by Tina Whittle
***
Back in the seventies, the Atlanta Zoo had been one of the worst in the country. I’d gone as a kid, and I still remembered watching its most famous resident—Willie B, the lowland gorilla—sit slumped in the corner of his gray cement cage watching television. The other animals had fared little better.
Now it was a lush commercial utopia of habitat and greenery. We passed up the long line to see the latest baby panda, skipped the feeding time with the otters, and detoured around the orangutan crowds to end up at the herpetarium. This was where I lost Rico.
“White chicks and snakes,” he said, wandering into the snack shop. “I do not get it.”
I found the chief herpetologist having a Q&A with a bunch of middle-schoolers. The boys all laughed, and the girls acted grossed out, but I was transfixed on the snake in the zookeeper’s hands. Not a reticulated python, but liquid and fluid and enthralling nonetheless. Afterwards the audience was allowed to come up and touch.
“So you’re the one whose come to meet our newest reticulated python,” he said when I got my turn.
Forget Trey—this guy really was a mind reader. “How did you know that?”
“You reporters are all alike. And you always get here early, only you’re really early. I had you down for two.”
Now it was becoming clear. Also clear was the fact that I was treading on dangerous ground. Was it a felony to impersonate a newspaper reporter? I surely hoped not.
“I was trying to be incognito.”
“It’s not a problem.” He headed off to the left, carrying the snake-filled box with him. “Come on. Our celebrity is this way.”
***
The reptile house was one of the oldest buildings still in use at the zoo, and it felt ancient, practically prehistoric. I followed the herpetologist down the dark cool corridor to the restricted area behind the exhibits where the python was being kept.
He held the door open for me. “Retics aren’t a snake for beginners. So whoever this girl belonged to—”
“It’s a female?”
“Sure is. But these are powerful creatures regardless of gender. You should work your way up to these, maybe start with a ball python.”
He picked the snake up, half of her anyway. She wrapped around his neck and shoulders, then his forearm. “This one’s maybe three years old, and has had a good life, but lately, she’s been neglected.”
“How?”
He lifted the snake’s head. It was triangular, and the flickering tongue made for interesting punctuation to his words.
“See? That’s a burn mark. Probably from an uncaged light bulb. She was also hungry. Someone tried to feed her—see, those are claw marks from some rodent. People have this idea that snakes will only eat live prey. Not so. In fact, you should never give your snake anything live or you’ll get damage like this.”
“So that’s a myth?”
“Oh yeah. Also all those stories about these things eating adults. The best they can do is something one quarter their length. This girl’s approximately ten feet, so…two and a half feet is about her limit.” He held the snake out. “Would you like to hold her?”
I did, so he hefted half the snake into my arms. She was heavy and spongy, like a giant gumdrop, smooth and cool to the touch. She tightened around my arm gently, her tongue flickering.
He nodded in approval. “You’re doing a real good job. You have a snake?”
“No. An ex-boyfriend did, though, a retic like this.” The snake slid down my bare forearm, her scales a whispery rasp against my skin. “So she likes me?”
“It’s not liking per se. Snake brains don’t have the frontal lobes for emotional responses. You want a pet that loves you? Get a dog, not a python.”
The snake looped back and rested her head on my shoulder. “So why haven’t the police got her locked away? She’s evidence.”
“They did an examination to see if she had any clues on her—you know, all that CSI stuff. But she was clean. No hairs, no fibers. Here, let me help.”
He took the snake’s upper body and lowered her into her enclosure. It was an awkward operation, but we managed, and the reptile glided into her hide box. The herpetologist closed the lid.
“These snakes are a full-time job. You need a special enclosure, humidity and temp controls, a light source to create diurnal patterns. Housekeeping, feeding…it’s very time-consuming.”
I was considering the set-up Lex had for the snake. An old rabbit hutch was a pathetic substitute for the kind of environment a retic needed.
“So how did this snake end up on her own?”
“They’re nature’s breakout artists. This one probably got out of her enclosure, headed for the nearest dark quiet spot, and was waiting for someone to bring her dinner. She’s sweet and innocent and didn’t deserve being treated badly. Luckily, she’s safe now.”
Regardless of her unaffectionate reptile brain, the herpetologist seemed to care about her. Not only her, but all snakes, all over the world.
“But if she’s somebody’s missing pet, wouldn’t somebody be looking for her?”
“I would. But then I’m a good citizen. Lots of snake owners aren’t. Pythons are kind of a rogue element pet, you know?”
I remembered the boyfriend. Rogue element personified.
The herpetologist continued. “Also people abandon these animals all the time. They buy them on the black market when the snakes are little and cool, and soon they have a jungle predator on their hands.”
“Why not take them to a zoo?”
“Zoos are full. Mostly they get dumped. Hence the problem in the Everglades.”
I knew what he was referring to—the southern area of Florida was a perfect ecosystem for the big snakes. Hurricane Andrew freed hundreds; unscrupulous pet owners dumped others.
“They discovered the first one in 1979. Could be up to a hundred thousand pythons roaming Everglades National Park now. Exponential growth.”
