Of course the brand was Dunhill.
“Driggs?” he piped excitedly. “You come out!”
But the monkey wasn’t there. Neville checked every room, every closet, every cupboard of the dilapidated house. So leathered were the soles of Neville’s feet—he seldom wore shoes—that he was unbothered by the rubble of broken glass and splintery planks. He found no other trace of Driggs, although upon returning to the carport he spotted something he’d previously overlooked—a fly rod propped upright in a dry corner.
It was an expensive piece of fishing equipment, too fancy and specialized for the locals. There was no rust on the metal guides of the rod, and Neville tasted wet salt when he touched his tongue to the cork. He wondered if the wealthy tourist fisherman who owned the outfit had crossed paths with the bedraggled monkey, and perhaps out of pity had adopted him.
An hour passed until the wave of thunderstorms rolled by and the rain quit. With fly rod in hand, Neville set out at full stride in the deepening night.
Rosa said, “I’ve always wanted to do it in a hurricane.”
“Technically, this is pre-hurricane.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Andrew.”
“It’s six hours away, you said.”
“So, consider this a warm-up.”
Yancy kissed each of her nipples, then he rested a cheek on her tummy.
“If only the storm wasn’t named Françoise. That is so weak,” Rosa said. She ruffled his hair. “Hey, what was that catchy little tune you were humming earlier?”
“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.”