* * * * *
Jon Zyrnek shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and scuffed his running shoes on the road, sending gravel flying. So cool that Grace was out there rescuing monkeys; he’d love to do that. But where would he take them when he had them? You couldn’t just set tropical monkeys free in the Cascade foothills. Grace could get away with this; but he wasn’t a big name scientist with connections. He’d get arrested again.
He had to find the gorillas. If only it wasn’t some big secret. He’d send emails to ARU asking them to keep tabs on exotic animal sellers—that was a righteous mission. Some would help, but some might dismiss it because he worked here. Caryn and Sierra had lost clout in the organization, too, just because they worked with captive animals. Could ARU have stolen the gorillas? They didn’t always claim responsibility for their commando activities, especially if something went wrong.
And all that blood certainly proved that something had gone wrong. How could he find out? He didn’t even know how to ask without causing a stink.
Why couldn’t he think of something more useful to do than walking the fence line? How lame could you get? Why did this have to happen on the only job he really cared about? For once, he’d seen a decent future looking like a possibility; he was becoming an ape whisperer of sorts. He could teach apes to sign, and teach other people how to talk to them. He could write a book or maybe even make a movie. He’d be like Roger Fouts or Penny Patterson, but more public, on Facebook and Google Plus and Twitter and stuff. He’d make a difference in the world. People would finally respect animals. And they’d finally respect him.
Grace believed in him. Correction: she had believed in him. Now, she’d probably dump him. Even if she didn’t want to fire him, there was no job if there were no gorillas. He reached the end of the back driveway, checked the gate. Locked. The padlock was secure. He started a clockwise route inside the fence line, checking the electrical wire and the barbed strands beneath.
Why now, just when his Dad was finally back home, when both of them had decent jobs, when the world was looking like a hopeful place, had everything turned to shit? He tugged on his hair until it hurt. Why hadn’t he gone out and checked on Gumu before sacking out on the night of the party? There had obviously been a struggle in the barn; why hadn’t he heard it? Why hadn’t he known something was wrong? Some ape whisperer he was.
He walked on, studying the fence, looking for breaks, for fallen branches that might disrupt the flow of electricity, for some way intruders could have come in.
The fence bordered the road and the front driveway; the other two sides of the property were guarded by thick woods that belonged to the national forest service. He walked along the border of the trees and back to the front side to finish his circuit.
As he was strolling up the back driveway, he saw the glint of metal in the weeds alongside the gravel road. He nudged the fronds of a fern aside with the toe of his boot. A padlock. It had to be the lock missing from the back of the barn. He turned in place, searching the surroundings. A few feet away, he found the bolt cutter. He felt a surge of excitement—maybe there’d be fingerprints. Maybe he could help bring the gorillas back.
Then he noticed the lettering etched into the handle of the bolt cutter. Evansburg Auto Salvage.
* * * * *
Inside her personal trailer, Grace looked in on the marmoset huddled into her sweatshirt in the corner of the cat carrier. She could see a tiny bit of dark fur rising and falling. He’d eaten a couple of grapes and maybe had a few sips of water from the shallow bowl she’d left there.
She checked her messages, hoping Finn had called or texted with news. There was nothing. While touring the woods looking for signs of her gorillas, she couldn’t stop thinking about the imprisoned bonobo. About the other animals that might be at that farmhouse. And about what might happen to her. What would the couple say she’d done? Was a thief robbing a thief still a crime?
With some trepidation, she turned on the local news. There were no stories about gorillas rampaging through the countryside or about psycho women stealing monkeys. But apparently the problem bear had been caught yesterday evening.
The television screen showed wildlife officers sneaking toward a black bear snuffling through the woods. With its nose to the ground, the bear zigzagged as if it were trying to pick up the scent of another animal. It jerked up its head to gaze in the camera’s direction a fraction of a second before the dart hit its side. Bawling in surprise and pain, the bear then loped a few yards before collapsing and plowing his nose into the dirt.
