Chaz sat back and crossed his arms. "Fine. We'll play it your way."

Like I've got a choice, he thought.

Glossy with perspiration, Tool lumbered into the kitchen to check on the entree. "Three more minutes," he announced, and walked out.

"He's staying here with you?" Rolvaag asked.

"Yeah. While his double-wide gets fumigated."

"What's with the highway crosses?"

"I'm not sure," Chaz Perrone said, "but it might have something to do with him being a deranged, half-witted sociopath."

"Right."

"He claims to be carrying a bullet slug in the crack of his butt."

"Everybody's got problems," Rolvaag said.

"Is there, like, a particular reason you're here?" Chaz inquired. Besides the sheer sadistic joy you obviously get from busting my balls.

"Yes, of course," said the detective.

"Then can we get to it, please? I've got a three-hour drive to the middle of nowhere, thanks to you."

Rolvaag reached for his briefcase, but then Tool reappeared, briskly toweling his sweaty torso. With uncharacteristic buoyancy he asked if anybody was hungry.

"Because I could eat a bus," he said, forking crispy hunks of alligator tail from the frying pan onto a platter.

Apparently, Rolvaag will be staying for supper, Chaz thought, and I'm helpless to stop it. He hoped that Tool had efficiently disposed of the illegal reptile carcass.

"I hope you like chicken," Chaz said to the detective.

Tool let out a cackle. "We're talkin' major chicken. Serious fuckin' swamp chicken."

"Smells delicious," Rolvaag said, "but no thanks. I've got a lasagna waiting at home."

"And my stomach is acting up again," Chaz chimed in, with barely masked relief. Gnawing on the deep-fried ass of a prehistoric lizard was not his notion of a gourmet experience. In fact, only imminent starvation could have induced him to consume anything from the sullied waters of Hammernut Farms.

"Then I'll eat the whole fucker m'self," Tool said eagerly.

So barbaric was the gustatory spectacle that Chaz Perrone and Karl Rolvaag retreated to the living room, the detective pausing to admire the re-stocked aquarium.

"Those little blue-striped fellows-are they wrasses?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Chaz thinking: Do I look like frigging Jacques Cousteau?

"You were about to ask me something," he said, "before we got interrupted by Chef Cro-Magnon."

Rolvaag sat on the sofa and opened the briefcase. Leafing through a file folder, he said, "Yes. I need a sample of your wife's handwriting."

"What the hell for?" Chaz knew it wasn't a well-measured response, but the detective's request had flustered him.

"For comparison purposes," Rolvaag said.

Chaz rolled his eyes and snorted, an unfortunate reflex whenever he felt confronted by authority. It had caused him problems in college, as well.

"I don't need much," Rolvaag said. "A few lines in pen or pencil."

Chaz stood up and said he'd see what he could find, which of course would be nothing. He had thrown away everything Joey had ever written to him-birthday cards, love letters, Post-its. The detective hovered while Chaz pretended to search.

"I put away most of her stuff," he said, pawing through a bureau drawer in the bedroom.

"I remember. Where are those boxes?" Rolvaag asked.

"Storage." Chaz thinking: Under about five thousand tons of raw garbage.

"Even just a signature would be fine," Rolvaag said.

"Hang on. I'm still looking."

"What about her checkbook?"

Chaz shook his head and dug into another drawer. He didn't know where the detective was headed with the handwriting angle, but it couldn't be good.

"Credit card receipts?" Rolvaag said.

"God only knows where she put them."

"How about cooking recipes? Some people jot their favorite ones on index cards."

"Joey was a fantastic girl, but not exactly queen of the kitchen." Chaz trying to sound fondly reminiscent. "We ate out a lot," he added with a forced chuckle.

Rolvaag suggested searching Joey's car. "Maybe there's an old grocery list crumpled on the floor somewhere."

"Good idea," said Chaz, knowing full well the futility of that exercise. Rolvaag poked around the garage while Chaz picked through the Camry, which smelled faintly of his wife's killer perfume. Fearing another untimely erectile episode, Chaz breathed through his mouth in order to minimize his exposure.

Eventually he heard Rolvaag saying, "Well, thanks for taking a look."

The cop was a damn good actor, Chaz had to admit. Not once had he slipped out of character. Chaz had been waiting for some subtle acknowledgment of the situation-a sidelong wink, the wry flicker of an eye. Yet Rolvaag had betrayed no awareness of the blackmail scheme while sustaining his front as a dogged and upright pursuer of clues. A less perceptive criminal might have discarded the theory that Rolvaag was the one shaking him down, but Chaz Perrone wasn't swayed by the detective's performance. The more Chaz thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that anybody had seen him push Joey off the Sun Duchess. Chaz remembered how careful he'd been to wait for the decks to empty first. He remembered standing alone at the rail afterward and hearing nothing but the rumble of the ship's engines; no voices, no footsteps. The blackmailer had to be bluffing. Nobody could have witnessed the murder of Joey Perrone.

And now Karl Rolvaag, who'd plainly never believed Chaz's account of that night, had decided in the absence of evidence to make him pay for the crime in another way.

As they returned to the living room, Chaz coyly asked, "Who's your favorite movie star?"

"Let me think." Rolvaag pressed his lips together. "Frances McDormand."

"Who?"

"She was in Fargo."

"No, I meant guy movie stars," Chaz said.

"I don't know. Jack Nicholson, I guess."

"Not me. Charlton Heston is my favorite." Chaz watched for the slightest flush of color in the detective's face.

Rolvaag was saying, "Yes, he's good, too. Ben-Hur was a classic."

And that was it; not a blink of surprise, not a hint of a smile. Chaz Perrone was so aggravated that he couldn't stop himself from saying, "Anyone ever tell you that sometimes you sound like him?"

The detective seemed amused. "Like Charlton Heston-me? No, that's a new one."

What an iceberg, thought Chaz.

He said, "Sorry I couldn't help with Joey's handwriting. I can't believe there wasn't something of hers lying around the house."

"No sweat. I'll call the bank," Rolvaag said. "They'll have all her canceled checks on film."

"Can I ask what this is about?"

"Sure."

The detective removed a large envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Chaz Perrone, who couldn't stop his fingers from trembling as he opened it. He skimmed the first paragraph and asked, "Where'd you get this?"

"Keep going," Rolvaag advised, and strolled off to the kitchen.

By the time Chaz finished, his heart was hammering, his shirt was damp and his skull was ringing like a pinball machine. Before him lay a photocopy of an astounding document, "The Last Will and Testament of Joey Christina Perrone." For Chaz it was the ultimate good news/ bad news joke.

The good news: Your dead wife left you 13 million bucks.

The bad news: The cop who thinks you murdered her finally found a motive.

Chaz placed the papers on his lap and dried his palms on the sofa. He flipped again to the last page and eyed the signature.

"Is it hers?" Rolvaag standing at the doorway, popping another goddamn Sprite.

"I swear I didn't know anything about this," Chaz said. "And you can put me on a polygraph."

"Check out the date it was signed-only a month ago," Rolvaag said.

"Joey never said one word to me about this."