Bird Brained (32 page)

Since I had to face Carlos at some point anyway, I headed to the office, hoping Phil hadn’t reported me for dumping all my paperwork on him.

I walked into my cubicle, where my desk sat sparkling clean, without one file on it. Oh, God—I’d probably been fired, and hadn’t been told yet. I had no choice but to play wait-and-see until Carlos returned to the office. I logged on to the computer to make good use of my time.

“Hey, Porter.”

I jumped. My finger hit a key and deleted whatever had been on the computer screen. The place was so quiet I’d figured no one else was around, but Phil was leaning against the doorway. Creeping into his late forties, he was attired in a pair of navy polyester pants and a white shirt, making him look more like an accountant than a wildlife agent. Even his sleeves were rolled up, as if he’d been hard at work crunching numbers.

A hot flush rose up into my cheeks, and I instantly regretted my actions of the other day. I’d had no reason to dump my paperwork punishment on him.

“Listen, Phil. I’m really sorry about sneaking all those files over to your desk. All I can say is, it was done in a moment of anger.” I started to get up. “Let me haul them back here right now.”

“No need to, Porter. It’s already been taken care of. In fact, I came over to see if we could work something out.” He folded his arms and smiled.

I was instantly suspicious. “What are you thinking about?”

“You know that I hate fieldwork, right?” He sauntered over to my desk, and sat on the edge.

It couldn’t have been more obvious: not only was the man wearing a pocket protector, but he even had ink marks on his hands.

“Right,” I agreed.

“So, what say you take on the footwork for me when you can. In return, I’ll do all the paperwork,” he suggested. “And by the way, Carlos thinks you’ve been in here at night catching up on all those folders he slapped on you. You haven’t gotten around to setting up a new filing system yet, or posting past documents, but you’re working on it,” he grinned.

That clinched the deal. “Just give me a list of the calls you’re supposed to be following up on.”

Phil had it ready and waiting. He placed the list on my desk and I quickly perused it, with the promise that I’d start cracking on it in the next few days. As he left, I turned my attention back to the computer.

Besides hating paperwork, I’m also no whiz when it comes to dealing with things high-tech. I immediately discovered that Tommy had been wrong: it wasn’t as easy as typing in the letters, DRMO, and magically having a list of military weapons appear. I made a few discouraging stabs at trying to figure out what the web address for the Defense and Reutilization Marketing Offices would be, with little luck. Finally at my wit’s end, I typed in the simplest and most stupid thing I could think of—the Department of Defense web page—and hoped it would connect me.

I love technology when it works. A quick peck and search immediately led me to what I’d been tearing my hair out about only a minute before: the home page for DRMOs, in living color. Tommy had been right, after all—this was almost better than the Home Shopping Network. From boots, to office furniture, to computer equipment, to missiles and bombs—it was
Tool Time
meets the Unabomber.

I typed in grenade launchers and learned that yes, there were some lovely M-79s for sale through an outlet in Crane, Indiana. I even discovered I could pick up three complete TOW antitank missile systems at a DRMO outlet at Fort Benning, Georgia. I was about to add machine guns to my shopping list when Carlos came in, catching me by surprise.

“Buenas tardes
, Porter.
¿Como está?”

Phil must have done one bang-up job on that paperwork. Carlos had never inquired how I was before.

“Buenas tardes
, Carlos.
Bien, grácias.”
I figured he’d appreciate the attempt, even if my accent could use a little work.

“I think we should talk about what happened the other day.” He sat down in a chair next to my desk.

“All right,” I agreed, my fingers itching to get back to the keyboard.

“I deal with a lot of pressure, being in charge of this port,” he said.

“Everyone knows this is the toughest port in the country,” I assured him.

“This place is a black hole that eats agents and their careers alive,” Carlos drove his point home.

“But you’re doing everything you can with the shoestring budget Washington’s given you to work with.” Even though I meant what I said, I was hoping to rack up some points.

“I’ve also found this position very frustrating. I’m not someone who does well sitting behind a desk doing paperwork,” he added.

Tell me about it.

