"What for? She's the one started it."

"You flashed her! I was watching from the living room." Charles Perrone had got himself quite worked up. "I don't want to deal with any more cops, you understand? Now hurry up, before she gets your license tag."

"But who's gonna watch your house?"

"Just keep driving," Charles Perrone said, "until you hear from Mr. Hammernut. He'll tell you what to do next."

"Shit," said Tool, and started backing down the street. At the corner he wheeled the minivan around, then shot forward at high speed toward the exit of West Boca Dunes Phase II. More than an hour passed before the cell phone rang, but by then Tool had scored two more fatality markers from the grass median of the Sawgrass Expressway. The flowers had rotted down to the ribbons, yet the crosses themselves were in mint condition. Consequently, Tool's outlook was much improved by the time Red Hammernut called.

"On this bodyguard thing," Red said, "the trick is, you gotta blend in."

"I never been too good at that."

"Okay. Lemme work up another plan."

"Meantime, can I swap out the minivan?" Tool asked.

"By all means."

"Get me somethin' with a decent AC."

"You bet."

"By the way, your boy ain't much of a doctor."

Red Hammernut chuckled. "Don't you dare tell a soul."

Mick Stranahan and Joey Perrone were surprised to see Chaz's yellow Humvee when they came around the corner at ten-thirty.

"Guess who's taking a sick day," Joey said.

Stranahan positioned the Suburban in the driveway of the fugitive telemarketers, same as the last time. Moments later, a panel truck turned onto the street and drove past the Perrone house, then braked, reversed and pulled in beside the Hummer. Painted in red lettering on the sides of the truck: sunshine locksmith.

"Damn," Stranahan said. "He's changing the locks."

"So what?"

"So the spare key in the bird feeder won't fit."

Joey raised an eyebrow. "Wait and see."

Soon another truck appeared. It was a small white pickup with magnetic signs on the doors: gold coast security systems.

"Now what?" Stranahan grumbled.

"He's reconnecting the alarm."

"Terrific."

"Would you please stop worrying?" Joey said.

"Just so you know, I'm not keen on B-and-E's."

"Translation?"

"Break-ins. They're messy," Stranahan said, "and very hard to explain if the cops show up. Are your window screens wired?"

"No, but there are motion detectors in the hallway and bedrooms. I suppose Chaz could put in more, depending on how spooked he is."

"I would say plenty spooked," said Stranahan, "based on what we're seeing."

"It was your phone call, Mick. The Moses impersonation."

"Let's not forget the snapshot under his pillow."

"Oh yeah." Joey would have given anything to see her husband's face when he found it.

By noon the locksmith and the alarm technician were gone, but Charles Perrone hadn't come out of the house. Joey was restless, ready to roll. She had tucked her hair under a Marlins cap and costumed herself in long pants and a loose-fitting work shirt. Instead of a Bible, her prop this time was a toolbox. Someone watching her come down the sidewalk might have mistaken her for a man, because of her height and long athletic stride.

"What if he's really sick in bed?" she said.

Stranahan was scanning the place with the binoculars. "Give him one more hour."

A blue car turned the corner and approached the Perrone residence. It was the Ford compact belonging to the woman with the kelly-green pubic hair.

Joey groaned. "You've got to be kidding."

"Take it easy, now."

"What, he can't even make it past lunch without getting his rocks hauled?"

Stranahan said, "Looks like she's not going in."

Two short honks came from the Ford, then the front door of the house opened. Out came Charles Perrone, carrying a brown paper bag.

"See that golf shirt he's wearing? I gave him that for his birthday," Joey said. "New set of irons, too."

Chaz got in on the passenger side and the blue car pulled away. Joey noted that the woman was wearing large Jackie Onassis-style sunglasses-"probably so she won't be recognized from her porno flicks."

Stranahan advised Joey to stay focused on her no-good husband. "What do you want to do?"

"I want to go back in the house. My house."

"But how?"

"Wait here," she said, "until you see the sprinklers come on."

Stranahan touched her wrist. "The second the alarm goes off, I'm rolling. Be sure to come out the front door, not the back, then walk very calmly to the street."

"Mick, don't you dare leave me stranded here. That would really suck."

"Come to think of it, I still owe you one."

"Not the stolen boat thing again." Joey sighed as she hopped out of the Suburban. "How many times did I say I was sorry? Like a dozen?"

Stranahan had been underestimating women for about forty years, so he was not flabbergasted to see the lawn sprinklers bloom at the former residence of Joey Perrone. He would have congratulated her merely for getting past the new locks; that she'd also thwarted the security alarm was truly impressive.

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.