Bird Brained (9 page)

I watched as he relit the joint and then picked up the weight again in his right hand. “You’re home free on this one, Willy. By the time I got there, Alberto was already dead.”

But Weed wasn’t pleased with the news. “Goddammit to hell! That lowlife mope owed me big time for the last two hauls!”

“And what exactly might those have been?” I promptly asked.

Weed’s lip curled up, displaying his gold tooth and ruby, which glistened like a drop of blood. “Some special bird seed I was delivering to him,” he sneered.

My fingers itched to wring his scrawny neck, but I gave the art of patience another stab. Besides, Big Mama was silently watching. “What kind was that?”

Willy wasn’t appreciative of my tact. “The expensive kind,” he snarled. He threw back his head and tossed a gator-tail nugget down his throat.

I tried my best to keep from wishing that he’d choke on it, but gosh darn it to heck—that pesky thought just kept wriggling into my mind.

“I found some hyacinth macaws and Cuban Amazons at Dominguez’s place. Do you know anything about that?” I was wasting my time, unless I hung around long enough for Willy to get so stoned that he let something slip.

“Yeah, he had ’em. So what? You still gotta prove they’re illegal,” Willy flippantly replied.

I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back the smile. Weed had unknowingly just confirmed the fact that the birds hadn’t been captive-bred.

The muscle in his bicep began to twitch uncontrollably, as if it were in spasm. Weed took another deep toke on the joint. “Bet you’re feeling mighty good right about now,” he leered. “Getting yourself a haul of those expensive birds. The boss man musta given you a big ol’ gold star.”

“Well, that’s the other interesting thing,” I revealed. “It seems I surprised whoever murdered Dominguez. I was knocked out, and when I came to, the birds were gone.”

Willy howled, a trickle of drool falling onto his bony chest. “That’s a good one! Boy, would I have loooved to seen that!” He rearranged the sweat on his face with the back of his hand. “In that case, I don’t know nothing about no birds. You musta been hallucinating when you thought you’d seen ’em. You got yourself some good drugs I should know about, Porter?”

“Cut the crap, Willy,” I snapped. “You already admitted that you were muling for Alberto.”

But Weed was riding high, puffing on the joint as if it were his last breath. “That musta been one helluva fall you took at ol’ Alberto’s, cause I don’t remember ever sayin’ nothing like that. Guess you knocked that noggin of yours somethin’ good.” Weed giggled and gave me a wink. “There goes another case down the drain. Ain’t that right, Miss Fed?”

I wondered if I could get away with giving Weed a whopping dose of pepper spray. Damn—it was in my other shirt.

“Course you could stop buggin’ me with all these questions and just go right to the source. Old Alberto, himself.” Willy slapped a hand to his forehead. “Whoops! That’s right. Dead men don’t talk, do they?”

Willy’s giggle suddenly turned into an ear-shattering shriek as a dull thud shook the trailer floor. The twenty-five-pound dumbbell had rolled out of Weed’s hand to land squarely on top of his right foot. Willy screamed, hopping around like a Holy Roller in the midst of his sermon.

“Oh, Lordy! Jesus save me!” he babbled, tears springing from his eyes. “I broke my foot! Oh, my God! I’m a cripple!”

I had a hard time dredging up very much sympathy. I folded my arms and simply moved out of his way. “That’s too bad, Willy. Seeing how it could cut into your rodeo stunts and other extracurricular activities,” I observed.

Weed flashed me a dirty look, but held back the snarl. “You gotta get me to a hospital, Porter. My foot feels like it’s hangin’ on by a thread!”

“I could do that. But I’m going to need some information from you first.”

“I’ll give them all that mother’s maiden name crap when we get there. Let’s just go, Porter!” Willy insisted, wincing in pain.

“Mmm. No. That’s not the kind of information I’m talking about,” I told him.

Weed stopped hopping long enough to give me an open-mouthed stare. “You gotta be kidding, bitch. You’re hitting me up for dirt now?” he wailed.

“That’s right. Either you talk or I’m out of here.” I hesitated for a moment. “Of course, that shouldn’t be a problem. You can always drive to the hospital by yourself.”

“Goddammit, Porter! You know I can’t do that! It’s my right foot that’s broke!” Willy sputtered.

“Whoops!” I slapped my hand against my forehead. “I forgot about that!”

Weed gnashed his teeth. “What the hell do you want to know?”

