The Zoo Job

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

“I need to take a meeting with someone,” he said neutrally, then added: “It’s a chef that’s coming in from Malani. Might be a good new venture for me.” He didn’t make any reference to Williams, just in case Sal got wind of what his client did when they spoke.

  “What, restaurants?” Now Sal sounded incredulous.

  McAllister chuckled. “Something like that, yeah. Gotta go—so you wanna just come up Saturday?”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s fine,” Sal said distractedly. “I guess. Sure. Yeah.”

  “Okay. You all right, pal?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. See ya Saturday.”

  McAllister stared at the phone for a second. Sal didn’t usually sound so distracted—but then, he was in the office, so it could’ve had something to do with that.

  LAST NIGHT

  “Okay,” Hardison said, “I been listenin’ to the bugs we got in both McAllister’s house and Tartucci’s office. Also been readin’ some more e-mails from McAllister’s computer. You know how McAllister lied to Marney’s dad? Well, his pants are on fire with Tartucci, too. Ain’t a single mention of huntin’ anywhere in the e-mails.”

  Nate nodded. He’d figured that McAllister’s mendacity extended beyond that of Norm Brillinger.

  Hardison clicked on his remote, calling up a Word file to the screen. “Tartucci’s actually written a few memos to the board about how the ‘modern zoo model’ is no good, and they need to look into ‘alternative animal care,’ whatever that means. But he’s also been a member’a PETA his whole life, and he donates to half a dozen zoos.”

  Again, Nate nodded. “Right, Marney told me that. What else can you tell me about Declan McAllister?”

  “Well, get this—he subscribes to magazines.” Hardison grinned. “Isn’t that adorable? Kickin’ it old-school.”

  “Some people do like magazines, Hardison.”

  “Yeah, people who don’t like search functions, indexing, and easy access and who do like landfill.”

  Nate closed his eyes and sighed. “Hardison, what does he subscribe to?”

  “Let’s see—The New Yorker, National Wildlife Magazine, Rolling Stone, 21st Century Chef, Potbellied Pigs—”

  “What!?” That was Parker, contributing to the conversation for the first time while sitting in the kitchen with that damned monkey around her neck.

  Hardison held up both hands. “I swear I am not making that up. Potbellied Pigs is a quarterly journal dedicated to articles, photographs, and tips and timesavers regarding potbellied pigs. Not just any members of the genus Sus scrofa domesticus, but specifically the potbellied variety.”

  Nate just stared at Hardison.

  “What?” he asked defensively.

  “I’m sorry,” Nate said, “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you use Latin before—at least, not properly,” he added, remembering the time Hardison had posed as a lawyer.

  “Really? This is what you say to me, after—”

  Not really having the patience for another one of Hardison’s rants about how underappreciated he was—and also wanting desperately for this conversation to be over with so Parker would take the monkey out of his apartment—Nate asked, “What was the one before the one about the pigs?”

  “21st Century Chef.” Hardison clicked his remote, and a JPEG of the cover of the latest issue appeared on the screen.

  Nate leaned forward to look more closely at it. “That’s our way in.”

  “I—” Hardison blinked. “Okay.”

  “Hardison, I want you to create a mock-up of the latest issue of that magazine tonight, and then Parker, you’re going to substitute it for the one in McAllister’s magazine rack.”

  “You want me to drive all the way to Vermont?”

  “Yes.” It was one way to get the monkey out of his hair.

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “Cool.”

  Pointing accusingly at her, Hardison said, “No speeding this time, a’ight?”

  Parker pouted. “You’re no fun.”

  Briefly, Hardison looked to the ceiling in supplication, then quickly saw that the ceiling was parsimonious about providing such, as Nate had learned long ago, and so he looked back at Nate. “What’m I puttin’ in this new, improved copy of the mag?”

  “An article about an exotic chef. Mostly a puff piece, but mention briefly a rumor that he’s been known to prepare delicacies made from endangered animals. Then plant some online articles about how he was accused of that in Malani, but the charges were dropped.”

