"Of course you're not."
"But you should still be careful," the detective said, rising. "More careful than you've been so far."
Eighteen
Joey struggled with the list of blackmail demands, but all she truly wanted from Chaz Perrone were, besides his eternal suffering, the answers to two questions:
(a) Why did you marry me?
(b) Why did you try to kill me?
"Pick a number," said Mick Stranahan. "This is supposed to be a shakedown, remember? How much dough can he scrape together?"
"Beats me." Joey turned to stare out the window.
Flamingo was a fish camp in Everglades National Park, on the southernmost shore of mainland Florida. Only one road led there, a two-lane blacktop that sliced through thirty-eight miles of unbroken scrub, cypress heads and saw-grass prairies. Although they were speeding through absolute darkness, Joey sensed a pulse of unseen life all around them. The post-Miami hush was so soothing, the night so engulfing, she was unable to focus on the details of the blackmail. The deeper they drove into the Everglades, the smaller and more absurd Chaz Perrone seemed.
Stranahan parked the Suburban in a cluster of cabbage palms near the campground, a short jog from the marina. By now it was ten o'clock and most of the campers, besieged by insects, had retreated to their sleeping bags. Mick fiddled with the dashboard stereo but the radio signal was spotty.
Joey said she'd never before been to the park. "Chaz refused to take me. He said it reminded him too much of work. Actually, I think the bugs creep him out."
"The bugs."
"Mosquitoes especially," she said. "Then there's the snake issue- he's terrified of being bitten by a moccasin. At home he used to practice injecting the antivenin serum into grapefruits."
"Boy, is he in the wrong line of work," Stranahan remarked. "You ever wonder why? How the hell he got where he is?"
Joey had always assumed that her husband made a wrong turn in graduate school.
"I meant to ask you," Stranahan said, "who's Samuel J. Hammernut?"
"Some rich redneck pal of Chaz's. I met him at the wedding," said Joey. "Why? What's he got to do with all this?"
"I made a few calls about the Hummer. It was bought for your hubby by Hammernut Farms."
Joey had no idea why Mr. Hammernut would have given Chaz a brand-new SUV. "You're just now telling me this? Who did you call?"
"Friends who do that sort of thing-trace paperwork. Friends in law enforcement," Stranahan said. "Remember I told you this was all about greed. My guess is that Chaz has some sort of dirty arrangement with Hammernut, and that maybe you got in the way."
"But how? What did I do?"
Stranahan told his theory to Joey, who was intrigued but skeptical. "Who ever heard of a crooked biologist?" she asked.
"Who ever heard of one with a bodyguard?" he countered.
Joey conceded the point. She had been surprised, and tickled, to learn from Mick that her husband was now being protected by paid muscle.
"Look, there are cops who take payoffs," Stranahan was saying, "judges who fix cases, doctors who cheat Medicare. Are you telling me Chaz is too pure to sell himself-the man who pushed you into the ocean to die?"
He's right, Joey thought. Obviously the jerk is capable of anything. She scooted closer and put a hand on Mick's knee. He kissed her on the top of the head, but she could tell he was tense. He pointed toward the motel building and said, "Your room's on the second floor. Stay put until you see me signal with the flashlight." "Three blinks. I remember."
They watched a pair of raccoons shuffle into the campground, emerging moments later with a loaf of bread and a bag of Doritos. Stranahan said, "Isn't the idea to make him panic?" "Yeah. Tighten the screws."
"Then what the hell. Let's ask for half a million."
Joey laughed. "Good Lord, Chaz doesn't have that kind of money."
"I bet he knows someone who does."
They took the Grand Marquis, Tool saying that the Hummer practically glowed in the dark. Red had told them to stay cool, no matter what. Listen to what the guy has to say and tell him you'll think about it. Don't be a smartass, Red had warned Chaz. And don't hurt nobody, he'd said to Tool, not just yet. Once we find out what the sumbitch wants, then we'll figure out what to do about him.
The plan was to arrive at Flamingo early and find a spot for Tool to hide, but they got delayed because Tool made another pit stop before they hit the turnpike. Chaz didn't bother to ask. He stayed in the car and practiced whipping the.38 out of his waistband while Tool put on his tent-size lab whites and marched into the Elysian Manor convalescent home.
Maureen was sitting up, watching television. She had brushed her hair and put a touch of makeup on her cheeks.
"Well, look who's here," she said. "Pull up a chair. Larry King is interviewing Julie Andrews. What a doll she is."
"I brung you some supper." Tool placed a covered dish on the bed tray. "It ain't very hot. Do they got a microwave somewheres?"
"Why, thank you, Earl." Maureen lifted the lid and said, "It smells grand. What is it?"
"Uh, chicken. Swamp chicken, they call it."
"Doctor says I'm supposed to steer clear of fried foods, but I can't honestly see the harm. Since I'm dying anyway, right?" She picked up a piece of fried alligator and popped it in her mouth.
"Good, huh? "Tool said.
Maureen nodded eagerly as she chewed. And chewed.
"The food they serve us in here is a horror," she whispered. "Fresh poultry is a real treat."
"Well, I'm glad you like it. Now I better go."
"Already? Please sit and visit."
"I got a 'portant bidness meetin'."
"At night? What kind of business, if I might ask."
"Bodyguardin'," Tool said.
Maureen's blue eyes sparkled. "That's so interesting, Earl. What sorts of people do you guard? Dignitaries? Diplomats? Show business types, I bet."
"Not hardly."
"Oh." She sounded disappointed.
"The job I'm on now, he's a doctor," Tool said, though he considered the title a hype job, as attached to Chaz Perrone.
"A doctor-well, that's something!"
"Only he don't work on people. He's, like, some kinda scientist."
Maureen said, "He must be very important, to need personal protection."
"Don't get me started."
"Is he with you now? I'd enjoy meeting him."
Tool said, "He ain't no charmer, trust me. Thinks the world of his-self but, I swear, the nigras and spies used to pick tomatoes for me had more common sense than-"
Maureen's bony fist shot out and nailed Tool in the soft declivity below the sternum. He bent double and heard himself deflate like a tractor tire.
"Earl! Shame on you!" she said. "Don't you ever use that kind of hateful language around me."
He hung on to the bed rail, slowly straightening himself.
"What would your mother do," Maureen went on, "if she were alive to hear you talk like that?"
"Sh-sh-she's the one I learnt it from," he wheezed. "Her and my daddy both."
"Then shame on them, too. Here"-she handed him a Dixie cup from the bed tray-"drink up. You'll feel better."
"Damn," Tool said, gulping at the water. The crazy old witch had really thumped him. In his whole life he couldn't remember anybody ever throwing a punch at him and getting clean away with it. Once he'd damn near crippled a couple of sorry beaners just for lookin' at him funny-like in the package store.
Staring now at Maureen, as frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, Tool knew he could have killed her with the back of his hand. Strangely, though, he didn't want to. And it wasn't as if he was holding back the urge, he just plain had no desire to harm the woman, despite what she'd done. He wasn't pissed, either, which was even more confusing. What he felt-and he wasn't sure why-was sorry.