The scene then flashed to three Fish and Wildlife officers loading the tranquilized bear into a cage in the back of a pickup, while another commented to a reporter holding out a microphone. “This bear is a young male, approximately three years old. He’s been sighted numerous times along properties in the Cheyenne Creek area. He will be relocated to a forest area thirty miles away where he can’t cause any more trouble. Along with the capture of his brother yesterday, this should solve our marauding bear problem in the Evansburg area. Homeowners can feel safer tonight.” After a brief tug on his cap toward the camera, the officer walked away.
In the background, a muffled voice asked something about traps that she couldn’t quite decipher, which was followed by the barely audible response: “No need. We got our bear.” Then the field reporter signed off and the scene returned to the television studio and a story about a drug smuggler caught at the Canadian border.
* * * * *
As Finn drove out of the mountains past the migrant worker huts and Vista Village, his cell phone chimed. There was a breathless message from Grace about a seller of stolen animals and a 9-1-1 call she’d made to the police.
The following message was from Sergeant Greer.
“Rein in your damn girlfriend,” he said. “Monkey Woman’s got a lot of nerve, trespassing and complaining about other folks keeping wacked-out animals. Tim and Terri Smith have lived in this county for decades. And what the hell do you think you’re doing asking my uniforms to search the salvage yard? Maybe it worked for you in Chicago, Finn, but you can’t pull these prima donna stunts in Evansburg.”
Finn tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Greer and his damned turf. So he’d asked a couple of uniforms to do a walk-through of Grant Redd’s yard, looking for stolen items or anything else unusual. It was a legitimate request for the burglary case, given that ex-cons worked there, but apparently he’d bypassed the Evansburg chain of command by going directly to the patrol officers. Which probably would have been fine if they’d found anything of interest. But unfortunately the officers hadn’t spotted the missing guns or any other suspicious items. Naturally, Finn hadn’t mentioned gorillas, but surely even the dimmest rookie would have reported an ape if he’d noticed one there.
Could he mollify the sergeant with a bottle of whiskey or a six-pack of beer? With his luck, the grouch would turn out to be a born-again reformed alcoholic. He’d have to ask the other detectives for advice.
He spotted a slowdown ahead from a semi-trailer overturned on the highway. Flashing lights everywhere. Finn pulled over to talk to Grace and wait out the traffic.
The details of her escapade horrified him. “What were you thinking? You should never have gone out there alone.”
“The hag only nailed the side of the van. Oh, and her thug of a husband broke the driver’s window. Thank God summer’s coming on so I don’t have to replace it right away.”
“Grace!”
“Did your guys rescue the poor bonobo?”
He repeated the sergeant’s report. “No sign of exotic animals. The Smiths didn’t have a clue what your complaint was about.”
“Fuck that,” she snapped, shocking him. “They’re lying. How’d the cops know it was me, anyway?”
“We can trace cell phone numbers, Grace.”
“Oh. How long did it take the cops show up at that place? Your brothers in blue probably gave those numskulls plenty of time to hide the eviden
ce and work on their innocent act.”
“I’d have to check the log to see what the response time was.”
“I have evidence. There was a Craigslist ad; I have the email on my phone. And maybe Mrs. Smith’s bullet is still in the van. And Tim’s DNA is probably all over the window glass and my jacket collar, too.”
“He had hold of you?” Maybe Greer was right; he needed to rein Grace in for her own safety.
“I was dragging him until I hit the highway.”
Finn shook his head, trying to clear that vision from his imagination. “Drive your van to the station and get them to check. I’ll call ahead.”
“No, Matt. Don’t you think they’d ask a few questions about what I was doing there? And they’d probably impound the van. I don’t have any other transportation.”
He suspected there was more to her story. “Is there anything else I need to know, Grace?”
“They probably have that poor bonobo locked up in a cabinet somewhere,” she wailed. “Or worse—they butchered him and buried the body parts in the corn field. What if monsters like them have my gorillas?”
“Please don’t do anything like that again. You could be killed.”
“Neema. Kanoni. Gumu. They’re all still out there.”
She was obviously frustrated with his efforts. “I’m working on finding them as best I can while keeping this secret, Grace.”
