Bird Brained (17 page)

I didn’t mention the stash of Cuban Cohibas under Alberto’s bed. The Vallardes probably already knew. One of Elena’s fingernails followed the trail of her brother’s cheekbone, gently coming to a stop as it reached his lips. Ramon lightly kissed her finger, his gaze firmly planted on mine.

“One more thing,” I said, curious as to just how far their brother/sister act went. “When was the last time that either of you saw Alberto?”

Ramon’s eyes wandered off in one direction and Elena’s went in the other, as each carefully considered the question.

“It must have been at least two years ago,” Ramon finally offered.

Unless Tony Carrera was wrong, I’d just nabbed the duo in a very major lie.

Ramon tenderly slipped Elena’s ruby-red slippers back onto her feet as she rose with a purr.

“Enough. I must get back to work.” She cast a sidelong glance in my direction, picked up Geraldo, and headed toward the house.

Ramon put his arm through mine as he walked me to my car. “I would very much like you to come and see my cigar store in Little Havana,” he said, giving my arm a squeeze.

I planned to take him up on his offer. “What’s it called?” I asked.

The right side of his body pressed tightly against mine. “The store’s name is Puffin,” he whispered. “Come visit me soon.”

Two days seemed like plenty of time for Metro Dade’s medical examiner to have come up with the details of how Alberto had died. I decided it was time to check in with Hal Cooper.

“Well, hello there, sexy. I like it when a woman makes the first move and gives the man a call.” Coop nearly panted over the phone.

Oy vay
, as my grandmother would have said. I pictured him twirling the tips of his mustache as he played with his bow tie. I didn’t even want to think about what else he might be doing.

“Now, I’m not going to play hard to get,” Coop warned, as if that were a major surprise. “So—yes. I am free tonight for dinner and dancing. We can take it from there, after that,” he added with a growl.

“I’m calling to see if you’ve come up with anything further concerning Alberto Dominguez’s death.” I kept my voice disinterested.

“Well, I’d say that all depends on what you mean by ‘further.’ Such as, we could discuss this ‘further’ over a glass of wine. Or, what say we take this relationship of ours the next step ‘further.’”

The man was doing a good job of driving me “further” away. “What
I
mean by ‘further’ is, do you have any more information regarding what exactly caused Dominguez’s death?” I asked, gritting my teeth.

“In that case, I’d have to say it was murder.” Coop barely bothered to contain the laughter in his voice. “Of course, I might be willing to help you out a little more if we were to get together in person.”

Right: He’d help me keep in shape, by making me run a few laps around his desk. Coop had me, and he knew it. Officially, as a mere Fish and Wildlife agent, I had no right to demand access to forensic information on Dominguez. It all came down to being a matter of Hal Cooper’s goodwill. Damn the man and his sexist games! But if those were the rules, then down and dirty was how we would play it.

“In that case, are we talking your place or mine?” I asked in throaty imitation of Elena. I could almost feel Hal Cooper’s testosterone level screech into overdrive through the phone.

“Sweetheart, you’re not playing games with old Coop now, are you?” he asked, all aflutter.

“Not unless there are certain games you really like to play.” I fought off the overwhelming feeling of nausea.

I heard Coop begin to breathe heavily and decided to cut to the chase, not wanting to risk his having a heart attack. “But first, don’t you think you could give me the teensiest bit of information? Just something to keep me going until we meet later on?”

It was hard to believe that men actually fell for this stuff, but Cooper did a double somersault, and then landed a triple flip.

“What is it that you want to know?” he nearly wheezed. Desire clearly had hold of one part of his body, completely cutting off the flow of blood to his brain.

“What was the murder weapon that was used?” I kept my fingers crossed that Cooper would remain anxious to please.

He took his time, weighing whether or not to hand over such information.

“I know this great little place for oysters,” I added shamelessly, counting on his firm belief in the power of aphrodisiacs.

“All right! I’ll tell you!” Coop raised the white flag of surrender. “The murder weapon was a serrated knife.”

“Are you sure about that?” A nagging inner doubt made me question it.

“As sure as I need to be for my report,” he retorted, making it clear that was all I was getting for now. “So then, what time shall I pick you up? Or should we skip dinner and just head straight for dessert?” His voice trembled with enough lust to send me screaming for a suit of armor.