  “And what am I supposed to use for art?”

  Nate shrugged. “I’m sure you can find appropriate photos online.”

  Hardison asked, “And the subject? What do I use for that?”

  That got Nate to smile. “The only chef on the team.”

  LAST NIGHT (A LOT LATER)

  When Parker had inserted the jump drive into McAllister’s computer during her first break-in through the hiking trail behind the property, not only did it run a program that copied all the data from that computer onto the drive, it also installed another program that gave Hardison a back door into the system. So the second time Parker needed to break into the property, Hardison just needed to hit a few keys on his computer, and she was in without the security guard on duty being any the wiser.

  She and Alec had gotten from Nate’s place to McAllister’s estate in ninety minutes—half the time Hardison’s GPS said it would take, though it helped that the roads were mostly empty this late at night—and then when she got to the estate, she gave Alec the new copy of 21st Century Chef and sent him inside.

  With a huge grin on her face, she watched as the little capuchin monkey snuck through the house, dodging cameras and sneaking under furniture, until he got into the family room.

  “I cannot believe you are using that monkey,” Hardison said over the earbud.

  “What?” Parker was subvocalizing, so neither the sleeping McAllister nor the awake security guard would hear her. “He’s small, he knows his way around the house, and if he’s caught, people will just assume he snuck in from outside.”

  Sure enough, Alec placed the magazine in the rack, took out the other one, and came back.

  Parker frowned when he came back to her, though, as he had not only the real copy of 21st Century Chef, but also a copy of The New Yorker. “No! Put that back!” she whisper-shouted at Alec.

  He just stared at her, holding out both magazines.

  She took the former, but left the latter between his paws. “Take that back!”

  Alec just sat there, offering the magazine.

  Hardison asked, “Parker, what’s goi—”

  “It’s fine,” she said quickly, then glowered at the monkey. “Back, or I don’t take you with me.”

  After making a really unfortunate ack! noise, the monkey turned and ran back toward the family room.

  For several uncomfortable seconds, Parker waited.

  “I don’t wanna say ‘I told you so,’ Parker, but—”

  Parker interrupted Hardison. “He’ll be back.”

  And then he was, empty-handed this time.

  Grinning, Parker said, “Good work, Alec!”

  As Alec climbed up onto her shoulders, Hardison said, “I’m just gonna assume you were talkin’ to me, there.”

  Parker stuck her tongue out at Hardison, even though he couldn’t see it.

  “I heard that.”

  Now Parker frowned. “How?”

  VERY EARLY THIS MORNING

  Trooper Mike Mazzarano had just come on duty when the Aveo went zooming by.

  Today, he’d gotten I-90, the Mass Pike itself, which was always a good spot for lots of tickets. He was cruising eastbound at about seventy-five, looking for a good spot to stop and
watch the crazies go by.

  Then the same damn Aveo zoomed by him on the left! After the last time, he’d run the plates, and learned that it was being rented by a woman named Alice White.

  He was not letting her get away this time.

  Hitting the siren, he stepped hard on the accelerator. But this time, she didn’t pull over. No, she went faster.

  Snarling, Mike straightened his leg, mashing his foot down on the accelerator. This wasn’t happening to him again. Not even if she cried.

  The sun started to peek up over the horizon, and Mike found himself temporarily blinded by the light.

  Blinking the spots out of his eyes, he saw—

  —nothing. The Aveo was gone.

  He hit the accelerator even harder, pushing the cruiser to one thirty—and then it started to shake.

  With a grumble, he eased up on the gas, slowing down to a mere eighty, then eventually decelerated until he was on the shoulder.

  He shook his head. She was probably just going to cry on him again anyhow . . .

  TWENTY

  NOW

  McAllister had no trouble picking out Theodore Williams, as he was wearing the same ridiculous hat in Logan Airport that he wore in the picture he’d texted so McAllister could identify him. McAllister was morally certain that Williams wore that silly chapeau all the time and it was covering a bald spot. He could pick out an aspiring toupee wearer a mile off.

