by Lois Schmitt
Suddenly, the door sprung open, and Abby paraded into the living room. The dogs rushed to greet her.
As she plopped down on the sofa, I explained what Tim and I had discussed, ending with, “These purchases involve major money. What if a vendor charged the zoo inflated prices and kicked back to a department head?”
“All my purchases are one hundred percent legitimate.”Tim’s voice was huffy, and a deep flush crept up his neck to his cheeks.
“Whoa. Take it easy. I’m not accusing you. But what about the other departments?”
Tim shook his head. “Couldn’t happen. The individual departments don’t select vendors. All purchases are funneled through the zoo’s purchasing division.”
“Supposing a purchasing agent collaborated with a department head. That’s possible, isn’t it?” I glanced down at the reports. “We need to find out if the zoo overpaid for any products or services.”
“I know a purchasing agent at a zoo in New Jersey,” Abby said. “Give me the reports. I’ll send him a copy of Rocky Cove’s expenditures. He’ll be able to tell me if the costs are legitimate.”
Tim rose from his chair. “I better go. I didn’t realize the time. I’m in enough trouble with Barbara without coming home late.”
Tim opened the door as Matt pulled up in front of the house.
“Oops. I better go too,” Abby grabbed the annual reports from my hand. “I’m blocking the driveway.”
After dinner, I poured a beer for Matt and mixed a pomegranate martini for me.
“Let’s take these out on the patio,” I said, handing Matt his glass.
We settled in lounge chairs under the saucer-like moon, the silence of the evening broken only by the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
After a few minutes of silent stargazing, I said, “I’ve been assigned a second story. It’s on wildlife smuggling.”
“Sounds good. How’s your first feature, the one on breeding endangered species, coming along?”
“Not as quickly as I’d like. I still have more research. But that gives me reason to keep visiting the zoo. That’s good because I can delve deeper into McKenzie’s murder.”
“I think you should stay away from the murder. It could be dangerous. In fact, what exactly are you doing?”
“For now, I’m checking alibis.” I sipped my martini, then told him about my visit to Ridge River University.
“Maybe Linda Sancho left the animal behavior conference,” I said.
“I think you’re stretching it.”
“Not at all. The auditorium holds up to four hundred. It’s possible she slipped out, and the same holds true for Ginger Hart at Treasures of Zeus.”
“But that’s normal. Most people don’t have eyewitnesses verifying where they spend every minute of the day.”
“My point exactly. Tim lacks an ironclad alibi, but so do Linda and Ginger. There’s no difference.”
“Lacks an ironclad alibi?” Matt shook his head. “There’s proof he was at the zoo. That’s a big difference.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Smugglers take risks because of the huge profits,” Roy Maxwell said. “Without a market for tortoise shell jewelry or alligator shoes, these items wouldn’t be brought into the country.”
I scrambled through my bag and searched for my pen, having arrived ten minutes late for my interview with the New York Director of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service. Although the agency was less then ten miles from my home, today’s morning rush-hour drive took fifty-five minutes, with enough traffic congestion to give Mother Teresa road rage.
Maxwell, an African American with a face just beginning to show age lines, cut to the chase. He pointed to a side credenza displaying a tiger head, leopard skin, stuffed turtle, crocodile bag, and ivory carvings.
“That’s just a sample of what our inspectors confiscated at Kennedy airport. Tourists think it doesn’t matter because the animal is already dead. They don’t realize the more they buy, the more animals are killed.” He paused. “That’s why I’m glad you’re writing this story. We need the public on our side.”
He opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a picture. “I hope this isn’t too graphic.”
I winced as Maxwell handed me the photograph of a dead rhino in a pool of blood. Its horn had been hacked off. A baby rhino stood beside the lifeless form.
“In the Middle East, rhino horns are used as dagger handles. An intricately carved horn can sell for twelve thousand dollars,” Maxwell said. “The powder from the horn is considered an aphrodisiac in Asia, selling for $450 an ounce. One weighing six pounds brings in more than $40,000. In this instance, a poacher wounded the animal and chopped off its horn. He left it to bleed to death with her baby watching.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“Rescue workers transported him to a nearby center for orphaned animals. Eventually he’ll be released in the wild. Most aren’t that lucky.” Maxwell leaned forward, arms folded on his desk. “Now, I’m sure you have some questions about our agency?”
“I do. Let’s start with how successful you are in catching the bad guys.”
“Just like the police don’t catch every thief, we certainly don’t catch every smuggler.” He picked up a paperclip, straightened it out, and bent it back and forth until it snapped. “You wouldn’t believe how wildlife comes into this country. Yesterday, an inspector discovered a tourist who had shoved a parrot up his jacket lining. He’d taped the parrot’s mouth shut.”
“A live parrot?”
“Yup. Smuggling involves more than products made from endangered species. It’s live animals too. Just last week, we uncovered a shipment of six baby lemurs smuggled in a crate filled with books. They were stuffed in a hidden compartment. Five suffocated to death.”
“But if the animals died—”
“The dealer would have made enough on the one survivor to more than cover the losses.”
