Bad Monkey

A check of his cell phone revealed, to his surprise, three messages from three different women. It had been eons since such a fine thing had happened.

The first caller was Bonnie Witt, formerly known as Plover Chase, who’d called from Sarasota to leave the following voice mail: “Hey, it’s me. Don’t get all hot and bothered, but I’ve been thinking impure thoughts about you. Cliff hasn’t touched me in ages because he’s experimenting with autoerotic asphyxiation—you know, where guys beat off while they’re faux-strangling themselves? Very classy. Anyhow, he’s a total klutz, as you know, so I’m pretty sure he’s going to hang himself to death one of these nights in the broom closet. Twice already I found him passed out on the floor, blue as a jellyfish. And yesterday he showed me how to use a portable defibrillator, just in case he screws up. I guess what I’m saying, Andrew—and God knows I don’t expect you to wait around—I think there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll be single again soon. Anyway, give me a call.”

The second voice mail was from Dr. Rosa Campesino, whom Yancy had texted during an idle period at the crime scene, while detectives were interviewing Phinney’s girlfriend. The pathologist sounded very interested to hear that the shark tooth she’d tweezered from the severed arm belonged to a small specimen, possibly an inshore species:

“That definitely raises the possibility of foul play. This boat captain you spoke with, would you consider him an expert? Just to be sure, you should send the tooth to the Rosenstiel School at the University of Miami. They’ve got some of the top shark people in the world. Maybe you could keep me posted on how this all sorts out, okay? Also … well, I want to apologize for telling a small lie the day you came to the office. I’m not really married to a sniper on the SWAT team. Actually, I’m not married at all. Sorry I jerked you around—just wasn’t in the mood for lunch.”

The last message was from Caitlin Cox, estranged daughter of the late Nicholas Stripling, who said: “Sorry to hassle you on a weekend, Inspector, but remember what I told you at the funeral? About my stepmother, that greedy hose monster? Well, now I’ve got proof! Seriously, it’s a lock. So call me right away. I mean, if you want to be a big fucking hero and solve this case.”

It was an avalanche of information for a stoned person to absorb. Yancy kicked off his flip-flops and stretched out on the kitchen counter and blinked up at the curled ceiling panels. A mental picture of Dr. Clifford Witt masturbating bug-eyed with a noose around his neck caused Yancy to wonder if Bonnie’s husband had actually enjoyed the vacuum-cleaner assault that had cost Yancy his detective job. The phone message gave him no reason to believe Bonnie would come rushing back to the Keys, even if freed by widowhood from Clifford’s grasp. Yancy leaned toward the hard-edged view that she was regretting her tipsy confession and was angling to keep his hopes for romance alive so that he wouldn’t spill the beans about her fugitive status.

The call from Rosa Campesino was more intriguing, as it opened a door to future communications and possibly a date. At least that’s how Yancy chose to construe her words. He’d never wooed a coroner and wasn’t sure how to read the signals. He would replay radiant Rosa’s message tomorrow, when his head was clear.

Finally, there was Caitlin Cox. Yancy doubted that she had absolute proof her father had been murdered, but she might have stumbled across something worth knowing. He decided to meet with her, and not just because he was bored out of his skull on roach patrol. Yancy felt a cop-like responsibility to sort out the truth about Nick Stripling, whose severed arm had been the centerpiece of Yancy’s freezer during all those days when nobody had wanted it.

Furthermore, Yancy perceived—even under the woozy sway of ganja—an opportunity for redemption in the event that Eve Stripling really had killed her husband and tried to make it look like a boat accident. If Yancy, riding solo, was able to nail the widow for homicide, what else could Sheriff Sonny Summers do but reinstate him to the force?

That was Yancy’s last fanciful thought before floating to sleep on the kitchen counter, and awaking hours later to the sound of a scream.

Seven