He had me on that one. “What exactly makes this a Cuban rubout?” I wondered if I’d missed some vital clue, like a runaway plate of rice and beans, or a poster of Che Guevara that had been left behind.
“It just is.” Vern scowled, refusing to give away any trade secrets. “I got a sixth sense when it comes to these things.” He knelt down by Alberto’s mangled form. “See how those boys have gone and knifed the hell out of one of their own? There aren’t too many Caucasians would do something this vicious.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Jeffrey Dahmer would have done a much neater job,” I replied.
The knot in my stomach was coiled tight as a spring, the Twix bar as heavy as lead. The only other time I’d witnessed a slice job this close had been in New Orleans, when a stripper had been murdered. That, and when a razor had danced across my own throat, scarring me in more ways than I cared to admit.
I bent down and focused on the cuts, working to block out Alberto’s insistent eyes. I stared at the deep puncture wounds that circled his neck. My heart pounded like a Caribbean steel drum.
Focus. Focus and concentrate.
I studied the trail of jagged, angry gashes that ripped through Alberto’s flesh. The thin sliver of lines that had covered the stripper were as fine and distinct as those on a road map; a murderous work of art. Alberto’s savage slashes screamed out in rage, every tear an obscene violation.
“Maybe he wasn’t killed with a knife at all,” I thought out loud.
Vern’s chin dropped to his chest, as if an invisible force had sucked all the strength from his neck. Then he shook his head in mock resignation. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled in a loud sigh, letting me know he’d been expecting me to make trouble.
“Okay. I’m game. What did him in then?” Vern instantly raised his hand to hold back my answer. “Don’t tell me; let me guess. Musta been a weed whacker. Right?”
I ignored the sarcasm. The sound I’d heard before being attacked washed over me again. “It might have been some kind of animal.”
Vern chuckled, apparently feeling mighty high in the saddle. “Yeah, that’s it. Maybe he didn’t feed his birdies the kind of seed they like, so they all got together and pecked him to death.”
He slapped the outside of his holster, sharing a good laugh with the Duke. “You got critters on the brain, Porter.”
Mervyn had finished outside and now waddled toward us, transporting enough feathers to resemble an overfed, partially plucked turkey.
“Hey, Vern, you’re right—it coulda been just like in the movie that fat guy made. Where a bunch of birds swoop down and attack all the people in town?” Tubbs stuck a finger in his mouth, dislodging a hunk of leftover chocolate. “It didn’t matter a dang that the townsfolk closed all their windows and bolted their doors. Those darn birds still managed to get in. They nearly poked one guy’s brains clean out of his head. Heck, they also pecked straight through some poor woman’s eyes. Folks found her upstairs dead as a doorknob, right there in her own attic, with two big holes where her blinkers shoulda been.” Mervyn’s chins wobbled as he warmed to the topic. “The damn birds beat a few people up just by slapping ’em around with their wings. They scared the hell out of that poor Tippi gal, real bad. She got stuck in this phone booth, see, and all these big birds began ramming real hard on the glass. You remember her, Vern? She grew up to be that Melanie Griffith’s mom.”
Vern had his shoulders hunched up around his neck, a shiver working its way from the base of his spine to the top of his head. “Will you cut it out with the damn birds already?” He glared at Tubbs. “You’re giving me a case of the heebie-jeebies.”
“What’s the matter there, Vern? Dead bodies finally beginning to get to you?”
The unexpected voice took me by surprise. I bolted up and turned to see Hal Cooper, a medical examiner with Metro Dade. He strolled through the doorway, the bounce in his walk making it look as if he’d swallowed a jumping bean. A muffled clap of thunder roared off in the distance.
“My calling card,” he grinned, and then gave me a wink. He was what my grandmother would have called a dandy. Whenever I saw Cooper, I came away feeling like Secondhand Rose. He was always impeccably dressed; every white hair in his jaunty mustache lay neatly in place; and his manicured nails gleamed like ten tiny headlights set on high beam. It was enough to make a girl give up before she even got started.