  “Santiago and his agent flew into New York this morning,” Williams said, “and they’re, uh, on a commuter flight up here.”

  Nodding, McAllister said, “Fine.” He had a friend in TSA and had already confirmed all of this.

  “They, uh, got to the gate about twenty minutes ago, so— Ah, there they are!”

  Following Williams’s gaze, McAllister saw a man in a sleeveless shirt and jeans, with a scarf around his neck, talking with an exotically beautiful woman.

  Although his face was partially obscured by the large sunglasses he wore, it matched the pictures in the articles McAllister had read.

  “Mrs. Velásquez?” Williams was raising his hand. “Over here, Mrs. Velásquez!”

  Speaking with a thick Spanish accent, the beautiful woman said, “Allo, Señor Williams. It is good to see you again.”

  FOUR HOURS AGO

  “You have got to be kidding me!” Eliot muttered from his seat on the plane, which was flying over the Atlantic toward New York. “Nate, we left Malani with nothing but what we happened to have on us. How’re we supposed to—”

  In his earbud, Sophie, who was three rows away, interrupted. “It’ll be fine. Eliot, I’ll need you to tighten the belt on your jeans and rip the sleeves off your shirt. And I’ve got a scarf for you to wear around your neck. I’ll change into heels and the miniskirt I’ve got in my bag.”

  Eliot opened his mouth, then closed it. He should no longer have been surprised that Sophie had a miniskirt in her purse. He was convinced that the purse was like that stupid phone booth thing on that TV show Hardison liked: bigger on the inside than the outside.

  During the layover in New York, Eliot ripped the sleeves off his flannel shirt and Sophie gave him the scarf, which he wrapped around his neck like a bandanna, as well as the large sunglasses, which had protected her eyes from the Malani sun. She herself had unbuttoned the top three buttons of the blouse she’d worn as both Dr. Bernadine Onslow and Annie Kroy, and exchanged the capris and hiking boots for a miniskirt and heels. The latter two probably fit in her shoulder bag. Eliot decided he didn’t want to know what she did with the pants and footwear she was no longer wearing.

  “Now we’re set,” she said.

  NOW

  “Who is this?” Sophie asked in a Spanish accent.

  Nate responded using his slow, deliberate voice that he usually reserved for bureaucrats. She would have thought he’d use the sleazy-lawyer voice for this one, but she respected the choice. “This is, uh, Declan McAllister. Mr. McAllister, this is Armageddon Santiago and his manager, Mrs. Esmeralda Velásquez.”

  McAllister held out a hand. Sophie shook it—his grip was solid, yet somehow feeble. Then he offered his hand to Eliot, who simply stared at him until he awkwardly lowered it again.

  Nate tilted his head at the other man. “Mr. McAllister here’s got a wildlife preserve up in Vermont, and he’s going to be opening one soon here in, uh, Massachusetts, and he might have use for Mr. Santiago’s, ah, special services.”

  Sophie, who had been assured by Hardison that McAllister had shown no facility for foreign languages—one of his security guards talked to his wife on the phone in Spanish, and McAllister yelled at him for talking in a language McAllister himself couldn’t understand—spoke Spanish to Eliot. “Let’s stall for time, shall we? I’ll pretend that I’m passing on a message about Mr. McAllister here from Mr. Williams.” Sophie saw recognition in McAllister’s eyes only at the two proper names.

  Eliot looked at McAllister. In a deep, Clint Eastwood-esque whisper, he asked, “What manner of animal have you?”

  McAllister said, “Well, I’m not sure we should be talking about this in the open, but—well, I’ve got emu, lion, tiger, black rhino—”

  “Ah, yes,” Eliot whispered. “Is good. I have special marinade for rhinoceros that will bring out glory in black rhino. Is good!”

  Sophie said, “We would love to inspect your operation.”

  “All in one place,” Eliot whispered, hands gesturing. “All together, they must be, so I can plan feast properly.”

