Joey Perrone said, "It's lucky you've got that island thing going for you, Mick, because this"-she patted the dashboard-"ain't exactly a pussy magnet."
"Excuse me?"
"That's a Chazism for a hot car."
Stranahan said, "The Cordoba is an automotive classic. You'll be pleased to know that your butt is sitting on rich Corinthian leather." "Maybe once upon a time."
For years Stranahan had kept the rusty car under a shady ficus tree near the Dinner Key marina, where he docked the skiff when visiting the mainland. Nothing on the Chrysler worked properly anymore except the enormous engine, which ran like a miracle.
Joey said, "We sit here much longer, somebody will definitely call the police."
Mick Stranahan conceded that the Cordoba didn't blend in with the late-model SUVs gleaming in the parallel driveways of West Boca Dunes Phase II. Joey told him to get busy while she found a place to hide the car.
"I might need to break a window," he said. "There's a spare key in a bird feeder in the backyard." "How about an alarm?" "Broken. See you in ten minutes."
Stranahan wore a short-sleeved work shirt from Florida Power amp; Light and a white hard hat. He went up to the front door and rang the bell. After a minute he circled to the rear of the house and pretended to examine the electric meter until he figured even the nosiest of Joey's neighbors would have lost interest.
The bird feeder was hung in the only tree in the Perrones' yard, a scrawny black olive. The key was covered with grackle droppings, which Stranahan wiped on the grass. As soon as he entered the house, he scrubbed his hands and put on a pair of rubber kitchen gloves. He was waiting by the front door when Joey knocked. "So, what do you think of my new look?" "I'm there," Stranahan said.
She wore a cropped brunette wig and a gray knee-length house-dress, and she carried a worn Bible. All of it came from a thrift shop they'd found down the street from the produce mart.
Stranahan motioned her inside and shut the door. Her shoulders stiffened and she stood in the foyer for several moments without saying a word.
He took her by the elbow and said, "It's all right." "Is there anything I shouldn't see?"
"I haven't taken the grand tour, but this was on the kitchen counter."
It was a section of the Sun-Sentinel that had been unfolded to an inside page.
Joey read the headline aloud: " 'Coast Guard Calls Off Search for Missing Cruise Passenger.' Oh my God, there I am! 'Local Woman Feared Drowned.' Do you believe this?"
She dropped the Bible and seized the newspaper with both hands. "I knew it, Mick. He's saying I got drunk and fell overboard!"
"That's not in the story."
"No, but it's the obvious implication. 'Perrone told police that he and his wife had shared several bottles of wine earlier in the evening. The couple had been celebrating their second wedding anniversary.' The prick!"
Joey crumpled the newspaper and slam-dunked it into the trash can. "I'm calling Rose," she said.
"Who's that?"
"My best friend. She's in our book club."
Mick Stranahan waited in the living room, trying to figure out who had decorated the place. The sofa and two reading chairs were comfortable and smart-looking, probably Joey's touch. Chaz's contributions would be the plasma TV and the jet-black Natuzzi recliner. The tragic aquarium could go either way. Stranahan was struck by the absence of books and the abundance of golf magazines. No family photographs were on display, not even a wedding picture.
Joey stalked into the room carrying a cold beer in each hand. She gave one bottle to Stranahan. "Rose almost had a seizure. She thought I was calling from the grave-speaking of which, what's that awful smell?"
"The aquarium, I'm afraid."
Joey groaned as she approached the tank. "That frigging idiot forgot to feed the fish!"
They looked like shiny little holiday ornaments, bobbing in the clouded water. Joey turned away in angry disgust. Stranahan followed her through the house, room by room. Nothing more was said until they reached the master bath.
"Oh, cute. My stuff's gone."
"Everything?"
"My toothpaste, makeup." Joey tore through the drawers and cabinets. "All my lotions and creams, even the tampons. This is unbelievable."
She hurried to the bedroom and flung open the closet door and let out a cry. "My clothes, too!"
Stranahan opened the top drawer of an antique bureau. "Undies," he reported, perhaps too brightly. "These he saved."
"Asshole." Joey slammed the closet door so violently that it came off the track.
Stranahan said, "Personally, I advocate cunning and stealth over mass destruction."
He righted the door and set it back in place. Joey grabbed her bra and panties out of the bureau and sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to cry now, okay, and I don't want to hear a word from you. Not one damn word."
"Crying is allowed. Go right ahead."
"And don't you dare put your arms around me and stroke my hair and give me all that wise fatherly-brotherly bullshit. Not unless I tell you to."
"Fair enough," Stranahan said.
"This was my house, Mick. My life. And he's just sweeping me out the door like I was dirt."
She closed her eyes and oddly found herself thinking of the night that Chaz had begged to tie her to the bedposts. He had chosen Alsatian scarves but had cinched the knots so tightly that her fingers and toes immediately went to sleep. It had been one of the rare times with Chaz that she'd had to fake it, but what made the night more memorable was that he'd passed out on top of her in a creepy sexual stupor. For nearly an hour he had lain there, snoring between her breasts and drooling like a Saint Bernard, yet remaining solidly erect inside her. Joey had felt as helpless as a butterfly pinned to a corkboard.
Upon reflection she realized that the bizarre interlude had been a telling lesson about her husband: Conscious or unconscious, he was completely dick-driven.
"The guy's an animal and I never saw it," she said disconsolately. "A primitive with a Ph.D. And I was a fool for marrying him."
"Joey?" Stranahan was standing at the bedroom door, spinning his hard hat in his hands.
"Yeah?"
"If you're going to cry, then cry. We need to be moving along."
"Give me five minutes alone."
"You got it," Stranahan said.
"Five minutes. Then come back and put your arms around me and tell me everything's going to be okay. All that cornball crap."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, let's give it a shot. But first, take off those ridiculous gloves."
Later they found the rest of her belongings crammed in three cardboard boxes, stacked in the garage next to her Toyota. As Joey began sorting through the depressing inventory, Stranahan warned her that Chaz might become suspicious if items disappeared.
"And don't even think about taking your car," he added.
Glumly she held up a pale orange handbag. "This is what I brought on the cruise."
Chaz had obviously overlooked her wallet, which contained $650 and an American Express card. "The plastic I'm keeping," she informed Stranahan. "We'll need it."
"The cash, too."
"Come here and dig in." Joey pointed to one of the other boxes.
"May I ask what we're looking for?"
"Something saucy," she said. "Something to catch the eye of my worthless troglodyte husband."
Dawn brought a thunderstorm and the screeching of rats. Karl Rol-vaag's pythons had awakened hungry.
For ten minutes the detective stood under a cold shower, a ritual meant to thicken his blood in preparation for the return to Minnesota. Rolvaag believed that living in South Florida had turned him into a weather wimp.