By noon the locksmith and the alarm technician were gone, but Charles Perrone hadn't come out of the house. Joey was restless, ready to roll. She had tucked her hair under a Marlins cap and costumed herself in long pants and a loose-fitting work shirt. Instead of a Bible, her prop this time was a toolbox. Someone watching her come down the sidewalk might have mistaken her for a man, because of her height and long athletic stride.
"What if he's really sick in bed?" she said.
Stranahan was scanning the place with the binoculars. "Give him one more hour."
A blue car turned the corner and approached the Perrone residence. It was the Ford compact belonging to the woman with the kelly-green pubic hair.
Joey groaned. "You've got to be kidding."
"Take it easy, now."
"What, he can't even make it past lunch without getting his rocks hauled?"
Stranahan said, "Looks like she's not going in."
Two short honks came from the Ford, then the front door of the house opened. Out came Charles Perrone, carrying a brown paper bag.
"See that golf shirt he's wearing? I gave him that for his birthday," Joey said. "New set of irons, too."
Chaz got in on the passenger side and the blue car pulled away. Joey noted that the woman was wearing large Jackie Onassis-style sunglasses-"probably so she won't be recognized from her porno flicks."
Stranahan advised Joey to stay focused on her no-good husband. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to go back in the house. My house."
"But how?"
"Wait here," she said, "until you see the sprinklers come on."
Stranahan touched her wrist. "The second the alarm goes off, I'm rolling. Be sure to come out the front door, not the back, then walk very calmly to the street."
"Mick, don't you dare leave me stranded here. That would really suck."
"Come to think of it, I still owe you one."
"Not the stolen boat thing again." Joey sighed as she hopped out of the Suburban. "How many times did I say I was sorry? Like a dozen?"
Stranahan had been underestimating women for about forty years, so he was not flabbergasted to see the lawn sprinklers bloom at the former residence of Joey Perrone. He would have congratulated her merely for getting past the new locks; that she'd also thwarted the security alarm was truly impressive.
When she met him at the door, he asked, "Were you a burglar in a previous life?"
"No, a wife," Joey said. "Chaz hid the new key in the same bird feeder, just like I knew he would."
"Because…"
"See, it was his idea the first time. He was so proud of himself, thought he was so darn clever. And since I'm the only other person who knew about the hiding place-"
"And he thinks you're dead-"
"Exactly. Why not hide it there again?" she said. "He probably figures that whoever snuck into the house scored the old key from our cleaning service, or maybe the guy who does the aquarium."
"Okay, but how'd you disarm the alarm?"
"Now, Mick, put on your thinking cap."
He grinned. "Don't tell me Chaz used the same keypad code as before."
"Yup," Joey said. "Two, twenty-one, seventy-two."
"Sounds like a birthday."
"Bingo. I knew he'd be too lazy to make up a new sequence."
"Still, that's quite a gamble you took," Stranahan said.
"Not really. Not knowing him the way I do."
They sat in the dining room, Chaz's mud-smeared backpack on the table. Joey said she'd once bought him a nice leather briefcase, but he had told her it was impractical for working in a swamp. Stranahan unfastened the backpack's many buckles and zippers and emptied the contents pocket by pocket: a sheath of loose papers and charts, a handful of mechanical pencils, two aerosol cans of insect spray, a snakebite kit, tape and gauze, a pair of heavy cotton socks, canvas gloves, rubberized gloves, chlorine tablets, a tube of antibiotic ointment, a rolled-up Danish skin magazine, a bag of stale chocolate doughnuts, a pound of trail mix and a plastic bottle of Maalox tablets.
"Your husband has a nervous tummy. That could be helpful," Stranahan said.
Joey leafed through the papers. "This is the same kind of stuff he was working on the day he got so mad at me."
"You were right. They're charts for water samples." Stranahan removed a blank form, folded it up and slipped it in the pocket of his Florida Power amp; Light shirt.
"That's all we're taking?" she asked.
"For now, yes."
He carefully replaced each of the other items in the backpack. "That was a nice little bonus. Now-where does Squire Perrone hide his checkbook?"
"Be right back." Joey disappeared down the hallway, and returned carrying at arm's length a crusty, soiled sneaker. "Never been washed," she reported distastefully.
A clever idea, Stranahan had to admit. Even the most desperate of thieves avoid rancid footwear. Joey turned the shoe upside down and the checkbook dropped out. Flipping through the register, Stranahan found no unusual transactions; the only deposits were Chaz Perrone's bimonthly paychecks from the state of Florida.
"When did you say he bought the Hummer?" Stranahan asked Joey.
"Middle of January."
"There's nothing here, not even a down payment."
"Maybe he's got another account I don't know about," she said.
Or maybe he didn't pay for the Hummer himself, Stranahan thought. "What about Chaz's so-called nest egg?" he asked.
Joey shook her head weakly. "Stocks and bonds?"
"Then he should get brokerage statements in the mail."
Joey admitted that she'd never seen any. Stranahan stood up and said it was time to go, before Chaz returned with his lady friend.
"Wait. Let's leave him another present." Joey was eyeing one of her husband's umbrellas, which was leaning in a corner.
"Absolutely not," Stranahan said.
"Mick, come on."
"He's already a nervous wreck, I assure you."
Joey feigned a pout as she followed him to the door. "At least can I leave the sprinklers running?"
"Is the timer box outside?"
She nodded. "On the wall outside the utility room. He'll have no reason to think that we actually got into the house."
"Then, sure, what the hell," Stranahan said. "If it makes you feel better."
"It'll do for now," said Joey, and reset the alarm.
Ricca remarked that Chaz looked dreadful.
"I didn't sleep much," he mumbled.
"That's because I wasn't there to tire you out."
"Some crank called first thing this morning."
"A breather?" Ricca asked. "I get those all the time."
"No. Just a crank." Thinking about the mystery phone call, Chaz felt his palms go damp.
Ricca asked if he had given any more thought to holding a memorial service for Joey.
"What is it with you?" he said irritably. "I already told you I hate funerals. Light a goddamn candle if it makes you feel better."
Ricca said, "Doesn't have to be a major production. Rent a chapel, get the priest to say a few words. Maybe some of Joey's friends would like to share their feelings, too."
Chaz stared out the window.
"It's important, baby," she said. "For closure."
He exhaled scornfully, blowing invisible smoke rings.
"One chapter of your life has ended," Ricca went on, "and another is just beginning."
Jesus, Chaz thought. She's about as subtle as a double hernia.
"Besides, it'll look bad if you don't do something in Joey's memory. It'll look like you don't even care that she's dead."
Ricca had a point. Eventually he might have to stage a service for the sake of appearances. He was surprised that Detective Rolvaag hadn't called him on that, too.
The crooked, blackmailing sonofabitch. It had to be him, the voice on the phone.
"Chaz, are you listening to me?" Ricca said.
"Do I have a choice?"
She made a sad-sounding noise. "Baby, I'm just trying to be here for you."
Right, thought Chaz. Here, there and everywhere.
He said, "Maybe I'll arrange a memorial for later. In a couple weeks." Thinking: After all this heavy-duty shit is behind me.