I parked in front of Langer’s iron gate, which was securely locked, and hit the buzzer, prepared for his booming voice to jump out at me from the intercom. But all was quiet on the western front. If Langer was home, he wasn’t in the mood for company. There was nothing more I could do about Tony’s missing flamingo tonight.
I drove back to Carrera’s to collect Terri and hit the road. “Whadda ya mean, Langer isn’t there? I saw a van pull into his place less than an hour ago,” Carrera argued.
“Then you must have missed it when it pulled back out,” I informed him. “I looked through the gate, and there’s not a vehicle anywhere in sight.”
“I’m telling ya, he’s in there!” Tony stubbornly insisted. “You shoulda just gone inside and confronted him.”
“And how would you suggest I do that, Tony? The entrance gate is locked, and I’m afraid I left my handy-dandy burglar kit at home,” I snapped.
“Hell! That gate’s nothing but a joke. Follow me.”
We traipsed across his lawn to a far corner of the wall that separated his property from Langer’s.
“If a flamingo can get over this thing, so can you,” Carrera declared.
I looked up at the eight-foot wall, and wondered what combination of drugs Carrera was ingesting these days. “That bird flew over the wall, Tony.”
“Well, these arms of mine are just like a big pair of wings. I can hoist you up and over that thing real easy.”
I stared at the pot-bellied imitation of a Navy SEAL standing before me. “What are you, crazy? You said yourself that the man’s a certified lunatic. He’s got a zoo full of angry critters over there! For all I know, Langer could have one of his cats loose prowling the grounds at night.”
A vision of Fidel, Langer’s guard cat, flashed through my mind. The cougar’s amber eyes had sized me up as if I were walking steak tartare. Granted, the cat was declawed. But he still had very sharp teeth I preferred not to come into contact with.
“Don’t be such a wuss, Porter. I thought wildlife agents were supposed to be brave—or is that just the men?” he baited me.
If it had been anyone else, I might have accepted the challenge. But there was no way I was going to take an overweight guy dressed in a rubber suit seriously.
“You’re the one with night goggles and an assault rifle. Why don’t you breach the wall and have a look-see?” I shot back.
“’Cause that’s not my job—it’s yours. I’m a taxpayer and I figure this is part of the services I’m paying for,” Carrera huffily replied.
This was a novel approach. “As far as I know, becoming a mountain lion’s chew toy isn’t part of my job description. If you’ve got a problem with that, feel free to file a complaint. Otherwise, I’ll come back first thing in the morning and talk to Langer.” I looked for Terri, but he was nowhere in sight.
“If you’re looking for your friend, he followed the music over to the Bobbsey Twins’ place next door,” Carrera glumly informed me.
It figured. Terri knew that this way, I wouldn’t be able to chicken out and refuse to go over.
“Is Robin working with you full-time now?” Tony asked.
I had no idea who Carrera was talking about at first.
“You know. The guy that was just here with you,” Tony prompted.
“Oh—no. He only comes out on special assignments. But I believe he’ll be retiring after tonight,” I firmly replied.
“Too bad,” Carrera said wistfully. “Maybe you could tell him that he can stop by whenever he wants, to see the birds.”
“Sure, I’ll pass it along—as long as you promise not to mistake him for a trespasser and shoot him.”
“Very funny, Porter. Just do your job, and I won’t have to be out here doing it for you.”
I planned on doing just that—with each and every one of Carrera’s shipments receiving a full and thorough inspection.
I’ve never been one to crash parties. I’d sooner track a poacher into an alligator-infested swamp, or take on a rough-and-tough cowboy who calls you “ma’am” and then threatens to hang you. So, I very reluctantly pulled up to Ramon’s open gate.
The long, circular driveway was filled with a mini-UN of cars that included every pretentious model imaginable. It was enough to make any made-in-the-U.S.A. girl feel dowdy in her second-hand, straight-out-of-Detroit tin can. I parked my heap just outside the gate.
Lights burned bright in every window of the 10,000-square-foot Mediterranean mansion, creating the appearance of a house in midblaze. It was a toss-up whether to call the fire department, or to think of the villa as a giant birthday cake. If there was a blackout in the area tonight, I’d know why.
