The Zoo Job

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Jack winced. If the Fish & Wildlife Service was coming in, he was going to need a new job, and soon.

  Somehow, he was going to find a way to blame this on his brother-in-law.

  LAST NIGHT

  It had taken him all day, but Taggert had finally gotten through all his e-mail backlog. He’d managed to keep up with the most important e-mails while he’d been laid up with the ferret bite, but he had let a bunch fall by the wayside.

  Now, though, he was back on the job. The doctors had cleared him, and as an added bonus, the ferret that bit him had been put down. He was ready to get back in the saddle.

  Unfortunately, that mostly meant responding to the outstanding e-mails and filling out a butt load of paperwork.

  Then, just as he was done, a call came in from a blocked number.

  “Agent Taggert.”

  “Taggert, my man, it’s Agent Thomas.”

  Taggert smiled. “Thomas! It’s good to hear from you! Hey, I wanted to thank you for the card and those balloons that you and Agent Hagen sent me in the hospital. They really brightened my day.”

  “My pleasure, man, my pleasure. Listen, I got a line on somethin’ that may be a good way for you to get back into the swing.”

  And then Thomas told him about a guy in Vermont who was hoarding wild animals illegally, and who might also have been involved in a scheme to defraud the Brillinger Zoo, one that might’ve included sabotaging a bear exhibit.

  Taggert didn’t want to admit that he’d never heard of the Brillinger Zoo, but that was okay. This sounded like a good case.

  “Hagen and me, we’d go after it ourselves, but we’re neck-deep in a UC op. In fact, I need to get back to it.”

  Nodding, Taggert said, “All right, we’ll get right on it.”

  “Oh,” Thomas said, “McAllister was workin’ with a dude name of Sal Tartucci. Works at Elm Capital in Worcester. He seems a’ight, but something about him’s hinky. Elm was involved with AA Investments, and you heard about what happened to them, right?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Taggert remembered seeing a news story about that, not to mention one of the e-mails he’d gone through upon returning.

  Thomas added, “You may wanna check his online calendar, too.”

  “You got it. Hey, thanks, man, I really appreciate this.”

  “What’d I tell you, Taggert? I’m the coffee, you’re the cream.”

  Grinning, Taggert said, “You bet!”

  He ended the call and leaned back with a satisfied smile. Thomas was a good man. Taggert wasn’t so sure about his partner—Hagen, he thought, was stringing McSweeten along—but Thomas had done right by him and McSweeten. Even while he was laid up, Thomas and Hagen helped McSweeten out in finally taking down Greg Sherman. They’d been trying to nail his operation for years.

  Speaking of his partner, McSweeten chose that moment to come over. “Hey, I’m about ready to head home. Ready to end your first day back, partner?”

  “Not quite.” Taggert filled McSweeten in.

  “All right,” McSweeten said with a big grin. “Let’s do this!”

  NOW

  For the second time this week, federal agents entered Elm Capital, but instead of one agent looking to ask Sal questions, this time it was a team of agents who were there to arrest him.

  “What!? I don’t—”

  The lead agent, a dark-haired, smiling man named McSweeten, stood him up and handcuffed him. “Salvatore Tartucci, you are under arrest for suspicion of conspiracy to commit assault, and of conspiracy to violate the Endangered Species Act of 1973. You’re also wanted for questioning in relation to Elm Capital’s relationship with AA Investments.”

  “This is crazy, I’m the one who called you guys!”

  “Should’ve worked out a deal before you incriminated yourself, then,” McSweeten said with a smile, “and before you got into bed with Arthur Andrechuk. Don’t worry, though, you’ll have plenty of time to work something out with the AUSA. I think you guys’ll have plenty to talk about. For now, though? You have the right to remain silent.”

