Bad Monkey

Back at Big Pine, Yancy found his home reoccupied by Cody and Bonnie Witt, who now wished to be addressed by her pre-fugitive name of Plover. The summer rains had made a swamp of the couple’s camping adventure, and Cody was suffering from chiggers and an oral yeast infection. Yancy walked them next door and helped them erect their pup tent in the spacious master bedroom of Evan Shook’s unfinished spec house. Although the plumbing in the structure was connected, a semi-rustic experience was guaranteed by the raw plywood flooring, unscreened windows and lack of air-conditioning.

Rosa Campesino drove down after work and met Yancy at a Thai restaurant that he extolled as sanitary. Whenever he took her out, his appetite rebounded. Afterward they went to Duck Key, where the night watchman refused to open Stripling’s condo until Rosa weighed in with her Miami-Dade pathologist laminate, which was visually more impressive than Yancy’s restaurant-inspector ID.

It was clear that Eve Stripling had gutted the place in anticipation of a search warrant, confirming Yancy’s suspicion that Caitlin Cox had told her about his earlier visit. Rosa remained on the balcony while Yancy returned Stripling’s hair and bone chips to the shower drain; the hatchet he wiped down and wedged behind the water heater, making sure its wooden handle protruded far enough to be noticed by any half-competent CSI tech.

Earlier, over noodle soup, Rosa had reported three important forensic findings, two of which Yancy had been expecting: The Duck Key bone fragments had definitely come from Nick Stripling’s arm, and the odd notches on the stump of the humerus matched the blade bite of the hatchet.

“But here’s the best part,” Rosa said. “The hatchet isn’t what severed the victim’s limb.”

“Then what the hell did they use?”

“A surgical saw, Andrew.”

“No shit?” Instantly he thought of O’Peele, the dead orthopedist.

Rosa said, “After the amputation they whacked at the arm with the axe to obscure the saw marks.”

“And make it appear that a boat propeller did it.”

“The wounds really don’t look much alike, but they wouldn’t know that. Same with those shark nibbles—they neglected to find the right species.”

“Amateur hour.”

“Yeah, but they nearly pulled it off,” Rosa said, “so to speak.”

“The sheriff’s wigging. How’re things in your shop?”

“So far, so good. From now on I’ll be sticking strictly to the science. Whatever else I might have heard about this case, it’s only hearsay. For instance, I have no official knowledge of the hair and bones we’re now illegally transporting.”

“What hair?” Yancy said. “What bones?”

After reinstating the crime scene at Duck Key, he drove back to Big Pine; Rosa followed in her own car. Wheeling up to his place, Yancy looked next door and saw through the top-floor windows the yellowish glow of a kerosene lantern that he’d loaned to Cody and Bonnie-slash-Plover. He had also coached them about what to say when Evan Shook showed up, and he regretted that he wouldn’t be there to observe the man’s reaction.

He led Rosa into his house and put on some jazz and poured two glasses of red wine. Then he told her about his forced furlough. “Sonny strongly recommends time away. He believes my relationship with Stripling’s arm is problematic, and he’d like me to be unavailable for potential interviews and depositions.”

“I bet I know where you’re going, Andrew.”

“Can’t you take some vacation days?”

“Ha, not right now. The death business is booming.”

Yancy pulled his travel duffel from a closet and tossed in some swim trunks, boxers and a stack of fishing shirts. He said, “Listen, I’ve been having this super-kinked-out fantasy, better than the autopsy slab. Promise not to freak.”

“Oh brother.”

“Me. You. King-sized bed at the Biltmore.”

“You are so warped. Cable porn?”

“And French chocolates on the pillow.”

“Here, let me help you pack.”

In the morning they enjoyed a room-service breakfast before Rosa left for the morgue. Yancy wrapped up a leftover slice of smoked salmon, checked out of the hotel and drove directly to the retirement residence of corrupt Miami police sergeant Johnny Mendez. Sunning on the front walk was the ex-officer’s rotund Siamese. Yancy displayed the fragrant morsel of fish and the cat trailed him to the Subaru.

Next stop was the Venetian Pool, where he parked under a ficus tree and called Mendez’s house. “Say, how’s that bovine nut sack of yours holding up?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Detective Andrew Yancy from Monroe County. Good news, sir: I found Natasha.” The name was embossed on the animal’s collar. “She was wandering the alleys like a dazed hooker, poor thing. Lucky I came along.”

“Are you nuts!”

“Don’t deny that you love this critter more than your wife. What’s your cell number, Johnny Boy?”

Yancy took an iPhone snapshot of the Siamese licking salmon juice off his fingertips. He texted the photo to Mendez along with a note: “She doesn’t seem to miss you.”

Mendez called right back and said, “You’re a sick hump, Yancy.”