  “Um,” McAllister said slowly, “it won’t be a feast. Each meal will be prepared separately, depending on the wishes of the individual clients. And soon I’ll be getting a much wider variety, including aye-ayes and red pandas.”

  “Mmm, delicious,” Eliot whispered. “And still, must be seen together.”

  McAllister nodded. “Very well. Why not come to my estate in Vermont tomorrow afternoon? I’ll have all the animals placed in one enclosure, so you can inspect them directly.”

  Sophie nodded. “That sounds most excellent, señor. We will see you then, sí?”

  “Uh, sí.” McAllister squirmed. He really didn’t like foreign languages, it seemed. “I mean, yes. See you then.”

  FIVE MINUTES AGO

  Sal Tartucci was going over a bunch of reports when his cell phone rang. The display indicated that it was the private investigator he’d hired to find Dec McAllister in Logan Airport and report on his movements.

  “Mr. Tartucci?” the PI said.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I found him at the Vista Atlantic luggage claim. He met with some guy wearin’ a hat I didn’t reco’nize, and then he met two people comin’ off a plane. One’s a wicked hot lady, the other one looks just like the picture you sent me. ’Cept he was wearin’ sunglasses, but it was definitely the same guy.”

  “Okay. Yeah.” Sal sighed. Dec really was meeting with Armageddon Santiago. He ended the call with the PI. “That son of a bitch!”

  Then he pulled the business card Agent Thomas had handed him out of his jacket.

  TWENTY-ONE

  NOW

  Jack Randall watched as the keepers brought the tiger to the final enclosure. They had put all the animals in the largest clearing on the estate. Normally, the bears were there alone, but the e-fence used to enclose them had been enlarged, then all the other animals were brought in.

  Jack thought this was a dreadful idea, putting them all so close together, but McAllister said it was only for this morning when the special visitor was coming. McAllister didn’t say who the special visitor was, only that it was none of Jack’s business. At this point, Jack was used to that attitude.

  So when a bunch of cars pulled up, Jack assumed that they belonged to the special visitor, and that he or she had an entourage.

  That, at least, was w
hat he believed right up until they got out of the cars and were all wearing blue jackets with FBI emblazoned in yellow on the back.

  Grabbing his cell phone, he called the boss, who was in the family room, reading his magazines. “Uh, sir? The FBI’s here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The FBI, sir,” Jack repeated. “They’re here.”

  McAllister cut off the call and hurried over to the front door. Jack went as well, out of curiosity as much as anything; plus he was, technically, supposed to protect McAllister and the estate.

  Opening the door, McAllister was greeted by a large, bald man with a thick mustache. “Are you Declan McAllister?”

  “Um—yes, I am. What’s this—”

  “I’m Special Agent Taggert.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket. “This is a warrant to search the entire premises—house and grounds.”

  Taggert handed the warrant to McAllister, but he didn’t take it, just standing there and muttering, “Something’s wrong. There’s no way this could’ve happened. I don’t believe it.” McAllister took out his cell phone, probably to call his lawyer.

  Figuring it was his job, and thanks to a lack of instructions from McAllister, busy as he was now on the phone, Jack followed Taggert, since he seemed to be in charge—though there were about twenty agents altogether going through everything in the house, as well as the grounds.

  Eventually, the lead agent made his way outside. Jack followed him. Upon seeing the dozens of wild animals all bunched together on the lawn, Taggert turned to Jack. “Uh, Mr.—”

  “Randall. I’m Mr. McAllister’s shift supervisor for security.” It was a fancy title that just meant he was the security guard for this shift.

  “Mr. Randall, I assume there’s paperwork for all these animals?”

  Jack knew damn well there wasn’t. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Mr. McAllister, Agent Taggert. I just take care of them.”

  “Mhm.” Taggert pulled a cell phone out of his pants pocket and hit a couple of keys before putting it to his ear. “Yeah, this is Taggert. We’re gonna need FWS in here.”