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again.”
    “Dr. Witt thought a trial would be embarrassing for everybody—him, his wife, you and the sheriff’s department. He did us all a huge favor by going along with this plea.”
    “Except I lose my badge.”
    “But not your freedom. You should be celebrating. Monty told you to take the deal, right?”
    “Please don’t fire me, Sonny.”
    “What you did to Dr. Witt—I’m sorry, but that’s totally unacceptable behavior for a detective, especially in a public venue,” the sheriff said. “Did you see the editorial in the Citizen ? They’d rip me to shreds if I cut you a break.”
    “But you owe me one, remember? For taking that rotting arm all the way to Miami, just ’cause you didn’t want to deal with the case.”
    “I appreciate that, too. Which is why I made sure you have another job.”
    “So I lost my mind for five lousy minutes. You’ve seen what Bonnie Witt looks like? Now imagine her dancing around your kitchen wearing nothing but dive booties. Sonny, I was possessed!”
    The sheriff shrugged one shoulder. “Her husband’s connected, Andrew. He’s biopsied half the county commissioners. You were lucky Dickinson didn’t charge you with sodomy.”
    “What if I told you the On switch got stuck.”
    “It took us a month before YouTube agreed to pull those nasty clips.”
    “Fine, I get it.” Yancy surrendered to the inevitable. “So, what’s my new gig?”
    “A good one, under the radar.”
    “But just until things cool off, right?”
    “Sure, Andrew.”
    Yancy surveyed the items on the sheriff’s desk: a glass leaping-dolphin paperweight from the Kiwanis Club, an oversized Rubik’sCube, a MacBook, a coffee mug from America’s Most Wanted and a half dozen photographs featuring Mrs. Summers and their three children, the youngest of whom wore in every frame the hollow stare of a future serial killer.
    “Do you enjoy a good meal?” Sonny Summers said. “The reason I ask is you’re pretty thin. Unlike some of us, right?” He patted his gut and chuckled.
    “I like to eat, sure.”
    “But you probably go out a lot, being single and all. You know where I’m headed with this?”
    “No fucking clue, Sonny.”
    “Your new job—it’s an enforcement position.”
    “But not law enforcement.”
    “Next best thing,” the sheriff said.
    Yancy said, “I’m begging you.”
    Sonny Summers winked. “Restaurant inspector—it’s like a paid vacation, Andrew.”
    Yancy’s jaw made a popping sound. “Roach patrol?”
    “They had an opening, so I made a call. The other fella, he got sick and quit.”
    “He died, Sonny.”
    “Okay, he died. But first he got sick.”
    Yancy rose slowly. “I really don’t know what to say.”
    “Thanks is enough. By the way, we’ll need your Glock and the keys to the Crown Vic.”
    Because Sonny Summers technically was no longer his boss, Yancy thought it might be entertaining to tell him the truth about the severed arm—that the Miami medical examiner had rejected custody and now it reposed back in Sonny’s jurisdiction, among the Popsicles and grouper fillets in Yancy’s kitchen freezer.
    Instead, all Yancy said was: “When do I start?”
    He was born in South Miami and raised in Homestead. His father was a ranger at Everglades National Park and his mother worked in the dock store at Flamingo. Yancy grew up on the water and dreamed of becoming a backcountry charter guide until he realized it wouldrequire almost daily contact with tourists. When Yancy was eighteen, his dad put in for a transfer to Yellowstone and Yancy chose to stay behind. The young man was anchored to Florida, for better or worse. A passion for tarpon fishing prolonged his education but eventually he earned a degree in criminal justice and wound up with the Miami Police Department. His marriage to a robbery detective named Celia expired when she accepted a job in Ann Arbor and again Yancy refused to move. They had no children, only a hyperactive border collie that had