“Could one survive in Atlanta?”
“You mean in the urban environment? Not hardly. Maybe out in the wetlands for a while. But once the cold set in, they’d be done for.”
“So the only place you’re liable to find one of these things running wild is the Everglades?”
“Any significant population, sure. But I don’t think this snake was abandoned. I can’t imagine tossing this girl out.”
The snake continued gliding into her hide box, inch by scaled inch, until only the tip of her tail was visible.
“Because she’s so sweet and innocent?”
He laughed. “See those colors? This particular snake is a Supertiger Sunfire. That makes her worth about ten thousand dollars.”
***
I found Rico having a grape slushie at the petting zoo. I sat across from him and dumped my entire tote bag on the table. And there amidst the smell of goat dung and sunscreen, I spread out my photos of Lex’s Suburban.
“See?” I pointed. “An empty rabbit hutch.”
“Meaning?”
“Lex had been keeping the snake in his van. That’s why he chose the expensive storage unit with the climate control—a snake would die in the heat of a car otherwise. But then the manager found out, and Debbie had to move the van somewhere else.”
“Why Debbie? That chick did not impress me with her cleverness, you know what I’m saying?”
“Perhaps not, but she made a good partner for Lex because she had an online shop—a very convenient way to move shoplifted merchandise. Plus she was starstruck, so that made her malleable. Unfortunately, she lived with her parents, so she had no place to meet the snake buyer but Frankie’s gallery. And I’m pretty sure the buyer was my mysterious caller.”
Rico looked puzzled. “What mysterious caller?”
And so I explained about the cell phone in Trey’s pocket, and the strange call that turned out to be about a real snake after all. A smile crept onto his mouth.
“Nice detecting, baby girl. But stealing jewelry and assorted wh
atnots is one thing. Stealing a damn python? Something else entirely.”
“I don’t think he stole it. Lex was out of his league dealing with a snake this massive, which means it came out of nowhere. So where does a snake like this come out of nowhere?”
“Not Atlanta.”
“And not Brunswick.” I dragged out a map and pointed. “This is the only place in the US where you stand a good chance of accidentally happening upon a python.”
Rico followed my finger. “The Everglades.”
“Exactly. Lex traveled all throughout Florida—those receipts I found showed it. He was most likely in the Everglades area when he parked the car in a rest stop. He probably left the windows open, or even the back. Snake comes in. Poet finds snake.”
“Poet freaks out.”
“Probably. But Lex was smart enough to realize that pythons have serious monetary value. So he trapped the snake in an empty rabbit hutch…” I got a sick feeling. “Oh, man. I know why it was empty.”
Rico followed the logic. “Wow. Bad day for the rabbit.”
“Yeah, this was somebody’s pet snake, used to being fed and cared for. It would have been very hungry.” I stared at the photo. “But why a rabbit?”
Rico looked confused. “What do you mean?”
I pawed through the photographs, fanning them out. Then I opened my computer where I had two dozen videos bookmarked. In all of them, Lex demonstrated the same liquid cadences and rhythms, like water running over rocks.
“It’s all in his hands, see? Watch what he does with the microphone, how he rolls it between his fingers, like it has no gravity.”
“The boy was damn good at the show.”
“He was better than good.” I grinned at Rico. “He was magic.”
And then I explained, the basic equation being a van full of feathered masks plus a pair of handcuffs minus one rabbit multiplied by obvious sleight-of-hand skills equaled only one thing.
“He was a magician,” I said. “A professional one.”
“Like hocus pocus?”
“And abracadabra, all that. Think about it—the missing money that Padre swore he saw Lex put into the safe, the same money that ended up under your mattress. The knife that found its way into Maurice’s jacket. It’s all legerdemain, close-up magic.” I spread the photos out, then stabbed one with my finger, a box full of jewelry store baubles. “Which would make shoplifting an excellent side job.”
Rico sat back. “Okay, so even if you’re right, how does that help figure out who killed him?”
“Because Lex Anderson is a persona. Whoever he was before he was Lex, he had a different everything—different name, different look, different shtick. Except for the magician part, I’m betting that was the same. You don’t get this good that fast, and when you do, you don’t abandon it.”
Rico stared at the screen-size image of Lex, the enigmatic smile, the irresistible magnetism. “This was all an act?”
“I don’t know which part was act and which was real. Maybe Lex didn’t either.” I gathered my things. “Come on. You have to get ready for the open mike tonight, and I have to get back to the shop. The Daughters of the Confederacy are coming over to take my picture. They have a plaque for Dexter.”
“Sweet.”
“Lucrative,” I countered.
“Speaking of lucre, I saw the water bill final notice stuck in your visor. Do I need to front you a little something-something so you can bathe and all that?”
***
I called Garrity on the way back to the shop. I also grabbed a cigarette and a café Americano, then drove like a maniac to get past the Perimeter before the afternoon rush hour. Garrity was still grumpy.
“What now, you being pursued by the FBI?”
“Believe it or not, I don’t want anything.”
“Why are you calling then?”
