Bad Monkey

Yancy took out the dead arm and waved it at the old man, who shuffled off quickly. Eve Stripling wore an expression of suppressed dismay. After repacking the limb, Yancy placed the cooler in the trunk of the Chevy.

He said, “What was Nick’s line of work?”

Now on a first-name basis with the victim.

“Oh, he’s retired.”

Just like Johnny Mendez, Yancy thought, although Nick Stripling probably hadn’t made his fortune looting a Crime Stoppers account.

“Did they ever find his boat?”

“Just some cushions and spare gas cans,” Eve Stripling said. “Also a deflated life raft—they said it must’ve got popped by fish hooks.”

“Was there a fuel slick?”

“Yeah, five miles off the Sombrero Lighthouse. His body floated south, obviously.”

“Anybody else on board?”

“No, just Nicky. He was on his way to Cay Sal to catch up with some friends.”

A mosquito was feasting in a dimple on Eve Stripling’s chin. Under more casual circumstances Yancy would have reached over and flicked it away. Instead he said, “The bugs are out of control tonight. Let’s sit in the car.”

“I should really be going.”

“This won’t take much longer.”

“But the sheriff promised—”

“Just a couple more questions. All routine.” That’s what detectives did, they asked questions. Yancy meant to stay in practice.

He opened the door for Eve Stripling, then went around and got in the passenger side. The new smell confirmed it was a rental.

“How far’s your drive?” he asked.

“Miami Beach.”

A short hop not to bring your own wheels, Yancy thought, but he let it go. She’d probably rented the Chevy because she was afraid her husband’s dead arm would stink up the Jaguar. “Was Nick a good swimmer?”

“So-so. He loved that damn fishing boat, though.”

“How old was he?”

“Forty-six. We’ve got a condo on Duck Key,” Eve Stripling said, “but I was in Paris when it happened.”

“When did you learn he was missing?”

“The France trip was a present from Nicky. I wasn’t worried when I didn’t hear from him because he hardly ever calls from the islands. The cell service over there is suck-o. He was supposed to get home the Sunday after I did. When he didn’t show up, I just figured the fishing must be super good and he’d decided to stay. Why aren’t you writing any of this down?”

“Like I said, it’s just routine.”

“So, anyway, Wednesday comes and still no Nicky. That’s when I started calling around and the Coast Guard told me what they found. They said it was super rough that weekend and his boat probably swamped.”

“That happens.”

“He called it Summer’s Eve,” she said fondly, “after me.”

Also the name of a douche, thought Yancy. But, hey, it’s the thought that counts.

“Are we done?” she asked.

“Almost.” From a breast pocket he took the Release of Property form that Burton had given him. Eve Stripling switched on the dome light so she could read it.

“How long were you married?” Yancy asked.

“Seven years in February.” She turned her head to show him the diamond studs in her ears. They were substantial. “He bought me these for our anniversary.”

“Sweet. Do you have children?”

“Nicky has a grown daughter.” She signed the paper and handed it back to him. “This still doesn’t seem real,” she said in a raw, whispery voice.

“When’s the service?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Soon, then.”

“The funeral home says there’s not much to do. Being it’s just, you know, an arm.”

“They can fix that middle finger, no problem.”

Eve Stripling looked puzzled.

“Not that you’d have an open casket,” Yancy added. “But just in case …”

“Oh, right. Good idea.”

He got out of the car. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

Behind the wheel Eve Stripling appeared smaller and almost contorted. With a shudder she hunched forward, squeezing her eyes closed, and it was Yancy’s impression that she was trying very hard to cry.

Five

Miguel was no beekeeper; he made that clear. He was an exterminator of bees, a highly trained assassin.

“Tell me what you’ve got,” Yancy said.

“There’s an old wood house on Ramrod, the whole east wall. I am ripping it apart tomorrow.”

“I hope the hive is large.”

Miguel laughed, flashing a gold-tipped incisor. “The hive is a motherfucker, Andrew. You cannot believe how big.”

“But how are you going to move the damn thing?”

“Don’t worry. It is what you hire me for.”

“And the bees will follow? That’s the part I don’t understand.” Yancy had a vision of Miguel’s truck weaving down Highway 1 while enclouded by a seething swarm.

“They sleep at night,” Miguel said. “I got a system.”

“Dead bees won’t do the trick. They have to be alive.”

Miguel gave a sigh he reserved for thick-skulled gringos. “For sure, Andrew. Alive.”

“How much do you charge?”

“For such a fucked-up job? Three hundred, plus gas.”

“I can probably swing two-fifty.”

“Bullshit,” Miguel said. Then: “Okay, two-fifty.”

Yancy handed him a piece of paper with the address. Miguel glanced at it and said, “Who lives here?”

“Nobody. It’s under construction.”

“Excellent, my friend. Where you want me to put the hive?”

“The master bedroom would be lovely. It’s on the top floor, facing the Gulf.”