Bad Monkey (40 page)

“Because I might end up as a witness in the case. It wouldn’t go over so good with the jury if they knew I benefited financially from the defendant’s capture. His lawyers would cut me to ribbons, am I right?”

“Only if you’re dumb enough to tell ’em the truth.”

Yancy emptied the bullets from the gun and tossed it back to Mendez, just like in the movies.

“Johnny, I picked you for three reasons: experience, experience, experience. Nobody can work Crime Stoppers like you,” Yancy said. “The killer’s name is Nicholas Stripling. He’s hiding out in the Bahamas. It’s all right here.”

Yancy handed Mendez a paper that listed every important detail, from the suspect’s DOB to his alias to the color Jeep he was driving. It was more like a dossier than a tip. Mendez knew that the cops in the Keys couldn’t brush it off as a crackpot lead. There would have to be a follow-up.

He said, “They don’t catch him, I don’t get any money. You’re aware how that works.”

“Then what—you wasted a phone call? Big deal.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Stripling is the right man, Johnny. Everything I’m giving you is gold. Plus he’s only got one arm, which is what the Wanted posters would call a noticeable feature.”

“Okay, yeah. But I still don’t believe you won’t be takin’ a cut.”

“All I want,” Yancy said, “is to see this shithead in handcuffs. That’s it. That’s all.”

“Guy who died—he was a friend of yours or something?”

“Never met him. Just some kid worked on a fishing boat.”

Mendez thought about it from all angles, and he really couldn’t see a downside to making the call. He’d get a code number, like all the tipsters; nobody would ask his name.

And the five grand would cover most of Muriel’s chin work.

“One thing you didn’t tell me,” he said. “Who put up the reward?”

Yancy looked amused. “You never cared before.”

“Don’t be a douche. Is it the dead kid’s family came up with the money?”

“You’ll love this,” said Yancy. “It’s the Russian mob.”

Twenty-nine

The airstrip outside Barranquilla was stubbled with weeds from years of disuse, although the pale Moorish villa looked the same as Claspers remembered it. He circled back toward the coast and set the Caravan down on a flat sapphire bay. After mooring to a crab pot he dove from the starboard pontoon and swam to shore, where he flagged down a taxi, which took him first to a liquor store and then to the countryside.

His clothes were still damp when he knocked on the tall carved door. Donna was more breathtaking than ever, as he’d known she would be. He said he’d been shocked to hear of her husband’s death, such a terrible crime, and then he asked if she’d remarried. She said no and invited him to come inside. Her English was still very good. He was careful not to throw his arms around her until he was sure she was alone. He iced the bottle of Dom and then she led him up the stairs.

Later, sitting in the twilight on the bedroom balcony, they drank the champagne and watched a pair of emerald-colored parrots courting in the treetops. When Donna asked if he was still in the business, Claspers laughed and said no, not for a long, long time.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Dropping off an airplane.”

“When are you going back?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You need a pilot?”

The next morning he phoned Palm Aviation Options in Boca Raton and told the leasing agent where the Caravan could be found. The man was displeased to learn that the aircraft was way down in
Colombia. Sending a person to retrieve it would be inconvenient and expensive.

“Your client’s glad to pay,” Claspers said, and read off the numbers on his former employer’s gold AmEx.

“Thank you, but I should speak directly with Mr. Grunion.”

“He’s a busy guy,” Claspers said.

“And who are you? I didn’t get your name.”

“Nobody special. I’m fond of that seaplane is all.”

The leasing agent put down the phone and turned to the men sitting in his office.

“Speak of the devil,” he said. “The aircraft you were asking about is in South America when it’s supposed to be in the Bahamas. Can somebody please tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Sorry,” said Special Agent Liske.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” added Special Agent Strumberg.

There was a fundamental disagreement about the future of Driggs. Egg wanted to twist the little monster’s head off. The Dragon Queen wanted him found and brought back alive.

“Dot’s my sweet pink boy,” she said warmly.

“Ain’t no boy. Dot’s a goddamn wild-ass monkey.”

The Dragon Queen told Egg to quit talking that way or she would unleash a black curse on his soul. She ordered him to search the island and made him take one of the meerschaum pipes, packed with Dunhill, which she said Driggs would be unable to resist.