He sauntered over, careful not to step in Alberto’s blood. “So, what do you say, Rachel? Have you changed your mind yet? Ready to give an older, experienced man a try?” Besides being impeccable and jaunty, the man was also notoriously horny, hitting on any woman in sight.
“For chrissakes, Coop! Can’t you rein in those raging hormones of yours for one goddamn minute?” Vern asked, exasperated. “What the hell kind of vitamins are you taking, anyway?”
For the past three months, Cooper had steadily bombarded me in an all-out blitz to go on a date. It seemed the more I refused, the more determined he became.
“I’m afraid you’d be too much for me, Hal,” I’d told him, knowing I was right. He’d caught me alone in his office just once. By the time I made it out, I’d had the best aerobic workout of my life. Running from him made my NordicTrac feel like child’s play.
“I’m not going to give up,” he told me with a determined smile.
How lucky could a gal get? One dead man at my feet and one live suitor champing at the bit. It was enough to send me running for the nearest bar.
Vern brought Hal’s attention back to the issue at hand. “Porter’s trying to horn in on this investigation by claiming it was a critter did in ol’ Alberto. What do you make of that, Coop?” Reardon grinned, waiting to see me shot down.
Hal Cooper momentarily held his missile in abeyance, as he pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and slipped them on, taking plenty of time to gaze up and down my denim-clad form. Only then did he kneel next to Dominguez and study the pattern of gashes.
“So, what do ya, think?” Vern prodded.
“I don’t know,” Hal murmured, sneaking another look in my direction. “Not ready to say just yet. But those puncture wounds on the body look like they could have been made by some mighty sharp teeth.”
I’d been vindicated! “And I’m pretty sure Hannibal Lecter didn’t stop by,” I gloated.
I knelt next to Hal to see the puncture wounds that I’d missed on my first go-around. He scooted over until our thighs were nearly touching, then pointed out a series of two distinct perforation marks.
“Of course, you’re forgetting one thing,” Coop added, capturing my hand between his. “If it had been some sort of animal, Alberto would have been torn apart. Visualize the enormous upper and lower canines that most large critters have. You know your predators, Rachel.”
I knew enough to recognize there was one hovering right next to me. Hal lightly tickled my palm with the tip of his finger, infecting me with Vern’s heebie-jeebies. I pulled my hand out of his grip and moved away from his side.
“Don’t be angry, sweetheart,” Coop continued. “Just think about it for a minute. Most likely, Alberto’s scalp would have been ripped off. The critter’s claws would also have eviscerated the poor son of a gun. Being a natural-born hunter, our predator would probably have gutted him next, and then made a meal out of his liver.”
Hal’s eyes performed a seductive tango, his mustache twitching to the tune. “Add a little Chianti to that and it doesn’t sound half bad. What say we discuss this over a bottle of vino tomorrow night?”
“I’ve got plans,” I hissed, furious with Cooper for flirting while grinding my theory into dust. “And don’t call me sweetheart.”
But I couldn’t fault him on his reasoning. I felt like a total fool, allowing my eagerness to overcome my objective judgment. Then again, this wasn’t the first time. I knew it also wouldn’t be the last. I could almost hear Vern snicker under his breath.
Hal joined the other two men as I continued to concentrate on the sc
ars. I studied the gashes up the chest to where Alberto’s throat had been slashed, and then followed them down his arms. Though his left arm was badly torn apart and the shirtsleeve was ripped to shreds, a flash of green and red stood out on the remaining skin of the bicep. On closer examination, I realized the colors were a tattoo. The trio of men were deep in discussion of a pay raise, so I quickly lifted what was left of Alberto’s sleeve to snatch a better view. The tattoo was partially obscured by blood, but enough remained so there was no mistaking the symbol drawn on his arm. It was a parrot with a rifle clutched tight in its talons.
I released the fabric as the men brought their discussion back around to the corpse at hand.
“I’ll autopsy the body and have more information on his death in a few days,” Cooper said, returning to my side. “Why don’t you come by my office on Tuesday, Rachel? I’ll fill you in on what I have then—say at the end of the day? We can brush up on bite marks together.”
I just bet we could. “I’ll call for the information,” I replied.