“Which is one reason why maybe I’ve been too hard on you,” Carlos conceded.

“Why is that? Because women should do the paperwork?” Me and my big mouth—I just couldn’t stop myself.

“That could be part of it.” His fingers twitched, lost without the revolver they normally held on to. “That bird case we discussed may be worth your looking into after all. Since you’re able to handle the paperwork as well as carry out an investigation, you have my permission to proceed.”

Well, knock me over with a bocci ball. I silently said a prayer of thanks to Phil.

“That’s great—especially since there’s been a new development,” I began in a rush. “I went over to Weed’s place this morning, where I discovered he had been preparing to head out again for Brazil. He’d procured another fake passport, along with an airline ticket to Brasília, a bunch of muslin sacks, and a chunk of cash.”

“What do you mean by ‘he had been’ preparing?” Carlos asked, kind enough to overlook the fact that I’d gone to Weed’s on company time, after having been instructed not to.

“Weed was murdered. I discovered the body,” I informed him.

“You seem to have the magic touch,” Carlos noted dryly. “How was he murdered?”

I knew I was setting myself up to be shot down. “Constriction,” I muttered.

Carlos’s mustache twitched in surprise. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say constriction?”

I nodded, figuring that was the safest reply.

Carlos sat back, stretched his legs, and laced his fingers behind his head. “Would you care to elaborate on that, Agent Porter?” he inquired, in a voice oozing with sarcasm.

Just when we were beginning to get along so well. “At first glance, it would appear his Burmese python squeezed him to death.”

“You call that murder?” Carlos asked. “It sounds to me like a crazy herp dealer got himself into some trouble he couldn’t get out of.”

I started to laugh. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

Carlos wasn’t amused. I tried to put a lid on my case of the giggles, but between too little sleep, and having been locked in with a bunch of lethal snakes and a squished dead man, I must have needed the release.

Carlos’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “I’m glad to see you’re laughing, Agent Porter. Because that’s about how seriously I’m taking everything you told me.”

That sobered me up quickly. “I haven’t fully explained the situation. Someone else was at Willy’s while I was there. Whoever it was took the necessary steps not to be discovered, by locking me inside the trailer that contained Willy and his snake.”

“I take it you have no idea who locked you in?” Carlos inquired, methodically laying the groundwork to ensnare me.

“No.” I moved a step closer to his trap. “They had the foresight to turn out the lights right before the door was closed and locked. By the time I got out, they were gone.”

“Still, I’m sure you were smart enough to pick up the plane ticket, the passport, and the money when you found them,” Carlos said, handing me the rope with which to hang myself.

“By the time I went back to retrieve them, those items were missing, as well,” I explained, compliantly sticking my head in the noose.

Carlos slapped his hands on my desk and stood up. His expression told me I’d performed exactly as he had expected. “In that case, you seem to be running around in circles, with nothing but two dead bodies to show for your trouble.”

Then Carlos’s eyes fell on my computer screen, where he took in my shopping list. He brought his face down close to mine.

“Do you want to tell me what’s really going on here, Porter?” he asked, in a tone that chilled the air.

What I didn’t want was to hand him any more ammunition; at least, not until I had a better handle on exactly what I had stumbled upon.

“I was just computer surfing,” I lightly replied.

“M-79s? Antitank missile systems?” Carlos’s eyes were glued onto mine. “This investigation wouldn’t have anything to do with gun running, would it? Because, if it does, this case goes well beyond Fish and Wildlife’s authority.”

Great. Decoded, that meant I could expect to spend the rest of my days seated next to Phil, bogged down in paperwork for eternity.

“Call me crazy,” I figured a plea of insanity might do the trick, “but I’ve been tossing around some conspiracy theories.”

Carlos looked pleased at my admission toward lunacy. “Such as?”

“You remember our talk on how Cuban paramilitary groups are armed to the teeth with weapons?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“Well, it’s possible that our government might still be secretly supplying them with arms,” I proposed.

A patronizing smile flitted across his face. “Of course they’re not, Porter. Those days are long over.”

“Are you absolutely certain of that?” I felt like the female version of Oliver Stone.