  Sal planned to exercise that right after he said one thing: “Debbie, call Rachel Sommer, tell her to meet me at the Boston Field Office!” He was an idiot for not talking to his lawyer before calling Taggert, but he’d been so pissed that Dec was making deals with someone like Santiago that he didn’t think straight, and just called the feds. He fully intended to make that deal that McSweeten was talking about, but his lips were going to stay sealed until Rachel and her law degree were in the room with him.

  Then McSweeten said to one of the other agents, “Don’t forget to check his online schedule.”

  Snorting, Sal allowed McSweeten to haul him out of his office.

  Then the other agent said, “Got it. Whole schedule’s here, going back to 2004.”

  “What?” Sal blinked. “That ain’t possible!”

  “C’mon,” McSweeten said as he led Sal out of his office.

  FOUR HOURS AGO

  Hardison hit enter. “Okay, it’s done. Sal Tartucci now has an online calendar that matches his movements and appointments. I copied most of it from Debbie’s computer—that’s Tartucci’s assistant, she has got to stop using her birthday for her password.”

  Nate poured himself a glass of Irish whiskey. “And it has the meeting with O’Malley, and all his dealings with Andrechuk?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hardison said with a smile. “Including a few dealings with Andrechuk that didn’t actually happen, but since I have access to all of AA’s files, all’s I had to do was change a few headers, and now Elm Capital’s on the SEC’s radar. Age of the geek, baby!”

  Wincing, Nate slugged down about half of the whiskey he’d poured. He’d been hoping to get through the whole job without having to hear Hardison say that.

  TWO NIGHTS AGO

  Hardison looked 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.”

  “Fine,” Hardison said, “I can do that. Oh, but there’s one other thing, somethin’ I got from McAllister—not the bug, but the computer.” He clicked his remote, and there was a record of payment to Seamus O’Malley.

  Nate frowned. “Why do I know that name?”

  “He’s better known as ‘Smiles’ O’Malley. He’s a leg breaker. Mostly worked for O’Hare before we got him to turn state’s.”

  “Right.” Nate nodded, recalling that O’Malley was part of Brandon O’Hare’s crew. That was their first job in Boston, the job that introduced him to the Kerrigans, who brought them this job.

  Sometimes the universe made connections that seriously made Nate’s head hurt.

  Hardison explained: “McAllister’s calendar has a meeting with Tartucci and someone called Smiles, and then the next day we get this wire transfer, and then the next day, the mess at the bear enclosure happened. What’s funny is, the sheriff’s office lists O’Malley as one of the witnesses they questioned about the incident after it happened.”

  “Interesting,” Nate muttered.

  FOUR HOURS AGO

  Hardison said, “Taggert and McSweeten should be able to put two and two together. Between McAllister’s computer and what I put in Tartucci’s online calendar, they should both go down for the bear attack—no matter who gives up who. And having AA
involved will just mess things up for them more.”

  Nate nodded. “Good. It’s possible they’ll both lawyer up, so I want to make sure there’s something that the FBI can use as leverage. But either way?” He took another slug of his whiskey. “Those two are going down.”

  NOW

  McSweeten guided the handcuffed Sal Tartucci into the back of his sedan, holding his head in so he didn’t bang it.

  After calling for his lawyer, Tartucci had made good use of his right to remain silent, which suited McSweeten fine. Tartucci was the small fish here, and the best one to make a deal with—which meant he had to wait for his lawyer to be present so the deal would be kosher.

  Taking his cell phone out of his pocket, he hit the autodial for Taggert.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Hey there, partner!”

  “I’ve read Tartucci his rights.”

  “Yeah, I just Mirandized McAllister. It’s gonna take forever to figure out what to do with all these animals, though.”

  McSweeten was unable to keep the grin off his face. “Yeah, but think about what this is gonna look like on our evals. Especially yours! Second day back, and a major bust!”

  “Yeah,” Taggert said. “We owe ’em another one.”

  With a nod, McSweeten said, “Yup.” They didn’t have to say who they meant.