“Oops! Sorry, I just remembered. I’ve already got plans for tonight.”

“Goddammit, Porter!” Coop’s shriek bellowed through the air as I quickly hung up the phone.

I felt fairly certain I could expect no further information out of Coop on any case in the foreseeable future. Picking up the phone, I dialed Vern.

“Reardon here,” Vern drawled in his best John Wayne tone.

“Hey, Vern. It’s Rachel.”

“Hell. In that case, I can get back to drinking my coffee,” Vern said, taking a slurp.

At least I always knew where the man’s top priorities lay.

“So, what’s up now, Porter?” he asked, beginning to munch on what I imagined to be a donut.

“I noticed that one of Alberto’s file folders was gone when I was last out there. It had a complete inventory of Dominguez’s birds. Do you think I could get a copy of the contents?”

My question was met by a long pause.

“What the hell are you talking about, gal?” he asked, sounding totally dumbfounded.

“You know: It’s a record that gives the date of each bird’s birth or purchase,” I began to explain.

“Jesus Christ, Porter! I know what the hell an inventory is. I just never saw any such thing there!” Reardon exploded.

It was my turn to feel puzzled. “But I thought you took it.”

“Well, if I had, don’t you suppose I’d know what you’re talking about?” Reardon observed.

“You’re
sure
that you didn’t see it?” I refused to believe the information had simply disappeared. “It was a thick folder filed in the bottom drawer of Alberto’s desk, labeled BREEDS.”

“You could tell me it was a pink elephant with purple ears, and I still wouldn’t have it,” Vern retorted. “Musta been those damn Santeria devil worshippers—cause I sure as hell can’t think of what Skunk Ape would have wanted it for.”

I got off the phone, cursing myself for not taking the folder when I’d had the chance, even though that would’ve been illegal. Then I made one more call.

“Dr. Samuels,” the voice resonated in my ear.

“I think I need a favor and a drink,” I morosely informed him.

“Porter?” Dr. Bob laughed. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a high-maintenance dame?”

“Yeah, me and Ivana Trump. I hear we both shop at the same place,” I parried. “Do you have time to take a quick break?”

“Don’t tell me: You’ve managed to injure a few more people on the job,” he replied.

“Very funny. Meet you at the QT Diner in about a half hour?”

“My favorite place,” Dr. Bob cheerfully agreed. “They never blink when I walk in with a body bag.”

I hopped into my Ford and headed straight for the heart of Miami.

The city of Miami is a whole different animal from South Beach. It’s a Wild West atmosphere, with a simmering stew of Cuban, Haitian, Nicaraguan, Colombian, Mexican, Dominican, Honduran, and Peruvian refugees. The local joke is that the only true Miamians to be found are the Miccosuke Indians, now relegated to running bingo games and wrestling gators on their Everglades reservation.

As far as I was concerned, if there was a center for wackos anywhere in the world, it had to be right here. After all, this is the place where an angry ex-lover spent a day driving around town, exhibiting his girlfriend’s decomposing corpse to a gang of his buddies. It was also here that a drunken driver was discovered slumped down in his seat, with his pet iguana steering his car. And only in Miami would government employees express their job dissatisfaction by hanging voodoo dolls, with their necks in tiny nooses, all over city hall.

Dr. Bob was waiting at the counter of the QT when I arrived, ogling kool-pop waitresses decked out in fifties-style shirtwaist uniforms, their dresses unbuttoned to showcase low-cut, black lacy bras. Combat boots and body piercing added distinctive personal touches.

What
I
liked best about the QT was that it was a no-nonsense diner that had finagled itself a liquor license. I ordered a vodka tonic and waited for Dr. Bob’s tongue to reel back inside his mouth.

He took a sip of his beer and then turned to me with a grin. “Okay—the doctor’s now in. What can I do you for?”

I watched in metabolic envy as one of the waitresses slipped an extra-large piece of double fudge cake in front of Dr. Bob. A groan escaped my lips as the first bite disappeared into his mouth.

“For chrissakes, Porter. Why don’t you just break down and order yourself a slice?” he suggested.

My attention was fixed on the second forkful of pure chocolate bliss that hovered in midair. “Can’t. I’m on a diet,” I explained, lost in a chocoholic haze.

