chopper ride back to Fort Lauderdale, Gallo hunched close and growled, “I need an answer, Karl. Right now.”

  “All right. Here it is,” Rolvaag said. “If I were you, I definitely would not want to know what I know.”

  Gallo looked relieved, then wary. “You’re not just saying that because you think I’m too dense to sort it out?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You believe Perrone is dead?”

  “You betcha,” the detective said.

  “But what if you’re wrong?”

  “Then I’ll fly back for the trial.”

  “What trial, goddammit? The only witness was the victim.”

  Rolvaag touched a finger to his lips. “You don’t want to know. Remember?”

  Gallo lowered his voice. “You couldn’t have picked a worse fucking time to bail out on me,” he said, “or a worse case.”

  “It’s just about over. Trust me on this.”

  “Trust you? Karl, I can’t even follow you.”

  When they got back to the office, Rolvaag noticed that the place was as hushed as an art gallery. All the male detectives were pretending to study case files while they ogled Rose Jewell, who was sitting at Rolvaag’s desk and reading a book. She wore pearl-colored heels, a sleeveless white top and a navy skirt so short that she could have caught the croup.

  When she looked up and saw Rolvaag, she snapped the book shut and said, “I’m not connecting with Emma Bovary. Sorry, but it’s just not happening.”

  Rose’s Broadway-blond hair was accented with a pair of black goggle-sized sunglasses that she’d propped at a saucy angle on her head. “Buy me a cup of coffee,” she said to Rolvaag.

  “You don’t drink coffee,” he reminded her.

  “It’s a figure of speech,” she said with a chiding laugh. “It means I want to talk with you alone.”

  Captain Gallo stepped between them and extended a meaty paw. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he said.

  “And why should we be? You’re married, sweetie.” Rose pointed helpfully at Gallo’s wedding band. Then she turned to Rolvaag and said, “Are you coming?”

  He followed her down the hall to a bank of vending machines. There he bought her a diet soda, which she sipped from the can.

  “I noticed all the boxes on your desk,” she said. “You going somewhere?”

  “Yes. I took a job with a police department in Minnesota.”

  “Minnesota? But what about Joey?”

  “The case is more or less over,” Rolvaag said.

  “Is that the same as closed?” Rose asked skeptically.

  “Not exactly. Just over.”

  He told her about Chaz Perrone’s Humvee turning up at Loxahatchee, and about the suicide note. He related only what he knew as facts, and not his strong suspicions.

  Rose leaned against the soda machine and said, “Oh God. There’s something I’ve got to confess.”

  The detective felt a stab of heartburn. “Please don’t tell me you killed him. I already rented the U-Haul.”

  “For God’s sake, no, I didn’t kill him,” she said. “But I did invite him to my place after the memorial . . . and then I doped his drink.” She smiled sheepishly. “I was trying to get him to admit he pushed Joey overboard.”

  “Did he fess up?”

  “No comment,” said Rose. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Not unless Mr. Perrone files charges, and I would say that’s a long shot.”

  She handed Rolvaag the half-empty soda pop, which he tossed in the garbage.

  “My mom lives in Minnetonka,” she said.

  “No kidding? The job I’m taking is in Edina.”

  “Nice town.” Rose clucked approvingly. “I saw you at Joey’s service, sitting way in the back of the church, but I didn’t know whether it was cool to say hi or not.”

  “You gave a good eulogy,” Rolvaag said. “I’m sure Mrs. Perrone would have liked it.”

  “I haven’t given up on that girl, you know. Weirder things have happened.”

  “I haven’t given up, either,” said Rolvaag. He wanted to tell her more, but he couldn’t.

  She said, “I try to go up and see Mom once or twice a year.”

  “It’s nice in the spring,” Rolvaag heard himself say.

  “Maybe I’ll call you next time I’m there,” Rose said. “There’s not a whole lot happening in Edina, crime-wise. I’ll bet you could spare a whole hour for lunch.”

  “Oh, at least,” said the detective.

  As she walked out of the office Rose Jewell never once glanced back, which spared Rolvaag the embarrassment of being caught staring. It was one of the most splendid exits he had ever witnessed. After a moment’s recovery he returned to his desk and resumed boxing the files. He checked his voice mail but did not find the message he was expecting. It was possible that he was dead wrong about what had happened; possible, he thought, but not likely.

  Rolvaag made sure that the rest of the day passed slowly, to give his telephone time to ring. It didn’t. Then, shortly before five, he was approached by a well-set middle-aged man with a deep-water tan. The man introduced himself and presented a faded ID from the Dade State Attorney’s Office, where many years ago he had worked as an investigator.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Stranahan?” Rolvaag asked.

