Bird Brained

I SAW WILLY WEED DUCK INTO THE AIRPORT MEN’S ROOM.

In hot pursuit I shoved my way inside, where I was immediately confronted by a guy making good use of the urinal.

“Hey, babe. Something I can help you with?” he asked, turning slightly to show off his wares.

“Police business,” I growled, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Somehow, I didn’t think “Fish and Wildlife” would have the desired effect.

My bathroom Lothario quickly tucked himself in, zipped up his fly and fled.

Whoosh!
A toilet roared. I checked under the row of doors and saw a pair of snakeskin boots in the end stall. Dropping to all fours, I saw Willy, intent as a bombardier on a mission, poised to drop five illegal parrot eggs into the toilet.

Plonk! The eggs plopped one by one into the water as I squirmed under the stall door, cursing the staff for not cleaning more often. I reached the toilet just as it gulped all five eggs in a victorious flush.

Willy smirked like a half-witted hyena. “Hey there, Agent Porter. What’s the matter? Don’t they allow you in the ladies’ room no more?”

Gator Aide

Tortoise Soup

A Rachel Porter Mystery

JESSICA SPEART

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Copyright © 1999 Jessica Speart

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Avon Books, Inc.

Author photo by George Brenner

Cover design by Pickle Group (
http://www.picklegroup.com
)

eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for
booknook.biz

Published by the author

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-91012

ISBN: 0-380-79290-7 (paperback)

First Avon Twilight Printing: April 1999

For my mother:

If you don’t like it, don’t tell me!

Many thanks to Jennifer English, a top notch special agent with the USFWS; Lennie Jones, whose passion for protecting wildlife is inspiring; Regina Cussell for sharing her knowledge of parrots; and Connie Hansen and Russell Peacock for their hospitality during my trips to Miami.

And to George, who not only reads my manuscripts but puts up with the insanity.

Teaser

Other Books by Jessica Speart

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Thanks

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Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

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Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Epilogue

About the Author

The shine that emanated from Tony Carrera’s white patent leather shoes ricocheted off the walls of the dingy warehouse. I hadn’t planned on being at the cargo area of Miami International Airport on a Sunday night. Obviously Tony hadn’t counted on my presence, either.

But I’d received a hot tip about a flight coming in from Brazil, and found myself with some time to kill. Besides, weekends at MIA are notorious. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife office is closed, so it’s the perfect occasion to smuggle unlucky members of the animal kingdom in and out of Miami.

“For chrissakes, Porter! The shipment’s already been cleared. What the hell else do you want?” Carrera fumed.

An exotic-animal dealer famous for trying to beat the system, Carrera had somehow finagled clearance on the paperwork for his reptile shipment sight unseen, days before it even arrived. His plan had been to sneak out of the warehouse after collecting his cargo. My surprise appearance had effectively screwed up his scheme.

“What I want is to open the boxes so that I can check what’s inside,” I calmly informed him.

“I don’t got time for this crap,” Carrera grumbled, chewing on the soggy remnants of a stogie. “Take a look at me, will ya?” He pushed out his chest as he gestured toward his apparel. “I’m not all dressed up for my health, ya know. I got a hot date right after I drop off these goods. Nice, huh?”

Carrera was the proud owner of a bad toupee which clung to his head like a poodle trying to keep its balance atop a bowling ball. Tonight he was decked out to kill in a pair of white polyester pants that highlighted his huge belly. A short-sleeved paisley shirt of 100 percent nylon lay wide open, revealing a heavy gold chain nestled against a dark mat of fur, with additional chunks of jewelry adorning his wrists and his fingers. It was apparent that Tom Jones had little to worry about.

“After she catches a glimpse of you, I’m sure your date won’t mind waiting the few extra minutes,” I assured him.

Tony threw up his hands in frustration as I studied the documentation on the box before me. The paperwork listed its contents as “venomous snakes.” Great—now I understood why it had been given clearance. Nobody liked to risk life and limb to examine a bunch of writhing, poisonous reptiles. Least of all, me. But I also knew that was exactly what dealers like Carrera counted on, which made it the perfect scam for sneaking wildlife and even drugs into the country. It’s also one of the reasons why fewer than 10 percent of smuggled critters are ever caught. I was looking to up the ante.

I pried a crowbar under the wooden lip of the first crate, and the lid gave way with a creak. Then I picked up a snake hook and gloves. But Tony beat me to the punch, pulling a short-handled pair of tongs from inside his case.

“Oh, for chrissakes, Porter. These things are in bags. What the hell are you afraid of?” He pushed open the top and shoved his hand deep inside the crate, where he grabbed hold of a blue cloth bag.

A movement beneath the fabric caught my eye. “Tony, watch out! I think there’s something loose on the bottom!”

Carrera twisted his head up toward me with a lewd grin. “All you chicks have the same problem with snakes—and I’ve finally figured out what it is. They’re long and they’re hard… but they won’t buy you dinner.”

