Paw of the Jungle

by Diane Kelly

“No, you shut up!” he hollered.

  “No, you shut up!” the bird hollered back.

  Ugh. The damn birds were getting on his last nerve but, even so, he felt sorry for them. They had no idea what was going on. At least they’d be going to a good home. He assumed so, anyway. Someone who was willing to pay thousands of dollars for a bird would surely treat it good, wouldn’t they?

  He’d taken the birds on impulse after overhearing someone say how much the birds sold for. It had been almost too easy, with the birds and a garbage bag in easy reach. They’d barely fit inside his big winter coat. He knew he’d been lucky. He could have been caught and sent back to prison. What’s the sentence for bird-napping?

  He turned into the parking lot of a Dollar General store, taking a spot as far away from the doors and other cars as he could. Didn’t want someone hearing the birds and getting suspicious.

  He scurried inside and headed straight for the prepaid phones. The last thing he needed after being fired from his job today was to spend money, but what choice did he have? He had to make a call, and he couldn’t make it from the cell phone he already owned. He had to make sure this call couldn’t be traced to him.

  EIGHT

  SHOPPING MALL FREE-FOR-ALL

  Megan

  By Wednesday evening, the fickle Texas weather warmed up quite a bit and I decided to take Brigit on a stroll through the Shoppes at Chisholm Trail. The mall was one of those newer open-air structures, with a food court, carousel, and administrative offices situated inside an enclosed central atrium.

  Though I loved to window-shop at the mall, I couldn’t come here without being reminded of the day not long ago that a bomb had gone off, people narrowly escaping with their lives. They owed those lives to my partner. Heck, I did, too. Brigit wasn’t trained to scent for explosives but, for reasons known only to her, she’d alerted on the bomb. In just the nick of time, too. I’d cleared the area only seconds before the device went off. Sometimes I wished I could get into that furry head of hers. She’d be able to tell me if she smelled the macaws on Danny Landis and his rolling bin, whether he’d stolen them from their enclosure. The spilled apple juice could have been a ruse, an explanation for their disappearance. After all, the birds were probably worth more than he’d earn in months on the job. Will I ever know for certain?

  With the Christmas holiday rapidly approaching, the mall was alight with colored bulbs and abuzz with shoppers looking for the perfect gift for that special someone, or at least a good bargain. People milled about, some with smiles on their faces, others showing signs of stress. The hectic season could be overwhelming. Best to pace oneself.

  As for me, I’d started my shopping online on Cyber Monday. I’d ordered Seth a high-tech swimsuit like the competitors wore in the Olympics. He refused to wear a Speedo—thank goodness—but this form-fitting, knee-length suit would enable him to glide through the water like a dolphin without making a spectacle of his naughty bits. I’d ordered him a new pair of goggles, too, Swedish-style ones, which were supposed to be favored among serious swimmers according to various Web sites I’d perused. I’d also ordered my mother a new backpack. She’d dropped out of college when she became pregnant with me, and recently decided to go back and finish. She’d been carrying my old backpack to class, but it was looking tired. I still hadn’t decided on something for my father, my brothers, or my sister Gabby. Maybe I’d find ideas for the others on my list as Brigit and I walked the mall this evening.

  The decorations along the mall’s southwest walkway portrayed a Twelve Days of Christmas theme, all the way from a dozen drummers drumming to the five golden rings to the partridge in a pear tree. Cute.

  Of course the five golden rings reminded me of the rings missing from Nan Ishii’s home. They hadn’t turned up anywhere. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. It still seemed possible she’d somehow lost them herself without realizing it. But the possibility that the plumber had pocketed them couldn’t definitively be ruled out, either. Nor could I dismiss the chance that Nan might have intentionally ditched the rings herself to have an excuse to replace them. She might have summoned the police to give her story credibility.

  As we walked along, it struck me how many birds there were in the classic Christmas song. Seven swans a-swimming. Six geese a-laying. Four calling birds. Three French hens. Two turtledoves. And, of course, the iconic partridge in the pear tree. The flock of various birds along the pathway took my mind back to the zoo’s Parrot Paradise exhibit and the missing hyacinth macaws. Despite repeated pleas to the public on the local news to report any sightings, Fabiana and Fernando had not been spotted. It was as if the pair had taken wing and headed down to South America, where the species originated. But the vast majority of parrot species didn’t migrate. Rather, they remained within a certain range for all of their lives. And even if they had been a migratory breed, it wouldn’t explain how the birds had exited the enclosure.

