Only an hour after leaving the Sun Duchess, Chaz got a scare. He was watching television in his room at the Harbor Beach Marriott when there was a teaser for the evening news: A charter boat out of Ocean Reef had snagged a dead body while trolling for billfish-stay tuned for details!

Breathlessly, Chaz shot out of the bathroom, where he had been masturbating fruitlessly over a stack of Danish pornography. Through three minutes of laxative commercials he trembled in dread, waiting to hear if it was his wife who'd been reeled in by the startled anglers.

The newscast began with shaky helicopter footage of the charter boat at anchor, followed by a zoom-in shot of the corpse-cloaked in a bright yellow tarp-being hoisted on a stretcher to a Coast Guard cutter. Interviewed later at dockside, a sun-bleached young mate on the charter boat said of the gruesome catch: "We knew right away it wasn't no sailfish because it didn't jump."

Eventually, the grave-spoken newscaster revealed that the victim was a tourist from Newport News who had vanished three days earlier after crashing his rented Wave Runner into a pair of copulating loggerhead turtles. Chaz fell back on the bed with a hoot of relief-his wife remained safely lost at sea.

Chaz had chosen to stay at the Marriott because of its proximity to Port Everglades and the Coast Guard station. His house was only thirty minutes away on the interstate, but he felt that staying closer and readily available to the authorities would fortify his credibility. It was important to appear to be keeping a vigil.

He was surprised when a reporter from the Sun-Sentinel tracked him down, but he didn't lose his cool. The reporter explained that she had been checking the daily police logs when she'd come across the missing-person report, which listed the Marriott as a contact point for the subject's husband.

"Have you heard anything yet?" Chaz asked the reporter, who said she hadn't.

"When was the last time you saw your wife, Mr. Perrone?"

"It's Dr. Perrone."

"Oh? What's your specialty?"

"Wetlands ecology," Chaz said.

"So you're not an M.D."

"No, I'm a biologist." Chaz hoped that the woman on the other end of the line couldn't hear the grinding of his molars. It annoyed him when people got snooty about addressing him as "Dr."

The reporter asked, "So when'd you last see Mrs. Perrone?"

Chaz gave an abbreviated version of the same account that he'd given the detective. The reporter didn't exactly sound riveted, which was fine with Chaz. A big splash in the media was the last thing he wanted.

"Do you have any theories about what might have happened?" the reporter asked.

"I can't imagine. You ever heard of anything like this?"

"Sure. People disappear off these cruise ships every now and then, but usually it turns out to be…"

"Turns out to be what?" Chaz asked, though he well knew the answer: drunken accidents or suicides. Oh, he'd done his homework.

"They're not telling me very much. It sure is frustrating," he added.

"I'll call you if I hear anything," the reporter said. "How long will you be at this number?"

"Until they find her," Chaz replied stoically.

Afterward he hurried down to the lobby and phoned Ricca from a pay booth.

"Something terrible's happened," he told her. "Joey fell off the ship."

"Fell off? How?"

"Least that's what they think. They can't find her anywhere."

"Oh my God," said Ricca.

"It's just unbelievable."

"You think maybe she jumped?"

"Why would she do a thing like that!"

"Maybe she found out about us."

"Absolutely not."

"Well, that's good," said Ricca.

There was a pause on the other end that Chaz deciphered immediately.

Ricca said, "Maybe she found out about something else."

"Please don't start with that shit. Not now," Chaz pleaded. Ricca didn't trust him as far as she could spit.

"Maybe someone else. Like another girlfriend."

"Don't be asinine. You're the only one."

"As if."

"Ricca, I don't have time for your Glenn Close impersonation right now. Half the U.S. Coast Guard is out hunting for my wife- boats, jets, helicopters, it's unbelievable."

"You don't have any other girlfriends? Really, Chaz?"

"Yes, really. Look, I'd better sign off-"

"I could come by tonight," she suggested, "take your mind off all this depressing stuff."

He was tempted to say yes, but Ricca was a noisy one. On no less than three occasions, her orgasmic caterwauling had brought hotel security officers thundering to the door, certain that an ice-pick murder was in progress. No such tumult could be risked tonight-it would be poor form for a husband to be caught bonking a mistress less than twenty-four hours after his wife had perished.

"Call you tomorrow," Chaz said to Ricca.

"Baby, I'm awful sorry about Joey."

"Me, too. Good-bye, Ricca."

"Wait. Who's Glenn Close?"

Chaz stopped at the hotel bar and ordered a martini. Rolvaag, the Broward detective, found him there.

"You want a drink?" Chaz asked.

"Let's go for a walk," the detective said.

Chaz poured his drink into a go cup and followed Rolvaag outside. The sun was setting and the weather was mild and breezy, just like the night before. A wedding was taking place at the hotel, the bride posing for photographs in front of a lush bougainvillea hedge in the court-

yard. She was a voluptuous young Cuban woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, and Chaz found himself devising impure fantasies about the honeymoon arrangements.

"No luck yet," Rolvaag said.

"What?"

"Finding your wife."

"Oh."

"They'll probably knock off tomorrow," Rolvaag said.

"You've gotta be kidding! I thought they had to search for at least a week."

"I don't know what the standard procedure is. You'd have to ask the Coast Guard."

"But they can't give up already!" Chaz said, thinking: This is too good to be true. He had been dismayed when the search was extended to the south, knowing it would put spotter aircraft in the vicinity of his crime.

"I've got a few more questions," the detective said. "Routine stuff, but not particularly pleasant."

"Can't we do this some other time?"

"Won't take long."

"Jesus Christ, then, let's get it over with." Chaz hoped he sounded appropriately exasperated.

"Have you taken out any life-insurance policies on your wife?" Rolvaag asked.

"No, sir."

"Did she take out any coverage on herself?"

"At my suggestion, you mean?"

"At anybody's suggestion."

"Not that I know of," Chaz said.

"It's easy enough to check, Mr. Perrone."

"And you will, I'm sure. By the way, it's Dr."

The detective shot him the most curious look before plodding on: "Do you have a business partnership with your wife? Joint investments, trading accounts, real-estate holdings-"

Chaz cut in: "Let me save you some time. Joey has her own dough. Lots of it." Inwardly he congratulated himself for sticking to the present tense. "And if she dies, I don't get a cent. The money goes into an irrevocable trust."

"Who's the beneficiary?"

"The World Wildlife Mission. Ever heard of 'em?"

"Nope," Rolvaag said.

"They go around crusading for endangered penguins and panda bears. Stuff like that."

"Doesn't that bother you, Mr. Perrone?"

"Of course not. I'm a biologist, remember? I'm all about saving wildlife."

"No, I meant the fact that you won't be getting any of your wife's money."

"Hey, it's not mine," Chaz countered mildly. "It's a family inheritance. She can do whatever she wants with it."

"Not all husbands would take that attitude."

Chaz smiled. "Hey, if she suddenly changed her mind and decided to leave it all to me, I definitely wouldn't rip up the check. But that's not what she wants."