Now Egg sat by himself at the conch hut wondering what to do. He didn’t strictly believe in Caribbean magic, but the woman possessed some kind of mystic power. What else would account for him being seduced by such a moldy-smelling crone?

Since the night of the storm Egg had been avoiding sex due to the tender state of his cock, which the monkey had mauled like an ear of corn. Tumescence was a hydraulic impossibility, yet the Dragon Queen gave Egg no sympathy, pestering him crudely whenever he stopped by. At first he’d been merely annoyed but now he was worried. The girl behind the bar had confirmed the eerie story told to Egg by Driggs’s
owner—three young men on the island had died shortly after breaking off a romance with the ill-tempered old witch. Poison was the rumor.

Egg decided the monkey man was right—it was time to move on. Soon he’d be out of a job, anyway. Grunion was in deep shit with the American authorities, his days as a Bahamas real estate tycoon running out. Even before the stabbing the man had been obnoxious, a loud racist bastard. Egg didn’t care what happened to him.

Nassau beckoned—not only the girls but the air-conditioning. There was always a bar or a tourist hotel where you could cool off. Here on Lizard Cay the grip of deep summer was unbreakable; the conch shack’s ceiling fan had only one blade. In the absence of casino income the puny island’s infrastructure doddered; two-thirds of the power poles knocked down by the hurricane still lay where they’d fallen. Even when the electricity worked, the trailer on the construction site was a toaster oven, the prehistoric wall unit blowing warm, dog-fart air. Egg couldn’t get any sleep there, and now he was too creeped out to crash at the Dragon Queen’s.

So, after three beers and a shrimp hoagie, he made up his mind to fly home and valet cars at Atlantis, until something easier came along.

“Mr. Ecclestone.”

Egg spun himself on the stool. “Wot hey, mon.”

It was a fellow named Weech, who’d been a rookie guard at Fox Hill prison when Egg worked there. Now Weech was with the Royal Bahamas Defence Force, which Egg knew was more than a navy. The RBDF did big cases with the American DEA and FBI.

“You here chasin’ druggers?” Egg asked lightly.

Weech wore full camos, boots, wraparound shades and a black beret. He was carrying an assault rifle with a jumbo clip. Egg noticed that he’d bulked up and lost his sense of humor. Weech said he’d received information that a suspected murderer from Florida was living with his wife near Rocky Town. The American was using the name Grunion and, although he was missing an arm, he was described as extremely dangerous.

“No shit?” Egg said.

“Dey say you woik fuh ’im.”

“I juss quit.”

“You smot fella,” said Weech.

Three other RBDF officers appeared, every one as muscled and heavily armed as Weech. Egg looked toward the harbor but he didn’t see the government patrol boat. They must have used a different dock.

Weech was studying a printout. “De house is on Bannister Point,” he said. “He’s up dere now? Don’t lie.”

“You gon grob ’im?”

“Yah, mon. Soon as my orders from Nassau come tru.” Weech skimmed the paperwork again. “Where’s his floatplane? It’s not at Moxey’s.”

Egg said, “Plane’s gone. He pissed off ’bout dot, too.”

Weech and the other officers stepped away, into the sunlight, to converse out of earshot. Egg thought their balls must be roasting in those combat uniforms.

On the other side of the bar stood Philip, the taxi man. Egg waved him over and arranged a ride later to the airport. First he had to pick up a gold necklace he’d left at the Dragon Queen’s place last night. Hanging on the chain was a miniature gold anchor inlaid with real diamonds. The piece was quite expensive, and Egg couldn’t believe he’d forgotten it. The Dragon Queen had told him to remove it so she could lather him head to toe with some smelly green cream she’d said would stop the pain in his privates.

“Mr. Ecclestone, one more ting.” It was Weech again, standing beside him. “Be wise you don’t tell your boss we’re here.”

Egg said, “Mon find out soon enough. Dot’s his old lady.”

He jerked his chin toward the water. Eve was at the wheel of a gleaming new fishing boat idling toward the ramp at the conch hut. Egg recalled she was crazy about the chowder, seasoned with sherry. She’d piled her hair under a blue ball cap, and she was wearing the flowered top of a two-piece swimsuit and white jeans. Her husband wasn’t aboard.

The RBDF officers were hard to miss, and Eve spotted them right away. Instantly the three loud outboards began rumbling in reverse. As she spun the boat’s bow toward the bight, the name painted on the stern came into view:
Lefty’s Revenge
.