Ah, power! It made me feel all warm and gooey inside. “How long have you been muling for Alberto?”

“Just that once, when you caught me last night,” Weed whined.

“The truth, Willy!” I demanded.

He emitted a high-pitched yowl. “I swear on Big Mama’s life!”

Weed hopped over to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Southern Comfort, tore off the cap, and upended it into his mouth.

“How many eggs did you bring in?” I wondered if Willy would stop chug-a-lugging long enough to answer the question before he passed out.

“Five,” Willy panted, quickly raising the bottle back up to his lips. A trickle of bourbon ran down his chin and onto his chest, heading inside his jeans where it mixed with the beer.

But I was beyond caring about his lack of etiquette. Weed had just handed me another important nugget of information: He’d definitely brought the eggs in from Brazil.

“Were they hyacinth eggs?” I asked.

“You’re gonna burn in hell for this, Porter,” Weed yelped, stalling.

“Then I guess I’ll have you there to keep me company,” I replied. “This is your last chance, Willy. Were those hyacinth eggs that you flushed?”

Weed let loose a low growl, his bloodshot eyes boring straight through me. “Hyacinth eggs are illegal, Porter. Remember? I know your goddamn stupid laws.”

“Obviously not well enough. Bringing in undeclared eggs of any kind is illegal,” I reminded him.

“Yeah,” Willy snarled in a mixture of anger and pain. “But you could shred my ass good if they were hyacinths.”

I stared at him. “All right, then. At least tell me where Alberto got the Cuban Amazons from.”

“For chrissakes, Porter! From Cuba! Where the hell else do you think?” Willy roared.

I smiled as I threw Weed a shirt from off the top of his laundry heap. “Congratulations, Willy. You just won yourself an all-expenses-paid trip to the emergency room. Those were the first honest words to come out of your mouth.”

I dropped Willy off, then headed over to Alberto’s to take another look around. Battered trees gave way to nurseries producing oranges and ornamental palms as I headed southwest, leaving Homestead and Willy behind. Driving into the Redlands was like cruising through a produce wonderland, since it’s here that the majority of Florida’s fruits and vegetables are grown. Each field that I passed was a lush patchwork of greenery in kaleidoscopic shades of kelly, pea, chartreuse, and emerald. I rolled down the car window and took a deep whiff as I passed a farm with crops of kiwi, lychee, and guava, their dusky fragrance permeating the air.

Off to my right lay an okra field, dense with tiny white flowers. The serene scene was abruptly disrupted when hundreds of diminutive swallows took flight, catapulting into the sky like feathered rockets. I held my breath, my grandmother having told me that a flock of birds could steal away your soul.

I turned onto Alberto’s street, opened his unlocked gate, and pulled up the drive. His black Jaguar sat impatiently in the shed, its motor silently pleading to be revved. I could sense Alberto’s presence even as I sat outside. I waited until the feeling had passed, then dug out my cell phone and punched in a call to Vern.

“Hey, there, Porter. What you doin’ back out this way again?” Reardon asked between slurps of his coffee.

“I was visiting Willy Weed and thought I’d stop by Dominguez’s place,” I replied.

“You got some interesting taste in friends, Porter. I gotta hand you that,” Vern chuckled. “Maybe you oughta give ol’ Hal Cooper a tumble, after all.”

I let the remark slide. “So, is it all right if I take a quick look around inside Alberto’s?”

“What’s with you, girl? Can’t get your fill of hanging around with the dead? Or ain’t there enough to keep you busy without you poking your nose into my investigation, too?”

I took the opportunity to jump in with both feet. “Speaking of that, have you come up with any more plausible theory as to who might have had a motive for killing Alberto?”

Vern bit into what I imagined was a cinnamon bun. “I already told you. All evidence points to it being another one of those wacky Santeria murders.”

Since he had one foot firmly planted in the retirement pasture, I suspected Vern’s workload was clogged with any number of “Santeria” cases.

“So, what do you say, Vern? Can I take a walk through since I’m already here?” I asked once again.

Vern continued to munch on his calorie-ridden treat, making my stomach rumble. “Everything’s been dusted, so I guess it’s all right. But don’t go removing anything inside that house, ya hear?” he warned.

“Loud and clear. Thanks, Duke.” I quickly hung up before he could blast me.

