Bad Monkey

Burton advised him not to have high hopes for obtaining murder warrants on Stripling, as the evidence was less than overpowering. The detective also wasn’t stunned to hear that the feds were still dicking around with the Medicare indictment, and that no decision had been made about how and when Stripling should be taken into custody.

Yancy told Burton about his latest Plan B—that he intended to give Key West prosecutors an affidavit about the night Stripling socked him and dumped him in the canal.

“That’s an attempted murder, cut and dried.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Burton said. “But, Andrew, you as the star witness? No offense, but the state attorney isn’t what you call a risk taker. I don’t see Billy Dickinson hanging a whole case on the testimony of a guy who sodomized a big-shot doctor at Mallory Square.”

“It wasn’t sodomy. It was a dry colonic.”

“And now the doctor’s wife, who you were boning behind his back, torches the house next door to yours. Please tell me you didn’t put the idea in her head, ’cause I know how much you hated that place.”

“No, that was all Bonnie,” Yancy said. “But I’ve got to say, the new view from my back deck is pretty fucking fabulous. You should swing by after work on your way home.”

Burton sipped his coffee. “Plus she’s a fugitive on sex charges. Wait’ll that turns up in the Citizen.”

“Dickinson won’t have to lift a finger,” Yancy went on. “All he’s got to do is put me in front of the grand jury. Stripling gets indicted and then there’s a warrant, which is all I care about right now. The Bahamian cops snatch his ass, put him on a plane to Miami. He’s a flight risk, so no bond, and there he sits in jail while the FBI puts the heat on Eve, who’ll eventually cave. She, not me, becomes the star witness against Nick. What?”

“Nothing. I hope that’s how it goes down.”

“They nail this fucker, Rog—the guy who shot poor Charlie Phinney on the streets of Key West, horrified tourists all over the place—what else can Sonny do? He’s got to give me back my job.”

Burton said, “I like to see you radiating positivity.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Yancy returned to the T-shirt shop and in the thong aisle he cornered Madeline, reeking of cigarettes as usual. She explained that Pestov had offered her thirty-two hundred dollars to marry him. He’d popped the question one afternoon shortly after an Immigration officer had stopped by the store.

“Hey, I could seriously use the money,” Madeline said. “And Pestov’s an okay dude. I don’t have to ball him or nuthin’.” She was letting her hair grow, the roots showing brown and gray. “Charlie’d understand,” she added. “He was into cash flow.”

“Where’s the proud groom?” Yancy asked.

“Out the back door. He saw you coming.”

“Go get him, please. I need a favor.”

“What kinda favor? Jesus.”

“Tell him it’s very important.”

Madeline bit her lower lip. “Man, don’t screw up this deal for me.”

“Relax,” Yancy said. “This one’s for Charlie.”

So far, the retirement years of Johnny Mendez had been uneventful, full of golf and JetBlue specials. His neighbors knew nothing of his corrupt past and treated him with the respect due a former police sergeant. That was more than Mendez could say for his wife, who had selfishly scheduled herself for yet another cosmetic procedure that his insurance plan wouldn’t cover. This time it was a mentoplasty, commonly known as chin augmentation, which involved the surgical implantation of a small silicone module. In profile the face of Muriel Mendez would soon resemble a Hudson River tugboat, and her husband would once again be draining his pension account to pay for it. There was no point in arguing with her but he tried.

He was on the losing end of another shouting match when Andrew Yancy rapped on the door. It was a tailor-made opportunity to exercise the state’s Stand Your Ground law and shoot Yancy dead as an intruder, and Johnny Mendez might have done it if Muriel could have been counted on to support an embroidered account of the incident.

“Hide the fucking cat,” he said to his wife, who shooed the obese Siamese to another room.

“But Natasha loves me,” said Yancy. “Come outside, Johnny, let’s chat.”

Mendez went to the bedroom and from the nightstand got his .38 Special, which he stuck in the waist of his golf shorts. Yancy was waiting on the porch. He said he was sorry for abducting the cat and thanked Mendez for the use of his sergeant’s badge.

“I want to make it up to you,” he said.

“No, you don’t. You hate my fucking guts.”

“Well, yes, that’s impossible to deny. The truth is, I’m here because I need you to do something.”

“What now? The answer’s no effin’ way. Are you serious?” Mendez couldn’t believe this jerk showing up at his door.

“One phone call, Johnny. Five grand in your pocket.” Yancy grinned and held up five fingers.