“Oh, all right. Here—you win,” he said, handing me a second fork.

I dug in.

“You want to explain to me why you can eat my dessert, but can’t order your own?” Dr. Bob interrogated me.

“It’s one of the unwritten laws of the universe. There are fewer calories this way,” I explained between bites.

“That makes a lot of sense,” he retorted, watching his slice of cake disappear. “Vodka and chocolate. You know what that says about you, don’t you?”

“That I can blame my dietary lapse on fermented potatoes, I suppose.” I took the last bite, feeling totally satisfied, and then ordered Dr. Bob his very own second slice. “I need help with a case that’s come up.”

“Animal, vegetable, mineral, or man?” Dr. Bob queried.

I filled him in on the gruesome remains that had once been Alberto Dominguez.

Dr. Bob gave me the once-over from behind his bottle-lens glasses, his finger idly stroking the few hairs on his chin. “Is there some reason you’re not buying the serrated-blade scenario? Perhaps due to a personal dislike of a certain Metro Dade medical examiner?”

I looked at the good doctor with disdain. “Do you really think I would be so petty?” I countered, figuring there was a good chance he might be right.

“Listen, it’s all a moot point, anyway. I can’t barge in there and personally examine the body, so it’s impossible for me to tell whether Cooper’s autopsy conclusion is in any way wrong,” Dr. Bob explained.

I slipped my hand inside my purse and whipped out a brown paper bag, containing the ragged patch of fabric that I’d found near Dominguez’s body.

“I can’t produce a corpse. But I did recover this,” I smugly revealed.

Dr. Bob took a peek inside. “Congratulations, Porter. I see that you managed to get yourself a real memento there.”

“This fabric was wet and slimy when I found it near the body. Is there any way to tell what caused that?” I asked.

“What are you on the lookout for? A slobbering killer?” Dr. Bob joked.

I continued to dangle the bag.

“Besides, why not just hand it over to Metro Dade and let them figure it out? They’re the ones with all the pertinent information,” he said.

“I suspect they might not appreciate my questioning Hal Cooper’s work. Besides, I trust that you’ll do a better job,” I replied, appealing to his sense of vanity. “And I’ll get you a date with that waitress over there if you do this for me.” I indicated the babe who’d delivered his cake.

Dr. Bob looked at me skeptically. “You really believe you can do that?”

“One hundred percent guaranteed.” I’d already caught her giving him the eye; just the whisper that he was a highly regarded doctor would undoubtedly clinch the deal.

Dr. Bob went for the bait, removing the paper bag from my hand. “I have a friend who’s a whiz with DNA analysis,” he said with a grin. “If I were you, I’d get busy setting up that date.”

The sun was set on late-afternoon mellow as I made my way home, the air temperature akin to a light sauté. I drove up to find that Sophie had been true to her word. Her house, which had been a deep periwinkle blue, was now painted magenta and lime. But it was the sound coming from inside which aroused my curiosity. Instead of two distinct laughs, there were now three—one of which washed over me as powerfully as a fifty-foot wave.

I dashed through the door and into the kitchen, where I found Sophie and Lucinda all dolled up to party in outrageous Carmen Miranda outfits. But it was the tall, slender figure angled away from me that I was interested in. I followed a pair of gorgeous gams, up past the Chinese-red kimono, to a headful of curls as blond and voluminous as one of Dolly Parton’s wigs.

“Oh, my God. Terri?” I whispered, unable to believe it was my best friend from New Orleans.

Terri Tune whirled around and grabbed me in a long overdue hug, as we both screamed in excitement. Then I stepped away to take a good look at my former French Quarter landlord, whose smile created dimples the size of quarters in each cheek.

He shook his curls in dismay. “See? I let you move away and look what happens. Your complexion and makeup get all shot to hell. Now I’m going to have to start again from scratch,” he scolded, a hand gracefully placed on each hip.

I couldn’t say the same for Terri. He looked as if he’d just walked off the cover of
Cosmo
magazine, except that his baby blues were hidden behind a large pair of Sophie’s sunglasses, replete with dancing dolphins.

Terri turned back to the kitchen counter to put the finishing touches on four highly potent piña coladas, each embellished with a brightly colored paper umbrella.