I shimmied from behind the wheel and stepped outside, where a slab of heat pressed slow and steady on top of my head. Entering through the back door again, I found that mounds of dingy feathers had been kicked around the floor, sullied by a parade of feet trampling in and out as they went about the task of collecting evidence to substantiate a murder.

I checked around the nesting boxes, where bits of broken shells lay like chips of fine china. The breeding room held even fewer clues. Only the rustle from the fallen rainbow of plumage offered a hint of the nightmare that had occurred.

I walked past the nursery and then came to a dead halt, certain that Alberto was by my side. Standing still, I listened as the silence slowly slithered around me, cutting off my breath as effectively as a shroud.

There’s no such thing as ghosts
.

But my teeth had begun to chatter. I tried to make myself laugh by thinking of Vern and Mervyn with their Skunk Ape, but my thoughts gravitated toward Santeria and the goat’s head I’d found.

I wanted to move, but the space around me had become dense as molasses, and my limbs useless as empty balloons. Reverting to an old childhood trick, I closed my eyes tightly and yelled as loud as I could to scare my own fear—along with any ghosts—far away. Then I opened my eyes and moved on.

Everything was just as I had left it last night; no ghostly cleanup crew had materialized to straighten up the mishmash of papers, or the slit innards of sofas and chairs. I began to rummage through Alberto’s desk drawers, defiantly turning my back toward the open bedroom door.

The stack of bills was the same; the bumper stickers remained untouched. Only the bottom drawer had been tampered with. The thick bird-inventory folder was now gone. I made a mental note to ask Vern for a copy of the records and then thoroughly searched the kitchen, the bathroom, and the living room once again, in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable task of walking through Alberto’s bedroom door.

Finally having run out of places to explore, I forced myself to stare at the space where Alberto had lain. There was no dodging Dominguez’s blood, its splatters hardened and dry on the walls and the floor. I took a deep breath and attempted to swallow my fear, but it remained firmly lodged in my throat as I stepped over the threshold.

I tiptoed around the outline, taking well-placed steps to avoid as much of Alberto’s dried blood as I could, wondering when I would ever outgrow my irrational fear. Alberto’s voice whispered in my ear, confirming what I already knew to be true.
Never.

A creak skittered across the floor behind me and I jumped, my pulse rate soaring into the stratosphere.

“There’s no contest. You win; I’m afraid,” I called out to whatever spirit might be there. “But I’m not leaving until my work is done. So let’s just call a truce. What do you say?”

I waited to hear a sound, feel a cold wind, watch furniture fly past. But all remained quiet. I took it as a sign that we had reached a meeting of the minds and turned back to see what I could discover.

A search through Alberto’s closet produced an array of colorful guayaberas, traditional short-sleeved, loose cotton shirts. Also pressed and neatly hanging were a tangerine jacket and pants that must have made Alberto look like walking sherbet. I left the closet and headed over to his bureau. Each drawer appeared to have been thoroughly raided; nothing of interest was left lurking inside. With nowhere else to turn, I dragged the four coolers out from under Alberto’s bed. Sure enough, every single cigar was gone, without so much as a band or a wrapper to betray their former presence.

I ran my hands between Alberto’s mattress and springs, knowing full well that everyone before me had surely done the same. Finally I dropped down to the floor and sent my fingers to work, intent on examining the metal bed frame inch by inch.

Nothing was hidden along the frame on that side of the mattress. Then I stretched my arm to examine the center support bar. As my hand strained to reach its middle, I was rewarded with the rustle of paper between my forefinger and thumb.

I grasped the rough material, but it refused to budge. It took a few hard tugs to dislodge the secret from its hiding place. Out came an eight-by-ten white envelope, its flap sealed tight. If I were to play by the rules, I was required to hand the secured package over to Vern. I held my breath and listened, straining to hear if Alberto would disapprove. There wasn’t a whisper to be heard.

I reached into my pants, removed a pocket knife and flicked it open, brushing away any thoughts of impropriety. I’d decide what to do once I viewed the contents. The blade smoothly sliced its way into Alberto’s private life.

I pulled out the contents, surprised by what was revealed. A series of photographs portrayed different beach studs of the month. But these were no amateur photos, and the men were no ordinary nine-to-five hunks. All were well-polished Adonises, with gold Rolexes on their wrists and deltoids to die for. I knew the species. Buff young men able to speak a couple of languages, well versed in the pleats and tucks of Gucci and Armani, with abs off which you could bounce formal dinnerware.