Skinny Dip (13 page)

It was Chaz Perrone’s opinion that Hammernut Farms would continue to face harsh scrutiny from regulatory agencies as well as the news media, which is why he was generously offering his services as an environmental consultant. When Red Hammernut pointed out that Perrone had no background whatsoever in agricultural waste treatment, Chaz replied that he was a quick learner. He described his experience defending his current employer, a renowned cosmetics firm, against charges that their products contained carcinogens and industrial corrosives. Proudly he recalled the time that his testimony had cast critical doubt upon that of a female plaintiff whose cheekbones had mysteriously delaminated after an application of designer blush. Chaz asserted it was important for corporations to have their own experts, people who could credibly challenge accusers on points of science, or at least muddle the debate.

Red Hammernut liked Chaz Perrone’s attitude. It was a pleasure to encounter a young biologist so unfettered by idealism, so unabashedly sympathetic to the needs of private enterprise. Morever, Chaz wasn’t nerdy and soft-spoken like some of the scientists Red Hammernut had hired in the past. He was sharp-looking and glib, and would come across credibly on TV Unfortunately, a master’s degree in sea lice wouldn’t cut it. “You need a Ph.D. on swamps and such,” Red Hammernut had informed Chaz, “else these enviros gonna eat you for breakfast.”

And so it unfolded that Charles Regis Perrone was enrolled in a doctoral program at Duke University’s Wetland Center. His improbable acceptance at such a lofty institution coincided with a substantial cash endowment from Mr. S. J. Hammernut, who also happened to be paying Chaz’s tuition. Red Hammernut guessed correctly that, being in the heart of tobacco country, Duke would have no qualms about accepting phosphorus-tainted farm dollars.

Unlike during his stay at the University of Miami, Chaz Perrone required no whip cracking on his quest for a Ph.D. Although he didn’t distinguish himself academically at Duke, he didn’t embarrass himself, either. This time he was self-motivated; this time he smelled real money down the line. Upon graduation he expected to be presented with a lucrative consulting contract for Hammernut Farms, but Red had other plans. After pulling a few strings, he’d landed Chaz a gig as a state biologist, testing water purity in a particular sector of the Everglades Agricultural Area. The young biologist was profoundly disappointed, but Red assured him that a six-figure position (and an air-conditioned office) awaited—if he proved himself in the field.

And that Chaz was doing. Less than six weeks after he took the job, phosphorus levels in the runoff from Hammernut Farms were recorded at 150 parts per billion, a startling reduction of more than 50 percent. Two months later, the figure dropped to 78 ppb. Six months after that, field surveys showed the phosphorus discharge holding steady at about 9 ppb, a level so low that regulators removed Hammernut Farms from their target list of outlaw polluters. The local Sierra Club even gave a plaque to Red Hammernut, and planted a cypress seedling in his honor.

Red was pleased by the positive publicity, and he was glad to get those goddamn tree-huggers off his case. More important to the bottom line, however, was that the fictitious phosphorus readings allowed Red Hammernut to escape the costly inconveniences being imposed on his neighbors in the name of wetlands restoration. Unlike other farms in the area, Red’s operation wasn’t forced to cut back on the potent amounts of fertilizer it was dumping on crops, for example, or made to spend millions building filtration ponds to strain out the phosphate crud. Thanks to the innovative fieldwork of Dr. Charles Perrone, Hammernut Farms could continue using the Everglades as a cesspit.

Of course it was imperative that the corrupt arrangement between Chaz and Red remain secret, and in that regard Chaz’s serial philandering proved to be a continuing source of concern. More than once Red Hammernut reminded Chaz that his fortunes would take a radically negative turn if he told any of his girlfriends the name of his true employer. Ironically, the woman about whom Red Hammernut worried least was Chaz’s wife, because it seemed that Chaz didn’t tell her much of anything.

Then came the phone call, Chaz jabbering frantically that Joey had caught him forging the water data. Red asking over and over: “You sure she knows what it is?” Chaz saying that he couldn’t be certain, because Joey had just dropped the subject afterward. Over the phone, though, he had sounded suspicious. Definitely spooked. Red Hammernut had urged him to stay cool: “Don’t assume nuthin’. Wait and see what she says about it.”

And Joey Perrone hadn’t said anything, not a word. Still, Chaz had remained anxious, and it rubbed off on Red. What if wifey had figured out the Everglades deal and decided to keep quiet and bide her time? In Red’s worst nightmare, Joey would catch Chaz with his weenie in the wrong bun and become so enraged that she’d blab to the water district about his phony samples. Trying to buy her silence would be useless because she didn’t need the dough—according to Chaz, Joey was worth millions.