The phone buzzed. Maxwell ignored it and began telling me how smuggled animals are often transported in plain sight. “The animals, usually endangered species, are often accompanied by forged documents saying they were bred in captivity through a legally sanctioned program. It’s difficult to prove the papers are false, and it’s a time-consuming process.”
The receptionist stuck her head in the room. “Johnson from Washington is on the phone. Do you want to call back?”
“No. He’s impossible to reach. I’ll talk with him now.” Maxwell handed me a folder. “This contains two press releases involving major agency cases, both less than two years old. Look them over while I take this call.”
One press release said: “The owners of a Manhattan pet store pleaded guilty in federal court this week to violations of the Lacey Act, which prohibits the sale of protected wildlife. Tom Booker and Nancy Booker, owners of Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium in New York City, netted more than $500,000 for the illegal sale of two hundred rare and endangered snakes and lizards. The Bookers were part of an international wildlife trafficking operation that smuggled reptiles from Africa, Australia, and Indonesia.
“The Bookers created false documents identifying the reptiles as being captive bred and legal to sell. Included in this collection of smuggled reptiles was a Komodo Dragon. This was the third series of violations for the couple.”
The second release said: “A federal judge sentenced Clayton Malur, owner and operator of Malur’s Animal Auction in Razorville, Ohio, to six months in jail and a $5,000 fine for his role in the transport and sale of six endangered Bengal tigers to hunting ranches, taxidermists, and exotic meat dealers.
“ ‘It is estimated there are fewer than seven hundred Bengal tigers in the wild,’ said a spokesperson for the agency. ‘Tiger parts sell for substantial money. The hide goes for several grand, and the internal organs find their way to the traditional Asian medicine market.’ Malur has a prior conviction for selling endangered macaws.”
When Maxwell finished his call
, I asked, “What exactly is an animal auction?”
“Auctions serve as middlemen for buyers and sellers of livestock and exotic animals. Most auction houses deal only with animals that are lawful to sell. But Malur’s reputation is that you can get pretty much any creature you want if you’re willing to pay.”
“What led you to Malur in the first place?”
“Rumors persisted about him, including some interesting Internet chatter. We’d been watching for a while so we placed an undercover agent at his auction facility as barn help. While this agent hauled feed bags and shoveled manure, he listened in on Malur’s conversation and heard about the tiger shipment.”
I absentmindedly twirled my pencil between my fingers. “This press release is several months old. Think Malur’s still dealing in illegal wildlife sales?”
“I can’t say. Agency policy is to comment only after making an arrest. Even if we know something is happening, we can’t say anything publically.” He smiled. “That’s the lawyers talking, not me.”
“When are the auctions held?”
“The last week of every month.”
“The auction could provide a great angle for my wildlife smuggling story. I could use the information from your press release, but it would help if I could get a feel for what goes on. I’d like to attend if my editor will spring for the airfare.”
“I’d rethink that idea if I were you,” Maxwell said. “A few months ago, one of Malur’s goons roughed up a humane society investigator, who wound up in the hospital.”
“I wouldn’t identify myself. I’d go undercover.”
“An animal rights attorney visited the auction undercover last year. No one has heard from her since.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The press release was informative, but I wanted a sense of the place, so I decided to visit Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium. My goal was to describe the store, then point to its past violations, illustrating the underground trade in exotic animals. Despite Director Maxwell’s warning, I hoped to visit Malur’s animal auction too.
During the train ride into Manhattan, my mind flashed back to last night’s conversation with Matt. I needed to delve further into the alibis of Linda Sancho and Ginger Hart. Since I’d be at the zoo tomorrow, I grabbed my pen and pad and began jotting down questions that would lead me to the truth.
After locating Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium, squeezed between a vintage clothing store and an antique shop, I pulled opened the door and strolled inside.
Although grateful for the air conditioning, nothing else looked inviting. The place was dark, dirty, and smelled like rotting turtles. Aquariums with fish ranging from three-dollar tetras to three-hundred-dollar clown fish covered the right wall. Dead fish floated on top of the water. The middle aisle overflowed with pet supplies, kibble spilling out from a torn food bag. Hamsters, mice, and other small creatures occupied the left side, their cages containing waste excretions, accounting for the stench. Further up the aisle were reptiles.
A shrill yelp echoed from the back right section of the shop. Tripping over boxes, I hurried to that section, where I found more dirty cages filled with sickly looking puppies. The smell of urine permeated the area. Two Yorkshire terriers, probably the source of the yelp, nipped each other’s ears. A beagle puppy sat listlessly in the corner of another cage. Pus oozed from its left eye.
My face flushed from the heat of anger.
“May I help you?” A man, appearing to be in his early forties and wearing horn-rimmed glasses, approached.
I spun around, ready to complain about the dirty conditions but quickly changed my mind. I doubted he’d clean up the place because of anything I said. If I antagonized him, I might not be able to come and go as freely as I wanted. I’d call the appropriate authorities later.
“No. Just looking,” I said.
“We can give you a good price if you buy today. These pups are for sale.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“They may not be here when you return. Where else could you get a purebred dog for two hundred dollars?”