Mervyn moved in to take his first good look at the body. “Jeez, he looks pretty bad. If you ask me, I think it’s that damn Skunk Ape done him in. That’s why Alberto died lookin’ so scared.”
Skunk Ape was the latest rage throughout the Everglades, having been sighted as far west as Big Cypress Swamp and the Ten Thousand Islands. Touted as the Southern cousin to Bigfoot, Skunk Ape was portrayed as six to eight feet tall, covered in long shaggy fur, with incredibly bad body odor and decked out in worn-out overalls. So far, that description covered at least a dozen people I’d come across during my six months in Florida.
Skunk Ape had sparked a surge in the tourist trade that translated into big bucks. Organized tours had wasted no time in offering visitors a trip into the swamps with the lure of sighting the “one and only, legendary creature.” And if you were unable to spot Skunk Ape, you could still take a memento home—say, an authentic Skunk Ape T-shirt. It just so happened that Vern and his brother-in-law had a concession set up on the side, devoted solely to promoting the smelly ape.
“Don’t be going and showing off your ignorance to this Yankee here, Mervyn,” Vern scolded. “You know Skunk Ape don’t travel outside the swamp. Besides, what the hell would he want with two hundred and fifty damn squawking birds?”
Knowing Vern, this was probably his version of damage control. The last thing he wanted was for word to get out that Skunk Ape might be a vicious killer. He was looking to keep the creature more in line with the lovable giant in the children’s film, Harry and the Hendersons. It was easier to sell souvenirs depicting a shy, sensitive yeti than a bloodthirsty primate.
“I think this is one of those nutso Santeria cases. They probably took the birds for some of their sex rituals.” Vern pointed to a series of particularly nasty gashes. “You see those jagged cuts there? I’ll bet you that Coop here finds they were made with one of those serrated knives their worshippers use for special ceremonies.”
When all else failed, it was standard practice to blame an unsolved murder on Santeria. Its voodoo overtones of blood, sex, and black magic made even the toughest police officer wary of digging too deep. Just the mention of the word caused all four of us to stare at Alberto’s corpse with trepidation.
“Dirty bird!” screeched a disembodied voice behind us.
Vern nearly jumped straight into Mervyn’s arms, while Hal Cooper flew to my side, where he took advantage of the moment to brush his arm against my chest. I pushed the offending tentacle away, far more leery of Coop than I was of any ghost.
It took Vern a moment before he recovered his wits and whirled around to face the demon. “Holy shit! That damn thing’s alive!”
The cockatoo was now hanging upside down from its perch, clutching the wooden pole with one claw.
“I thought that goddamn bird was some kind of stuffed ornament,” Vern sputtered, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“We got so involved with Alberto that I forgot. I found the bird right before you showed up,” I said by way of explanation.
“You mean you knew that thing was there all along?” Vern asked, giving me the evil eye.
Uh, oh. I was going to pay for this oversight, big time.
“The bird did the same thing to me,” I tried to soften the blow. “I found it under the bedcovers. I think it was Alberto’s favorite pet, and used to sleep with him.”
I walked over to the perch and the cockatoo hopped onto my arm, scurrying up my shoulder in search of my missing earrings.
Vern made a face, shaking his head in disgust. “I knew Alberto was kind of a wacko, but sleeping with a bird? That’s plain perverse and downright disgusting.”
I started to head in Vern’s direction, only to have him throw up both hands, warding off my approach.
“Stay where you are! You keep that flying rodent away from me!” he threatened.
Then I remembered that Reardon was afraid of things that fly. Or crawl. Or walk on four legs. He’d had a chunk of his leg removed by a pit bull a few years ago, and it seemed he wasn’t taking any more chances. Especially with something sporting a beak the size of a miniature sickle.
That helped me decide what had to be done. “In that case, I’ll take the bird and house it for now. If no one has any objection, that is.” I knew there wasn’t an animal lover among the lot.
“Yeah, sure.” Vern waved me off, glad to be rid of the problem. “That winged rat is yours. Just keep in mind that the bird is key evidence in a murder case, which means you’re legally responsible for its welfare.”
