Sadly, there wasn't much left to save. Ninety percent of the original 'glades already had been developed, converted to agriculture or otherwise debauched. The only untrampled remnant was a national park, the waters of which were of dubious purity. Nonetheless, in the late 19905 the United States Congress and the Florida Legislature allotted a boggling $8 billion to restore a natural and unpolluted flow to the fabled river of grass. Many decent and well-meaning people believed this to be a moral imperative.
Then there were those such as Samuel Johnson Hammernut, whose sole interest in sustaining the Everglades was to make sure that his thirteen thousand acres of lettuce, cabbage, sweet corn, tomatoes, radishes, escarole and parsley would have cheap and unlimited irrigation forever. Red Hammernut cared only slightly less about the imperiled wildlife than he did about the wretched souls who toiled for dirt wages in his crop fields, held captive to his employment with imaginary debts imposed by violent crew bosses.
As for the pollution issue, Red Hammernut intended to continue using the vast marshlands as a latrine, and to hell with the law. A pragmatic fellow, he'd watched closely as the bureaucracy of the Everglades restoration project evolved, and he had taken measures to safeguard his stake. Eight billion dollars was an unholy shitload of dough, and Red Hammernut calculated that no less than a third of it would be ripped off by lobbyists, lawyers, consultants and bid-riggers favored by well-placed politicians. The remaining windfall would be spent more or less earnestly, if not efficiently, by a phalanx of municipal, state and federal agencies that would seldom communicate with one another.
Prominent among these was the South Florida Water Management District, which was recruiting field biologists to test for harmful substances in farm runoff. It was a specialized mission, one that held some potential to complicate Red Hammernut's life.
Conveniently, the members of the water board had been appointed by the governor, to whose re-election campaign Red Hammernut had donated large sums of money and the use of a Cessna Citation. Therefore it was no surprise to Red Hammernut that his phone call to the water board was so genially received, or that his recommendation of a bright young job applicant was so promptly acted upon.
After that, it was easy arranging for the newly hired biologist to be assigned to the same water-testing district in which certain large vegetable farms were located.
On paper, Dr. Charles R. Perrone looked like the real deal.
Red Hammernut had his mole in place.
"It's good you're staying busy," Karl Rolvaag said.
Chaz Perrone nodded stoically.
"Your supervisor said she told you to take the whole week off, even longer if you needed."
Chaz frowned. "You spoke to Marta? What for?"
"Just routine," said the detective. "Anyway, she said you insisted on coming back to work, and I told her it could actually be a healthy thing."
"Well, what else am I supposed to do-hang around the house all day and get morbidly depressed? No thank you."
They were standing in the kitchen, Chaz with a Budweiser in his hand and Rolvaag sipping a Sprite. The detective had shown up at the front door not five minutes after Chaz had returned from work.
"I'm really beat," Chaz said for the third time.
"Yeah, it was a scorcher out there today." Rolvaag had seen on the news that an early spring snowstorm had hit the Twin Cities; he sitting in air conditioning in Florida. It was fairly astounding.
He said, "Marta explained what you do on your job, and it sounds real interesting. I bet you run into plenty of snakes out there."
"Well, I run over plenty of 'em with my truck." Chaz, unable to resist the smartass quip. "Look, I'm not trying to be rude, but, man, I am seriously whipped."
"Of course. I understand." The detective finished off the soda and raised the empty bottle. "Do you recycle?"
Chaz made a dunking motion toward the trash can. "Let God sort 'em out," he said.
Rolvaag placed the bottle on the counter. "There was just one point I needed you to clarify about that night on the Sun Duchess."
"You know who you remind me of? That TV cop, Columbo. He never quit with the questions," Chaz said. "I bet that was your favorite show, am I right?"
"To be honest, I never watched it."
"But I'm sure other people must've told you the same thing-that you remind them of Columbo. Not the way you look, but how you never let up. In a nice way, though."
Rolvaag said, "What night is the show on? I'd like to see it."
Chaz shook his head. What a hopeless dweeb. "It was canceled, like, a hundred years ago. Anyway, what did you want to ask me about?"
The detective seemed relieved to get back to business. "Just one thing, really. Are you certain about what time Mrs. Perrone left the stateroom?"
Chaz experienced a disconcerting twitch in his colon. "Three-thirty in the morning, like I told you before. I remember looking at my watch."
"And there's no chance your watch was wrong?" Rolvaag's tone was unbearably neutral. "The reason I ask, we've found some evidence raising the possibility that your wife went into the water a few hours earlier than you told us."
The detective was leaning against the countertop, his hands shoved casually in his pockets.
Chaz said, "That's impossible."
"I'm sure there's an explanation."
"What kind of evidence did you find?"
Rolvaag winced apologetically. "Afraid I can't discuss it."
Locked in his desk at the office was the test confirming that the fingernail tips removed from the marijuana bale belonged to Joey Perrone.
Chaz said, "This is my wife we're talking about-and you're saying you can't tell me?" He felt his cheeks redden, but that was actually a good thing; he was supposed to look angry. "Did you find her body or not? Goddammit, I've got a right to know!"
Rolvaag said, "No, sir, we didn't recover a body. That I can tell you for a fact. Or even a body part."
"Then what the hell was it?"
Chaz was racking his brain. Joey hadn't been carrying her purse, so it had to be a piece of clothing that had washed ashore somewhere at odds with the computer model of where her body should have floated, factoring in that night's currents and wind.
"Is this why you wanted a DNA sample?" Chaz demanded.
"It's an active investigation. Certain aspects must remain confidential for the time being," Rolvaag said. "I'm sorry, Chaz."
It was the first time the detective had used Charles Perrone's nickname, and the sudden informality only heightened Chaz's anxiety. He'd seen enough TV homicide shows to know you were in deep trouble when cops started acting like they were your asshole buddies.
"I've lost my wife and you're playing head games," Chaz said, acting hurt and disappointed. "Just come out and say so if you think I'm lying."
"I think people make mistakes."
"Not this time."
"But you'd been hitting the wine pretty hard that night is what you told me. That's not always good for the memory," Rolvaag said.
Chaz twisted the cap off another beer and drank slowly, stalling to let his emotions settle. It occurred to him that the detective had unwittingly provided a way out. The Coast Guard had ended its search for Joey, so what was the point in arguing about when she'd gone overboard? If there was anything left of her, which was unlikely after four days at sea, it wouldn't really matter how far south she was found. One could always blame a shark or some other deep-water scavenger for carrying her remains out of the search grid.
Chaz hung his head. "I was pretty hammered, that's true. Maybe I did get confused about the time Joey left. Or maybe I misread my watch." For effect he tapped the crystal of his inexpensive Timex, which he wore only on sampling days in the Everglades.