Paw of the Jungle

by Diane Kelly

  The final feed was from a camera positioned to show the stretch of brick wall that ran along University Drive. The view was limited due to the darkness and the trees growing along the stretch of land between the wall and the roadway. We were watching the feed at six times actual speed when a big, black blob appeared at the base of a tree near the far end of the wall.

  I reflexively raised a palm. “Wait. What’s that? Did it come over the fence?”

  The CSO stopped the feed, went back to when the blob first appeared, and slowed it to half normal speed. It was impossible to tell where the thing had originated given the quality of the feed, the trees blocking the view, and the fact that the winds had been constantly shifting. But as we watched, the black blob rolled away, changing shape as it moved.

  “Garbage bag,” the CSO concluded. “Looks like the wind blew it away.”

  “It’s moving fast,” Bustamente noted. “Whatever’s in it must be lightweight.”

  The colobus monkeys were small, but still weighed enough to anchor a trash bag, even in the relatively high winds that had rocked the metroplex the preceding night. As we continued to watch, the bag rolled toward the neighborhood behind the zoo, eventually rolling out of sight. We went on to watch the footage up to the time Camilla Bellafiore had reported Sarki missing. All we saw were employees and patrons coming and going from the zoo. The footage showed Greg Greer presumably leaving for a lunch break only two minutes before Camilla did the same, and also showed the two returning within three minutes of each other approximately an hour later. It seemed clear the two had met somewhere nearby for lunch. Still, though Camilla had carried a purse with her, neither of them had carried anything out of the zoo that was big enough to hold the missing monkey. Greer’s coat had hung open, so he couldn’t have had the monkey tucked inside. Camilla’s coat, though zipped, was formfitting, leaving no room for her to hide even the smallest of primates.

  When we’d finished watching this footage, Bustamente asked to see the footage I’d viewed before, from the day the birds disappeared.

  “No problem.” The CSO tapped a few keys and slid the mouse around before clicking it.

  Once again, I found myself watching the bundled-up zoo guests come and go on the blustery day, Landis rolling his bin out the entrance and emptying the trash cans until he rolled out of sight. He rolled back onto the screen a few minutes later.

  After finishing the relevant footage, the detective frowned. “The video tells us little, if anything.”

  I was afraid he’d say that, though I’d hoped he’d notice something we hadn’t. Making sure we’d left no stone unturned, I said, “We’ve looked all around the monkey area, but could Sarki be hidden somewhere else in the zoo? Maybe someone took him out of his habitat and stowed him somewhere temporarily with the intention of sneaking him out later.”

  The CSO was a step ahead of me. “I had the same thought. I posted a man at the gate the instant we learned the monkey was missing. Before guests leave, he’s checking all wagons, strollers, and large bags.” That explained the security officer I’d seen at the visitor exit on my way in earlier. The CSO said he’d also posted team members at the other exit points, which were used for deliveries or garbage collection. “If Sarki is still on the property, he won’t be leaving. We’ll find him.”

  Bustamente handed the man his business card. “Let me know if you do.”

  We’d done as much as we could for the time being and walked out to the parking lot together, the illumination from the lights overhead casting our distorted shadows on the pavement. Bustamente followed me to my cruiser to powwow before he headed back to the station.

  Once we were seated with Brigit in the back and the heater warming up, he simply said, “Give me your thoughts.”

  There were all sorts of ways to approach an investigation like this, but when analyzing a crime I tended to ask myself three basic questions—who, why, and how. Who could have committed the crime? Why would someone commit the particular crime? And how had the perpetrator done it? The questions were interrelated. Sometimes the who would tell you why, or the why or how could tell you who. At the moment, we hadn’t yet figured out how the monkey had been removed from the habitat. That left me to ponder who and why, questions which we’d danced around already.

  “Someone either wants to keep Sarki as a pet or sell him for money. Presumably Danny Landis could use the money. Janitors don’t earn a lot and we already know he stole from the hospital he worked at before. We could try to figure out if Camilla Bellafiore or Greg Greer is in some type of financial trouble. The person who took him, or who would buy him, could be either an exotic-animal collector or part of the underground wild-animal trade. It’s worth a visit to pet stores and private zoos; people known to collect theses types of animals.”

  Texas had some of the most permissive laws in the country regarding private ownership of wild animals, so big cats and other exotic species could be found across the state, often in substandard enclosures and conditions. In several instances, the animals had escaped and mauled or killed children and adults. Frankly, I had no idea why anyone would want a big cat for a pet. It was painful enough when Zoe traipsed across my chest while I was asleep in bed, and she only weighed eight pounds. I couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt to have a tiger stand on your boobs, even a baby one. Not to mention the cost of tiger chow and the huge litter box you’d need. In addition to people who kept wild animals in their backyards, facilities calling themselves “zoos” were often unaccredited and operated as if Texas were still the Wild West, allowing visitors to interact with wild creatures. It was an incredibly dangerous practice, for both the people and the animals.

  “We should look into anyone in the area with an arrest for illegal wildlife trafficking,” I added. “It can’t hurt to run a search online to see if anyone’s posted hyacinth macaws or a colobus monkey for sale, or posted pictures of a bird or monkey they recently acquired.”

