Bad Monkey (26 page)

“When?”

“While you were going down on me. You don’t remember humming?”

“Oh, that was ‘Yellow Submarine.’ ”

“So you think of me as basically your sex kazoo.”

“I only hum when I’m happy,” said Yancy. Sometimes he just floated off into a zone; it had happened once with Bonnie—a Paul Simon song—and she’d boxed his ears saying, “You and Julio get out of there!”

Rosa whistled. “Listen to that wind blow. Holy crap!”

“Andrew wasn’t the most ferocious name for a hurricane and look what happened.”

“Andrew’s a fine name, Andrew. You kidding?”

“Too preppy for a killer storm. That’s what they said before it hit Miami.”

“Who said? Some girl you were dating?”

“Her name was Mariah.”

“Oh, she was just jealous,” Rosa said. “ ‘They call the wind Ma-rye-ah’—don’t you remember that one? The poor baby wanted a storm named after herself! Tell me your age at the time of this romance.”

“Twenty-two.” Yancy was beginning to think in a serious way about Françoise, wondering if he and Rosa might possibly use the heavy weather to their advantage.

“When I was twenty-two I went to Paris,” she said. “Graduation present from the folks. One day I went to the Rodin museum and I got totally turned on by all those sexy sculptures. You ever been there? He had a thing for nymphs and minotaurs. Incredible stuff. Anyway, I meet this semi-cute exchange student from Boston and we end up having a quickie in the bathroom.”

“At the Rodin.”

“There was a window. You could look out at the garden and see
The Thinker
.”

“I want to believe this story,” Yancy said, “with all my soul.”

“Swear to God, Andrew. First and only time in a museum.”

Yancy had never been to France. He imagined a misty rain falling at the time. “How was the flight today?” he asked Rosa.

“Not fun. The poor thing sitting next to me said two whole rosaries—one in English, one in Creole. Lord, what happened to your legs?”

“A monkey assaulted me.”

“You mean her husband assaulted you.”

“It’s no joke. This was a horrible creature.”

She remarked upon his recent travails with animals. “First some deranged dog in Miami practically chews your ass off, and now this. Lucky you’re banging a licensed health-care practitioner.”

“I did nothing to provoke the little bastard.”

“Clearly it’s all payback for abducting Johnny Mendez’s cat. Surely you believe in karma—I never met a cop who didn’t,” Rosa said. “There’s some goop in my kit bag. We should dress those wounds.”

“The least of my problems. I capped off an otherwise productive afternoon by flogging Eve Stripling’s boyfriend with a fly rod.”

“And that would be your idea of stealth. Very slick.”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t know who I was, but still it was a tight spot.”

Rosa took a deep breath, lifting Yancy’s head.

She said, “I’m afraid I’ve got some lousy news.”

“Not right now. Please?” He blew softly into her belly button.

“I didn’t mention it earlier because I didn’t want to spoil the mood. Andrew, don’t deny that you’re susceptible to untimely distractions.”

“I am,” he said, “cursed with an overactive mind.”

“The bullet that killed O’Peele came from the same weapon that killed Charles Phinney—the .357 they found in the doctor’s condo. I saw the ballistics this morning.”

“How is that bad news? It’s exactly what we expected.”

“The Key West police also think it’s marvelous,” Rosa said. “In fact, they’re so overjoyed they want to close the Phinney case, ASAP. They’re saying O’Peele shot the kid over drugs, then drove in a haze back to Miami. Once he sobered up and realized what he’d done, he blew his brains out. That’s their story and they’re sticking to it.”

“Jackoffs!” Yancy sat up. “Is there any evidence that O’Peele and Phinney ever met?”

“Nope. I asked the same thing.”

“Or that the doctor was down in Key West that night? Did he buy a poncho and a sun mask? Did he rent a moped on Duval Street?”

Rosa shook her head. “All they’ve got is the matching slug from the gun.”

“And a dead boat mate that nobody cares about.”

“How do you think I feel? I’m the one who sent them the bullet.”

Yancy said, “They can’t close the Phinney case without you ruling that O’Peele was a suicide. Otherwise their lame theory falls apart.”

“It’s easy to pull the plug on an investigation without officially saying so. Somehow the file just crawls into a drawer.”

“Yeah, I know.” Yancy put on a clean shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, Rosa cocking an eyebrow as she watched.

“Where do you think you’re going, Inspector, on such a dark and stormy night?”