“So am I, Matt.”
* * * * *
At the station, Finn stuffed his shoes into a plastic bag in his locker and walked in his socks to his desk to type up his report of the accident and body recovery in the woods. He made notes that the area needed to be thoroughly searched for more evidence, like the vic’s jawbone and ID. After uploading his gruesome photos to a computer folder, he ran Allen Whitehead’s name through the department database. Thirty seven years old, according to his driver’s license data. The photo showed a generic white male who looked reasonably similar to the body in the woods. Hard to match faces when the dead guy was missing the bottom half of his head. He pitied the relative who would have to view the corpse.
Allen Whitehead had racked up a couple of speeding tickets; nothing more serious. Unless the guy had applied for a government job somewhere along the way, his fingerprints were unlikely to be in the system. Still, Finn sent email instructing the evidence tech to go to the morgue and collect fingerprints and DNA samples from the body.
A message popped up to signal that phone records for the Zyrnek household had just arrived via email attachment. He ran his finger down the enclosed list. Interesting. The call to which Zyrnek had responded “Not now” came from Monroe Correctional Complex. There had been one call per week from the prison, stretching back for the entire six months of records.
Months back, the calls probably came from Tony’s efforts to maintain a relationship with his son. But now? Which old prison buddy was calling the Zyrneks these days? Finn wrote himself a note to call the prison tomorrow.
His email notification popped up again. Grace sent him a message—SUBJECT: THE BONOBO—with an attached photo Grace had captured from Craigslist. The little ape was huddled in a cage that was far too small, fingers clasped tightly around the bars, looking thoroughly terrified. The picture definitely tugged at the heartstrings. But unless he could get a subpoena to make Craiglist hand over their records, there was no way he could prove it had come from the Smiths. No judge was likely to believe Grace’s word over Greer’s, and she’d certainly be questioned about what she was doing there. How could he make her understand there was no case?
After midnight, he padded to his locker to reclaim his reeking shoes, mentally apologizing to Grace for not working more on the case of her missing gorillas. He knew she was desperate. But he was only human. And tonight he was an exhausted human who stank of decomp.
At home, his shoe cleaning dilemma was quickly resolved. As soon as he took them off, Cargo rolled around on his shoes, moaning in canine ecstasy. And then the dog stood up, lifted his leg and unleashed a stream of hot urine all over the loafers. He beamed happily at Finn with his brown and blue eyes, black tongue lolling from one side of his mouth, proud of himself. Finn tossed both the mutt and the shoes out into the back yard.
Chapter 12
Let it go. Grace woke with her mother’s words bouncing around in her brain. She pulled the sheet over her face to shield it from the brightness of dawn lighting the open window. It was not yet even six a.m., too early for her automatic coffeemaker to turn on. The goldfinches and thrushes were already singing their avian hearts out with the beginning of mating season.
Day four of the gorillas missing.
It’s not too late to have a normal life.
She hated to admit it, but normal was a tempting concept. She tried to envision herself with a quiet job teaching psychology and linguistics in a college in a picturesque coastal town. She’d live in a small cottage filled with books and surrounded by flowers that would not be picked and eaten by gorillas. She’d dine out in trendy cafés and go for long walks with ... a husband? She tried to fill in that shadowy image. Did he look like Matt?
Would Matt ever trust women again after what Wendy had done to him? Would she ever trust men again after what Richard had done to her?
Her mattress registered a gentle thud. When she pulled the sheet from her eyes, Snow burrowed into the pillow beside her, one paw kneading her shoulder as he swiped his head across her cheek, purring.
A scene abruptly flashed through her memory: Neema responding to Grace’s tears by handing her the white kitten, signing Grace sad hold baby cat. Neema comforting her.
And then she knew that she could never “let it go.” Not as long as Neema might still be waiting for Grace to rescue her.
