It was as if a down comforter had been sliced open, its contents tossed wildly about the room. Feathers clung to my sneakers as I passed cage after cage, each standing as empty as a desecrated coffin. The trail of scattered plumage looked like a fan dance gone berserk. I followed it into the breeding room. Normally filled with the raucous cries of mating, now not even the ghost of a peep could be heard. Phantom wings next herded me into the nursery, where not a single hatchling was to be found.
A tiny feather worked its way up inside my nose to tickle my nostrils, the torment continuing until I sneezed, stirring up a storm of down which gently settled on my shirt and in my hair. I stared in disbelief around me. Every single bird had disappeared, down to the eggs that usually lay fast asleep, safe in their incubators. Like breadcrumbs, the feathers continued their trail, luring me still deeper inside the house.
Room after room merged, all one jumbled mess of furniture that had been slashed and torn. Piles of papers lay scattered, occasionally caught up in a medley of stuffing and springs.
I was of two minds. I was eager to corner Alberto and tear into him for his dealings with Willy Weed. But if he hadn’t flown the coop, I was afraid of what I might find.
I received my answer as I stood rooted at the bedroom doorway. Alberto lay on his back, his limbs flung against the hard wooden floor, his face a Kabuki mask of red streaks and long, jagged gashes. The pattern of rough slices continued down his throat and ripped through his chest, where strips of his shirt clung in long, lifeless tatters. Alberto’s once ruddy complexion was now ghostly white, as if the blood had been drained from his flesh. The majority of it had been, and was now splattered against the walls.
I took a deep breath, struggling to regain my equilibrium, which was spinning faster than a carnival ride. I leaned my hand against the entry to steady myself, only to pull away, my palm suddenly sticky and wet. The room began to close in, cutting off my supply of air. I realized that the blood was still fresh. Pinpricks of moisture broke out over my face and neck, erupted on my chest, and slithered down my back. I rummaged for a tissue in my purse, but as hard as I wiped, Alberto’s blood clung stubbornly to my skin, then sank beneath flesh and bone, pounding in rhythm with my own.
Get a grip! You’ve done this before!
But confronting death still wasn’t easy. Alberto had died with his mouth and eyes open wide in terror, emitting a silent scream that swept around the room. Dots of moisture froze in place on my flesh, tiny ice sculptures held prisoner thanks to the magic of air-conditioning. A wave of nausea engulfed me.
I concentrated on taking slow, steady breaths until the room began to recede, reverting to its normal scale. It was then that a torn swatch of fabric caught my eye. As I walked over and picked it up, Alberto’s eyes followed me like those in a dime-store painting of Jesus; refusing to let go, insisting I unlock their secret. The scrap was a piece of his shirt, wet and slimy to the touch.
I quickly stood up and went in search of a phone. It wasn’t until I walked back through the clutter of the living room that I noticed the large muslin sack that sat on the floor. I bent over the bag, my fingers working to loosen the drawstring that held the top closed. The fabric rustled against my skin, chiding my clumsiness even as it urged me to move faster. Finally the knot came undone.
Inside lay six colorful parrots in a drugged sleep, unaware of what had taken place around them. But there was no time to register much else—I suddenly knew I wasn’t alone. Nothing definite had tipped me off to the threat; just a tightening of my stomach, the moisture turning clammy again on my flesh. As the hair rose on the back of my neck, I heard a sound—a low, throaty cough that came from directly behind me.
I dipped into my purse for my gun, but I didn’t move fast enough. An arm swung from behind, clamping around my neck. I struggled to wedge my fingers under it but the harder I fought, the tighter the arm pressed down on my windpipe, cutting off the air until I was gasping for breath. My heart kicked into high gear, sprouting hundreds of wings that beat all at once, but there was nowhere for me to fly.
The grip constricted still tighter and my mind began to shut down. I made a last ditch effort, frantically ramming my elbow back as hard as I could. A throb of pain shot through my forearm, sending sparks of electricity skittering into my fingers as my attacker let loose a low grunt. Then a hand whipped round in front of my face, a handkerchief in its grip. I took one last gasp as a familiar odor raced straight for my brain, the cloth molding itself to my nose and mouth as I fell into the gaping darkness that stretched out before me.