  After closing his phone and putting it back in his pocket, he made a mental note to tell Dad about this bust. He also wondered if he should send Hagen flowers. Or maybe write her another haiku.

  EPILOGUE

  James Sterling sat in the apartment he kept in Lyon, near Interpol’s headquarters. Olivia was in her bedroom, doing an online chat for some chess Web site or other. She’d been very much in demand since her dramatic win in Dubai, which was also the last chess tournament that her stepfather, Robert Livingston, would ever host. It was shortly after that tournament that she’d come to live with him.

  Between Olivia’s testimony and the fallout from a building explosion in Kazakhstan, Livingston would be limiting his chess playing to whatever he could drum up in Dubai Central Prison.

  The footage of Livingston’s arrest was the second-most played MPEG on Sterling’s laptop. The most played was still the death of “Rebecca Ibañez” in San Lorenzo. It never failed to bring a smile to his face; that footage tickled him on so many levels.

  As he sat sipping a glass of Scotch, he double-clicked on another MPEG, one that he suspected would be challenging those other two for popularity.

  It was footage from BBC World News. “Agent Anatoly Mazursky of Interpol was arrested today on charges of accepting bribes from representatives of the Malani government. One of those representatives was former finance minster Aloysius Mbenga, who was arrested in his home in Malani by Interpol agents on the scene. Interpol’s secretary-general, Ronald Noble, said that Agent Mazursky was working alone, and praised the Interpol agents under Mazursky for bringing his criminal activities to light. In particular, he singled out Agent Hrothgar Mikkelsen, who will be taking over Mazursky’s position as a supervising agent.”

  Sterling thoughtfully sipped his Scotch. Of course Mikkelsen had gotten the promotion. Sterling wasn’t even angry about that. Mikkelsen had been with Interpol for the better part of ten years, while Sterling hadn’t even been there for two. Besides, it was more important to get Mazursky out of there. He was rapidly becoming a hindrance to Sterling’s ability to do his job.

  Mikkelsen could have the promotion. And one of the first memos he’d get would be from Sterling, outlining his proposal for a new art-theft division—which, naturally, would be headed by one Jim Sterling, the man responsible for getting Mikkelsen his current job . . .

  He felt no guilt about once again using Nate and his crew. He knew that Spencer and “Jenny” would get out of Mbenga’s mansion unscathed. If they were the type of people who’d get caught under those circumstances, they wouldn’t have been worth using in the first place.

  They were handy to have around, Nate’s little gang. They were that wonderful combination of talented and noble. The former was useful, while the latter made it so incredibly easy to poke them with a metaphorical stick.

  Plus, of course, the challenge. That went all the way back to Nate and Sterling’s days at IYS. Nate was the only person who could even keep up with him, and he had to admit he missed the competition they’d had when they were working together. They made each other better.

  Now, though, it was just a perpetual game of chess. They hadn’t played a game in years that didn’t end in stalemate, and Sterling suspected that this would continue. But it wasn’t always the endgame that mattered so much as the way you got there.

  “Until next time,” he said, raising a glass in toast.

  * * *

  The Reverend Michael Maimona had just entered his office, dropping the mail onto his desk as he sat down behind it, when Amalia came storming in.

  “Have you seen the news? Mbenga’s been arrested, and there is an all-points bulletin out for ‘Dr. Onslow’ and ‘John Smith,’ except their names are apparently Annie Kroy and Eliot Spencer. I knew we shouldn’t have trusted them! And now we don’t have a doctor for the inoculations—not, I suppose, that we ever did—”

  Michael steepled his fingers in front of his face and chuckled. “Her name’s not Annie Kroy either. The name she gave me was Sophie Devereaux.”

  “She—” Amalia stopped, blinked. “Wait, what?”

  “Her name is Sophie Devereaux, and she came here at the behest of the Brillinger Zoo. She was trying to determine if we swindled them out of the black rhinos.”