She pulled herself out of bed. In the cat carrier, Pepito sat on top of her sweatshirt, his expression now more curious than anxious. When she poked a finger in through an air hole, he grabbed it with his teensy fairy fingers and nibbled on her fingernail. She shared her breakfast, feeding him a piece of banana and a few cashews. It was always magical to commune with another species, and she felt lucky to have the experience of interacting with the marmoset. But she also felt a familiar pang of guilt, the same conflict she felt every time she visited a zoo. It wasn’t right to capture wild animals and imprison them just for human gratification.
But would humans appreciate just how precious wild animals were if they never looked into their eyes, never felt the flutter of a bird’s wings or the butterfly touch of a tiny monkey’s fingers on theirs, if they never heard a lion roar or an elephant trumpet? She was a zookeeper of sorts, too. She thought about all the visitors who had attended her open house. Would they realize how smart and imaginative gorillas were if they hadn’t seen Neema express her thoughts in sign language?
After the clock rolled past the reasonable hour of eight a.m., Grace tried the Spokane number for the Constellos for the third time. Still no answer. Pepito watched her from the cat carrier as she put the phone down. Making a chirping noise, he extended one doll-like arm through the hole, his paw open as if he hoped she would drop something into his palm. She gave him another piece of cashew. After a quick sniff, he dropped the nut and thrust out his paw again. His black eyes were bright and he seemed calm enough, so she opened the cage and carefully took him out. The tiny marmoset was as light as a sparrow.
“You can stay here as long as you like, Pepito,” she whispered, sitting down with him at the computer. He was such a gorgeous jewel of a creature. It would be so amazing to see a tree filled with dozens of these miniscule monkeys.
She cuddled him against her chest for a minute. Then the marmoset wiggled free and climbed to her shoulder, where he sat clutching her ear, his fingers tickling like butterfly feet. He seemed at home there; it must have been his typical perch with Maria Constello. Grace decided to leave him on her shoulder while she did her research.
She checked the Craigslist ads; the Baby Monkey ad was gone. The only pet ads were for
dogs and cats and one ferret. What had happened to the bonobo? She tried to persuade herself that the young ape had been moved to a better place. That it was still alive and would end up healthy and happy.
If only she could believe the same things about her gorillas. But the blood pool in the barn haunted her. Was Neema dead? Gumu? Little Kanoni?
According to Matt, the whereabouts of that maniac Frank Keyes at the time the gorillas disappeared were still unknown. She might be able to discover his address. And then what? Should she drive to Tacoma and confront him? She’d have to admit the gorillas were missing. If he wasn’t involved, he’d certainly spread that news around. And supposedly, an officer in Tacoma was checking the guy’s alibi.
But could Keyes have local cohorts? Was there another wacko determined enough to break in and stab a gorilla to death? Evansburg had its share of people who objected to her project—as made evident by the handful of protestors at the open house—but they hadn’t been violent. Yet.
It seemed far more probable that the intruder was someone who wanted to steal gorillas. But why? Nobody in his right mind would want to keep a gorilla for a pet. But, she reminded herself, some wannabe owners weren’t in their right minds; some wackos had cages full of rhinoceros vipers and some kept lions and leopards in their city apartments. A signing gorilla might seem like a fascinating animal companion to an animal lover who hadn’t thought through the daily reality of living with a creature smart enough to turn on the stove and strong enough to hurl a human through a plate glass door.
So who knew about her gorillas and their capabilities? Unfortunately, that list was long, and mostly anonymous. She’d written dozens of articles about Neema and Gumu. She sold their artwork on eBay. To prove authenticity, each painting came with a video of the gorilla in the process of creating the painting. The paintings and associated videos typically sold for between eight hundred and two thousand dollars.
Most purchases had been single items, but a couple in San Francisco had purchased one each of Neema’s and Gumu’s paintings, a man in New York had the highest bid for three of Neema’s pieces, and a gentleman in Boston had purchased five of Gumu’s works. There were even a few international buyers. Four of Gumu’s pieces had been shipped across the Caribbean to Caracas; a woman in Toronto, Canada had bought two of Gumu’s and one of Neema’s; and one of Gumu’s had been shipped to France. Grace smiled to think that her big gruff male gorilla was winning the popularity contest as an artist.
The Only Clue Page 12
