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was as slick as an eggshell, and he peered at the world beneath veined saggy eyelids.
    But the sonofabitch was sharp.
    Yancy said, “Okay, get to the bad news.”
    “Not so fast,” the lawyer said. “In addition to reducing the charges, the state agrees not to object if you continue working as a pensioned employee.”
    “Fan-fucking-tastic!” Yancy sat forward to give Montenegro a high-five, which was returned with a mild pat.
    “However—”
    “Here we go,” said Yancy.
    “—Dr. Witt, the victim, strongly feels that you’re unfit to be a police officer.” Montenegro paused for a slurp of cola. “I don’t happen to agree, but I’m not the one who had a suctorial attachment inserted up his rectum.”
    Yancy slumped in the chair.
    Montenegro went on: “Dr. Witt consented to this plea deal under two strict conditions. First, you stay away from his wife. Second, you resign from the sheriff’s office. I advise you to do both.”
    “Let me tell you something disturbing about Mrs. Witt, something I just found out.”
    “Doesn’t matter, Andrew. Sonny’s made up his mind. He wants this mess over and done and out of the media.”
    Yancy said, “No, Monty. Let’s go to trial.”
    “You’ll lose,” Montenegro said mildly. “You’ll be mauled. Slaughtered. Eviscerated. The jury will despise you. And guess what? They won’t need testimony from a naughty spouse. They’ve got the injured victim and, literally, a boatload of eyewitnesses. You’ve seen those videos taken by the cruise-ship passengers, right? Dude, you’re toast.”
    The fact couldn’t be disputed. Yancy said, “Forget what I said about Bonnie.”
    “Forgotten. But I’m not done with the good news.”
    “Your words, not mine.”
    “You’ve still got a job, Andrew, at almost the same salary.” Montenegro lowered his voice. “Sonny arranged it. Be sure to thank him.”
    “A job doing what?”
    “This is where I’m counting on you to keep an open mind.”
    “Oh boy,” said Yancy, laughing softly in despair.
    It had not been his finest moment. He’d found a shaded parking spot under a banyan tree on Front Street, where he’d spent an hour tidying up the Crown Vic. The vacuum device at issue wasn’t a Hoover, as incorrectly reported by the newspapers, but rather a 14.4-volt Black & Decker cordless model with a rotating nozzle and superior suction.
    Nor had the assault been premeditated. Yancy, having spotted Bonnie and her husband walking down the sidewalk, hunkered low in the front seat to avoid being seen. As they passed, he overheard arguing. In a reedy voice Dr. Clifford Witt called his wife either a tramp or a whore, at which point Yancy was certain Bonnie let out a wounded sob. She later would dispute the reason for her tears, blaming a dubiously documented allergy to night-blooming jasmine.
    In any event, a misplaced sense of chivalry launched Yancy from the car and—with the vacuum in hand—he followed the quarreling couple to Mallory Square, where they began shouting at each other. Yancy later insisted that Clifford Witt had raised a fist toward his wife although Bonnie, somewhat unhelpfully, denied it.
    The attack was swift and Witt was caught flat-footed. Being younger and stronger, Yancy easily pinned the doctor and yanked down his linen trousers. Tourists from the cruise liners assumed the two men were rowdy buskers, for which the city docks are famous, and whipped out cell phones to record the amusing playlet. Despite the authenticity of Witt’s screams, nobody moved to disarm Yancy. The Black & Decker snorkeled mercilessly until its batteries petered out.
    As officers led him away, Yancy watched Bonnie tend to her fallen husband. A local juggler offered a festive beach umbrella, which waspositioned modestly over the appliance sprouting from Clifford Witt’s marbled buttocks. Afterward Yancy felt truly awful.
    “I admit it—I went totally batshit,” he said to Sonny Summers. “It’ll never happen