I was aware of the steady pounding in my head before I realized I lay sprawled on the floor. No hangover had ever been like this before. I brushed aside the cobwebs in my mind as a raging fire kicked in, burning the back of my throat in a fury. Then I remembered. I hadn’t been drinking. I closed my eyes and listened. No guttural cough could be heard; only Alberto’s silent scream which slithered around me, as constricting as any choke hold.
I inched my way up, resting on my butt before attempting to rise to my feet. My eyes throbbed as they struggled to focus; my fingertips gingerly probed my neck. I scanned the room, but my attacker was nowhere to be seen. Also missing was the muslin sack with its valuable cargo. In its place was a white handkerchief. I picked it up and took a whiff, only to have the drum in my head pound harder. Chloroform still clung to the fabric.
Goose bumps covered me like a second skin. The murder could have been the work of the Cuban bird ring. Even worse, I might have been responsible: it was at my insistence that Alberto had set out to infiltrate the group. Perhaps his ruse had been uncovered and this was his punishment for planning to squeal. Up till now, the gang had stuck to robbery. Alberto might have been their turning point.
I hauled myself up and dug through the mess, finally locating Alberto’s phone. But the effort proved to be worthless—I couldn’t get a dial tone. Either Alberto hadn’t paid his bill, or last night’s storm had knocked out the line.
I headed outside to the Tempo and dug through my black hole of a glove compartment, finally excavated my cell phone, then placed a call to Metro Dade to report Alberto’s death. I’d still have plenty of time to poke around on my own. When it came to dealing with dead bodies, Metro Dade police were thoroughly buried up to their necks. They would be in no rush to get to another.
I wrestled my way back into my car, where I grabbed a flashlight and a pair of white cotton gloves before walking down the driveway and out the front gate. Sure enough, a wire hung dangling from the telephone pole that led to Alberto’s domain. It didn’t take much examination to reveal that the damage wasn’t due to any storm, though. The wire had clearly been cut.
I hightailed it back inside the house, anticipation sharpening my curiosity. The best way to get to know someone is to have free rein to prowl through that person’s things. Unfortunately, this isn’t considered socially acceptable in most cultures. Unless, of course, that person is dead. I donned the gloves and let my fingers do the walking as I poked through Alberto’s closets and drawers, resolutely ignoring his corpse.
I soon found the four coolers stashed beneath Dominguez’s bed. Why do people always think that’s the last place a robber will look? The tune “Getting to Know You” began to play in my mind as I flipped open the first lid. The cooler was chock full of illegal cigars—pedigree Cubans, straight from Havana. The other containers held exactly the same. Altogether, 120 boxes of Cubans lay neatly wrapped in plastic, nestled inside their makeshift humidors. Either Alberto had quit the smoking habit, or he’d been busy raking in mucho dinero. Each individual smoke could sell for up to fifty dollars on the black market.
It’s been illegal to import and sell such cigars since 1962, when JFK slapped a trade embargo on Cuba. Punishment for violating that is severe. Alberto could have received a $250,000 fine and ten years in jail for his crime—a far harsher penalty than he would have paid for hawking endangered species. Looked like Alberto had found himself a sideline. I c
losed the lids and moved on, certain he must have something I’d find of more interest.
In the living room, Alberto’s desk offered fertile snooping ground. Poking through drawers has always come as second nature to me, and my fingers danced through the minutiae of Alberto’s life. A stack of bills included one from a local feed company for bags of bird seed, along with another from a lingerie store for a number of girdles and bras. The thought that Alberto might have been a cross-dresser was quickly dismissed. A mistress with a weakness for lingerie seemed more likely.
I moved on to the next drawer, which contained an assortment of anti-Castro propaganda. An array of bumper stickers proclaimed CUBA SÍ, CASTRO NO, while another variation touted NO CASTRO = NO PROBLEM. It was unusual in Miami not to find a car without at least one such sticker plastered onto its rear.
