Bad Monkey

“I’ll hold off signing the death certificate,” Rosa said. “It should be easy to compare the bullets that killed O’Peele and Phinney. Meanwhile you should tell the homicide cops in North Miami Beach what you know. Tell them you were at the doctor’s condo a few hours before the shooting and he seemed okay.”

“I’m not telling anybody I was there.”

“Andrew, this is serious shit.”

“So is saving my career.”

On the ride back to the boat ramp, Yancy mentally replayed his brief time inside O’Peele’s place. He was fairly certain he hadn’t left a trace of himself, besides fingerprints on a ginger ale can that the cops were not likely to dust since he’d tossed it in a Dumpster in the parking lot. Fortunately, he hadn’t given the doctor one of his expired detective cards or even a phone number.

Still, there remained a slender chance that, despite the Percocets and bourbon, O’Peele had been sufficiently alert to have noted the name when Yancy flashed his restaurant-inspector ID. What if O’Peele had scrawled it down somewhere after Yancy had gone? That could be a problem.

Back at the house, Rosa inspected his stitches and predicted scar-free healing. Yancy attributed her unwavering Hippocratic detachment to the sorry sight of his gnawed, calorie-deprived hindquarters. When he asked her to spend the night, she declined.

“I’d never make it to the morgue on time.”

“So, take the day off,” Yancy said, belting his pants. “Join me on roach patrol. Tomorrow it’s a gyro shop owned by Rastas who supposedly sell ganja out the back door. Lombardo thinks mice are nesting in the stash, which means they’re the world’s mellowest rodentia. Still, I could use a backup.”

“Sounds like a dreamy third date,” said Rosa, “but I’ll take a rain check.”

“When you talk to the homicide detectives in North Miami Beach, ask them if they found a cell phone on Dr. O’Peele.”

“They did. In a pocket of his robe.”

“I’d love to know the last number he called.”

Rosa said, “Let me see what I can do.” She delivered another toe-curling kiss and headed out the door.

Yancy took his time washing the dishes because standing was pain-free, making it easier to focus on the murder case. He was certain that Eve Stripling was responsible for her husband’s death, yet he couldn’t rule out the possibility that she’d had nothing to do with the shootings of Charles Phinney and Dr. Gomez O’Peele. Whoever said there’s no such thing as coincidence never worked as a cop. The young boat mate could have been robbed and killed by some random dirtbag who’d heard him blabbing about his windfall, just as the pathetic orthopedist could have spiraled into a drug-induced abyss and ended his own life. Smith & Wesson was a popular brand of handgun in Florida, and plenty of unreliable characters favored .357s.

Like most police officers, Yancy had never in the line of duty fired his own service pistol, a lightweight Glock .40 that he’d been forced to turn in along with his resignation. At first he’d felt naked without a holster under his arm, but that had passed with time. For home protection he maintained a double-barreled 12-gauge Beretta loaded with buckshot, a habit left over from residing in greater Miami. For life in the Keys, such a substantial weapon served mainly as a decorative fixture. Yancy would never have thought to carry it while rolling his garbage can out to the street, which is where he was ambushed by a masked bicycle rider wearing a blaze-orange poncho, no more than an hour after Rosa Campesino had kissed him good-bye.

Eleven

Yancy remembered exactly when he decided to become a police officer: It was the day of his grandmother’s funeral. A gang of burglars who specialized in scouting obituaries had looted his Nanna’s apartment while she was being buried. Yancy’s family was sickened when they walked in on the mess, which included gratuitous defecation not uncommon in such break-ins. His mother’s knees buckled and she dropped to the floor, sobbing. His father made her stay by the door while he and Yancy searched to make sure the thieves were gone. Stolen were his grandmother’s television set, her wedding ring, some heirloom jewelry worth maybe two grand, and an oxygen tank that had been left by her bed.

The Homestead cops snapped some photos and told the family not to expect any miracles. Watching his mother cry while his father cleaned up the intruders’ shit, Yancy experienced an overpowering anger. That such a small, shabby crime could cause so much heartache was a revelation, and he thought of how often it happened every day. The jam-packed conditions in Florida prisons seemed proof that the majority of felons eventually fucked up and got busted. Yancy imagined it would be profoundly satisfying to participate in that process, although later he’d look back on his thinking as naïve.