  “Good strategy,” the detective said. “Of course I’ve come to expect that from you, Officer Luz.”

  My cheeks flushed with pride. “Aw, shucks, Detective. You made me blush.”

  “Now I’m going to make you work.” Bustamente gestured for me to start my cruiser. “Let’s pay a visit to Danny Landis together. If that doesn’t solve the case, you’ll check out the pet stores and zoos, and talk to anyone in the area who’s been connected with wildlife trafficking. I’ll interview Greer’s and Bellafiore’s supervisors and coworkers. I’ll let the captain know I’ve commandeered you to help me on this case. We’ll circle back soon.”

  Once again, he’d informally deputized me as a junior detective. Not that he’d get any complaints from me. Chasing down clues was much more fun than writing traffic tickets and dealing with domestic disputes. If I could save the birds or monkey in the process, all the better.

  By that time it was nearing seven o’clock. Assuming Landis had worked a normal daytime schedule, he should be home by now. While I drove out of the lot, Bustamente pulled up Landis’s address on my laptop and plugged it into the GPS. His house was in east Fort Worth, just five miles and less than a fifteen-minute drive from the zoo. We admired the holiday light displays along the way.

  Bustamente clucked his tongue at a young boy in a yard who was treating an inflatable Santa as a punching bag. “You’ll be arresting that kid someday.”

  I chose to remain hopeful. “Maybe not. Maybe he’ll work out his issues.”

  The detective cast me a soft smile that was half admiration, half pity. “Not completely jaded yet, are you?”

  “I hope I’ll never be.” If I didn’t think the people I arrested could turn their lives around, that my job was more than pushing people through a revolving door, I’d have to quit. That said, I harbored no blind optimism. Thanks to educational and training programs, the recidivism rates in Texas had declined to around twenty percent within the first three years after a convict’s release. That meant a lot of ex-cons managed to remain out of priso
n. Some of them were probably getting away with crimes, but others had gotten their act together, right? Even so, the numbers indicated that one in five former inmates could be expected to reoffend. Problem was, I had no way of knowing which type of ex-con Landis was.

  We pulled up to the house and looked it over. It was tiny for a single-family home, around a thousand square feet, I’d say. The exterior paint was a white that had faded to an almost-gray. A small porch stood before the front door, a rusty aluminum carport at the end of the cracked concrete drive. Could be better. Could be worse. Who was I to judge? The house I’d grown up in looked like a before picture in a home improvement magazine. With five kids and both limited time and income, my parents had to let some things slide.

  I retrieved Brigit from the back and the three of us went to the door. Bustamente knocked and instinctively turned himself at an angle to make himself a smaller target. I did the same. You never knew when someone might be armed.

  The woman who answered the door was, in fact, armed—with a potato masher. Evidently we’d interrupted her dinner preparations. She stiffened when she realized it was law enforcement on her porch. We could hear the sounds of a sitcom playing on a television inside, see a small boy playing with a wooden train set on the floor, see the top of a man’s head poking up over a recliner facing away from the door.

  “Hello,” the detective said, his tone calm and polite. “May we speak to Mr. Landis, please?”

  The woman heaved a heavy sigh before turning back and calling out to the man in the chair. “Danny! It’s for you.”

  The head turned and Danny Landis’s face popped up over the back of the chair. His eyes narrowed when he spotted me. “I’m gonna have to put you down, boy,” he said, his head disappearing as he leaned forward. Though I’d thought he’d been talking to a child, I realized I’d been mistaken when a lanky black-and-white tuxedo cat circled around the recliner, swishing his tail, annoyed we’d interrupted his cuddle time. The feline froze when he spotted Brigit in the doorway, then took off like a rocket down the hall. Landis pulled the lever to lower the footrest, climbed out of the recliner, and circled around, too, walking to the door. “What’s going on?”

  The detective didn’t beat around the bush. “There’s another animal missing from the zoo.” He hadn’t specified that the missing animal was a monkey, probably to see if Landis would inadvertently tip his hand by indicating he knew which animal was missing.

  “Another bird?” Landis asked.

  “No,” Bustamente replied.

  Landis’s forehead furrowed. “Who is it, then?”

  His phrasing caught my attention. Most people thought of animals as “whats,” not “whos.” His words seemed to reveal a connection with the animals, a respect for other species. Of course most people who worked around animals quickly developed an appreciation of their individuality. Apparently this appreciation applied even if one’s job was to clean up after them.

  “A primate,” the detective said, his answer still somewhat vague. After all, the zoo housed a number of primates. Bonobos. Golden-headed lion tamarins. Gorillas. Orangutans. Gibbons.

  Landis shook his head and gazed down for a moment before looking back up at us, his eyes narrowed. “You think I had something to do with it, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.” He gave his head a quick, angry jerk, as if he could toss the thought away. He stared me down. “I told you before, I’m not trying to go back to prison. I’m trying to keep it together. Whatever happened, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Okay,” the detective said. “Then tell me where you were today.”

