Skinny Dip (39 page)

“Soon you’ll feel like a new man,” Maureen proclaimed, dropping the slugs into her handbag. “Did he give you something for pain?”

“Whatever they use on bulls,” Tool said. Truth was, he felt pretty darn fine. “So, where you wanna go?” “Earl, may I ask a personal question?”

“Sure.” They were bouncing along a narrow dirt track, heading off the ranch. Tool turned down the radio, some sappy song about loneliness and heartbreak on the road.

“Now, it’s none of my business,” Maureen said, “but I’m curious how you can afford a chariot like this on a bodyguard’s income.”

Tool thought about his answer while he took a long draw of lukewarm Mountain Dew. “Well, you gotta unnerstand,” he said, “some cases pay better’n others.”

“This turned out to be a good one, then?”

“I’d have to say yeah, all things considered,” he said. “So, now it’s my turn for askin’ a question, ‘kay?”

“Fair enough.”

“What’s your all-time fantasy vacation?” “You mean, if we could go anywhere in the world?” “That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you,” Tool said. “We can go anywheres. You just name the place.”

Maureen gazed out the window. Her hair seemed thinner and grayer in the direct sunlight, though her eyes were as blue and bright as the sea. Tool could easily picture her as a young woman, not from her features so much as from her open, untroubled expression.

She said, “It’s still springtime, isn’t it?”

“April, yes, ma’am. Goin’ on May.”

“I was thinking of those pelicans. They’ll be heading north, I suppose.”

“All the way to Canada is what it said on that TV show.”

“Yes, to Canada. I remember,” Maureen said. “Isn’t that just remarkable?”

“Must be one helluva thing, thousands a huge white birds comin’ down from the sky all together. Flyin’ home,” Tool said. “I’d sure like to see that operation.”

“Me, too, Earl.”

“It’s a mighty long haul. Sure you’re up for it?”

She leaned across and boxed him on the ear. “Don’t worry about me, buster. You just drive.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tool was beaming as he reached for the radio. “How ‘bout some music?”

Karl Rolvaag had a dream that he was being strangled very slowly with a pale silken noose. He woke up clutching at his throat and discovered it snugly enwrapped by a sinewy albino tail. After a few interesting moments the detective managed to extricate himself and turn on the lamp. He trailed the departing length of python across the sheets, beneath the bed and into a ragged hole in the box spring. When Rolvaag cut the ticking away, he found not one but both of his absent companions, balled together in platonic contentment. Upon inspection neither of them manifested any doggy-or kitty-size lumps. To the contrary, the snakes appeared taut and hungry.

Rolvaag was relieved, though not entirely surprised, as the pets missing from Sawgrass Grove had earlier turned up unharmed. Pinchot, the geriatic Pomeranian, had been located at the county pound, where it had been quarantined after nipping a slow-footed Jehovah’s Witness. Pandora, the lost Siamese, had been ransomed back to the Mankiewicz family by neighborhood hooligans in exchange for a case of malt liquor.

The detective felt vindicated, but one piece of unfinished business remained. He removed the muscular animals from their box-spring hideaway and draped them carefully over his shoulders; a colorful, though hefty, adornment. He crossed the hallway to Mrs. Shulman’s apartment and knocked three times. It was a blessing that she was too short for her security peephole, for otherwise she never would have opened the door.

“Nellie, you owe us an apology,” Rolvaag said.

Mrs. Shulman shrank away in revulsion. “You degenerate monster! Get away from me with those slimy things!”

“Not until you say you’re sorry.”

“The only thing I’m sorry about is not getting you into court, you twisted freak. Now go!”

By now the pythons had taken notice of little Petunia, hopping madly at Mrs. Shulman’s slippered feet. The reptiles raised their milky heads and feathered their rosy tongues, tasting the air. Rolvaag could feel their coils tightening in expectation.

“Easy, fellas,” he whispered.

Nellie Shulman’s pinched, mean eyes widened to fearful bulges when she saw the snakes begin to twitch.

“You sick perverted bastard!” she cried, and slammed the door.

When the detective returned to his apartment, the phone was ringing. He let the machine pick up.

“Karl, get your ass in here pronto.” It was Captain Gallo. “We’re going on a helicopter ride. There’s another situation.”

“What a surprise,” Rolvaag murmured to himself.

In a way he felt sorry for his boss, who was a smart cop but sometimes oblivious to the laws of the jungle. Gallo had been genuinely flabbergasted only the day before, when the sheriff had called to report that the body of Samuel Johnson Hammernut had been discovered along Route 441 in western Palm Beach County.

