Bad Monkey

“The law says? Okay, Andrew, the law also says you’re supposed to be certified by the state fire marshal. Are you? Nope. The law also says you’re supposed to take the food manager’s exam before you can work as a state inspector. Did you do that? Nope. You got this job because the sheriff made a phone call, which is no big deal, but all I’m sayin’ is let’s not get carried away with what the law says and so forth. Brennan’s a good guy who’s just tryin’ to make a fair living.”

Yancy pushed the plate away. “There was a used rubber in the oysters.”

“Yeah, I read your report.”

“How does that even happen?”

“It’s not all Brennan’s fault,” Lombardo said. “The employment pool down here, it’s sketchy. As a cop you should know.”

Yancy stood up from the table. “Well, let’s go have a peek.”

The kitchen was much cleaner, he had to admit. No rancid shellfish or rodent droppings were on display. Yancy swabbed the food preparation surfaces and checked the temperature in the refrigerators and salad cooler. Brennan, who was cracking stone crabs, proudly showed off his new hairnet. Yancy dropped down and shined a flashlight under the stove, where Brennan had apparently unloaded two or three cans of Raid. Yancy scooped up a handful of dead German cockroaches and a tick, which Lombardo shrugged off.

“There’s bug parts in your fucking raisin bran,” he whispered. “The government says it won’t hurt you.”

Brennan piped up: “Nilsson was crazy about my food.”

“He died from your food,” Yancy reiterated.

Lombardo shook his head. “No, no, it was something else.”

“Tommy, I read the autopsy. Hepatitis A.”

Brennan said, “Then he must’ve caught it from that sushi pit on Cudjoe. That place is naaaasty.”

Yancy nodded toward the fresh stone crabs piled on the cutting board. “Those are beauties.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Too bad they’re out of season until October.”

Brennan brought the mallet down on his thumb and yipped. “But these claws are imported from Panama. No—Mexico!”

“I think we’re just about done here,” Lombardo said.

“Wait a minute.” Yancy walked over to the stand-up freezer and pointed with the toe of his shoe. “Is that a tail? Tell me that’s not a tail.”

“Goddammit,” said Brennan.

Someone had slammed the freezer door on a rat.

“Least it’s not alive,” Lombardo observed. He was very much a glass-half-full breed of civil servant. “Come on, Andrew, have a heart.”

Yancy grunted in capitulation. Snooping for E. coli didn’t make his adrenaline pump. He was way more interested in discovering how Nicholas Stripling got rich, and what Mrs. Stripling stood to gain from her husband’s death.

Lombardo gave Yancy some forms to sign, and Stoney’s was back in business. Brennan embraced Lombardo and extended an ungloved hand to Yancy, who shook it tepidly and headed straight for the restroom to scrub off the crab drippings.

When he returned to the dining area, he found Lombardo alone at a table, polishing off the remains of the yellowtail and a pitcher of sangria. Brennan stood at the bar talking to Madeline, Phinney’s hard-luck girlfriend, who had come to arrange the memorial fish fry.

“Be right back,” Yancy said to Lombardo.

“Hey, take your time.”

As soon as Madeline spotted Yancy approaching, she bolted out the fire exit. He hurried after her but she was already on her bicycle, pedaling like a maniac down Shrimp Road.

Lombardo came out the door squinting into the sunlight. “What’d you do to scare that poor woman?”

Yancy truly had no idea. He took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it in Lombardo’s hand. “Put this in the jar,” he said, “for the kid’s funeral fund.”

“Where are you going? Brennan wants you to try the chowder.”

“Not until they find a vaccine,” said Yancy, and jogged for his car.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Lombardo yelled after him. “You gotta work on your fucking people skills!”

Caitlin Cox stepped off the airplane in Key West without her husband. Yancy couldn’t get much out of her on the drive to the Marriott—small talk about the asinine security lines at Miami International, the bumpy flight, the sweaty Canadian dude sitting next to her.

Yancy waited at the hotel bar while she checked in. Twenty minutes passed, half an hour. He felt like a cop again. Maybe she was getting a massage.

He was about to go upstairs and pound on her door when she finally made her entrance, having changed into a tank top and black capri slacks. She wore the same jumbo sunglasses that she’d had on at the funeral. She sat down on the bar stool beside Yancy and said, “You ready? Don’t you have a notebook or something?”

“Just tell me what you found out.”

“Dad had a two-million-dollar life insurance policy. Guess who’s getting it all?”

“Doesn’t mean she murdered him,” Yancy said.

Caitlin looked annoyed. “That’s a shitload of money, Inspector.” She ordered a Grey Goose martini.

Yancy asked why she and her father hadn’t spoken to each other for so long.

“What difference does that make?”

“Was it because of Eve?”