  “Let’s go eat.”

  “As you can see, I’m pretty busy. It’s my last week on the job.”

  Stranahan said, “This concerns a man named Charles Perrone.”

  Rolvaag reached for his coat. “There’s a new place on Las Olas. The burgers aren’t bad.”

  “Mind if I bring a friend?”

  The detective found one last notebook in the bottom drawer of his desk. “Fine with me,” he said.

  The green Suburban was parked three blocks away, in the public lot. At the sight of it, Rolvaag suppressed a grin. He got in the backseat and rolled down the window to feel the sun on his face. They ended up ordering takeout and carrying it to a picnic table on the beach.

  Mrs. Perrone was even lovelier than in her photographs. Mick Stranahan let her do most of the talking. When she was finished, Rolvaag said, “Tell me again the last thing you remember.”

  “Falling,” she said. “No, diving.”

  “And before that?”

  “My husband throwing me over the rail.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I woke up at Mick’s and it was all a blank,” Joey Perrone said. “Until yesterday.”

  “Then it came back to you all at once? Or in bits and pieces?”

  Stranahan spoke up. “Pieces. For a while she didn’t even know her name.”

  Rolvaag put down his notebook and went to work on his french fries.

  “They found a floating bale of marijuana that had the tips of your fingernails stuck in it,” he said to Mrs. Perrone. “I was wondering how long you’d hung on.”

  Pensively she glanced at her hands and flexed her fingers, as if trying to muscle up the memory.

  “She hung on all night,” Mick Stranahan said. “That’s how I found her.”

  Although Joey Perrone appeared vigorous and fit, Rolvaag was nonetheless impressed. Few grown men he knew would have survived such a fall, followed by eight hours in the cold chop of the ocean.

  “Where’s this island exactly?” he asked.

  Stranahan told him.

  “But you’ve got a boat, right? Why didn’t you take Mrs. Perrone to a hospital after you found her?” the detective said.

  “Because she was in no condition to be moved. It’s a small skiff, and a nasty ride when it’s rough.”

  “You don’t have a phone or a VHF radio on your island?”

  “Just a cellular, and the battery was dead.”

  “No charger?”

  “Broken,??
? said Stranahan. “Same with the VHF.”

  “So, for the last two weeks—”

  “Mick’s been taking care of me,” Joey Perrone said.

  With a straw, Rolvaag swirled the ice in his jumbo Sprite. He said, “You’ve had quite a go of it.” That much of their story he believed.

  Mrs. Perrone picked distractedly at a Greek salad. “I know it’s just my word against his, but I want to prosecute Chaz for attempted murder. I want to take him to trial.”

  “That may not be possible,” Rolvaag said. “Your husband is missing in the Everglades. There was a suicide note in his vehicle.”

  Joey Perrone seemed more shocked than Mick Stranahan, who asked if the note looked authentic.

  “I think there’s a strong possibility that Mr. Perrone is gone for good,” the detective replied.

  Mrs. Perrone put down her fork and turned away, looking toward the ocean. Stranahan moved closer and laid a hand on her back.

  “Damn,” she said softly.

  “You all right?” Rolvaag asked.

  She nodded and stood up. “I want to take a walk.”

  When they were alone, Stranahan asked the detective where he was moving.

  “Home to Minnesota,” Rolvaag said. “I figure it’s best to get out of here now, while I still remember what ‘normal’ is.”

  “Good luck,” said Stranahan.

  “Just yesterday was one of those only-in-Florida moments. They called me out to see some dead guy by the side of the road. You know these white crosses people put up at fatal accident scenes? He had one sticking in the middle of his gut.”

  Stranahan took a bite of cheeseburger. “Was he a tourist? Because that’s when you hear from the governor, when tourists start getting whacked.”

  “Nope, he owned a big farming outfit up near Lake Okeechobee. Coincidentally, he was an associate of Mrs. Perrone’s husband,” the detective said. “Samuel Hammernut was his name.”

  Stranahan displayed no curiosity whatsoever. When a seagull landed on the corner of the table, he tossed a french fry at its feet.

  Rolvaag said, “They held a memorial service for Mrs. Perrone last Thursday and, I swear, there was a guy at the church who looked a lot like you.”

  “No kidding?” Stranahan offered a soggy slice of pickle to the gull, which mangled it greedily. “The island is lousy with these things,” he remarked. “Rats with wings.”