People spilled out of the front door like froth gushing from a newly uncorked bottle of champagne. Some gathered in groups, while others headed around to the back of the house. I joined those on the move, hoping to be invisible amidst the crowd, in which I stood out like a daisy among a bouquet of exotic flowers. Surrounded by drop-dead-gorgeous models, I wondered what penance I could pay to come back looking like them in my next life.
My ego took another dive as the Vallardes’s patio came into view. Festive lights had been slung around the poolside replicas of the Venus de Milo, Michelangelo’s David, and the remaining chorus line of life-size plaster nudes. But it was the other nudes, sans lights, that drew my attention. A number of them moved in and out of the pool, boasting hard bodies that had been sculpted by the most highly skilled professional hands. Terri was right: when gravity hits, forget the gym. Go immediately under the knife.
A perfectly built waiter passed by dressed only in a slim gold thong, a tray of champagne flutes delicately balanced on his hand. I took one and silently toasted the glory of tight buns.
Neither Elena nor Ramon was in sight, and I hoped I could quickly find Terri and vamoose. If we weren’t thrown out for gate-crashing, it would be for wearing too much clothing.
A tempting aroma snuck up from behind and I turned to see a tray of food passing by. Figuring I needed to keep up my energy, I grabbed a crab puff that tasted so good, I latched on to another. I was considering just following the tray, when a couple of wildly flamboyant dresses off in the distance caught my eye. The outfits were a rainbow swirl of colors decorated with layers of flounces, ribbons, and lace. The dancing duo was either a couple of cross-dressing peacocks, or else Sophie and Lucinda had been invited to the party.
I stood on my tiptoes, trying to see over the sea of heads, when a Tito Puente song swept everyone up into a wild dance, blocking the two women from my view. I worked my way through the crowd with a New York shuffle: an elbow here, a hip thrust out there—then slide, slide, slide. I was nearly halfway through the mob when I bumped into Terri.
“Rach! You made it!” He gaily flagged down a waiter, who produced two glasses of freshly poured champagne.
“Did I have any other choice?” I handed the nearly nude beefcake my first partially drained glass.
“Not really.” Terri clinked his champagne flute against mine, and raised his face to the night sky. A slight breeze ruffled his blond hair, which curled gracefully about his face. “Pinch me, Rach. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven!”
“You said the same thing at the Havana Club,” I reminded him.
Terri beamed at a muscled Adonis who returned his smile. It was Ricardo, the model Elena had been photographing the first time I’d stopped by. Flaunting his torso in a shrunken muscle T-shirt, Ricardo flexed a bicep at Terri, followed up by a wink of his pec.
“You’re right, I did.” Terri gave a satisfied sigh. “Isn’t life wonderful?”
“Have you seen Lucinda and Sophie?” I asked, looking around.
“Why would they be here?” Terri shrugged off my question. “After all, we weren’t invited. What makes you think they were?”
I didn’t put it past my landladies to crash a party. Still, I supposed there could be two other women who dressed as wild-and-wackily as Lucinda and Sophie.
“Listen, Ter. I really think we ought to get out of here before either Ramon or Elena catches us.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Terri remarked under his breath.
A hand intimately wound around my waist, giving me an electrical volt of sheer, unadulterated pleasure.
“Raquel. I was hoping you would come.” Ramon’s breath seductively tickled my ear. “I have so much yet to teach you.”
Ramon was draped in a pair of charcoal linen pants and a gray silk shirt, pale as a puff of smoke. The soft fabric was unbuttoned to reveal a chest as deliciously smooth and brown as rich cocoa butter. His jet black hair, pulled back in its signature ponytail, hung damp against his head. I realized he must have been one of the nudes swimming in the pool. Droplets of water still clung to his face as he leaned in toward me and lifted my hand to his lips, so that moisture sizzled against my skin.
My brain reined in my hormones. Who did this guy think he was trying to kid? He hadn’t even invited me to his damn party!
But Ramon gave my champagne to Terri and pulled me in tight as the music turned into a beguiling tango.
No way! my head yelled. My body didn’t care.