  “Pounding the pavement!” Landis snapped. “Trying to find a full-time job. Like I told her before”—he cut his eyes to indicate me before returning his focus to the detective—“nobody wants to hire an ex-con.”

  Bustamente went on to ask him several questions. Did he maintain a relationship with anyone who worked at the zoo? Did anyone ever approach him about stealing an animal? Had he been back to the zoo since he’d been fired?

  His answers were “no,” “no,” and “Yes, you already know that ’cause Officer Luz saw me there a few days ago.”

  “Look,” Landis said, “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I had nothing to do with any animal thefts.” He waved us in. “Come search my house. I’ll give you my car keys and you can search that, too.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Look at my call records. I didn’t talk to no one from the zoo or anywhere else about stealing animals.”

  As long as he was being so cooperative, we might as well take advantage of it, right? Of course it occurred to me that his cooperation might be an attempt to throw us off track. Maybe he’d taken Sarki, but knew there was no evidence of the theft around his home or on his phone. After all, most criminals bought burner phones and tossed them afterward to destroy the evidence.

  We searched his house, including the attic and the rusty metal lawn shed out back. Ditto for his last-decade SUV and his wife’s sedan. Though we found some black-and-white fur, the length told us it likely belonged to the family cat, not the missing colobus monkey. Still, we rounded some up to take to the lab for analysis. We collected all of the phone numbers in his contacts list and noted in his call logs.

  “Do you have another phone?” Bustamente asked him.

  Landis pursed his lips sourly. “No. I don’t have a burner. Never have had one. No need.”

  As we left, Bustamente turned back on the porch to thank Landis. “We appreciate you giving us this information and letting us take a look around.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” he snapped, “but whatever will get you off my back.”

  We headed across the yard. As we climbed back into the cruiser, Landis called out, “Can you tell me now who’s missing?”

  Bustamente and I exchanged glances, and he nodded to me.

  “Sarki,” I called over the top of my car.

  Landis’s mouth fell open. “The black-and-white monkey?” He shook his head. “Damn. I liked that little guy.”

  EIGHTEEN

  CAT SCAT

  Brigit

  Brigit had followed Megan and Detective Bustamente around the house as they’d searched it. The cat who had run off earlier was curious what they were doing. He sneakily followed them, too, peeking around corners, scurrying off every time Brigit turned to look at him.

  They came across the cat’s litter box in the bathroom. Brigit would never want to be a cat. They were useless creatures as far as she could tell. But she did envy their litter boxes. She had to relieve herself outside, no matter what the weather. It wasn’t fun to pop a squat in the pouring rain.

  She’d heard the soft patter of the cat’s paws as he snuck up behind them again. One … two … three! Brigit whipped her head around. The instant her eyes met the cat’s, he’d skittered backward, banged into the wall in the hallway, and ran off. Heh-heh.

  NINETEEN

  SANTA DAD

  The Poacher

  With cash in his pocket and the perfect presents in his arms, the Poacher felt like the cock of the walk as he snaked through the department store that evening. He slowed when he saw a group of men gathered around a big-screen television, watching basketball, the Dallas Mavericks versus the Houston Rockets.

  He stopped at the edge of the group to watch. While half of the men seemed to be rooting for one team and the other half seemed to be rooting for the other, the Poacher didn’t really care who won. But he did notice how nice and clear the picture was on the television, much better than the resolution on the cheap TV in their living room now. Maybe I should buy one of these babies.

  Though he didn’t know any of these men, he enjoyed their company. The camaraderie had been the only good part about prison. If you took away the razor wire and armed guards in the towers, it had been a lot like the summer camps of his boyhood. Cinder-block housing. Bunk beds. Group showers. Dirty jokes that he sometimes didn’t quite understand.

  When the Rockets scored, th
e guy next to him whooped and raised both his hands for a double high five. The Poacher set his gifts down on the floor at his feet so he could oblige. Slap!

  Minutes later, with the score tied and only twelve seconds left on the clock, the game went to commercial. The men around him threw up their hands and hollered and grumbled in frustration.

  “Come on!” yelled one of them.

  “You gotta be kidding me!” barked another.

  Another merely shook his head. “Their timing sucks.”

  A series of commercials played, all of them for products normally purchased by men. Beer. Boner pills. Pickup trucks. Foot powder. The final commercial was a quick teaser for the evening news, coming up after the game. After the attractive anchorwoman piqued viewers’ interest with quick sound bites about politics and the weather, Sarki’s photo came up on the screen. His brown eyes seemed to see the Poacher through the screen, to ask How could you? As Sarki’s photo shrank to fill only the upper right corner of the screen, the anchor looked at him accusingly. “Where could Sarki be now? Stay tuned for an update on this heartbreaking investigation.”

  The monkey’s eyes had been bad enough, but now he heard his little girl’s voice echo in his head. “You’re gonna be good this time. Right, Daddy?”

  As he turned to walk away, the game popped back up on the screen.

  “Dude!” one of the men called after him. “You’re leaving now? You’re going to miss the end of the game!”

  The Poacher didn’t care. He felt as if the game were already over for him.

  TWENTY