  No other birds had gone missing since, so the exhibit must be intact, as Easley had claimed. If they hadn’t been purposely swiped, the macaws must have gone out through the visitor gates, then. It would be the only way out. Still, I found it hard to believe they’d snuck past Danny Landis while he was cleaning the walkway. Then again, he’d have been looking down as he’d tackled the apple juice spill. The birds could have flown over him. But wouldn’t he have heard their wings flapping? Maybe they’d pulled themselves along the wire mesh, essentially sidestepping out the gate. It seemed highly unlikely, though. Could errant zoo visitors have left both gates open earlier in the day, after the ornithologist checked the winter houses but before Landis arrived to clean up the juice?

  Out of curiosity, I’d run a search online and learned zoo escapes had occurred before. Several big cats escaped from a German zoo after flash floods damaged their cages. Two lions had previously escaped in Germany and, sadly, one was shot dead. A snow leopard escaped from a U.K. zoo after a keeper left its pen open. The leopard, too, was killed. In 2004, a gorilla named Jabari escaped his enclosure at the Dallas Zoo. He injured several people, including children, before being shot to death. I couldn’t imagine having to end the life of an innocent animal, apex predator or not.

  As Hurricane Katrina approached, staff at Marine Life Oceanarium in Gulfport, Mississippi, left dolphins, sea lions, and a seal to fend for themselves at the park, which was already under scrutiny by animal welfare activists. The animals were swept away in the storm. Some were never found. Debris killed or injured others. Miraculously, all of the dolphins were recovered. While the other dolphins beached themselves on mats to be transported back to captivity, one named Jill, who had lived in the wild before, had to be lassoed and dragged back in.

  Of course not all animals missing from zoos had escaped. Others were, in fact, stolen. My research led me to a report of eleven animals taken from a zoo in Florida, including a squirrel monkey, nine turtles, and a Solomon Island skink, whatever that was. A lemur stolen from a California zoo was subsequently abandoned at a hotel. Thieves used a net to steal a horn shark from the San Antonio Aquarium, and wheeled the shark out in a baby stroller. Luckily, the thieves were nabbed and the shark was recovered.

  Though I had not personally encountered illegal wildlife traffickers, I’d heard stories through the law enforcement grapevine. Not long ago, smugglers abandoned an unconscious Bengal tiger cub in a duffel bag near the Mexican border. Fortunately, the cub was found by border patrol and survived. Due to the popularity of parrots as pets, as well as their high price tag, illegal trade in wild-caught parrots was rampant in the Caribbean and Latin America. A man from Guyana was intercepted at JFK Airport with a carry-on full of live finches immobilized inside plastic hair rollers. Jason Shaw, an exotic-pet dealer in the nearby city of Arlington, had been charged in the country’s biggest animal cruelty case after numerous dead or starving animals were found in his possession. Shaw fled the country. Outrage ensued when the heartless creep returned home and got off in a sweetheart deal in which he pleaded gu
ilty to a single misdemeanor charge and paid a paltry fine of $15,000. Never mind that the city and animal welfare groups had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars caring for the animals. I wouldn’t want to shoot an escaped zoo animal, but I’d happily put a bullet in that heartless bastard.

  This unpleasant reverie led me to wonder, once again, whether someone had taken the hyacinth macaws with the intent to sell them. Were the missing macaws hidden in a stroller, like the shark? Or had Danny Landis rolled them out of the zoo in his refuse bin? He’d stolen from an employer before. Then again, there’s a big difference between taking necessities like baby formula and diapers, and stealing a valuable, living creature. Would he even know how to go about selling such a bird? I supposed it could be arranged online easily enough. After all, the Internet made it easy for drug dealers, human traffickers, and pimps to sell their wares. Or maybe Landis had been approached at the zoo by some creep who’d offered him money if he could snatch the birds. Or maybe my job had made me overly cynical and suspicious. This was the time of year when we were supposed to come together, see the good in each other, spread joy and goodwill and maybe some influenza from kissing under the mistletoe.