As the days had turned into weeks, Chaz seemed to calm down. He hadn’t talked so much about his wife or what she might suspect, so Red Hammernut had assumed that the situation on the home front had ironed itself out. Suddenly Joey Perrone was dead, and now somebody was trying to blackmail Chaz. Or so he said. Red Hammernut couldn’t rule out the possibility that the young man might be trying to rip him off; it would not be entirely out of character.

“You’re sure it’s the detective?” Red asked.

“Who the hell else could it be? He’s the only one who’s been hassling me about Joey.” Chaz was waving his hands in agitation. “He tried to disguise his voice over the phone and make like he was Charl-tonHeston!”

Tool grunted quizzically.

“That NRA guy,” Red explained. “The one’s got old-timer’s disease.”

“He’s also in the movies,” Chaz said thinly.

“You know who does a funny ‘personation of Heston? That Robin Williams fella—”

“Red, are you even listening to me?”

“Course I am, son. This detective who does voices of movie stars, you think he’s the same guy that’s been sneakin’ into your house?”

“Absolutely. It’d be damned easy for a cop,” Chaz declared. “Know what he did today? Turned on my sprinklers. Pouring rain when I get home, and the sprinklers are running like Niagara fucking Falls! Dumb shit like that, it can make you nuts.”

Red Hammernut thinking: He must be readin’ my mind.

They were squeezed together like nuns in the back of the gray Cadillac—Red stinking like a knockoff Montecristo; Tool like a wet bull; and Chaz Perrone like the county dump where he had just tossed several boxes of his wife’s belongings.

Red Hammernut had sent his driver into the doughnut shop in case Chaz blurted out something stupid or incriminating. It was a conversation that had to be managed carefully, as Red didn’t wish to be taxed with unnecessary details. Whatever had happened between Chaz and Joey Perrone aboard the cruise ship was a private matter and ought to stay that way.

Eyeing Chaz now, Red had trouble picturing him tossing anybody overboard—especially Joey, who was a big strong girl. Tool could have handled her, no problem, but Chaz?

Maybe he’s tougher than he looks, Red thought.

He said, “Son, you wanna hear somethin’ wild? I met him this morning. Your cop.”

“Rolvaag!” Chaz turned ashen. “Christ. How?”

“Drove all the way up to the farm to ask me about a rented minivan.” Red shot a sideways glance at Tool, who was absently picking a scab on his neck.

“Did he mention my name?” Chaz asked anxiously.

“He did not. Gave me a bullshit story, which I believed at the time, about Tool’s good looks scarin’ some friends of the sheriff. Needless to say, I didn’t know it was the same detective that’s been ridin’ your ass.”

Tool spoke up. “Red, I was ready to take care of him. Your boy here tole me not to.”

“He was right,” Red Hammernut said. “You can’t deal with cops the same way you deal with beaners. That’s a damn fact.”

Chaz sighed dispiritedly. Tool cracked his knuckles and said, “I don’t get how anybody can do a blackmail if your boy here ain’t committed no crime.”

Red laughed to himself. Once again, the man had gotten straight to the nut of the matter.

“The guy on the phone says he saw me throw Joey over the side of the ship. That’s just not true,” Chaz said.

Tool crinkled his brow. “What’s not true? You didn’t do it, or you did do it and nobody saw?”

Chaz opened his mouth to respond, but a sickly quack came out.

Red Hammernut quickly changed the subject. “This Rolvaag, he didn’t strike me as the type to be runnin’ his own game. I been around long ‘nough to know a crook when I see ‘em.”

“And I’m telling you, he’s the only one it could be.” Chaz didn’t sound as certain as Red would have liked. If Chaz had in fact thrown his wife off the ship, some stranger could have witnessed it; another passenger, a cabin boy, whoever.

“This blackmailer fella, let’s make sure who he is and how much he wants,” Red said to Chaz. “Could be some smartass just saw the story on the news and got the bright idea to shake you down. That kinda shit we can handle.” He nodded confidently toward Tool. “But if it’s really the cop, like you say, then we gotta be extra careful. He can cause all sorta problems, even if you ain’t done nuthin’ wrong.”

Through clenched teeth, Chaz said, “I haven’t, Red. Like I said, it was an accident.”

“Take it easy, son. I believe you.”

Tool, who was probing a hangnail with a rusty fishhook, snorted doubtfully.

“Next time this sumbitch calls,” Red Hammernut said, “you try and set up a meeting.”

“Christ, Red, you mean face-to-face?” Chaz whined. “But why? What’re we going to do?”

“Listen politely to whatever he’s got to say,” Red said. “And, son, let’s be clear on this. It ain’t ‘we.’ It’s ‘you.’ “

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-f.”

“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 Hammernut,” 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.