“I left my favorite fly rod in a vacant house up the road.”

“We’ll go get it tomorrow. Right now I’m craving a beer and conch salad.”

“I happen to know just the place.”

Rosa smiled and kicked off the sheets. “Kindly toss me my panties.”

“But here’s the deal—anybody asks, we’re married, okay? We came to Andros to do some fishing and look around for a second home. Now we’re stuck here because of the storm.”

“Do we have any children? And where are we from?”

“Boca Raton, obviously. You’re still a doctor—let’s say a thoracic surgeon.”

“Close enough.”

“Our son, Kyle, just made the traveling lacrosse team at Pine Crest. We have twin daughters in the gifted program. Our dog is an incontinent pug named Cheney.”

“Perfect,” said Rosa, “and we all live in a yellow submarine.”

She went into the bathroom and began brushing her hair. “What’s your fictitious line of work, Andrew? Should anyone ask.”

“Investments, meaning I mooch off an obscene family trust fund. Shale oil—no, better, microprocessors.” Yancy used the corner of a sheet to wipe the sand off his feet.

Rosa reappeared waving a crinkled white tube. “Bring me those mangled legs of yours. By the way, I demand to see your alleged assailant.”

“They say he was in the Johnny Depp movies but got the axe.”

“These days every movie has a monkey,” she said. “Monkeys are the bomb.”

“Not this mangy little psycho. Hey, Doc, take it easy.”

“Hold still, please. Do you have an actual plan for trapping Eve and her murderous beau? Or are we basically flying blind?”

“Of course I’ve got a plan,” Yancy said. “An intelligent, fully formed plan?”

“Define fully formed.”

“I knew it,” said Rosa.

“Ouch, that stings! Be careful.”

Yet secretly he marveled at her touch, so tender for a coroner.

Nineteen

Claspers thought it was crazy to leave the Caravan chocked on the tarmac at Moxey’s in the path of a hurricane. He wanted to fly it back to Florida, but Christopher Grunion said no way, amigo, are you stranding me and my old lady on this fly-turd island. When Claspers had suggested they all leave Andros before the storm drew close, Grunion said he and Eve weren’t going anywhere. He said their house was built like a goddamn fortress.

“Where I’m staying, it’s a death trap,” Claspers had remarked.

Either Grunion hadn’t gotten the hint, or he didn’t want Claspers as a guest. In any event, Claspers was stuck. Maybe the storm would miss Lizard Cay entirely, or maybe it would smash the place head-on, in which case that lovely seaplane would end up as scrap aluminum.

Claspers said, “But what do I know, sweetie? I’m only the pilot.”

“Yeah, mon, dot’s you. Sky King.” The pretty bartender brought him his third drink of the evening.

“Is it still a Category Two?”

“Dey say trey, mebbe four.”

“Lively,” muttered Claspers.

The wind clawed at the palm thatching over the conch shack. No music was playing but the radio remained the center of attention because it was tuned to the Nassau weather station. The gusty conditions had disabled most of the TV dishes in Rocky Town—Claspers had seen one lying upturned in the roadway—and many residents seeking storm updates had come to the outdoor restaurant. The young
Androsians, who’d never been through a hurricane, laughed and joked. The older ones positioned themselves closer to the radio and kept their voices low. Françoise was reported to be roaring along the Exuma chains; even if Andros escaped a direct hit, the island would take a battering. By daybreak it would be over.

Claspers held his glass with both hands, admiring the miniature wavelets on the coppery surface of the scotch. He was one of a half dozen white customers, including the rangy American he’d met at Moxey’s airport. Andrew, the fly fisherman. Sitting next to him at the bar was a Latin woman who probably smelled as heavenly as she looked. Claspers had a serious buzz going, a down-island buzz.

The woman at the fisherman’s side made Claspers think of another beauty he knew in Barranquilla, back in the old times, a woman he would have married if she hadn’t already had a husband and if the husband hadn’t been a macho hothead who liked to shoot people in the mouth.

Which Claspers well knew because he was working for the man at the time, running loads of grass up to South Bimini.

Donna had been the wife’s name. By now she’d be in her fifties and more lovely than ever. A few years ago Claspers picked up a rumor that her husband was machine-gunned on his way to a bordello, which is what happens when you hire a half-wit cousin to armor your Escalade. On some nights Claspers fantasized about flying back to Colombia, showing up at Donna’s doorstep with a grin, a hard-on and a bottle of Dom. The airstrip he remembered well, and also the Moorish-style villa at the north end; in particular, a second-floor bedroom with a balcony overlooking the valley.