  As Brigit and I strolled along, keeping an eye out for shoplifters and suspicious activity, we passed the mall’s nail salon. A poster on the back wall read GET YOUR HOLIDAY HANDS HERE! The poster featured a pair of female hands, each fingernail painted in a different holiday theme. Candy-cane stripes. Christmas trees. Wrapped gifts. You could even have your nails decorated in men—gingerbread men, snowmen, or the big man himself, Santa.

  Under the sign, three tables sat side by side, displays of colorful polish atop them, technicians seated behind them. All three of the techs were blond, though they ranged in color from platinum to dishwater to strawberry. A client sat at each table, two more waiting in plastic chairs for their turn. The techs hunched over the hands on which they worked, carefully applying polish, glitter, and gems, giving their clients the perfect look for the holidays.

  As much as I’d like to get my nails done, too, there wasn’t much point. I kept my nails short so they wouldn’t interfere with my work. Couldn’t risk a lengthy nail getting in the way of using my weapons. Besides, bad guys might not take me seriously if I had candy-cane stripes on my fingers, and if someone thought I was wasting taxpayer dollars by handling personal matters on the clock, they might call the chief to complain.

  My partner and I continued on to the glass doors that led into the expansive atrium. Santa sat atop an elevated throne inside, a couple of elves tending to the children waiting in line to tell the jolly old elf what they wanted for Christmas. Though the carousel horses made their rounds, gleeful children riding upon their backs, the music was muted so as not to compete with the high school choir performing upon a set of portable risers a few yards away. Parents and siblings stood watching and listening, snapping video and pics on their cell phones to memorialize the performance. Sometimes I found myself longing for the good old days of my early childhood, before cell phone cameras, when people simply enjoyed the moment without the need to document every second of life. Then again, I was guilty of the same offense. My phone contained at least three hundred snapshots of Brigit doing something cute or funny.

  Brigit lifted her snout, scenting the garlic, pizza dough, and grilled meat aromas in the air as we meandered past the food counters. Was that dog ever not hungry?

  Serhan Singh, a Turkish man who ran the kebob booth, raised a hand and offered a smile in greeting. He and I had met during the earlier bombing investigation. He looked down at my partner. “Would you like a snack, Brigit?”

  She put her front paws on the counter in front of him, wagged her tail, and woofed softly. Yes, please!

  Singh layered strips of beef and chicken in a disposable paper tray and held it out to me. “Here you go.”

  I took the food from him. “Thanks.”

  He looked down at my partner. “Enjoy your meal, Brigit. Be sure to eat it all so you will be strong enough to chase the bad guys.”

  He needn’t worry. Finishing a meal had never been a problem for her.

  I led Brigit over to one of the few empty tables in the food court, and pushed aside the trash that another customer had carelessly and inconsiderately left on the tabletop. Left to her own devices, Brigit would wolf down the meat without taking time to chew it. She wasn’t one for table manners. Lest she give herself a tummy ache, I used a plastic knife to cut the meat strips into small pieces and fed them one by one to Brigit. When she was done eating, she issued a satisfied burp, much to the amusement of the young boy sitting with his parents at the adjacent table. He followed up with a burp of his own.

  After disposing of our trash, Brigit and I headed toward the doors on the opposite side of the space. The choir was gone now, the risers empty, a strolling barbershop quartet having taken their place. The four men were singing the quick-paced classic “Sleigh Ride.” The men ranged in age from thirtyish to fiftyish, and were dressed identically in black top hats, white shirts with ruffled sleeves, green and red plaid vests, black capes, and black pants. One of the men was tall, six feet two or so. Two of the others were average height. The thirtyish one on the end stood only around five feet six, not exactly a Tiny Tim, but undeniably on the short side. Even with the top hat on his head it was clear he was balding, and his vest fit snug around his belly. While he might not be a perfect physical specimen, he was nonetheless charming, taking a female shopper’s hand and going down on one knee while the quartet finished with the “giddy yaps” and sang about how grand it was to just hold your hand. He’d certainly committed to his character. Soon, all four were singing and bouncing up and down in an imaginary sleigh. The choreography was entertaining and playful. Whoever had come up with it deserved kudos.