“I have a hypothesis I want to run by you. You know that snake?”
“The big ass snake from last night?”
“No, Garrity, some other snake.” I merged too tightly, cutting off a delivery van. “Will you please let me explain?”
Which he did. So I did. Which led to a long stretch of silence. I took one long delicious drag. If I played it right, I could make one cigarette last until I escaped the in-town crush.
“Let’s say you’re right,” he finally said. “Lex suddenly found himself a python. Why the hell wouldn’t he call 911, scream for help, anything but drive the freaking thing back to Georgia?”
“Because it’s worth ten grand.”
That got his attention. “And you know this how?”
“Snake dude at the zoo. But even a run-of-the-mill python’s worth one or two thousand, something Lex would have checked out. And oh, I’m pretty sure that before he was poet, he was a magician.”
There was silence. “Magician?”
“You know. Hocus pocus.”
“Like—”
“Scarves, handcuffs, rabbit in a hat, yeah. Everything but a lovely assistant. And no, I don’t know how this connects to his murder, but I’m pretty sure it explains his van full of hot merchandise.”
I tapped ash into my empty coffee cup. Two minutes in and I’d almost finished the thing. So much for making it last. I stared at the bright glowing tip, and a strange idea nibbled at my brain, yet again.
“This may seem totally off the subject, but…how long does it take for a cigarette to burn out?”
Garrity knew exactly where I was going. “Depends.”
“I mean with no one smoking it. A cigarette you left lying on a pile of kerosene-soaked paper towels, say.”
“About seven minutes.”
“You know this for sure?”
“I do.”
“Wanna share more?”
“Nope.”
I dropped the spent cigarette into the cup and didn’t press him further. “Thanks, Detective. You’re a gem. Now would you please pass on what I told you to Cummings? He’s not returning my calls, and I don’t want him to think I’m hiding anything.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Back at the shop, I was surprised to see not five women on my doorstop, but one. And this woman was not happy.
I checked my watch. “I’m sorry, I thought we were meeting at five?”
The woman crossed her arms. “Obviously, you’re confused. I’m guessing this is a regular problem for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You stole my source.”
I remembered her then, from Lex’s memorial. She had a sharp planed face and russet brown hair with an assertive flip. She was also about six feet tall, though most of that resulted from heels that required structural certification.
“You’re with the paper,” I said.
“And you totally stole my source,” she replied.
The guy at the zoo. I thought about playing innocent. Decided there was no use.
“Sorry. That just happened.”
“People say that about affairs, not about identity theft.”
“Whoa! I didn’t steal your identity! He assumed—”
“And you did nothing to correct this assumption!”
I put my hands on my hips. “There’s no reason to yell.”
“Trust me, this isn’t yelling.”
“And this isn’t contrition.” I thought about it. “How did you track me down?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s part of my skill set.”
“Yeah, I know but…for real, how?”
She laughed. “You’re all over the news, you and that python and that dead woman. Finding you was the easiest thing I’ve done all day.”
On the news, again. Rico was right—I needed a hairstyle.
I bumped the door open with my shoulder. “You wanna come in? You can tell me all about the news, and I’ll tell you all about that snake. And if the water’s back on, I can make coffee.”
She did want. And the water was on. So coffee it was.
***
She took hers black. I s
erved it up in my new Frankie Styles mugs, and we took seats on opposite sides of the counter. She looked like the version of me that my parents always envisioned—smart, well-dressed, capable. A little sharp around the eyes but good-humored enough.
“Wikipedia not enough for you?” she said. “You gotta go straight to the reptile house?”
“I prefer the direct route.”
“No kidding.” She examined her mug. “Are you a collector?”
“Of two mugs. Everything else in her shop is out of my price range. What about you?”
“Me?” She laughed. “Two years ago, I covered her opening reception, the one at the High Museum. I bought a postcard.”
“Frankie’s work is at the High?”
She shook her head. “Not on exhibit. She rented the place for her opening.”
“You can rent the High?”
“If you’ve got the bucks. I covered the event for the paper, the subsequent auction too, the one where this particular work here went for five figures.” She examined the mug closer. “That always struck me as a bit too easy, you know? There were rumors she bought it herself as a PR stunt. But that wasn’t an angle my editor wanted to investigate.”
I spooned sugar into my coffee. “Where’s the painting now?”
“Anonymous donation to the Children’s Hospital. There’s probably a story there too, but that’s not my beat anymore.”
“What is?”
“Lifestyle and Entertainment, not the society stuff. Street level only. But occasionally, I get something with meat on the bone. Like this.”
She pulled out a copy of the AJC and threw it on the table, then indicated the byline with her finger. I leaned over and checked it out.
“Sloane Sykes.” I scanned the article. “You’ve been covering the slam.”
“I was. But now I’m covering the criminal goings-on associated with the slam, which have been plentiful and colorful.”
“That they have.”
We examined each other over our mugs, assessing and reassessing.
“So what did you want to know about pythons?” I said.
“Nothing. I already know about pythons. I needed the nice snake wrangler’s picture and some good quotes.”