Ramon’s voice seared passionately through me as his hips swayed suggestively against mine. “Your progress has been wonderful so far, Raquel. Let us celebrate by vowing to make this evening special—I promise that tonight will be like no other. Everything you’ve learned has helped to prepare you for this moment. I believe you’re now ready to take on the Grand Master.” Ramon swept me back into a deep dip, his lips zeroing in to burn between my breasts.
I was up and out of the dip faster than you could say “giddyap,” Ramon’s lips still plastered against my chest.
‘‘What are you celebrating this evening?” I asked breathlessly.
“Nothing special; it’s only a party.” Ramon’s fingers slowly massaged my back, seductively moving down from my neck, past my shoulder blades, until they were well on their way toward uninvited territory.
It was time for me to turn on the charm. “Everything you do is special, Ramon. Though I must admit when I saw the festivities, I was hoping your father might have been released from prison.” My fingers gently did their own dance along the nape of his neck. “What was he doing inside Cuba, anyway? I thought he came to Miami with you and your sister.”
Ramon’s fingers came to a dead halt. “He did,” he tersely replied. “However, my father was lured back to the homeland only to be jailed in a government conspiracy.”
I softly brushed my lips against his ear, keeping my voice soothingly low. “How terrible for you! Though I’m sure you know rumor says your father was caught hauling rockets into Cuba. In fact, there are those who say he was the founder of the terrorist group, Omega-12.”
Ramon snorted contemptuously. “That is totally ridiculous; it is Castro who is the terrorist. Don’t you find it interesting that no one ever bothers to mention that little detail?”
I wanted to play out a hunch that was growing nearly as hot as Ramon’s hands. “Absolutely,” I whispered seductively. “But what’s even more interesting, is that there are those who claim you’ve stepped in and taken over as Omega-12’s leader, filling your father’s place.”
Ramon’s skin paled to a light shade of beige. “There are people who will say almost anything to have something to gossip about. What you’ve heard is totally false. I suggest you not believe what everyone tells you.”
Ramon glanced around, and I followed his gaze to Elena, playing queen bee to a fawning circle of male models. Tonight’s attire consisted of a teensy-weensy leopard-print bikini that was barely covered by a white, see-through dress. Stiletto-heeled mules stabbed the ground where she walked. Elena’s phosphorescent hair glowed nearly as brightly as the Japanese lanterns that littered the trees, her tresses teased into a glorious lion’s mane, so that I expected her to throw back her head and let out a roar.
“Please forgive me for a moment. There is something I must see to,” Ramon courteously excused himself.
He turned on his heel and glided away toward Elena. Ramon whispered in her ear, and I guessed that I was about to be approached by a couple of burly hunks and quietly escorted out of the party. But Elena just pivoted and sinuously wrapped her arms around her brother, as the two melted into a slow and torrid dance.
Apparently, I’d had a stay of execution. I wandered deeper through the crowd and soon I stood at the fringe of partygoers, near the rear of the estate. A thick grove of banana trees cast shadows on the caretaker’s cottage, beckoning from beneath its haven of palms.
I’d noticed Miguel, the caretaker, on the far side of the lawn, drinking beer and playing cards with a group of elderly Cuban men who were well on their way to being soused.
I melted among the shadows and was soon standing in front of the cottage door.
I don’t know what I expected to find inside—an illegal stash of firearms; grizzled old men plotting an overthrow; maybe just Miguel’s memories of the home he’d left far behind. But as I turned the knob and slipped inside, the awakening shrieks of at least fifty young birds greeted my entrance. I quickly closed the door and pressed my back against it, hoping the sound had been covered by the blasting salsa.
Sitting on two long tables were fifty small metal cages, stacked five high. I stood mesmerized at the sight of a hundred wings fluttering in the air, keeping pace with the pounding of fifty tiny beating hearts, all wrapped in an explosion of electrically charged colors. Each tiny green bundle of feathers had a throat that was dabbed with a touch of red: Cuban Amazons.