As Tony broke into raucous laughter, I saw a pair of lidless eyes that gazed coldly up toward the light from deep within the dark wooden confines. A shiver sped through me, but faster than I could speak, a king cobra sprang up, revitalized by the rush of fresh air, the skin on its neck flaring out in a regal hood. Carrera’s laugh abruptly caught in his throat as he zoomed in on my expression, his brain already guessing what had risen behind him. The snake’s bronze eyes focused on its prey as a thin layer of sweat broke out on Carrera’s skin.

“Oh, God,” he whispered, his eyes beseechingly locked onto mine.

“Listen to me, Tony. I’ll angle around and grab the snake with the hook. Just don’t turn and look,” I cautioned in a soft, even tone.

“No! Don’t go anywhere. It’ll strike!” Tony’s voice was high and tight and his face was paler than his pants.

“Okay, Tony,” I tried to calm him. “I’m going to very slowly get my gun. This will all be over in less than a minute.”

“Don’t you dare!” Carrera hissed, a drop of sweat slipping between his lips. “This thing cost me big time. Besides, I already got it sold. Shoot it and I’ll sue you.”

I stared at the man, wondering what other deadly goodies he had hidden in his crates and what he felt they were worth.

“All right,” I said, working to keep my cool. “Then just move away slowly. Don’t jerk and you’ll be fine.”

But Carrera could no longer restrain himself and swiveled around to confront the snake, which swayed in mesmerizing fashion.

“Oh, shit!” he shrieked.

My hand raced for my gun, but the cobra was faster. Lunging forward, it sank its fangs into Tony’s forearm as he screamed. Just as quickly, the snake relinquished its hold with a quiver of victory. Tony jerked away and I slammed down the lid, locking the cobra back in its lair.

The critter must have packed quite a wallop. Within sixty seconds Carrera was down on the floor, jerking like a fish pulled out of water. Cobras are neurotoxic, so it was only a matter of time before Carrera’s central nervous system began to shut down. He was already losing muscle coordination and his breathing had turned ragged and slow. I had to get him to Jackson Memorial as quickly as possible.

A cargo worker made me swear on my life, my mother’s, and those of my unborn children, that the snake couldn’t get out of its crate before he could be persuaded to come down off his forklift to help. That ate up precious minutes. By the time we’d half-carried, half-dragged Carrera into the back of my Ford Tempo, swelling had already begun to set in. I quickly pulled off his rings and bracelets before it was too late.

“Yuur nuffin’ budda thif,” Carrera moaned.

Slurred speech. Bad sign.

“You’ll get it all back, Tony,” I consoled him. “I just don’t want you rupturing any body parts in my car.”

I tore out of the cargo area, grateful that traffic was relatively light on Sunday nights. Any other time and Tony would have been down for the count. Swinging onto the Dolphin Expressway, I dragged out my cell phone and punched in the number for Dr. Bob Samuels.

I’d met Dr. Bob soon after I’d landed in Miami. Recurring headaches and nausea had sent me galloping to Jackson Memorial Hospital. I figured it was either side effects from my last assignment in southern Nevada, or I was pregnant. Neither prospect was thrilling. Dr. Bob ran a battery of tests, cost me a minor fortune, and told me to stay away from places that cause you to glow in the dark. We’d been friends ever since.

I filled Dr. Bob in on his latest patient. I only hoped the hospital was stocked with the appropriate antivenin.

“What’s your estimated time of arrival?” he asked.

I surveyed the growing traffic that had mysteriously congregated before me and then glanced in my rearview mirror. Tony had begun to drool like a slap-happy Saint Bernard.

“That depends on how much my driving scares everyone else off the road.”

Dr. Bob chuckled. “That should be no problem for you, Rachel. I’ll expect to see you shortly.”

Miami traffic is a melting pot of the craziest drivers in the world, from confused tourists to geriatric seniors to immigrants with their own rules of the road. I veered onto the shoulder, slammed my hand on the horn in lieu of a siren, and pressed down hard on the pedal until we were flying at warp speed, counting on convincing the other drivers that the lunatic barreling along the side of the expressway was too demented for them to even attempt to challenge. A few hardy souls went so far as to cheer me on. When I pulled up in front of the emergency room, Dr. Bob was ready and waiting.

By the time we slid him out of my car and onto a stretcher, Carrera’s arm was the size of a championship watermelon. His uneven breathing had stopped, as had his drooling—though a memorial pool lay on the floor of my car.

I ran ahead with Dr. Bob, leaving Tony’s bloated carcass to be rolled inside by strangers.

“Is he still alive?” I asked, wondering if I’d risked life and limb only for Tony to die thinking I’d stolen his jewelry.

Dr. Bob scratched the wispy whiskers on his chin that he insisted were a beard. “It may seem he’s not breathing, but your guy is alive, all right. He can hear everything that’s being said. He just can’t respond.”