“Why are they so cheap?”
“I’m cutting my profit. I want them placed in good homes.”
I doubted that. According to the signs under the cages, the dogs were about nine months old. The store needed to make room for a shipment of younger puppies, and I wondered what would happen to those that didn’t sell.
“I’m sorry. I can’t make a commitment now,” I told him.
His facial expression said he knew I was a browser, not a buyer. Still, he handed me a business card and suggested I contact him when ready. Then he wandered away, approaching two teenage boys hunched over a cage of white rats.
Exiting the store, I glanced at the business card. The name on the card was Tom Booker, one of the owners.
I rummaged through my bag for my cell phone, and punched in 3-1-1, the number used to report animal abuse in New York City. Next, I brought out my notepad and jotted down facts for my magazine article. With what I’d seen, my description of the shop would be vivid.
I wondered about the animals. Where did they come from? Where would they go?
While deep in thought, a familiar figure turned the corner and strolled down the block. I stared as the figure pulled open the door to Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium, glanced furtively over her shoulder, and stepped inside the shop.
The familiar figure was Rocky Cove’s wildlife nutritionist, Linda Sancho.
CHAPTER TWENTY
What business did Linda have with Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium?
During the train ride back to Long Island, I tried convincing myself that Linda Sancho didn’t know about the shop’s history of violations. Still, why would anyone with concern for animals deal with such a sleazy place?
As I pushed open the door to the Animal Advocate office, I was greeted by Clara, motioning with short, staccato waves of her hands while mouthing the words, “He’s here.”
“He’s here,” Clara whispered loudly as I approached her desk.
“And good afternoon to you, too. Who’s here?”
“The kid. You know who I mean. The one who wants your job. Schuyler Adams.”
“It’s not my job yet, but thanks.” I strolled over to the table outside the editor’s office and poured coffee into a mug. “What’s Schuyler doing here? Another interview?”
“No. He dropped by fifteen minutes ago and asked if Olivia was in. He had something to show her. I told him to leave it with me, but Olivia wandered out and invited him into her office.”
“I wonder what he’s showing her. Probably a stellar piece of journalism from his time at college.” I tried downplaying my concern but knew my voice held an edge. “Do you have a travel authorization form?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Sure.” She reached into a desk drawer and handed me a form. “What’s this for?”
While I filled out the paper at her desk, I told Clara about Malur’s Animal Auction in Ohio. As the door to Olivia’s office swung open, Clara whispered, “Here he comes now.”
Schuyler Adams, dressed in khaki pants and a pale blue open-neck shirt, was tall and skinny with dirty-blond hair.
“Hi, I’m Kristy Farrell.” I extended my hand.
He limply shook it. “Schuyler Adams.”
“Kristy’s writing two articles for our next issue,” Clara said.
“Really?” Schuyler scanned the room as if searching for someone more important. “Olivia’s a superb editor. I’m sure your articles will be fine with her supervision.”
“Kristy taught a journalism course in high school.”
“Ah, a teacher.” He smiled.
Clara opened her mouth, about to say something, but I shot her a look. As Olivia’s administrative assistant, Clara would have to work with the new feature writer, whether it be Schuyler or me.
Schuyler glanced at his watch. “I better go. Nice to meet you, Christine.”
“It’s Kristy.”
&nb
sp; He was out the door.
“He’s got an attitude, don’t you think?” Clara said.
I nodded absentmindedly. As concerned as I was about my job, my thoughts had suddenly drifted back to Linda Sancho and Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium. As dozens of thoughts whirled through my mind, I formulated a theory.
“Matt, could Linda be selling zoo animals?” I asked my husband while we sipped coffee in our den that evening. “What if she was involved in illegal sales and McKenzie found out about it? My theory is that Linda killed the zoo director to keep him from talking.”
Matt shook his head emphatically. “Impossible. The Rocky Cove Zoo is a major institution. Every animal is accounted for. Do you think no one would notice a missing lion?”
“Somehow, I don’t think Linda’s selling lions.” But Matt had a point. Even if a small monkey or lizard was taken, the zookeepers would instantly notice.
“I still believe there’s some type of connection between Linda, Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium, and Arlen McKenzie’s murder.” I held up my hand, ticking off the points one by one as I listed them. “One, she has motive. Two, her alibi is weak, so she had opportunity. Lastly, as a wildlife nutritionist, she works with all species, including snakes, giving her access to venom. Therefore, she had means. I like her as a suspect.”
“You’d like anyone as a suspect if it cleared your brother. But whether or not she killed McKenzie, I still don’t see how it relates to the pet store.”
My gut told me they were connected.
Next, I told Matt about meeting Schuyler Adams and how his father’s company advertised in Animal Advocate.
“I hope Olivia makes her hiring decision for feature writer based on the merits of the candidates, not on financial pressure from an applicant’s father,” I said.
“She may not have the option. Animal Advocate needs advertising revenue. She may be forced to hire him.”
I didn’t respond. Although Matt tended toward pessimism, I expected a little encouragement. “You’re the best one for the job” or “Olivia thinks highly of you” would have been nice.