It was a most unnatural death, Mr. Hammernut having been fatally impaled on a roadside cross bearing the name of Pablo Humberto Duarte, a prominent podiatrist who had died in a car crash at that location. One rainy evening, Duarte’s Mini Cooper had been creamed by a hit-and-run driver who was never apprehended. And while the seatbelt reminder stenciled on the memorial marker was a commendable gesture, no mere safety harness would have saved the doctor’s life, the Mini Cooper having been reduced on impact to the approximate size of a bagel toaster.

Because of the ritualistic appearance of the Hammernut homicide, Palm Beach detectives were sniffing for a connection between the farm tycoon and the podiatrist. One theory: Duarte’s family had somehow identified Hammernut as the fugitive hit-and-run driver, setting the stage for a macabre act of vengeance.

Rolvaag had gotten a chuckle out of that one. Gallo had not. It made him nervous that a wealthy and influential citizen interviewed by one of his detectives had turned up murdered ten days later.

“Look on the bright side,” Rolvaag had told him. “It’s out of our jurisdiction.”

The captain’s mood had failed to improve overnight. When Rolvaag arrived at headquarters, Gallo pulled him into his office and shut the door.

“We’re flying out to the Everglades,” he said momentously.

“Okay.”

“You aren’t going to ask why?”

“I can probably guess,” the detective said.

Looking uncharacteristically harried, Gallo gnawed rather savagely on his lower lip.

He said, “Karl, I need some friendly guidance here.”

“What do you want to know?”

“That’s my question: What do I want to know?” The captain tried to wink, but it came off as a tic. “If you were me, Karl, in my position, would you really want to dive into this Perrone mess? Give it some thought, okay?”

As they waited to board the helicopter, Gallo asked Rolvaag what he was carrying. It was a large Rubbermaid container with air holes punched in the lid.

“My snakes,” Rolvaag said. He had not come to his decision lightly.

Gallo looked appalled. “Are you fucking serious? What if the damn things get loose?”

“Just don’t tell the pilot.”

Rolvaag enjoyed the flight, which took them over Fort Lauderdale and across the western suburbs, then north along the Sawgrass Expressway into Palm Beach County. It was boggling to realize that an elevated ribbon of dirt was essentially all that separated 5 million raucous, distracted human beings from the prehistoric solitude of the Everglades. The detective regretted that during his hitch in South Florida he hadn’t spent more time on the other side of the levee; the sane and peaceful side.

“The Palm Beach S.O. invited us out of courtesy,” Gallo was explaining, still eyeing the box of pythons. “Whatever they feel like sharing is up to them. It’s their case.”

“Thank goodness,” Rolvaag said.

Against the tans and greens of the savanna, Charles Perrone’s Humvee appeared first as a metallic twinkle and then as a bright yellow beacon. As the helicopter drew closer, Rolvaag could make out a couple of squad cars parked on the dike, along with a four-wheel drive that he assumed belonged to the feds. A Loxahatchee park ranger had been first on the scene.

As soon as they landed, Rolvaag and Gallo were greeted by a young Palm Beach sheriff’s detective named Ogden. He showed them the suicide note that had been found in the Hummer.

” ‘Swan costume’?” Gallo flicked at the paper. “What the fuck is that all about?”

Ogden shrugged.

“Did you find a body?” Rolvaag asked.

“Not yet. We’re still looking,” Ogden said.

The search airboat could be heard roaring in zigzags through the tall grass. Rolvaag would not have been surprised if the remains of Joey Perrone’s husband were recovered, but he would have been astonished if the death turned out to be a true suicide.

Ogden said, “I understand you interviewed the subject several times after his wife’s accident. Did he seem depressed enough to do something like this?”

“Actually, he didn’t seem depressed at all,” Rolvaag said. “He seemed like an insensitive jerk.”

Gallo felt professionally obliged to elaborate. “Karl had some theories about Mr. Perrone’s possible involvement in his wife’s disappearance. Nothing ever panned out.”

“Unfortunately,” said Rolvaag, thinking: Try to make a murder case in two lousy weeks with no corpse.

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Ogden asked.

“A few days ago, at a church service for Mrs. Perrone.”

“Was he upset?”

“Not particularly. He was hitting on his wife’s best friend.”

“Nice guy,” Ogden said.

“A real prince. Good luck,” Rolvaag told him.

“What’s in the box?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Rolvaag picked up the heavy Rubbermaid tub and trekked down the levee. Once safely out of view, he angled down the embankment and set the container on the ground. It wasn’t an ideal solution, Rolvaag knew. As an imported species the pythons didn’t belong in Florida but, unfortunately, their native India did not figure in the detective’s immediate travel plans. At least here the snakes would be warm and relatively safe, as they were too large and powerful to be bothered by hawks, raccoons or otters. Rolvaag was more worried about the dangers from pesticides and other chemicals, recalling the grossly deformed baby snake that he’d found at Hammernut Farms. All he could do was pray that the water here in Loxahatchee was cleaner.

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.”