It would be hard for me to forget, with a screeching cockatoo around. I grabbed the perch and headed out with the smart-mouthed bird balanced on my shoulder.
“Be seeing you, Rachel!” Cooper called after me.
“In your dreams,” I muttered under my breath. Actually, I wasn’t all too crazy about that, either. I could guess the kind of dreams Coop probably had.
I spotted a bird carrier as I passed through the breeding area and coaxed my feathered companion inside. When I reached the car, I artfully rearranged the junk that filled my trunk, finessing the perch in next to my officially issued .870 pump shotgun. I realized I’d also need a cage, and remembered that my landlady used to have a parrot. Upon the bird’s death, its cage had been reincarnated into a planter. I was certain I could convince her to let me borrow it.
I placed the carrying kennel on the backseat, then wedged myself in behind the wheel of my car. As I pulled out of the gate, I glanced in my rearview mirror and caught Vern and Mervyn scurrying outside, four boxes of Cuban cigars tucked under each of their arms. I had the sneaky suspicion that the contraband wasn’t headed for the station. Instead, the evidence would be taken to their homes, where it would slowly be burned. One cigar at a time.
Three
With my transfer to Miami came the task of finding a place to live. I had given a moment’s fleeting thought to renting in a quiet, safe suburb, but knew I would lose my mind there. Instead, I headed due south for the tip of Miami Beach, chasing memories of a vacation I’d spent playing tag with the waves as a child.
I remembered glitzy hotels, like the Fontainebleau and the Eden Roc, where glamo-kitsch was defined by women sporting lavender hair while decked out in mink coats and gold mules. The bubbas and grandpas hibernated at the row upon row of dowdier hotels. Their main activity was lying in beach chairs, soaking up every last ray of sun before hitting the early bird special. I used to think of them as birds heading south for winter, except for the senior citizens, moving to Miami was shorthand for checking into God’s waiting room.
Now, I swung onto the MacArthur Causeway and joined the caravan of cars headed for the mecca of South Beach. Something happens as soon as I leave the mainland and am suspended on the bridge high above Biscayne Bay. The smell of the ocean gathers strength with each revolution of my tires. The port comes to life, with its cruise ships bobbing like mutated marshmallows ready to head out to sea. But that’s just
an intro for the carnival that waits up ahead. Gone are the days of Jackie Gleason, the June Taylor dancers, and my grandparents’ Miami.
These days, Miami Beach can be summed up as buffed, blonde, and burnished. Especially South Beach, the southernmost tip of the island, where looking good is the primary activity, rollerblading the national pastime, a cell phone is a must, and Baywatch babes are a dime a dozen. Even guys in thong bikinis put my butt to shame. It wasn’t the best ego boost for a perpetually sunburned redhead who daily faces the battle of trying to fit into last year’s jeans. Naturally, this was where I chose to call home.
I turned off the air conditioner, rolled down my window, and was smacked in the face by the sultry night air as my tires touched earth to be swept up in the frenzy of South Beach. A red signal brought me to a stop next to a Chevy Impala whose chassis had been raised high off the ground. The driver glanced at me over his shades and cranked the radio up a decibel above earshattering. Then the Impala gunned its motor and took off, the neon running lights on its undercarriage reflecting against the pavement like psychedelic snakes on speed.
My budget didn’t permit me to live in the oh-so-cool heart of the action on Ocean Drive. Instead, my neighborhood was enough off the beaten path to have a slightly run-down, seedy feel, complete with bodegas, bottles of Gallo wine at four bucks a pop, and the occasional abandoned building waiting to be discovered as Art Deco. A light layer of grime seemed to coat the entire neighborhood, seeping into its very bones.
The place where I lived was the exception, standing apart like a gaudy costume jewel. Hidden behind a dense wall of foliage, my house stood in a postage-stamp tropical jungle. Passion vines intertwined with sweet-smelling night-blooming jasmine, and garlic vines climbed up the thick stucco walls in a jumble. A wild profusion of hibiscus and bougainvillea jockeyed for space in a sensuous floral tango, clotting the air with their heady perfume. Elegant palms provided a discreet canopy for the orgiastic frenzy below.
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