“Listen, Porter: the failure of Operation Mongoose put an end to all U.S. covert activities in Cuba,” Carlos stated.

“Operation Mongoose?” I repeated. Carlos had to be making some of this stuff up as he went along.

“How can you not know about Operation Mongoose?” He sighed.

What I knew was that Carlos got a kick out of stumping me. “Is there any reason I should have heard of it?” I snapped.

“That information was declassified in 1993,” he condescendingly informed me, his male pride fully sated. “It was a covert program cooked up after the Bay of Pigs to get native Cubans to rebel and oust Castro. The CIA targeted Cuban industries and transport ships for sabotage, and contaminated Cuban sugar shipments on their way to other countries. The plan even considered convincing Cubans that Castro was the anti-Christ and then staging Jesus’ return from heaven.”

“No wonder it failed.” I was amazed at some of the loony-tune things that had been concocted.

“Exactly. Which is why the U.S. has done nothing but maintain sanctions against Cuba for the past thirty-eight years. Now it’s just a waiting game.”

What continued to nag at me was Saul Greenberg’s hint of a political tie-in with the parrot smuggling. That, along with the recent bombings aimed at the tourist industry in Cuba, left too many questions unanswered.

“But what about the Cuban-American United Stand Foundation?” I probed. “You said yourself that they exercise enormous power: Maybe they’ve worked out a deal where the government supplies Omega-12 with arms, but doesn’t get involved in any other way.”

Carlos waved his hand as if I were an annoying fly not worthy of being swatted. “You’re getting carried away with your conspiracy theory, Porter. Even CAUSF isn’t
that
powerful.”

“Maybe not. But isn’t it possible that Omega-12 still has some sort of tenuous ties to the CIA?” I challenged.

Carlos shrugged. “I suppose there could be a lone renegade who’s never given up on the fight against Castro, some wildcard fanatic who might be working with them. But it doesn’t seem very likely. Without government backing, he’d just be spinning his wheels.”

I remained silent, my attention back on the on-line DRMO candy stores.

“If there’s something else you want to tell me, this is your chance,” Carlos warned, almost as if he knew I was withholding information.

“I found a piece of fabric that had been torn off Alberto’s shirt lying near the body, the night of the murder,” I revealed. “The material was wet with some substance other than blood. I removed it from the scene and sent it to a doctor I know over at Jackson Memorial, where he passed it on to a forensic scientist for DNA analysis. Apparently this guy maintains a collection of DNA samples from an assortment of wildlife. I got the report this morning.” I waited, expecting Carlos to blast me for having removed evidence from the scene of a crime.

“And what did it conclude?” was all he asked.

“The fabric was soaked with cougar saliva.” One look at Carlos’s face was all it took to make me feel uncomfortably foolish.

“You know, Porter, I’ve tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, precisely because you
are
a woman. But at times like this, I wonder why. Do you honestly expect me to believe that someone’s escaped pet killed Dominguez, nabbed the birds, and made a clean getaway?” His fingers drummed on my desk in a subtle form of torture. “My guess is that your ‘scientist’ is a rank amateur who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near crime-scene evidence.”

I could have told Carlos that I’d felt pretty much the same way when Dr. Bob had first given me the news. But I didn’t think it would make much difference in his opinion of me.

Carlos took off his cap. I considered that a bad sign, knowing how sensitive he was about losing his hair. He rhythmically slapped the hat against the palm of his hand.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re intent on making this job more exciting than it really is? Maybe
you
should consider applying for work with the CIA.”

“And I think the problem is that you’re too limited in your scope. There’s more to this case than you seem to want to deal with,” I shot back.

Carlos lunged at the opening I’d unwittingly given him.

“I knew it! You’re holding something back. I can feel it!” Carlos crowed. “Here’s the deal, Porter. You want to follow up the bird-smuggling angle? Go ahead. But, if this case involves gun running, I advise you to tell me now or you’ll find yourself out of a job.”

“I found a bunch of arms stashed in the cargo bed of Weed’s pickup,” I admitted.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re sitting here ogling the web page for DRMOs,” he sniped, turning the screws.