Eve gunned the throttles.

Weech said, “No prollem. She ain’t goin’ no place we cont find her.”

Egg believed that to be true. He set the wicked monkey’s pipe on the bar top and walked off.

Plover Chase already had received the Miranda spiel, but Agent John Wesley Weiderman recited it again.

“My lawyer advised me not to talk with you,” she said.

“I’ll leave the minute you ask me to.”

“Cody said you seem like a decent sort. Open-minded. Straight shooter.”

“I was sorry to hear about your husband,” John Wesley Weiderman said.

“Oh, let’s not go there.”

“I spoke with the hospital. The nurses said he moved his right hand yesterday.”

“I don’t doubt it. That’s how he got where he is,” said Plover Chase.

The agent told her the prosecutors in Key West would agree to probation on the arson, but only with a guarantee that she’d go back to Oklahoma and do at least two years for the old charges.

“Two years for what?” she said. “This time around, Cody won’t be testifying. He’s saving it all for his book.”

“We don’t need Cody. You jumped bond, Ms. Chase. That’s a separate crime.”

“But I’m not going back to Tulsa. I plan to stay right here and be near Andrew.” She pulled an orange thread from the sleeve of her jumpsuit. “I’m not scared of a trial. It isn’t like I tried to kill somebody. Nobody was in the house when I lit the match.”

She was something of a surprise to John Wesley Weiderman, the level way she looked at him, her poise and confidence seemingly unshaken by the grubby experience of jail. For some reason he’d been expecting despondency or a teary plea for lenience.

Instead Plover Chase came across as a strong, composed woman who’d just happened in a heartsick lapse of judgment to torch an unoccupied structure. Clearly she was rehearsing for court.

“I’m in it for the long haul,” she added.

“Your lawyer will advise you that’s a foolish choice. The judge in your old Tulsa case is deceased. The lead prosecutor is now farming soybeans. There’s no longer much interest back home in making an example of you. The state just wants to close the file. Two years is a real fair deal.”

“And lose Andrew forever? No, sir, I won’t be going anywhere.”

It was warm in the interview room. John Wesley Weiderman felt like loosening his necktie, but he didn’t. After twelve years on the job he was still puzzled by people who were determined to live in turmoil. Plover Chase wasn’t a career criminal, yet she was making it impossible for her to be treated as anything less. Oklahoma wanted her sent back as soon as possible, the arson having upended the assumption that she was harmless.

The agent explained to Plover Chase that she was fortunate to be offered basically a free pass out of Florida. It happened that the Monroe County state attorney was unenthusiastic about expending his limited resources on a flaky love-triangle case while a cold-blooded murder remained unsolved.

“I read about that,” she interjected. “They’re good about letting us see the newspapers.”

“The young man—Phinney was his name—he was shot down in cold blood. There’s heavy pressure to find the killer and put him away.”

“God, I hope so.”

“Point is,” the agent said, “they’re happy to ship you home and save the taxpayers here some money. However, if you insist on fighting extradition, forcing a trial, talking to reporters—”

“Hey, she called
me
—”

“—then you’re going to aggravate these Key West prosecutors, and they’ll come down hard on you. You could get five years for burning that house and, when your hitch is done,
then
they’ll send you back to Tulsa to face the music.”

Plover Chase was undaunted. “I plan on being acquitted of the arson,” she said.

John Wesley Weiderman put forward his opinion that she wasn’t insane.

“I was at the time of the crime!” She was a plucky one.

“That’s a long shot with juries.”

“Now you sound like Andrew.”

It was time to go. The lawman stood up and buttoned his suit jacket.

“Well, good luck,” he said.

She gave a little smile that wrinkled her nose. “How long have you been chasing me, Agent Weiderman?”

He was halfway to his car when a cab pulled into the parking lot of the stockade. The driver chose a spot in the shade of a tree, and a rear door was flung open. Cody Parish got out holding a brown grocery bag. He clutched the bag with both hands as he headed toward the front doors of the building.

John Wesley Weiderman thought it odd that the cab stayed to wait. Running the meter was expensive, and Cody Parish didn’t give the impression of a young man with a bankroll. He braked like the cartoon coyote when the lawman called out his name.