First, though, Rolvaag had one bit of leftover police work.

He picked through the loose scraps in his briefcase until he found the number for Corbett Wheeler in New Zealand. The detective was leaving a long message on the answer machine when Joey's brother picked up the phone and said, "Start over, please. I was dead asleep."

Rolvaag apologized and asked, "Did your sister have a will?"

"Yes, but let me guess. A new one has surfaced."

"It seems so. And it leaves everything to her husband."

Corbett Wheeler laughed. "I told you he was a fuckwit, did I not? How can he possibly believe he's going to get away with this?"

"Here's the thing, Mr. Wheeler. I don't think Charles Perrone is the one who forged the will, assuming it is forged."

"Joey wouldn't leave that pussbucket enough money for bus fare to-"

A crackle of long-distance static obscured Corbett Wheeler's terse commentary.

"I was hoping you had a copy of the original will," Rolvaag interjected.

"Of course I do. But getting back to Chaz-what makes you so sure he's not the forger?"

"Because the new will would establish him as the prime suspect in your sister's disappearance. It gives him a big reason for killing her, which is one thing our case has been lacking." One of many things, the detective might have added.

"To be honest," Rolvaag went on, "I don't think Chaz is foolish enough-or even greedy enough-to put himself at such risk."

Corbett Wheeler hooted. "And I think that's exactly what he wants you to think. Come on, man, who'd go to all the trouble of setting him up?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out." Rolvaag didn't share with Corbett Wheeler the possibility that someone aboard the Sun Duchess had witnessed Joey's murder. He was always careful not to raise the hopes of a victim's relatives.

"It would be helpful to see the will that you've got," Rolvaag said.

"No problem." More static. "… It's in a lockbox in Auckland."

"Could you FedEx a copy?"

"How about if I deliver it in person," Joey's brother said.

The detective tried not to sound too excited. "That's even better. But I thought you weren't ever coming back to the States."

"Me, neither, Karl. But things have changed, haven't they?"

On the other end, Rolvaag heard what sounded like the soft pop of a bottle being opened. The detective felt a sudden craving for a cold Foster's.

Corbett Wheeler said, "It looks like my late little sister needs someone to see after her interests. And, by the way, the real will doesn't leave me anything, either-in case you're wondering about my motive."

The detective assured Joey's brother that he wasn't. "When will you be arriving?" he asked.

"Day after tomorrow. The service is next Thursday."

Again Rolvaag was caught off guard. "What service?"

"The one I'm arranging in memory of Joey," Corbett Wheeler replied with a muffled burp. "Can you recommend a nice church, Karl? Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist-doesn't really matter, as long as there's room for a choir."

As Red Hammernut listened to Chaz Perrone's story, he thought of the many blessings that had come his way, but also of the toil. A big farming operation like his was a challenging enterprise, relying as it did on rampant pollution and the systematic mistreatment of immigrant labor. For Red it was no small feat to keep the feds off his back while at the same time soaking taxpayers for lucrative crop subsidies and dirt-cheap loans that might or might not be repaid this cen-

tury. He reflected upon the hundreds of thousands of dollars that he'd handed out as campaign donations; the untallied thousands more for straight-up bribes, hookers, private-yacht charters, gambling stakes and other discreet favors; and, finally, the countless hours of ass-kissing he'd been forced to endure with the same knucklehead politicians whose loyalties he had purchased.

This was no easy gig. Red Hammernut got infuriated every time he heard some pissy liberal refer to the federal farm bill as corporate welfare. The term implied contented idleness, and nobody worked harder than Red to keep the money flowing and to stay out of trouble. Now the whole goddamn shebang was in danger of falling apart because of one man.

"Pay him. That's my advice," Chaz Perrone said in cocksure summary. "I know it's a shitload of money, but what else can we do?"

They were sitting in Red Hammernut's office, overlooking the toxic though tranquil pond. Chaz and Tool had driven straight from Flamingo to LaBelle, arriving at four in the morning and nodding off like junkies in the parking lot. Chaz's nostrils were blood-encrusted and his face was pocked extravagantly with crimson insect bites. Red Hammernut couldn't help but stare. The man looked like a photo out of an exotic medical textbook.

"He's got us by the short and curlies," Chaz was saying of the blackmailer. "I don't see where there's any other choice but to pay him."

Red Hammernut said there was never only one choice, regardless of the problem. "But lemme see if I understand the situation, 'cause you tore through it pretty fast. What about the cop? The one you thought was breakin' into your house and talkin' like Moses on the telephone?"

"I was wrong. It's not him," Chaz said shortly. "He's not mixed up in this."

"Which is at least one piece a semi-good news, right?"

"Except he found out from the dealership about you buying me the Hummer."

"Well, hell," Red Hammernut said.

"So I told him you were friends with Joey and you did it as a favor to her-got me the Hummer for my birthday. And then she paid you back."

"That's the best you could do? Sweet Jesus." Red Hammernut turned to look at Tool, whose head was lolling. "You all right?"

"Just real tarred."

"Then go lie down."

"Yessir, that's an idea." Tool kicked the chair away and curled up like a bloated bear on the carpet in front of the desk. Red Hammernut shook his head.

Chaz said, "So if the detective asks you about the Hummer-"

"Don't worry, son, I'll give'm the same story you did," Red Hammernut said. "Now let's talk about this blackmail business. The sumbitch wants half a million bucks, and for some reason you think I'm the one ought to pay."

"Red, I don't have that kind of money."

"My question is, What's he gonna do if you don't pay? Worst case? Tell the cops he saw you push poor Joey overboard."

Chaz bleated, "Isn't that enough?"

"First, he's gotta prove he was on board that ship."

"Don't worry. He was."

"Then it's his word against yours." Red Hammernut thinking how the media would go wild once the accusation became public. So far, Chaz had demonstrated no capacity for steadiness under pressure, and Red Hammernut doubted that his composure would improve once he was named a murder suspect. If Chaz had in fact killed his wife, he might come unspooled under tough questioning by the cops. That could prove catastrophic for Hammernut Farms, and even more so for Red personally.

"This asshole knows everything," Chaz was saying.

Red Hammernut clicked his teeth. "Yeah, I heard you the first time."

"Knows about the Hummer, the phosphorus tests-don't ask me how, but he put it all together."

"Bad luck," Red Hammernut said.

It was his own damn fault for buying that Hi; he'd done it only because he was sick of hearing Chaz whine about needing a four-wheel drive. The way Red figured it, the blackmailer probably hired a private eye to do a paper check on Chaz, which led him to the Hummer's bill of sale. Once Red's name popped up, it wouldn't take fucking Matlock to make the connection between the farm and the biologist who was testing its waters for pollution.

"It's a tur'ble fix, I give you that," Red Hammernut said to Chaz. "But half a million big ones ain't a very appetizin' option."