witness.”
“Small steps, Andrew.”
“Any news on your end?”
Burton disclosed that the hair in Clippy’s quinoa definitely came from Buck Nance’s beard. “The DNA matched a big gob of tobacco he’d hawked into one of his brothers’ golf bags. Episode Eighteen, case you missed it. ‘Road Trip to Augusta.’ Anyway, they overnighted the chaw to a lab in Miami, and bingo on the saliva.”
“No surprise there,” Yancy said.
“You know the wine shop where that model worked? The one who was in
Sports Illustrated.
”
“That snob. It was like ten years ago she made the swimsuit issue. At least ten years.”
“Right. Because she wouldn’t have a drink with you, that makes her a snob. I remember. Anyway the shop has security video of a guy entering a side courtyard who resembles our missing shitkicker. He puts on a Bum Farto tee-shirt and rips off the sleeves,” Burton said, “then for reasons unknown he punches out some artist dude’s easel.”
“Maybe the painting was really awful.”
“No, man, the canvas was blank.”
“On the plus side,” said Yancy, “this means Buck’s still alive, alert and ambulatory.”
Burton said he went to speak with the artist but it was a waste of time. “He offered me fifty dollars to sit for a nude portrait. You believe that shit?”
“Totally. You’ve got the body of a Greek god. Who lives on pasta.”
“Bite me.”
Yancy got distracted by something he saw through the back window. He hung up on Burton, hurried outside, jumped the fence and jogged across the empty lot toward Deb, the frantic fiancée. She was waggling a long-handled metal detector, which upon seeing Yancy she raised at a defensive angle.
“Easy, neighbor,” he said. “I came to apologize for grossing you out the other day.”
“Stay the hell away from me.”
“Honest, there’s no corpse buried under my house. The hair in the baggies is evidence in a missing persons case.”
Deb had the look of a spooked mare, confirming to Yancy that he was successfully establishing himself as an eccentric.
“Brock says you nearly shot him the other day!” she said.
“What a crybaby. It was target practice with beer bottles, perfectly legal recreation.”
“Not in a residential neighborhood.”
“The sad song of a deluded liberal. Never once did I point that gun in Brent’s direction, you have my word.”
“It’s
Brock,
” Deb snapped. “He made some calls. He says you’re not really a cop.”
“In what sense? Because I could argue the point.”
“Just stay back!”
Today’s ensemble was skinny jeans, a pale rose blouse and matching tennis shoes. Her ash-blond hair was cinched with a white scrunchie. The shades were Chanel, naturally, non-polarized and therefore useless against the tropic glare.
Yancy took her metal detector and demonstrated a better search technique, vectoring between the red survey flags while sweeping the wedge-headed device back and forth above the ground. He thought of Rosa’s sound admonition to return the lost diamond ring, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not just yet.
Fuming, Deb followed him at what she perceived was a safe distance. She said, “I can’t believe I almost blew you.”
“I can’t believe I said no. There might be sainthood in my future.” Yancy stooped to pick up a rusty flathead nail that the detector had revealed with a warble. He put the nail in his pants pocket thinking of the Key deer, which sometimes browsed the open lot at dusk. A punctured hoof pad could cause a nasty infection.
He asked Deb if she’d finally informed her future husband that she’d lost the engagement ring on the site of their dream home. “Brock doesn’t need to know,” she said. “I’ll find it myself.”
“And if you don’t? What happens when the backhoes show up to clear the property? They’ll bury that rock forever.”
She dragged sourly on her e-cig. The metal detector cheeped again. Yancy picked up a tarnished dime, minted
“Small steps, Andrew.”
“Any news on your end?”
Burton disclosed that the hair in Clippy’s quinoa definitely came from Buck Nance’s beard. “The DNA matched a big gob of tobacco he’d hawked into one of his brothers’ golf bags. Episode Eighteen, case you missed it. ‘Road Trip to Augusta.’ Anyway, they overnighted the chaw to a lab in Miami, and bingo on the saliva.”
“No surprise there,” Yancy said.
“You know the wine shop where that model worked? The one who was in
Sports Illustrated.
”
“That snob. It was like ten years ago she made the swimsuit issue. At least ten years.”
“Right. Because she wouldn’t have a drink with you, that makes her a snob. I remember. Anyway the shop has security video of a guy entering a side courtyard who resembles our missing shitkicker. He puts on a Bum Farto tee-shirt and rips off the sleeves,” Burton said, “then for reasons unknown he punches out some artist dude’s easel.”
“Maybe the painting was really awful.”
“No, man, the canvas was blank.”
“On the plus side,” said Yancy, “this means Buck’s still alive, alert and ambulatory.”
Burton said he went to speak with the artist but it was a waste of time. “He offered me fifty dollars to sit for a nude portrait. You believe that shit?”
“Totally. You’ve got the body of a Greek god. Who lives on pasta.”
“Bite me.”
Yancy got distracted by something he saw through the back window. He hung up on Burton, hurried outside, jumped the fence and jogged across the empty lot toward Deb, the frantic fiancée. She was waggling a long-handled metal detector, which upon seeing Yancy she raised at a defensive angle.
“Easy, neighbor,” he said. “I came to apologize for grossing you out the other day.”
“Stay the hell away from me.”
“Honest, there’s no corpse buried under my house. The hair in the baggies is evidence in a missing persons case.”
Deb had the look of a spooked mare, confirming to Yancy that he was successfully establishing himself as an eccentric.
“Brock says you nearly shot him the other day!” she said.
“What a crybaby. It was target practice with beer bottles, perfectly legal recreation.”
“Not in a residential neighborhood.”
“The sad song of a deluded liberal. Never once did I point that gun in Brent’s direction, you have my word.”
“It’s
Brock,
” Deb snapped. “He made some calls. He says you’re not really a cop.”
“In what sense? Because I could argue the point.”
“Just stay back!”
Today’s ensemble was skinny jeans, a pale rose blouse and matching tennis shoes. Her ash-blond hair was cinched with a white scrunchie. The shades were Chanel, naturally, non-polarized and therefore useless against the tropic glare.
Yancy took her metal detector and demonstrated a better search technique, vectoring between the red survey flags while sweeping the wedge-headed device back and forth above the ground. He thought of Rosa’s sound admonition to return the lost diamond ring, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not just yet.
Fuming, Deb followed him at what she perceived was a safe distance. She said, “I can’t believe I almost blew you.”
“I can’t believe I said no. There might be sainthood in my future.” Yancy stooped to pick up a rusty flathead nail that the detector had revealed with a warble. He put the nail in his pants pocket thinking of the Key deer, which sometimes browsed the open lot at dusk. A punctured hoof pad could cause a nasty infection.
He asked Deb if she’d finally informed her future husband that she’d lost the engagement ring on the site of their dream home. “Brock doesn’t need to know,” she said. “I’ll find it myself.”
“And if you don’t? What happens when the backhoes show up to clear the property? They’ll bury that rock forever.”
She dragged sourly on her e-cig. The metal detector cheeped again. Yancy picked up a tarnished dime, minted
Similar Books