The bottom drawer served as Dominguez’s file cabinet, where hanging folders held receipts for assorted bills. While it was nice to know that Alberto had paid regular visits to his doctor and dentist, I skipped past those files, being privy to his current state of poor health. My fingers kept going until they reached a folder marked BREEDS, with a complete inventory of Alberto’s birds. Recorded were the usual blue-and-gold, scarlet, and military macaws, along with yellow-naped Amazons and African greys. Other charts noted purchases, births, and sales. But nowhere was there a listing of what I could have sworn I’d seen lying inside the muslin sack: a pair of hyacinth macaws.
Rare and highly protected, hyacinths are hard to mistake. They’re giant birds with distinct cobalt-blue plumage, golden eye rings, and sickle-shaped beaks that can easily sever a finger. Only 3,000 still fly free in their jungle home of Brazil, making the birds worth their weight in gold. A single hyacinth sells for a cool $12,000, while a breeding pair can easily fetch $30,000 or more.
But that wasn’t all that had been in the bag. I’d spotted bright green feathers with splashes of red at the throat: four Cuban Amazons had rounded out the booty. Found only on the island of Cuba, the birds’ numbers have dwindled thanks to hunting and habitat loss.
In 1492, Christopher Columbus took forty Cuban Amazons back to Spain as gifts for the king and queen. It appears he started a trend. These days, the birds are smuggled out of the country in suitcases, bras, and coats. As illegal as Cuban cigars, Amazons come with a hefty price tag, snagging up to $5,000 apiece. I knew that Alberto hadn’t been breeding Amazons.
The fact that he had no records of the six birds’ existence meant only one thing: they’d been smuggled into the country.
My attention became riveted back on Alberto’s bedroom. I’d consciously ignored the low whistle when it had first begun, certain my mind was playing tricks. I’m not always good in strange houses late at night, with dead bodies lying around. But the noise continued, growing progressively louder. I flashed back to the low, throaty cough with its chloroform kick and my skin instantly turned cold.
I shot a glance through the doorway, checking to make sure that Alberto’s corpse hadn’t moved, my antennae finely tuned to poltergeist alert.
There’s no such thing as ghosts! I reminded myself.
Who was I kidding? My knees were shaking at the mere thought.
Just as mysteriously, the sound stopped. I stood and listened for a moment, cursing my overactive imagination.
Wuss! I scolded, planting a mental swift kick.
Then the sound cranked back up, nearly shooting me right out of my skin. I could either make a run for the door and cower outside while I waited for backup, or, putting my rusty acting skills to use, pretend I was Peter Falk and Columbo it as best I could.
I slowly approached the bedroom, keeping an eye out for any unusual signs—say, a large corpse hurtling by. But Alberto was still in his place. I tiptoed around the body and headed toward the bed, and the sound instantly stopped.
“Hello?” I whispered, every nerve in my body on end.
“Hello!” hurtled back the reply.
A startled cry escaped me. In response came an uncanny imitation, accompanied by movement beneath the covers of the unmade bed. I warily grasped the top sheet and quickly pulled it back, unmasking the culprit below.
A large, glossy white cockatoo stared up at me, the deep pink feathers of its crest standing erect in salute. I’d heard that Alberto had a special bird he’d been close to, one that even slept with him. My money was on the avian mimic that now waddled toward me like a bad Charlie Chaplin routine. The bird teetered back and forth, balancing on short legs and oversized feet, its wings spread to keep from toppling over. Without so much as a how-de-do, it hopped onto my arm and proceeded to climb up my shoulder. By the time I remembered my earrings, it was too late.
“Stop that!” I ordered, caught in a tug of war to remove the gold hoop from its beak.
Fortunately, my feathered friend seemed to prefer conversation to chomping on jewelry. “Stop, thief! Stop!” the bird responded.
I deftly removed both earrings before he could make another swipe at them. “A little late for that, isn’t it?” I reminded him.
The bird wrapped its beak around my curls and gave a good jerk, which helped jump-start my brain. I realized that the creature that had hold of my red mop was the only eyewitness to Alberto’s murder. It had been cunning enough to escape being caught. Who knew what he might eventually decide to screech and tell?
