"Is Chaz your first husband?"
"Second. The first one died." She added quickly: "In an accident."
"That sucks."
"He was a stockbroker. Chaz is a biologist."
Stranahan said, "The no-see-ums are chewing you up. Let's go back inside."
"Funny, the only time my eyes really hurt is when I cry," she said. "If only I could stop."
"Come on, take my hand."
"No, I like it out here. The bugs don't bother me." Joey gave a defiant sniffle. "And, listen, it's not that sonofabitch Chaz Perrone that I'm bawling about. I'm ninety-nine percent sure I didn't even love him anymore."
Stranahan said nothing. He was an expert on dying relationships, the grinding hollowness that sets in until someone makes a move.
"But what Chaz did out there," she went on, pointing at the water, "it just hacks me off royally. You've got no idea."
Yeah, I do, Stranahan thought. The question was hanging there, so he went ahead and asked: "Then what's making you cry?"
"Oh, I suppose it's realizing that my whole life adds up to this one moment and this one place and this one"-she swept an arm angrily- "stinking, lousy situation. No offense, Mick, but half-blind on an island with some stranger isn't really where I expected to be at this point in time. This isn't the shape I expected to find myself in at age thirty whatever."
"Listen, you're going to be okay."
"Oh right. After my fucking husband, pardon my French, threw me fucking overboard on our fucking anniversary cruise! How exactly does a woman put something like that behind her, huh? How does one 'get past' that sort of personal setback?"
Stranahan said, "Seeing him hauled off in handcuffs might help the healing. Why don't you let me call the police?"
Joey shook her head so vehemently that he thought the towel might fly off. "The trial, Mick, it's going to be a nightmare-my word against his. He'll probably say I got trashed and fell over the rail. That's what he's already told the Coast Guard, I'm sure. Four years ago I got a dumb DUI up in Daytona, which Chaz's lawyers will dig up in two seconds flat. 'Kindly get up on the witness stand, Mrs. Perrone, and tell the court how your tennis-pro boyfriend dumped you for a swimsuit model, so you drank a whole bottle of cabernet and parked your car in the middle of A1A and went to sleep-' " "Okay, calm down."
"But I'm right, aren't I? My word against his." Stranahan allowed that things could get ugly in court. "It's none of my business, Joey, but is there money involved? Would Chaz have gotten rich if you'd died?" "Nope."
"Not even life insurance?"
"None that I know of," Joey said. "Now you see why I'm so… I don't know, dazed. Him trying to kill me doesn't make sense. He wanted a divorce, all he had to do was say so."
She asked Stranahan what he would do in her place. "Take off the wedding ring, for starters," he said. Joey sheepishly tugged the platinum band off her finger and palmed it. "Then what?"
"I'd go straight to the cops," Stranahan said, wondering what other options she might be contemplating. He decided not to ask, as a breeze kicked up and seemed to carry away Joey's anger.
"You're smiling. That's good," he said.
"Because it's wet and it tickles."
"What tickles?"
"Mick, please tell me it's the dog."
Stranahan peeked under the table. "Strom, you're a very bad boy," he said, reaching for the Doberman's collar.
"Guess he likes me," Joey said with an acid chuckle. "But they all act that way, at first."
Detective Karl Rolvaag belonged in the Midwest. This he knew in his heart, and he was reminded of it every day when he went to work.
Practically anywhere in the upper Midwest would have been fine; Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota or even the Dakotas. There the crimes were typically forthright and obvious, ignited by common greed, lust or alcohol. Florida was more complicated and extreme, and nothing could be assumed. Every scheming shitwad in America turned up here sooner or later, such were the opportunities for predation.
"I don't care much for Mr. Perrone," Rolvaag remarked to his captain.
"Already?"
The captain's name was Gallo. He was fond of Rolvaag because Rolvaag made him look good by closing many difficult cases, though socially the detective wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs.
"You think he pushed her?" Gallo asked. "Not like we could ever prove it if he did."
Rolvaag shrugged. "I just don't care for him is all."
They were having coffee at a truck-stop diner on Road 84. It was nearly midnight and Rolvaag was in a hurry to go deal with the rats that might or might not be scampering loose inside his car.
"The dead wife," Gallo said, "tell me again how much she's worth?"
"Thirteen million, give or take. The trust officers are working up some numbers."
"But hubby's not in line for a penny, right? Not even life insurance?" asked Gallo.
"Not that I can find, but it's still early in the game."
"Be awful dumb for him to lie about something like that."
"I agree." Rolvaag snuck a glance at his wristwatch. It had been six hours since he'd left the pet store. He hoped the rats hadn't nibbled a hole in the shoe box.
"What's the next of kin say about young Chaz?" Gallo asked.
"Mrs. Perrone's parents are deceased and her only brother lives on a sheep farm in New Zealand."
Gallo frowned. "Christ, that's an expensive phone call. Try to keep it short and sweet."
"You betcha." Rolvaag sometimes lapsed into Fargo-speak when Gallo nagged him about something stupid. The detective had moved to Fort Lauderdale from St. Paul because his wife had inexplicably yearned to experience humidity. A decade later she was back in the Twin Cities and Rolvaag was still in Florida, divorced and sweating like a hog for eleven and a half months of the year.
However, tucked in his briefcase was salvation in the form of a letter from the police chief in Edina, Minnesota, a pleasantly civilized suburb of Minneapolis. The police chief had offered Rolvaag a job working major crimes, of which there were few. Rolvaag intended to give his notice to Captain Gallo as soon as an opening in the conversation presented itself.
"And I suppose nobody on the cruise ship saw or heard a damn thing," Gallo was saying. "Pretty girl goes over the side and everybody's snoozin'."
Without a trace of sarcasm Rolvaag explained that he hadn't had time to interview all 2,048 other passengers, or the crew. "But nobody's come forward, either," he added.
Gallo twirled a set of car keys on the pinkie finger of his right hand. "And the Coast Guard, they're done?"
"As of tomorrow noon, yeah. They'll keep one chopper up until sunset, but that's mainly for show," Rolvaag said.
"Is hubby real upset or what?"
"He says all the right things, but it's like he memorized a script."
Gallo smiled crookedly. "Karl, even if she floats up somewhere-"
"Yeah, I know."
"-unless her neck's been wrung or he capped her in the noodle-"
"Right. We can't prove a thing."
"He got a babe stashed somewhere?"
"I'm checking on that."
"But let's say he does-"
"I know. It doesn't automatically mean he killed the wife." Rolvaag was aware that Gallo, having several girlfriends himself, could be somewhat defensive on the subject of adulterers.
"But you don't believe Perrone, I can tell," Gallo said.
"I don't believe we're getting the whole story about his marriage, no."
Gallo laughed. "Karl, you ain't never gonna get that. Not from any husband, including yours truly."
"But your wife isn't missing at sea."