Then a glimmer of cobalt blue caught my eye. I glanced up at the higher cages, where pale yellow rings surrounding starry black irises hungrily glared down at me. Either Ramon was secretly subbing as Dr. Dolittle, or these flashy, exotic creatures were extremely valuable, critically endangered, and highly illegal baby hyacinth macaws. I had stumbled upon a mini-Fort Knox of endangered birds. And this was only the first room.
The sane thing would be to leave before I was found, and get hold of a search warrant. But Carlos had kicked me off the case, and I’d be damned if I’d see all my hard work handed to somebody else.
I opened the next door and entered a temperate room, soothingly quiet after the racket of the nursery. A Formica counter ran along its length, where plastic buckets sat neatly lined up like pretty maids, all in a row. I tiptoed over, not daring to make a sound as I peeked inside, and found exactly what I had suspected. Each tub served as a nesting box, its bottom thickly lined with soft cotton towels, its occupants scrawny balls of fluff that lay curled up together. Dozens of week-old nestlings slept peacefully. I wondered if these babies ever dreamed of having been snatched from their jungle home.
Above a stainless-steel sink a hand-lettered sign read, A DIRTY BIRD IS A SICK BIRD. In the basin were a number of small plastic syringes without needles, and a bowl filled with a semiliquid mixture. All the chicks, the nestlings as well as those in the nursery, had to be hand fed every two hours. Suddenly, Miguel’s title of caretaker took on a whole new meaning. The old man clearly had his work cut out for him.
There was one more closed door. I walked into a small, dark room that was considerably warmer than either of the other two. Flicking on the light, I saw two high-tech incubators, fully loaded and set to bake and hatch.
I leaned down and counted forty-five eggs in all, each glossy surface about two inches long and an inch and a half in diameter: endangered hyacinths. After my earlier airport egg fiasco, I’d trained myself to recognize a hyacinth egg on sight. The rest of the room was bare, except for empty plastic bird carriers that stood like a sixties pop-art monument in the corner, ready and waiting to be used.
The incubators were set at ninety-nine degrees. Besides feeding the birds, Miguel would have to frequently give the eggs a quarter turn. I definitely needed to get out of here fast.
Suddenly the chorus from the nursery rose sharply in volume, their shrill shrieks piercing my nerv
es. I didn’t dare move a muscle, straining to hear above the sound of my blood’s Morse-code warning.
Then the door to the nestlings’ room opened, followed by the sound of someone rattling around in the stainless-steel sink. I quickly flicked off the light, hoping Miguel hadn’t looked at the crack under the door, then squeezed behind the stack of carriers and rolled myself up into a tight, compact ball. After Miguel finished feeding the birds, he’d be in to check on the eggs.
I passed the time imagining parrots in flight, their wings hiding me beneath their colorful canopy. With plenty of time to think, it finally dawned on me that there were no breeding cages here. Female hyacinths tend to lay only two eggs to a clutch, which meant that whoever had gathered the eggs must have ripped off at least twenty-two nests. Talk about the rape of the forest.
Having still more time to think, I added up what kind of money the uninterrupted sale of hyacinths and Cuban Amazons must produce. ¡Aiiee caramba! The amount was more than enough to purchase M-16s, grenade launchers, and all the rockets Omega-12’s heart could desire. I was ready to run out and call in the armed forces, when Terri’s words echoed in my brain.
Elena hoisting an automatic rifle in stilettos was more than even I could imagine. It wasn’t any easier picturing Ramon in cammo, swiveling his hips and smoking a cigar. But it was clear that the high-flying gravy train of birds kept the siblings rolling in their sumptuous lifestyle. At least I now knew who Alberto’s partners in the bird business had been.
The door abruptly flew open, and Miguel marched in and turned on the light. I lowered my head to my knees and closed my eyes like one more sleeping nestling. But some tiny feathers floating around chose this moment to lodge themselves up my nose, bringing back memories of the night I’d walked into Alberto’s, when feathers had rained down through the air. The struggle to hold back the sneeze became sheer torture. I was on the verge of raising my hands in surrender, when Miguel finished jiggling the last egg and left the room. I dug my nails into my palms until the volume in the nursery rose, announcing that Miguel had passed through. After that, I counted to sixty for good measure.
Bird Brained (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 28