  Amalia frowned. “Then what was she doing pretending to be an arms dealer with Mbenga?”

  “Helping us.”

  “Helping us?” Amalia threw up her arms. “She has caused nothing but trouble!”

  “On the contrary, she helped us immensely.”

  “Name one way she did!” Amalia put her hands on her hips.

  “I will, in fact, name four, yes?” Michael started enumerating points on his fingers. “She and Smith—or, rather, Spencer—helped get Mbenga arrested, which means he is unlikely to be attempting to run arms through the clinic any longer. She verified that we didn’t defraud the zoo, so we might have dealings with them again in the future.”

  “Because that worked out so well,” Amalia muttered.

  Pointedly ignoring her, Michael made his third point on his ring finger: “She put our filing system in order. I think for that alone, she deserves praise, if not a Nobel Prize.”

  Amalia said nothing in response to that, but Michael could see the emotions playing on her face. She’d been wanting to get the filing system in order for ages. But she also had taken a dislike to Onslow/Kroy/Devereaux from the start.

  Her solution to this dilemma was to avoid it and ask, “What’s the fourth point?”

  With a wide smile, Michael pulled one envelope—the only one he’d opened—from the pile of mail and handed it to Amalia.

  She pulled the cashier’s check out of the envelope and her eyes went very wide.

  “This is—a lot of money. Who is this Leverage Associates LLC that the money is from?”

  “Well, the return address on the envelope is a PO box in the States—but it came from Ms. Devereaux.”

  “Excuse me?” somebody said.

  Michael looked past Amalia and saw a familiar-looking woman. She had the gaunt look and short hair typical of someone who’d recently undergone chemotherapy. However, she also wore a dress that cost more than he paid Amalia in a year, and she was carrying what looked to be a very heavily laden purse. “May I help you?”

  “Reverend Maimona? I’m sorry, but the woman up front told me to come see you directly. I’ve come to volunteer—and also to be admitted as a patient. I have cervical cancer. It’s currently in remission, but I
’d like a doctor to keep an eye on me. I’m afraid my usual health care providers are no longer an option.”

  Amalia’s eyes somehow grew even wider. “You’re Tereza Mbenga. The minister’s wife.”

  The woman nodded. “He is no longer minister, but yes, I am Aloysius Mbenga’s wife. With his arrest, I find myself at odds. An—an old friend suggested that I come here. Eliot spoke very highly of your clinic.”

  At the word Eliot, which was “John Smith’s” real name, apparently, Amalia’s face soured.

  However, Michael rose to his feet. “We certainly do appreciate anyone volunteering to assist, Mrs. Mbenga. Amalia, please make an appointment for Mrs. Mbenga to see Dr. Dos Santos as soon as she is free.” Ines Dos Santos was the only doctor in the clinic with an oncology background, though she wasn’t an oncologist as such.

  “I should add, Reverend, that I am not seeking charity.” Tereza placed the purse on his desk, which landed with a surprisingly loud clunk. “This is for the clinic.”

  “We hardly need purses,” Amalia muttered even as Michael opened the purse.

  The diamonds inside temporarily dazzled him as they glinted off the overhead light.

  “This will do nicely, yes?” Michael smiled. “Amalia, please help Mrs. Mbenga.”

  Amalia gave him her dirtiest look, and he knew he was going to be hearing about this later. But he didn’t care, because in one day he’d received more funds to run this clinic than he’d accumulated in the past two years.

  He wondered if he should screw up sales of animals to American zoos more often . . .

  * * *

  Sophie was the first to complain when Nate said that they should hop into Lucille and drive all the way to the Brillinger Zoo. Normally at the end of a job, the client came to McRory’s and expressed their gratitude. It was easier on everyone.

  However, Sophie was far from the last person to complain. Parker didn’t want to take so long a drive. Hardison had no desire to be outdoors that long. And Eliot didn’t want Parker to bring the damned monkey.