When she met him at the door, he asked, "Were you a burglar in a previous life?"
"No, a wife," Joey said. "Chaz hid the new key in the same bird feeder, just like I knew he would."
"Because…"
"See, it was his idea the first time. He was so proud of himself, thought he was so darn clever. And since I'm the only other person who knew about the hiding place-"
"And he thinks you're dead-"
"Exactly. Why not hide it there again?" she said. "He probably figures that whoever snuck into the house scored the old key from our cleaning service, or maybe the guy who does the aquarium."
"Okay, but how'd you disarm the alarm?"
"Now, Mick, put on your thinking cap."
He grinned. "Don't tell me Chaz used the same keypad code as before."
"Yup," Joey said. "Two, twenty-one, seventy-two."
"Sounds like a birthday."
"Bingo. I knew he'd be too lazy to make up a new sequence."
"Still, that's quite a gamble you took," Stranahan said.
"Not really. Not knowing him the way I do."
They sat in the dining room, Chaz's mud-smeared backpack on the table. Joey said she'd once bought him a nice leather briefcase, but he had told her it was impractical for working in a swamp. Stranahan unfastened the backpack's many buckles and zippers and emptied the contents pocket by pocket: a sheath of loose papers and charts, a handful of mechanical pencils, two aerosol cans of insect spray, a snakebite kit, tape and gauze, a pair of heavy cotton socks, canvas gloves, rubberized gloves, chlorine tablets, a tube of antibiotic ointment, a rolled-up Danish skin magazine, a bag of stale chocolate doughnuts, a pound of trail mix and a plastic bottle of Maalox tablets.
"Your husband has a nervous tummy. That could be helpful," Stranahan said.
Joey leafed through the papers. "This is the same kind of stuff he was working on the day he got so mad at me."
"You were right. They're charts for water samples." Stranahan removed a blank form, folded it up and slipped it in the pocket of his Florida Power amp; Light shirt.
"That's all we're taking?" she asked.
"For now, yes."
He carefully replaced each of the other items in the backpack. "That was a nice little bonus. Now-where does Squire Perrone hide his checkbook?"
"Be right back." Joey disappeared down the hallway, and returned carrying at arm's length a crusty, soiled sneaker. "Never been washed," she reported distastefully.
A clever idea, Stranahan had to admit. Even the most desperate of thieves avoid rancid footwear. Joey turned the shoe upside down and the checkbook dropped out. Flipping through the register, Stranahan found no unusual transactions; the only deposits were Chaz Perrone's bimonthly paychecks from the state of Florida.
"When did you say he bought the Hummer?" Stranahan asked Joey.
"Middle of January."
"There's nothing here, not even a down payment."
"Maybe he's got another account I don't know about," she said.
Or maybe he didn't pay for the Hummer himself, Stranahan thought. "What about Chaz's so-called nest egg?" he asked.
Joey shook her head weakly. "Stocks and bonds?"
"Then he should get brokerage statements in the mail."
Joey admitted that she'd never seen any. Stranahan stood up and said it was time to go, before Chaz returned with his lady friend.
"Wait. Let's leave him another present." Joey was eyeing one of her husband's umbrellas, which was leaning in a corner.
"Absolutely not," Stranahan said.
"Mick, come on."
"He's already a nervous wreck, I assure you."
Joey feigned a pout as she followed him to the door. "At least can I leave the sprinklers running?"
"Is the timer box outside?"
She nodded. "On the wall outside the utility room. He'll have no reason to think that we actually got into the house."
"Then, sure, what the hell," Stranahan said. "If it makes you feel better."
"It'll do for now," said Joey, and reset the alarm.
Ricca remarked that Chaz looked dreadful.
"I didn't sleep much," he mumbled.
"That's because I wasn't there to tire you out."
"Some crank called first thing this morning."
"A breather?" Ricca asked. "I get those all the time."
"No. Just a crank." Thinking about the mystery phone call, Chaz felt his palms go damp.
Ricca asked if he had given any more thought to holding a memorial service for Joey.
"What is it with you?" he said irritably. "I already told you I hate funerals. Light a goddamn candle if it makes you feel better."
Ricca said, "Doesn't have to be a major production. Rent a chapel, get the priest to say a few words. Maybe some of Joey's friends would like to share their feelings, too."
Chaz stared out the window.
"It's important, baby," she said. "For closure."
He exhaled scornfully, blowing invisible smoke rings.
"One chapter of your life has ended," Ricca went on, "and another is just beginning."
Jesus, Chaz thought. She's about as subtle as a double hernia.
"Besides, it'll look bad if you don't do something in Joey's memory. It'll look like you don't even care that she's dead."
Ricca had a point. Eventually he might have to stage a service for the sake of appearances. He was surprised that Detective Rolvaag hadn't called him on that, too.
The crooked, blackmailing sonofabitch. It had to be him, the voice on the phone.
"Chaz, are you listening to me?" Ricca said.
"Do I have a choice?"
She made a sad-sounding noise. "Baby, I'm just trying to be here for you."
Right, thought Chaz. Here, there and everywhere.
He said, "Maybe I'll arrange a memorial for later. In a couple weeks." Thinking: After all this heavy-duty shit is behind me.
Ricca remained in the car while he went inside the bank. Later, at lunch, she got around to asking what was in the paper bag.
"It was jewelry," Chaz said. "I was putting it in a safe box."
"Your wife's jewelry?"
"No, Liz Taylor's. She asked me to hold it for her."
"Don't have to get snotty," Ricca said.
Chaz mustered an apology. "I've got a jillion things on my mind."
"You wanna stop over my place for a fashion show? I just got a new box of thongs from Rio."
"Not today, sweetie. I've got to haul a major load of trash out to the county landfill."
Ricca froze, a forkful of linguini halfway to her mouth. "Let me get this straight: You'd rather go to a garbage dump than get laid?"
Chaz said, "Come on. It's not that simple."
At least he hoped it wasn't.
Twelve
On the drive back to Miami, Joey started thinking about the last time she and her husband had had sex-in their cabin aboard the Sun Duchess, less than five hours before he tossed her overboard. She couldn't recall that Chaz had behaved any differently in bed; his performance had been typically voracious and unflagging. It infuriated her to think he could have enjoyed himself with such abandon, knowing that before midnight he would murder his partner in pleasure.
"I need you to explain something about men," she said to Mick Stranahan, "because I truly don't understand."
"Fire away."
"Chaz and I did it on the ship while we were getting ready for dinner. This is the night he tried to murder me!"
"As if everything was hunky-dory."
"Exactly," Joey said. "How could he even get it up?"
"I believe it's called 'compartmentalizing.' "
"And you've done this yourself?"