To the bartender Claspers said: “Buy those two sweethearts a round on me.”

Afterward the couple returned the gesture and motioned for the pilot to move down the bar and join them. Andrew introduced the Latin woman as his wife, Rosa, and said she’d arrived on a flight that afternoon.

Claspers chuckled. “Your timing sucks, no offense.”

“Oh, we’ll find something to do,” Rosa said. “You ever flown through a hurricane?”

“Naw, but I’ve slept through a few. It’s easier than you think.” Claspers took a hearty sip, demonstrating his pre-storm preparations.

The woman said she was a surgeon. “Hopefully nobody’ll get hurt, but I always travel with a kit of instruments.”

“On this island,” said the pilot, “that makes you the whole freaking hospital.”

Somebody turned up the radio. The somber voice from Nassau reported that Hurricane Françoise was now “packing” winds of 105 miles per hour. Movement of the storm continued north-northwest.

The fisherman set a hand on Claspers’s shoulder. “Can I ask you something? We heard your boss is the one who’s building Curly Tail Lane. Grunion is his name?”

“That’s him,” said Claspers.

Leaning in close, Rosa confided that she and her husband were looking to buy in the Bahamas. “Andrew really loves this place,” she added, “and I do, too.”

“You should see it when the sun comes out.”

“Point is,” the husband went on, “do you think Mr. Grunion would mind if you introduced him to a potential customer?”

“I think Mr. Grunion would be fucking thrilled.”

“We’d rather not deal with any Bay Street realtors. And we’d be paying cash, if that matters.”

“Cash is never bad.” Claspers liked these people, and briefly he considered telling them the truth: that Grunion’s resort project wasn’t exactly advancing at a breakneck pace; that Grunion was still getting hassled and tossed by the bureaucrats in Nassau; that a vandal had targeted the job site; that only two other buyers—one from Taiwan and the other from Dubai—had put down actual deposits for time-share units.

However, even in a semi-trashed condition the pilot perceived there might be something juicy in it for himself, a commission from the boss, if a sale was forthcoming. Who was Claspers to stand between this earnest young couple and their balmy vision of paradise?

Rosa said, “What about tonight? It’s not raining anymore.”

Claspers cast a skeptical eye skyward. There would be a few hours of lull until the next storm band, but he wasn’t in the deferential mode necessary to deal with Grunion. “Now’s not a real good time,” he said.

The man shrugged one shoulder. “We’ll be on the first plane outta here after the hurricane. I got the whole damn trust committee waiting
on me back in Boca. Maybe it’ll work out on another trip, if there’s anything left of this place.”

Claspers stood up. “Let me make a quick call. Sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Gates,” said Yancy, “as in cousin Bill.” He flinched when Rosa jabbed his ribs.

The pilot didn’t notice. He took out a waterproof radio phone and stepped through the puddles toward the tall pile of conch shells by the boat ramp. Eve, the girlfriend, answered on the other end. After listening to Claspers’s pitch, she accused him of being wasted.

“What are you doing? There’s a hurricane coming, you idiot.”

“It’s just I think these folks are for real. I didn’t want Mr. Grunion to miss a good opportunity is all.”

“How would you know if they’re real or not?”

Claspers said, “I didn’t know such things, I woulda been dead a long time ago.”

Thinking:
Jesus, I
am
drunk
.

Next Grunion got on the line and chewed him out.

“Okay. Forget I called,” the pilot said.

“This guy, so where does he get his money?”

Claspers told him about the trust-committee remark. “His name is Andrew Gates, as in Bill.”

“Horseshit,” Grunion said.

“Fine, I’m going back to the tiki bar. See you after the apocalypse.”

“Wait, tell me about the wife.”

“Cuban girl, a solid nine-point-eight out of ten. Rosa’s her name. Seems super smart.”

“They all seem smart when you’re toasted.”

“Not all of ’em, trust me,” Claspers said with a damp hack. “This one’s a doctor.”

“Whatever. You think you can find the house or should I send Egg down?”

“Christ, don’t send Egg.”

When the pilot returned to the bar, he informed the couple that the meeting with Grunion was on. “If we can find a damn cab,” he said.