The crime was perfect. It was the rest of the world that was fucking up.

"I lied," Joey Perrone said.

This was after a day of doing largely nothing; swimming, sunning, losing herself in a John D. MacDonald paperback that she'd found in Mick Stranahan's tackle box.

"I lied to you," she said again.

Stranahan didn't look up. He was cracking stone crab claws by whomping them with the flat side of a spoon. It was all in the wrist, he'd explained. Fragments of shell were flying around like shrapnel.

"Lied about what?" he asked.

"About not touching anything in the house when I went back inside to take a pee. There was a stash of pictures in the hall closet."

"Wedding pictures, that sort of thing?"

"Wedding, honeymoon, vacations. All shots of Chaz and me," Joey reported, "in happier times."

"Why were they in a closet?"

"Because my shitheel husband pulled 'em off the wall," she said, "probably within five minutes after he got home from the cruise. I guess he couldn't even stand to look at my face."

Stranahan brushed an orange fleck of crab claw from her cheek. "Tell me what you did."

Joey spun away. "Another glass of wine, sir. Please."

"What did you do with the photos?"

"Not all of them. Just one," she said. "All I did was take it out of the frame and slip it under his pillow."

"Oh Christ," Stranahan said.

"But first I took cuticle scissors-"

"And cut your face out of the picture." Joey blinked. "How'd you know?"

"No comment."

"Wife or girlfriend?"

"Spouse number three, if memory serves," he said.

She sighed. "Next time I'll try to be more original."

They ate inside, Strom whining for handouts through the screen door. Stranahan was quiet, and Joey began to worry that she'd done something foolhardy, something that might ruin the plan, whatever that was.

Firmly she set down her wineglass. "If you want to yell at me for cutting up that picture, go ahead. Just remember, it's my house, too. My stuff that he's throwing away."

Stranahan said, "There was no car accident in Tampa involving Chaz and a drunk driver."

"How do you know?"

"Checked with the Highway Patrol. There wasn't any lawsuit, either," he said, "according to the court files. And no big settlement, obviously."

"Meaning no nest egg," Joey said quietly.

"Highly unlikely. You want to hear our plan?"

"If it'll cheer me up, sure."

"We're going to blackmail your husband," Stranahan said.

"I see."

"Actually, we're only going to make him think he's being blackmailed." Stranahan dipped a jumbo claw into a cup of drawn butter.

"Blackmailed by who?" Joey asked.

"Somebody who knows that Chaz murdered you." Stranahan smiled and took another bite of crab. "Somebody we'll have to invent, of course."

Joey adored the idea even though she didn't entirely get the point.

"Misdirection," he explained. "Chaz is probably freaking out that he's being harassed by some mysterious intruder. I'm assuming you don't want him to figure out it's you, at least not yet. Correct?"

She nodded emphatically.

"No offense," Stranahan said, "but these clever little messages you've left for him-the dress in the closet, the lipstick in the drawer, the photograph under the pillow-those are estranged wife-type moves. Too much of that and he'll put it all together."

"Yeah, you're right."

"So we need to make him believe it's somebody else who's screwing with his head."

"How about somebody who saw him push me off the ship?"

"Now you're talking."

"A secret witness who gets greedy," Joey said eagerly. "That would be cool. But who could we make up, Mick? And how would this imaginary person know how to find Chaz? Wait a minute-how would he get into the house unless he had a key?"

"Whoa, slow down," Stranahan told her. "I've got an idea how to set this up."

"I'll bet you do." Joey Perrone felt better than she had in days, and not just because of the wine.

"But first it would really help to know why Chaz wanted you dead," said Stranahan. "It would open up some creative opportunities, blackmail-wise."

Joey shrugged helplessly. "That's all I think about, night and day."

"Don't worry. We'll figure everything out," he said with a wink. "This might actually be fun."

Chaz didn't find the photograph under his pillow until Tuesday night, because he'd spent Monday night at Ricca's apartment in self-prescribed sexual therapy. He had blamed Joey's lingering aura for impeding his finale in the bathtub, but leaving the house they shared had failed to solve the problem. Even in Ricca's jasmine-scented bedroom Chaz couldn't shake the image of his dead wife's slinky black dress in the closet, or the wanton memories it conjured.

Ricca had worked on him as deftly as a sculptress, but the results had been unsatisfactory. For the first time in their relationship-in any relationship-Chaz had heard that most hollow and dreaded of consolations:

"Don't worry, baby, it happens to everybody."

In a panic he'd dragged Ricca to a nearby music store and purchased a replacement copy of George Thorogood's greatest hits, to no avail. Even digitally remastered, "Bad to the Bone" could not rally Chaz's bone to its usual badness. The gloom of failure followed him all the next day as he drove up and down the levees of the Everglades. It weighed on him still when he returned home, although Rolvaag's visit had offered a brief, though grating, diversion.

Toppling into bed that night, Chaz was emotionally unprepared for yet another ghoulish shock. He stared at the picture and absently poked a finger in the scissored hole where his wife's pretty face had been.

Too vividly he remembered the circumstances of the photograph, which had been taken the previous New Year's Eve at a ski lodge in Steamboat Springs. He and Joey had just emerged from their room after one hour and seventeen minutes of spectacularly rowdy sex. It was the only time Chaz had ever tired before his wife, and he'd signaled breathless surrender by making a T with his hands in the manner of a sacked quarterback. He and Joey were still laughing about it later when they'd handed the camera to the bartender.

Now, hunched over the photo, Chaz should have been worrying about who had retrieved it from the closet and, literally, defaced it. He should have been wondering when the act of venomous mischief had occurred, and how the perpetrator had entered the house without breaking a window or prying a doorjamb. He should have been summoning the hulking hairy bodyguard, Red's goon, to find out if any suspicious persons had been lurking in the neighborhood.

But instead Charles Regis Perrone found himself thinking of that night only four months ago in Colorado, reliving in erotic detail how the woman he fondly once called "my monster blonde" had turned him inside out. Soon Chaz found himself saluted by a formidable hard-on, which sent him scampering in unwarranted optimism to the bathroom. There he labored doggedly, his face crimson and contorted, until one and then both of his fists cramped. No relief would be forthcoming.

Chaz glared down at himself and cursed. My cock was never faithful to Joey while she was alive, he thought, so why all of a sudden now? It was crushing to consider that whatever puny conscience he possessed might manifest itself in such a humiliating way.

"I didn't want to kill her!" he shouted at his chafed and shrinking tormentor. "She gave me no choice!"

Chaz tore the photograph to shreds over the toilet bowl. After checking the doors and windows, he gobbled a half dozen Maalox chewables and collapsed on the living room sofa. Tomorrow he'd get the locks changed and call the alarm company and move Joey's jewelry to his personal safe-deposit box at the bank. Afterward he would scour the house one more time until nothing remained of his deceased spouse, not one blond eyelash, to arouse him against his will.