A car door slammed, announcing the crew from Metro Dade had arrived. I spied a perch in the corner of the room and placed my secret weapon on it, telling him to sit tight. Then I headed outside to find Vern Reardon and Mervyn Tubbs walking the grounds. That was enough to tell me that the chief didn’t consider the case to be worthy of star billing.
Reardon was on the fast track to retirement, with only six months to go before he turned in his badge and gun. He’d never been one to burn up shoe leather when it came to an investigation, and he saw even less sense in doing so now. These days, Reardon spent his time daydreaming about his version of paradise: a shack on the Keys with a rod and a reel and an endless supply of cheap beer.
The biggest clue into Mervyn Tubbs’s character was that he considered Vern the paragon of what a cop should be.
Alberto must never have given a dime toward any local Metro Dade funds. Otherwise, a different duo would have certainly been assigned.
Vern was checking around the place with about as much interest as ticks on a yard dog. “You’re looking in the wrong area, Vern. Try over here,” I advised, pointing out the gaping hole in the security fence.
Vern did a slo-mo take, first staring at the breach before raising his flashlight to shine it on me. “Hey, there, Porter. I had a funny feeling you’d be around.”
Hmm. I wondered if that was because I’d discovered the body, and called it in. “You might want to check the telephone pole just in front of the gate. The wire’s been cut,” I added.
But Vern wasn’t about to be rushed. “Slow down, Porter. It ain’t like Alberto’s going nowhere.”
He ran a hand across the salt-and-pepper hair he cut to resemble a Fuller brush, and lifted his chin as if he were about to bay at the moon. Instead, he pulled a couple of Twix bars out of his pocket and threw one in my direction. I reached out and caught it, calling it dinner. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked.
I went for the easy explanation in between bites of chocolate and caramel. “Whoever killed Alberto made off with his birds.”
Vern stuffed the entire bar into his mouth and began taking slow, deliberate chomps. “Pwob da cube gan,” he responded, cookie crumbs flying like projectiles in every direction.
“What’s that?” I tried to sidestep the airborne debris.
“He said it was probably the Cuban gang,” Mervyn interpreted.
Weighing a good 300 pounds, Tubbs took small, delicate bites out of a king-size Hershey bar, hoping to make it last the whole night. I often wondered how Mervyn managed to stay on the force, certain that one good chase after a perp would do him in.
“You
go take a look at that phone wire, Mervyn,” Reardon directed. “I’m gonna check out the house with Annie Oakley here.”
“Yeah, John Wayne and I have got it covered,” I added, flashing a grin.
Tubbs frantically shook his head, his eyes bulging wide. He’d once let it slip that Wayne was Reardon’s idol. Ever since, that’s what Vern had been dubbed by the younger cops.
“What’s that you said?” Vern glared.
Apparently, Tubbs had forgotten to mention just how sensitive Vern was about being ribbed. Great. What I didn’t need tonight was any enemies on the police force.
I scrambled for cover. “You know—Annie Oakley—Westerns—John Wayne. It’s free association.”
Vern gave me a suspicious glance before he turned around and walked off in perfect John Wayne fashion, his hand hovering above his revolver. I followed my Metro Dade gunslinger inside the house.
Reardon sneezed as a cloud of feathers rose up to greet him. “Yep. Seems the Cubans got all the birds. Must have been one hell of a haul.” He reached inside his nose and pulled out a small pinfeather.
“I’m not so sure it was the Cuban gang,” I ventured. “This isn’t their usual MO.”
“MO, huh?” Reardon kicked at a pile of down. “That’s a good one. Where’d you pick that up, Porter? From watching Miami Vice?”
I didn’t bother to inform him that Miami Vice had gone off the air ages ago. “That gang is into stealing birds. They’re not looking to do hard time. I don’t believe they’d raise the stakes by killing someone.”
Vern reached up and tugged at the phantom brim of an invisible cowboy hat, in silent tribute to the Duke. “There ya go. That just shows me how much you don’t know. Hell, those Cubans are a vicious bunch that are capable of doing most anything. They’ve changed the goddamn face of Miami almost overnight.”
Bird Brained (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 3
