Often Rolvaag imagined Mrs. Perrone alone in the ocean, clinging so fiercely to that floating bale that the tips of her nails snapped off one by one. The daydream was more haunting for its detail, since Chaz Perrone had provided a snapshot of his wife to the police and Coast Guard. In the photograph, taken on a beach somewhere, Joey Perrone was dripping wet. The morbid irony had been lost on her husband but not on the detective, who could now envision Chaz's victim-her blond hair slicked back, her cheeks sparkling with beads of water-as she must have looked when she burst to the surface after that long, harrowing fall.
Except for the smile. Joey Perrone would not have been smiling after her husband threw her overboard.
Rolvaag said, "What do you think happened on that cruise, Miss Jewell?"
"I know what didn't happen. My friend didn't jump and she didn't fall." Rose stood up and slung her handbag over her shoulder. "I just wanted somebody to know, that's all. I wanted it written down in a file somewhere."
"It will be. I promise."
Rose touched his arm. "Please don't give up on this case," she said, "for Joey's sake."
Rolvaag didn't have the heart to tell her that it would take a miracle for him to nail Charles Perrone.
On the way home, the detective stopped at the downtown branch of the library to read up on the Everglades. It seemed peculiar that a man so openly averse to nature would study biology and then take a job in a humid, teeming swamp. That Perrone didn't even know which way the Gulf Stream flowed betrayed a certain flimsiness in his academics. His ideals were no less murky and suspect. Rolvaag was particularly bothered by Perrone's casual comment about running over snakes with his gas-sucking SUV, and also by the flippant manner with which he'd dismissed the notion of recycling a pop bottle. Was this a guy who cared about the fate of the planet?
How odd that Chaz Perrone had aimed his career toward the study of organic life when he displayed no concern for any other than his own. However, if a clue lay in the sad and complicated story of the Everglades, Rolvaag couldn't find it. Perrone's connection to such inhospitable wilderness remained a riddle, and time was running short.
Driving back to his apartment, Rolvaag recalled his own failed marriage and found it impossible to imagine a scenario under which murder would have been an option. In this exercise the detective felt handicapped by his heritage-Norwegians were natural brooders, not given to the sort of volcanic emotions associated with domestic homicides. But then, Rolvaag hadn't understood the majority of criminals he had sent off to prison, regardless of their crimes. Shooting an icecream vendor for thirty-four bucks and change was no more comprehensible to him than launching one's attractive (and, by all accounts, faithful) spouse over the side of a cruise liner.
Why had Perrone done it? Not for money, as there was no insurance payoff, no inheritance, no jackpot whatsoever. And not for love, either-if Chaz had wanted to dump his wife and run off with one of his girlfriends, divorce would have been relatively easy and painless. Florida was a no-fault jurisdiction that dealt perfunctorily with short, childless marriages. Moreover, Mrs. Perrone's substantial personal wealth made her an unlikely candidate for alimony.
Gallo's right, Rolvaag thought. I've got zilch for a motive.
When he arrived home he saw that a newspaper clipping had been slipped under his door. It was the story of a man in St. Louis who had been strangled and then nearly devoured by an enormous pet python, which he had foolishly neglected to feed for several months. The snake's gruesome repast had been interrupted by a concerned neighbor, who scampered for help. Paramedics skilled with the Jaws of Life arrived and retrieved the victim's grossly elongated body, dispatching the sated reptile in the process. Above the headline, in violet ink, was a familiar spidery scrawclass="underline" "This should happen to you!"
Rolvaag chuckled, thinking: That makes two people who'll be happy to see me go-Chaz Perrone and Nellie Shulman.
The detective's own two snakes were coiled together in a large glass tank in the corner of the living room. They were not pure white in the way of some albinos, but rather a creamy hue with exotic tangerine saddle marks. In the urban outdoors their unnatural brightness could have been a fatal trait, but the pythons were safe in Rolvaag's apartment. They displayed no gratitude whatsoever, and seldom moved a muscle except to eat or re-position themselves in a shaft of sunlight. Still, Rolvaag enjoyed observing them. That a twerp like Perrone would purposely kill something so primal and perfect angered the detective in a way that surprised him.
He shoved a frozen lasagna into the oven and picked through the papers in his briefcase until he found the scrap he was looking for. He dialed the Hertz office in Boca Raton and identified himself to an assistant night manager, who was exceptionally cooperative. By the time Rolvaag hung up, he had obtained the name of the hirsute thug in the minivan staking out the Perrone residence, and also the name of the company that was paying for the rental.
Red's Tomato Exchange, whatever that was.
Joey Perrone shook Stranahan awake. "Mick, I just thought of something!"
He sat up on the couch and rubbed his eyes. "Time?"
"Five-forty-five."
"This better be good." He reached for the lamp, but she grabbed his arm.
"I'm not dressed," she said.
Even without lights the house wasn't that dark. Joey was wearing a white cutoff T-shirt and bikini-style panties, the sight of which mitigated Stranahan's grumpiness.
"Tell me what you remembered," he said.
"A fight that Chaz and I had about two months ago. I was supposed to fly to L.A. for a wedding but the weather at the airport was horrible, so I turned around and drove home. I won't get on a plane if there's a cloud in the sky."
Joey said she'd walked in and found her husband at the dining room table, entering numbers on a chart. "I was looking over his shoulder and all I said was, 'How do you remember them all?' Because he wasn't using any notes, just jotting down the figures one after another. So it was like, 'Wow, how can you remember them all?' Completely innocent and friendly-and he nearly jumped out of his chair. Went absolutely batshit."
"That's all you said to him?"
"It was the craziest thing. He started screaming, stomping around, waving his arms. Told me to quit spying on him and mind my own damn business," Joey said. "It was just like the day I asked about the new Hummer-only this time he called me the c word. That's when I decked him."
"Excellent."
"A right cross to the chops. Chaz isn't exactly tough as nails."
"But you seeing those charts set him off. Do you know what the numbers meant?"
"He never told me. But part of his job is measuring stuff in the water out there, some type of pollution," Joey said. "I'm guessing it had something to do with that."
"You really slugged him?" Stranahan asked.
"Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe that's what did it, Mick."
"Did what? Make him decide to kill you?"
"Maybe it was too much for his ego."
Stranahan told her not to mistake arrogance for pride. "A guy like Chaz can revive his ego with the palm of his hand."
"Still, I never saw him freak like that before," Joey said.
"It's important. I'm glad you told me."
"Hey, are those genuine Fruit of the Looms?" She reached over and tweaked the waistband.
Stranahan slapped a pillow over his lap. Obviously Mrs. Perrone was overcoming her shyness.
She said, "The sun's almost up. How about a swim?"
"Ha-ha."
"Three laps around the island. Come on, I'm serious."
"I thought you were terrified of sharks," he said.
"Not if there's two of us in the water."
"And one of us is old and slow. I get the picture."