Joey was struggling to make it all fit. "Okay, say Chaz was slacking at work. Instead of schlepping out to the boonies, he sneaks off to play golf. Later he cooks up a bogus water chart to fool his boss."

"Sounds like our boy."

"Then I come home unexpectedly, ask one innocent question," Joey said, "and he's so paranoid that he thinks I've figured out the whole scam. Caught him red-handed."

"And then he loses it."

"Yeah, but hold on. Do you really believe he tried to kill me over that? Over fertilizer?"

"I'm not saying this is the whole answer. It's just a piece of the puzzle," Stranahan said.

Joey was skeptical. It seemed entirely possible that Chaz's tantrum two months ago had nothing to do with what had happened last week on the cruise ship. Even if he'd been fudging some scientific data, the guy wasn't exactly trading in atomic secrets.

She said, "Before this is over, I want a one-on-one with him. Can you make that happen?"

"Joey, it all depends."

When they got to Dinner Key, Stranahan parked the Suburban next to the old Cordoba under the ficus tree. A chilly rain started falling as they reached the skiff, and they shared a poncho on the choppy ride out to the island.

Karl Rolvaag drove north on U.S. 27, the glistening sedge of the Everglades giving way to cane fields as far as he could see. At Lake Okee-chobee the detective headed west on State Road 80, toward the town of LaBelle. He was taking his time, enjoying the wide-open drive. The flat farmlands checkered in shades of green reminded him of western Minnesota in the summer.

The address of Red's Tomato Exchange turned out to be the same as that of Hammernut Farms. Rolvaag followed a straight gravel road for a half mile until it dead-ended at a modern brick complex that belonged in a suburban office park. The receptionist peered at Rolvaag's badge, made a quiet call and then offered him coffee, soda or lemonade. A woman identifying herself as Mr. Hammernut's "executive assistant" appeared and led the detective to a conference room overlooking a stagnant though perfectly circular pond. On the paneled walls of the room were framed photographs of governors, congressmen, Norman Schwarzkopf, Nancy Reagan, Bill Clinton, the three Bushes and even Jesse Helms-each posing with a shorter, reddish-haired man, whom Rolvaag assumed to be Samuel Johnson Hammer-nut. Undoubtedly the pictures were displayed to remind Hammernut's guests that they were dealing with a heavy hitter. From his own hasty Internet research, Rolvaag had learned that Hammernut's enterprises extended well beyond Florida; soybeans in Arkansas, peanuts in Georgia, cotton in South Carolina. Plainly he made important friends wherever he chose to do business. He'd also gotten into occasional trouble for brutal labor practices and a casual disregard for pollution laws. That he had skated away with only comical fines was hardly surprising to Rolvaag, considering Hammernut's deep-pocket connections with both political parties.

"Call me Red," he said after a sniffling and somewhat unimposing entrance. "Damn allergies get me every spring. What can I do you for?"

The detective told Hammernut about the unusual man in the minivan at West Boca Dunes Phase II. "The license tag came back to a Hertz agency. They said the rental was billed to a corporate credit card-Red's Tomato Exchange."

Hammernut nodded. "I own that company, yessir. And half a dozen others."

"You know a person named Earl Edward O'Toole?" "Not off the toppa my head. Did he say he worked for me?" "I didn't speak with him personally, but I got a good look. He's a very distinctive individual," Rolvaag said. "How so?"

"Sizewise."

"We hire lotsa large fellas out here. Lemme ask Lisbeth." Hammer-nut leaned across the table and poked a button on the speaker phone. "Lisbeth, we got anybody on the payroll name of Earl Edward"-he turned back to Rolvaag-"what was it again?"

"O'Toole. That's what was on the car-rental contract."

"O'Toole," Hammernut repeated for Lisbeth, who said she would check. Less than a minute later the phone buzzed. This time Hammer-nut turned off the speaker and snatched up the receiver.

"Hmmm. Okay, yeah, I think I 'member him. Thank you, darlin'."

The detective opened his notebook and waited.

Hammernut hung up and said, "That big ole boy used to be a crew boss round here, but not for some time. I don't know how he come to get hold of that credit card, but I aim to find out."

"Do you know where he works now?"

"Nope. Lisbeth says he left on account of medical problems," Hammernut said. "It's hard, runnin' a crew. Maybe he just got broke-down and wore-out."

Rolvaag went through the motions of scribbling in his notebook. "Can you think of any reason Mr. O'Toole was hanging around that particular neighborhood in Boca? He didn't hurt anybody, but still it's a matter of concern for some of the residents-you can understand."

"Oh hell yes," Red Hammernut said. "If he's the same ol' boy I'm thinkin' of, he could scare hot piss out of an igloo."

Rolvaag managed a chuckle. "Mind if I take a look at his personnel file?"

"What file? Ha!" Hammernut roared. "We got, like, index cards. Half these fellas, we're lucky they cop to their real names. That's a problem with your itinerant labor."

The detective nodded commiseratively. "You'd tell me, I'm sure, if your records showed that Mr. O'Toole had a history of violence or mental instability."

Hammernut sneezed and groped in his pockets for a handkerchief. "Psychos ain't much use on a farm operation like mine. Somebody turns out to be a goony bird, he don't last long."

"But you get all kinds, I bet," Rolvaag said.

"You say this boy hasn't hurt nobody, right? I'm curious how come you drove all the way from Broward County to check up on him. Is he what you call 'under investigation'?"

The detective had no intention of telling Red Hammernut the truth-that he was fishing for leads in a possible homicide; that he had nothing better to do than track down some dumb gorilla who seemed to be surveilling his prime suspect; that he needed an excuse to get out of the office anyway, before Captain Gallo tossed a new case in his lap.

"No, but you're right. Normally this is worth a phone call," Rolvaag said, "or even a fax. But some of the folks who live in that neighborhood where Mr. O'Toole was seen… how can I put this? They've been very loyal supporters of our sheriff-"

"Meaning they give serious bucks to his re-election campaigns," Hammernut cut in, "so when they got a problem, the sheriff, he takes a personal interest. Right?"

"I'm glad you understand." Rolvaag let his gaze wander appreciatively across the photographs on the wall. "I had a feeling you would."

Hammernut smiled sagely. "Works the same way everywhere, don't it? Politics, I mean."

The detective smiled back. "Anyway, I'm supposed to make sure this O'Toole character isn't some sort of serial killer waiting to pounce on unsuspecting Republican housewives."

Another cataclysmic sneeze erupted from Hammernut, who swabbed daintily at his florid nose. "You go on home and tell your sheriff not to worry about ol' Earl Edward whatever. He won't bother nobody. I'll see to it."

Rolvaag put away his notebook and rose to leave. He considered tossing out the name of Charles Perrone to see what reaction it might elicit, but he changed his mind. Red Hammernut was too sharp to admit having a connection to the scientist, if there was one.

The detective said, "You can prosecute Mr. O'Toole for using that credit card."

"I could do that. I could also get him some, whatchacallit, private counselin'." Red Hammernut winked. "Big and hairy as he is, I got some boys even bigger and hairier. Know what I mean?"

The detective had not mentioned O'Toole's startling pelt, which meant that Hammernut plainly remembered the man more clearly than he'd let on.