Razor Girl by Carl Hiaasen

long to unpeel your true personality. Yancy was prone to an acid bluntness that produced poor results career-wise and also on the domestic front. While he wasn’t one of those loudmouthed fools who uttered every thought that entered their heads, his idea of self-editing often fell shy of the societal norm. Rosa said she tolerated his sharp tongue, preoccupied moods and impulsive detours because there was old-fashioned nobility in his heart, and his social missteps were made with good intentions. Yancy hoped she truly believed that and wasn’t just trying to convince herself he was worth the effort.
    When he returned from fishing she was waiting at the house, still wearing her hospital scrubs which drove him wild as she well knew.
    “Catch anything?” she called out as he backed the boat trailer into the driveway.
    “
Nada.
The water’s still too cold.”
    “But it’s a gorgeous day, no?”
    “Breathtaking,” Yancy said. She was.
    While he rinsed the skiff and wiped down his fly rods, Rosa fixed Cuban sandwiches and warmed some black beans with rice. He walked inside and caught her eyeing the container of fish dip, which he snatched from her fingers. After spooning out the engagement ring he told her the story of Deb and Britt (or Brad, or whatever the hell it was), his potential new neighbors.
    “Please tell me you’re not holding on to her diamond,” Rosa said, “for leverage.”
    “That would be wrong?”
    “So wrong. Also illegal, no?”
    “But the way she described the house they’re planning, it’s a bona fide atrocity. I’m not kidding, baby—maybe worse than the last one.”
    An unspooled ex-girlfriend of Yancy’s had torched the previous offending structure in a bid to win back Yancy’s affections. Rosa’s devotion stopped well shy of felonious melodrama.
    Yancy wiped off the ring and handed it to her. “Her boyfriend told her it cost two hundred grand. What do you think, doctor?”
    “I think it’s quite large.” Rosa tossed it back.
    “Come on, try it on.”
    “Really? Here’s how my delicate fingers spent the afternoon: Groping for lead slugs inside the intestines of a three-hundred-pound heroin dealer who’d shorted the wrong customer. So I’ll pass on the hand modeling today, if that’s okay.”
    “A man can dream,” Yancy said. He mushed the ring back into the fish dip.
    “The dealer survived, by the way. Shot five times, and he’ll be back on the street in time for Easter.” Rosa bowed. “My service to the human race.”
    “See, this is exactly why you should move down here. Our E.R. isn’t so demoralizing.”
    “Promise you’ll return the diamond to this Deb person, no matter what kind of architectural monstrosity she and her scuzzy boyfriend want to build next door. You get busted for grand theft, mister, that’s pretty much a career killer.”
    “How did I ever live without you?”
    “How can you not have a decent imported beer in this house?”
    Rogelio Burton stopped by and had a plate of black beans. He’d been Yancy’s best friend and calming influence in the detective bureau, and they were still close. That didn’t mean Yancy listened to his advice. Rosa changed into a devastating swimsuit and went out on the deck to catch some sun.
    “The sheriff sent me,” Burton said to Yancy.
    “Where’s my badge?”
    “Don’t start again.”
    “Then you know what? Sonny and I have nothing to talk about.”
    The problem was election-year politics. Although Yancy had singlehandedly solved a major murder case—a first for the roach patrol—Sonny Summers had postponed reinstating him due to the controversy it might stir.
    “You watch much TV?” Burton asked.
    “Weather Channel.
MythBusters
reruns. That’s about it,” Yancy said. “They gouge you for the porn on pay-per-view, so I’m boycotting.”
    “There’s a reality show called
Bayou Brethren.
It’s about a family of redneck chicken farmers in Louisiana.”
    “Somehow that one slipped past