Captain Gallo had told him to take the day off as comp time, but Rolvaag had nothing else to do but work. By the time he'd shaved and dressed, the snakes were finished and Mrs. Shulman was pounding on the door. She lived across the hall in unit 7-G and held the title of acting vice president for the Sawgrass Grove Condominium Association. Her current mission was to evict Karl Rolvaag from the premises. "Good morning, Nellie," he said.
"I heard it, that god-awful screaming again, you sick bastard!" "They've got to eat," the detective said, "same as you and me." "If you weren't a cop, they'd throw you in jail for animal cruelty!"
Mrs. Shulman, who weighed at least ninety pounds, acted as if she intended to punch Rolvaag in the chest. Her bony mottled fists were clenched and trembling.
The detective said, "The condo association paid how much for rodent extermination last year-three or four grand, wasn't it?"
Mrs. Shulman sneered. "Don't get snide with me."
"There's nothing in the rules says I can't keep reptiles."
" 'Dangerous pets,' it's right on page one nineteen."
"Your dog's bitten four people," Rolvaag pointed out. "My snakes haven't hurt anybody."
"Disturbing the peace, then. Those helpless mice screaming and moaning while God's breath is strangled out of them-it's horrible. I had to double up on my Xanax, thanks to you."
"They're big fat rats, Nellie, not Stuart Little. And, by the way, that poison your exterminator uses? It makes their little tummies explode."
Mrs. Shulman wailed, backpedaling.
"Why don't we leave this to the lawyers," Rolvaag said.
"You're a sick, sick, sick bastard. No wonder you're not married anymore."
"And no wonder your husband went deaf."
Somewhere in the parchment fissures of Mrs. Shulman's face, her eyes narrowed. "You'll be gone by July, smartass."
"Keep Petunia on her leash," Rolvaag advised, "and you've got nothing to worry about."
After a late breakfast he drove to the office and showed Captain Gallo the letter from the police chief in Minnesota.
"Very humorous," Gallo said. "Where the fuck is Edina?"
"Twin Cities area."
"Didn't they write a song about it? 'Nothing could be finer than to be in your Edina in the morrr-ning!' "
Rolvaag said, "I'm serious about taking the job."
"Cut it out."
"I want to live somewhere normal."
"And die of fucking boredom. Sure you do." Gallo handed him a scrap of paper. "Guy name of Corbett Wheeler called. That's his number."
"Mrs. Perrone's brother."
"One-thirty in the morning, kangaroo time, he's wide-awake," Gallo said. "Wants to talk to someone ASAP. Says it's important."
Rolvaag had been trying to locate Corbett Wheeler since Saturday afternoon. "I'll call right now," the detective said.
"Make it collect."
"You're kidding."
Gallo shrugged. "That's what the guy said-'Be sure and call collect.' "
Somewhere in the hills of New Zealand, Joey Perrone's brother picked up on the first ring. Karl Rolvaag half-expected him to sound like the flaky Aussie who wrestles crocodiles on TV, but Corbett Wheeler hadn't lost his flat American accent.
"Are you the one in charge of the case?" he asked.
"That's right," Rolvaag said.
"Then listen up: My little sister did not get drunk and fall off that cruise ship," Corbett Wheeler declared, "no matter what her husband told you. And she didn't take a dive, either."
The connection was fuzzy, and Rolvaag heard his own voice reverberate when he spoke. "I understand this must be hard for you. Would you mind a few questions?"
"It was in the Boca newspaper. That's how I found out-a friend of Joey's called to tell me."
Rolvaag said, "We've been trying to get hold of you since Saturday. Your brother-in-law gave me a couple of phone numbers, but they were no good."
"Just like my brother-in-law," Corbett Wheeler said. "He is a fuck-wit and a reprobate."
"When's the last time you saw him?"
"Never met the man, or even spoke to him. But Joey's given me an earful-I wouldn't trust the guy alone with my bowling ball, that's what a horndog he is."
Rolvaag had heard similar opinions from Joey's friends, though none of them hinted that Charles Perrone was deeply involved with anybody but Charles Perrone.
"You're suggesting that Chaz had something to do with your sister's disappearance?"
"Bet the farm on it," said Corbett Wheeler.
"It's a long way from adultery to homicide."
"From what Joey told me, he's capable of anything."
Rolvaag heard sheep lowing in the background.
"Maybe we should talk in person," he suggested.
"Honestly, I don't travel much," said Mrs. Perrone's brother, "but I'd fly all night to see that little whorehopper strapped into the electric chair and lit up like Dodger Stadium."
"These days most of them opt for lethal injection."
"Are you telling me they get a choice?"
"I'm afraid so," Rolvaag told him. "What's that noise?"
"One of my ewes, trying to pop triplets."
"Can I call you back?"
"No, I'll call you," said Joey Perrone's brother, and the line went dead.
Fuckwit, reprobate, horndog, whorehopper-an impressive litany of contempt for Chaz Perrone. Rolvaag reported Corbett Wheeler's suspicions to Captain Gallo, who shrugged and said, "Hey, nobody wants to believe their little sister was a clumsy lush. Did he know about the DUI?"
"I didn't ask." Rolvaag could name plenty of friends who'd been busted for drunk driving, and not one had ever fallen off a cruise ship. "What if Wheeler's right about Perrone?"
"Then you'll figure it out, too, and make us all look like geniuses," said Gallo, "hopefully by Friday."
Rolvaag knew better than to mention the nail marks on the marijuana bale until the DNA testing was complete. The procedure wasn't inexpensive, and the captain would be miffed that Rolvaag had ordered it without his approval.
Gallo handed him the letter from the Edina police chief. Rolvaag folded it back into the envelope. "Is three weeks enough time?" he asked.
"Didn't you hear what I just said? Friday, Karl, and then we move on."
"I'm not talking about this case," said the detective. "I'm giving my notice. Is three weeks enough?"
Gallo sat back and grinned. "Yeah, whatever. I'll play along."
Chaz Perrone parked his Hummer on the levee, a half mile from the spillway. He kept the AC running and slurped coffee as he stared blankly across miles and miles of Everglades. A breeze fluffed the saw grass and combed ripples in the dark water. Coots tiptoed through the hyacinths and lilies, a young heron speared minnows in the shallows and a small bass went airborne to take a dragonfly. The place was thrumming with wildlife, and Chaz Perrone was miserable.
Nothing about nature awed, soothed or humbled him-not the solitude or the mythic vastness or the primordial ebb and flow. To Chaz, it was all hot, buggy, funky-smelling and treacherous. He would have been so much happier on the driving range at Eagle Trace.
Red Hammernut was the one who had insisted that Chaz stick to the program, in case Chaz's supervisors at the water-management district decided to check up on him. It was also Red who'd bought him the Humvee, after Chaz had griped for months that the dirt roads were tearing up the shocks on his midsize Chevy.
Chaz had chosen bright yellow for the Hummer on the theory that such an intrusive color would freak out any panthers that might be lurking in the sector of the Everglades to which he was assigned. Chaz was terrified of being ambushed by one of the big cats, despite the fact that no such attack on humans had ever been recorded. Furthermore, the animals were nearly extinct, perhaps only sixty or seventy remaining in the wild.