"Surprise, surprise," Joey said.
Rose noisily attacked a carrot stick. "So, tell me. Who is this Samuel Hammernut, and what's he got to do with your husband?" "He owns him," Mick interjected, "or so it appears." Joey told Rose about the water-testing that Chaz did in the Everglades, and about the new Humvee purchased for him by Hammernut Farms. Rose gave her a consoling hug and said, "No offense, sweetie, but I always knew that man was a whore. So, what's next?" "My brother's flying into Lauderdale on Monday." Rose looked intrigued. "The one from Australia, who nobody's ever seen?"
"New Zealand," said Joey. "You and Corbett are the only ones who know I'm still alive. Besides Mick, I mean."
"Who, by the way, wouldn't even tell me how you two met."
Joey gave Mick the "Are you kidding me?" frown. "He saved my life is all," she said to Rose. "He's the one who pulled me out of the ocean."
Rose reached for the pitcher of sangria. "That is so incredibly romantic. He actually saved you? Like from drowning?"
"Sharks, too," Mick added dryly. "And giant mutant octopi."
Joey pinched his earlobe. She was glad that he'd cooled off since last night at Flamingo. He had been furious to hear that she'd left the motel room to chat with Chaz's bodyguard.
Rose said, "I assume that your brother's coming here to kick Chaz Perrone's cowardly ass."
"He'd love to, but no," said Joey. "He's arranging a memorial service for me at some church in Boca. There'll be a notice in the papers."
Rose looked at Stranahan and then back at Joey. "You guys are bad."
"Not compared to Chaz," Mick said.
Rose set down her glass and rubbed her hands together. "So, tell me. What can I do to help?"
Joey said, "You can come to the service."
"Of course."
"And hit on my husband."
Rose thought about it for a beat or two. "Do I have to sleep with him?"
"I'd rather you didn't," Joey said.
Charles Regis Perrone had a bounty of experience dealing with aggrieved women, and for Ricca he pulled out all the stops. Twelve dozen long-stemmed roses, Godiva chocolates, a magnum of Dom- all were delivered to her apartment that Saturday afternoon. Still, she wouldn't pick up the telephone. Her adamantine refusal to make contact was exasperating but also arousing; a tough, take-charge side of Ricca that Chaz had never seen. He was confident that once she agreed to meet with him, he could win her back with his dependable arsenal of stage charm, counterfeit sincerity and unforgettable sex. As he rang her doorbell for the third time, Chaz checked his pockets for the potent blue pills that would, if all else failed, endow the ultimate persuasion. "Go away," Ricca said from the other side of the door.
"Sweetheart, please."
"Fuck you, Chaz."
"Honey, this isn't fair."
When Chaz heard the click of the dead bolt, his spirits soared. The door opened and Ricca said, "What the hell happened to you?"
"Mosquitoes."
"Your ears look like rotten guavas."
"Gee, thanks. Can I come in?"
"You've got five minutes."
Chaz stepped inside. He tried to hold her but she pulled away.
"Where are all the roses?" he asked.
"Dumpster," Ricca said.
Chaz winced, thinking of the bill from the florist.
"The champagne, I poured down the toilet," she added.
"I see. And the chocolates?"
"Oh, those I'm keeping," Ricca said, "except for the nougats. You've got four minutes left."
She was standing against the door, one hand poised on the knob. She wore rumpled sweats and no makeup, and she looked exhausted.
"What's going on? Why won't you see me?" Chaz asked.
"Because you killed your wife."
"Who told you that?"
"A guy who saw the whole thing."
Chaz felt the blood draining out of his skull. He backed against a chair and sat down.
Ricca said, "He saw you push Joey overboard. Told me exactly how you did it."
"And you believe him?" Chaz's voice fluttered like Slim Whitman's.
"How you grabbed her by the ankles and flipped her backward over the side," she said. "God, I haven't slept in two nights."
"The guy's shaking me down is all. He heard about Joey on the news and-"
"This is a first for me, Chaz. Dating a wife-killer."
"Hold on. You're taking the word of some stranger, some dirtbag scammer-"
"You told that detective I was your cleaning lady." There was frost in Ricca's voice. "The cleaning lady?"
Chaz cursed to himself. He remembered Rolvaag bracing him about the phone call from the lobby of the Marriott. The cop didn't even have his notebook open at the time, so Chaz hadn't given it a thought. The sneaky bastard must have total recall.
"Rolvaag came to see you?"
Ricca nodded heavily. "Asking all kinds of questions,."
Chaz tasted bile and swallowed hard. "Well, what was I supposed to tell him, Ricca-that I was calling my girlfriend? The guy's looking to nail my ass."
"No shit. He went to all the trouble of tracing the call."
"I'm sorry. So sorry," Chaz said. "You've got no idea how bad I feel."
Ricca showed no sign of melting. "Here's my question: How come he doesn't believe you?"
"The cop? Oh, please." Chaz laughed scornfully. "He's just trying to make a reputation for himself, busting a doctor for murder."
Ricca rolled her eyes as if to say: Not that "doctor" thing again.
"Let's go grab a bite to eat."
"I'm not hungry," she said, "and your time's up."
Chaz was stunned to see her open the door and motion for him to go. "Don't do this," he said. "Don't give up on me so easy. I'm begging you, Ricca."
And, by God, he was begging.
"It's over," she told him.
"One drink. Give me a chance to change your mind."
"No, Chaz."
"One lousy drink? You won't be sorry."
"All right, but not here. You'll just end up trying to talk me into bed."
Chaz was swept by relief. "Name the spot," he said.
Ricca selected a bar at a nearby bowling alley, for its thunderous lack of intimacy. Saturday was league night and Chaz would have had more success making himself heard over a cruise-missile attack in downtown Baghdad. While Ricca went to the rest room, he fished out the bottle of blue pills and, seeking to avoid a repetition of his painful tryst with Medea, tapped only one into the palm of his hand. He swallowed it dry and checked his watch. The magic mojo potion should start working in an hour, by which time he hoped to have thawed Ricca's heart.
When she returned, Chaz ventured a tender squeeze of her elbow, which she yanked away as if he were infected with some pustular dis-
ease. He was flabbergasted by her animosity, which seemed unshakable, and also by her self-discipline. He had plowed through three martinis before she finished half a Miller Lite. Over the symphonic clatter of bowling pins he apologized repeatedly for the "cleaning lady" reference, which he calculated to be more of a sticking point than his wife's murder.
Still, Ricca didn't cave.
"Time to go," she said.
"Not yet. You've gotta let me finish."
Chaz considered himself a master bullshitter, but the cheap vodka seemed to have blunted his improvisational skills. He found himself blurting, "Didn't Rolvaag tell you about Joey's will?"
"Nope," said Ricca. "Anyhow, you said she was giving all her money to the animals. Yaks and pandas, you said."
"Well, that's what she told me. But yesterday that cop shows up at the door with a new will and asks what do I know about it. A will that Joey signed, like, a month ago!"