  Brigit and I continued out the doors to a different wing. Along this walk, we spotted one of the mall’s security guards rolling toward us on a three-wheeled scooter.

  He slowed as he approached. “Hey, Officer Luz. Brigit.” He rolled to a stop and reached down to pet my partner.

  “How’s everything going?” I asked.

  “Busy,” he said. “We’ve nabbed six shoplifters today alone.”

  I wasn’t surprised. People thought the crowds would hide them from view as they snuck items into their pockets or purses. They took chances, and merchandise, that they shouldn’t.

  The security guard’s radio came to life. “We’ve got a runner at Macy’s.”

  The guard hooked a U-turn. “Here we go again!”

  Brigit and I ran after his scooter. Shoppers turned as we rushed past, Brigit’s tags ringing like jingle bells. As we neared the store, a teen girl bolted out the door. She sported a bright pink coat and pom-pom beanie. Sheesh. If you’re going to shoplift, have the sense to wear something inconspicuous! A purse tucked under her arm, the girl weaved around shoppers with the agility of former Dallas Cowboy Emmitt Smith. The store’s doors burst open again as a security guard ran out in hot pursuit. The four of us joined forces, chasing the girl toward the parking lot. The guard I’d followed hopped off his scooter and left it at the curb. Without looking, the girl sprinted into the driving lanes. SCREECH! HOOONK! She whirled like a frenzied ballerina before continuing her mad dash. I didn’t dare deploy Brigit to chase the girl given the number of cars cruising up and down the rows. My partner’s life was worth more than any purse.

  Bleep-bleep! The girl might be quick, but she wasn’t quick-witted. She used a key fob to open the locks on an SUV a row ahead. The lights flashed, telling us which car was hers. Given the near gridlock in the lot, she’d be easy to apprehend in her car. If she escaped on foot, we could identify her from the car’s registration. Either way, this twit was toast.

  As she reached the car, she turned and saw us gaining on her. Realizing she’d never be able to drive off, she flung the purse in our direction. Brigit caught the bag in her teeth as the girl took off again. The men and I collided as we tried to squeeze be
tween cars. In the split second it took for us to wriggle free from each other, the girl disappeared.

  “We’ll track her.” I wrestled the purse from Brigit. It was a Radley London brand, a “Hobo Bag” according to the tag. As if a homeless person could afford a two-hundred-dollar purse. I handed the bag to the men and issued Brigit the order to trail. My partner put her nose to the ground and I stayed by her side as she scampered on a zigzagging trajectory to the edge of the lot, where we found the pink coat and hat abandoned behind the bushes.

  Nose still down, Brigit circled back to the mall and led me into the Forever 21 store, the men trailing us. They waited outside while Brigit padded into the dressing rooms and scented her way to a room at the end. I caught a glimpse of dark hair hanging down as the girl took a quick peek under the door. From inside the dressing room came a hissed “Shit!”

  I put my hand to the door and knocked. Rap-rap-rap. “Jig’s up. Come on out.”

  The sounds of locks releasing and hinges creaking filled the air as every door down the row opened except the one I stood in front of. Curious heads peeked out.

  The girl feigned innocence. “What do you want with me?”

  So that’s how she’s going to play this, huh? “I’m helping Santa. He’s checked twice. You’re on his naughty list.” Okay, so I was being a smart-ass. But if she was going to dish out BS like it was figgy pudding, I was going to serve her some right back.

  The girl emerged wearing a scowl, skinny jeans, and a polka-dot sweater. She’d be the cutest criminal ever booked at the station. That sweater would look cute on my sister Gabby, too.

  I pulled my cuffs from my belt and circled my finger. “Turn around.” I snapped the cuffs on her, took her by the arm, and led her out into the store where the security guards waited.

  “I didn’t steal anything!” she cried, turning her plea on them. They ignored her. She might not be green or come from Mount Crumpet, but she was the Girl Who Stole Christmas.