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 Ogden 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 Loxa-hatchee, 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."