She said, "I dreamed about Chaz again last night."
"Killing him?"
"Worse." Joey rolled her eyes. "Can you believe it, Mick? Even after what he's done, I'm still having sex with the guy in my sleep."
"It's emotional withdrawal, that's all. Like when you try to kick caffeine, suddenly the whole damn world smells like Folger's."
Joey worked her lower lip. "Maybe I actually loved that creep up until the end. Maybe it was more than physical, and I can't admit it."
Stranahan shrugged. "Don't look at me, I'm the crown prince of dysfunctional. What's important is figuring out how you feel about him here and now, before we make another move."
The dog ambled over and stretched out on the warm planks beside Joey. "That was my brother I called earlier," she said. "The people who take care of my money contacted him because someone saw in the paper that I was lost at sea. Corbett told them to sit tight. They can't do anything without a death certificate anyway."
"Chaz hadn't called to snoop around about the trust?"
"Nope. My brother was surprised, too." Joey smiled ruefully. "In a weird way, I wish Chaz had done it for my money. Then I could almost understand," she said. "But killing somebody just to be rid of them- man, it's hard not to take it personally."
"That's not why he did this, Joey. You'll see." Stranahan put an arm around her, and she let her head drop lightly against his shoulder. "What does Corbett think you should do?"
"He likes the idea of me driving Chaz clinically insane," she said. "Float around like a ghost, he says, until the bastard loses his marbles."
"It could happen."
"Oh, guess what else?" Joey lifted her head. "This detective keeps calling Corbett to talk about Chaz-the same guy Corbett spoke with on Monday, and now he's calling back, leaving messages."
Stranahan said, "So the heat's on, just like you wanted."
"It would be fun to think so."
And one more reason to be careful, thought Stranahan. The trick would be putting the cop into play without exposing themselves. "Did your brother tell you the detective's name?" he asked.
"Rolvaag. Karl Rolvaag," she said, "with a K, not a C."
"I'll be damned."
"I even wrote down the phone number," she added, "in lipstick, unfortunately, on the deck of your boat."
"No problem," Stranahan said cheerfully.
"What's so funny?"
"Chaz. He thinks the cop is the blackmailer. On the phone this morning he even called me Rolvaag."
Joey was delighted. Then: "Hey, wait a minute. You talked to Chaz and you didn't even tell me?"
"You were sleeping," Stranahan said.
"So what!"
"In a languid state of undress. Frankly, I was intimidated."
"Mick."
"That's a compliment, by the way."
"Was I snoring?"
"Moaning, actually. If I'd known you were dreaming about Chaz, I would have thrown you under a cold shower."
Joey took a playful swing and he caught her fist with the palm of his hand. "Go wash up. I got you all grimy."
She said, "Buddy, if you're not careful…"
Giving Stranahan a look that reminded him of Andrea Krumholtz, his very first girlfriend, on the night she'd slipped off her bra and tossed it out a window of Stranahan's father's car. For Mick, sixteen at the time, it had been a sublimely instructive moment.
To Joey he said, "Guess I'd better get back to work."
"You sure about that?"
"There's five pounds of lobster in the freezer. It would be a mortal sin to let it spoil."
She said, "Okay. Go fix your stupid generator."
Stranahan finished the job two hours later, arms aching, knuckles raw. He went looking for Joey to give her the news, but she wasn't reading in bed, or sunning on the seawall, or roughhousing on the dock with the dog. In fact, she wasn't anywhere on the island.
Strom wagged his nub but offered up no information. The Whaler was still tied to the pilings, so Stranahan wasn't completely shocked to throw open the doors of the shed and find the yellow kayak missing. By then Joey was so far gone that the hunting scope was useless in spotting her. He climbed the roof to better scan the water, but all the bright specks turned into sailboats and Windsurfers and water bikes. He thought about taking the skiff and hunting her down, but he also thought about how bone-tired and grungy he was, and how good a cold beer would taste.
As soon as he hopped off the roof, the Doberman started yipping and whining reproachfully, nipping at his heels all the way to the kitchen.
"Oh, shut up," Stranahan said. "She'll be back."
Fourteen
Mick Stranahan's sister was married to a lawyer named Kipper Garth, inept in all aspects of the profession except self-promotion. He had been one of the first personal-injury hustlers in Florida to advertise on television and billboards, attracting a stampede of impressionable clients whose cases he dealt out like pinochle cards to legitimate attorneys in exchange for a slice of the take. As even his rivals conceded, Kipper Garth helped to pioneer the preposterous notion that finding a good lawyer was as easy as dialing up a plumber in the Yellow Pages.
It pained Stranahan that his sister Katie had fallen for such a shyster, and that she'd stayed with him despite serial philanderings, scalding IRS audits and a ruinous gambling addiction. A cranial injury inflicted by a jealous husband had forced Kipper Garth into an early retirement, and in short order he'd burned up the family savings wagering on British cricket, a sport he never bothered to understand. In the face of bankruptcy he had reopened his practice, inspired by advanced pain medication and a fresh marketing angle. A new series of TV commercials featured him tooling around a law library in the same wheelchair to which he had been confined during his homebound rehabilitation. The aim was to present himself as both lawyer and victim, qualified by empathy (if not expertise) to specialize in disability litigation.
Always a trend hound, Kipper Garth had come across a newspaper article about a pair of lawyers who drove around South Florida scouting restaurants, shops and office buildings for wheelchair accessibility. If a place didn't have the required ramps or lifts, the lawyers would recruit a disabled person-often a friend or relative-to sue. Typically the case would settle before trial, the owners of the building eager to avoid headlines implying they were callous toward the handicapped. The scheme was perfectly suited to Kipper Garth's singular talent and soon he was back in tall cotton, overseeing half a dozen runners who scoured the tricounty area for wheelchair-ramp violations.
Throughout good times and bad, Mick Stranahan contrived to avoid his sister's husband, and timed his visits to Kate's house on days when Kipper Garth was gone. Kate was always happy to see Mick, though she maintained a long-standing ban against discussing Kipper's multiple character flaws. Theirs was one of those marriages that Stranahan couldn't hope to understand, but he had come to accept it as unbreakable. He saw no reason to inform Kate that he now required her husband's slithering assistance.
"Sorry, Mick," Kipper Garth told him. "No can do."
Stranahan was skeptically inspecting the wheelchair slanted in a corner of his brother-in-law's spacious bayfront office.
"I still need it on occasion," Kipper Garth said preemptively. "I get spells."
A putter was propped against one of the wheelchair's tires; three shiny new golf balls were lined up on the carpet.
Stranahan sat down in front of the desk. "Does the bar association know you can walk? Or is there no rule against impersonating a cripple on TV?"
Kipper Garth bristled. "It's what they call a 'dramatic re-creation.' "
"Try 'misrepresentation,' " said Stranahan, "with the stink of fraud. How about it, jocko? Are you going to help me, or do I make the phone call?"
"Katie would never forgive you."
"She did the last time."
Kipper Garth's neck turned crimson. Many years earlier, Stranahan had voluntarily testified against him in a grievance hearing that had unfolded poorly for the lawyer. Disbarment had seemed inevitable, until a cuckolded husband had beaned Kipper Garth with a jai alai ball, knocking him out of action and thereby sparing the Florida Bar a mountain of paperwork.