"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.

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?"

"On rare occasions," Stranahan said.

"Examples, please."

He answered hesitantly. "Well… there was one time I made love to a woman forty-five minutes before I moved out."

"And you knew you were leaving?"

"Yep. I'd already rented my own place."

"And she had no clue? None whatsoever?"

"Evidently not," Stranahan said, "judging by her reaction."

Joey was watching him closely. "Well? Don't stop now. Going to bed-was that your idea or hers?"

"They say it relieves stress, and God knows I was stressed."

"Oh please," she said. "You just wanted one last taste."

"I suppose that's possible."

"Men are such slugs."

Stranahan kept his eyes on the traffic. "For what it's worth, I would never toss a woman off a ship after having wild sex with her. Or even tame sex."

"Spoken like a true gentleman."

"And may I submit that your husband-"

"Don't call him that anymore. Please."

"All right," Stranahan said. "May I submit that Chaz is light-years beneath common male slugdom. He is one coldhearted prick, and let's not forget it."

Wearily, Joey slid down in the seat. "What's it called when you start hating yourself?"

"A waste of energy."

"No. Self-loathing, I think. All these questions keep banging around my head. What the hell were you thinking, Joey? Why didn't you see through this guy? How come you put up with all his •whoring around? Mick, we're talking about a serious deficiency of self-esteem here."

She felt a hand lightly brush one of her cheeks. He was checking for tears. "Don't worry," she said, "I'm so over that."

"Figure we've got almost one healthy ego between us. That ought to be enough."

"Why are you helping me?" Joey heard herself ask.

"Because I miss chasing after guys like Chaz. It was the best part of my job, sending shitheads up the river."

"You're not just trying to get in my pants?"

Stranahan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You know, I'd be just fine if you didn't keep bringing up the subject."

"God, I'm starved. Let's grab something to eat."

"We'll be home in an hour," he said.

Joey didn't argue. She knew how much Mick hated the city.

"Sometimes I think about killing Chaz. Seriously," she admitted. "Last night I dreamed I beat him to death with one of his umbrellas. Is that crazy?"

Stranahan said she'd be crazy not to feel angry. "But this is a much smarter way of dealing with it. With any luck, neither of us will end up in prison or the nuthouse."

"Did we really accomplish anything today? I mean, besides watering the lawn."

"Definitely." Stranahan patted his breast pocket. "The chart I took from Chaz's backpack is used for recording phosphorus levels at water-sampling stations. Those were probably the numbers he was writing down that day he wigged out on you."

"Phosphorus-is that the same as phosphate?" Joey asked. "Like in fertilizer."

"Yes indeed."

"Not good for the Everglades."

"Not according to what I've read, no," Stranahan said.