The pool floor was a multihued mosaic, its tiles portraying a nude Elena in all her toned glory. Equally impressive was the patio which boasted plaster replicas of Michelangelo’s David and the Venus de Milo, along with other classical nudes of both persuasions. Scarlet bougainvillea teased the senses, as did large white and pink blossoms of angels trumpet. The jungle atmosphere was made complete by banana plants, their luxurious leaves looking like a runaway herd of giant, green elephant ears.
A cottage stood at the rear corner of the property, partially hidden by a flotilla of palms, with an old man sitting outside its door.
“That’s Miguel, the caretaker for the grounds,” Elena said airily. “He’s been with my family ever since I was a little girl in Cuba. He can no longer keep up with all the work by himself, but we allow him to live on here.”
Elena headed over to a wrought-iron table which held a delicate gold and black tin, along with a lighter. She flipped open the tin’s lid, her fingers hesitating as they floated above a row of diminutive cigars, studying each as carefully as if she were choosing from an array of tiny torpedoes. Having made her decision, Elena plucked one out and placed it between pursed lips. A perfectly manicured red nail flicked the wheel of the lighter, and a spark of fire seared the air. The flame rose up and caressed the tiny smoke, which she enthusiastically sucked on with the abandon of a porn star.
I followed Elena to a group of lounge chairs. I had just begun to sit down when I caught sight of the leopard posed by her side. I jumped back up, wondering if everyone in the neighborhood was stark raving mad, only to realize this was yet another taxidermied cat. The feline was a near perfect twin to the one that guarded her bedroom, down to its collar of jewels.
Elena sniffed, as if able to smell the tail end of my fear. “This is Geraldo. He likes being kept out in the sun.”
I was tempted to ask if his twin’s name was “Rivera,” and inquire as to why he preferred the shade, when a tickling sensation started between my shoulder blades.
I turned around and saw a man slowly walking toward us, his stride exuding power and feline grace that filled the very air with electricity. The man’s jet black hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was the type I’d always dreamed of having. Long, silky, and perfectly straight. I’d gone through my formative years with frizzy red hair that had made me feel like a cousin to Bozo the clown. An elegant mustache brushed his upper lip, but it was the dark, smoldering eyes that were the clincher, their gaze capable of melting the steel lock on the strongest of chastity belts.
Elena’s voice broke the high beam of tension that pinned me against the lounge with the force of a straitjacket. “This is my brother, Ramon. Sorry, but I seem to have forgotten your name.”
“Rachel Porter,” I managed to croak.
Ramon bent over and picked up my hand, never allowing his eyes to leave mine. I had to work hard to wrench my gaze away, focusing instead on the cigar lightly gripped between his teeth. Big mistake. I now found myself mesmerized as Ramon parted his lips, so that the cigar lay perfectly balanced, as if offering itself up in total surrender.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Raquel.” His voice rolled over me like a pool of warm caramel drenching my senses, and his lips grazed the back of my hand.
This guy was soooo good.
“My name’s Rachel,” I corrected him. My guess was that the man was practicing his own form of mind control, with me as the latest guinea pig.
“Raquel suits you better. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” he murmured.
The warmth of his breath tangoed across my skin, his fingers seducing my hand with a slow, sensual release. He lightly stroked the length of my palm, my fingers, and finally my very fingertips, sending my entire body soaring into a radioactive tingle.
The guy was oozing charm like an oil slick, and I could feel myself heading for a full frontal fall. I made a supreme effort to gather my wits, and the sight of Elena rolling her eyes careened me back into hard-core reality. This guy was a master of the old hook, line, and sinker routine. I decided to get down to business before I forgot why I’d barged in here to begin with.
“I understand that Alberto Dominguez was a friend of yours,” I began. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that he was found murdered on Sunday night.”
“We’ve already heard,” Ramon replied. He took a seat on the end of Elena’s lounge chair and lifted her feet, placing them on his lap. Then he carefully removed each of her shoes and tossed them next to Geraldo. “Do you have any leads yet as to who the killer could be?” His hands slowly massaged her toes.
“Not yet. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you,” I said, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“Feel free to ask us anything you need to know.” Ramon’s voice was as soothing as a scoop of soft ice cream on a hot summer’s day. “We’re both very upset over what has happened and will do whatever we can to help find whoever did such a horrible thing to Alberto.”
Elena was silent as a sphinx.
“Why don’t you start by telling me how you knew him,” I suggested coolly.
Ramon’s face glowed as if a match had been struck from inside. “The Cuban community is very tight here in Florida. We’re all like one big family, with our weddings and births, baptisms and deaths. Even our feuds flow naturally, tying together our lives. But with Alberto it went even deeper than that. We’d known him since we were small children together in Cuba.”
Elena’s expression was a portrait of sadness.
“In 1960, a year after Castro took over, both our fathers fled the homeland together, taking their families with them.” Ramon’s eyes burned as bright as twin shooting stars. “As children, we looked upon our escape as a game, an adventure in which we were the heroes who would one day return to set Cuba free. Though that hasn’t yet happened, it creates a bond for all exiles that can never be broken. That’s what we had with Alberto.” He finished, giving Elena’s foot a final slow rub.
The stillness was shattered by raucous bird cries. I looked up to see a pair of Quaker parrots perusing the scene from a nearby tree.
“Were you and Alberto involved in any kind of business together?” I asked.
Elena skewered me with her eyes. “Federal agents don’t usually work with the local police. What agency did you say you were with?” she asked suspiciously.
I took a deep breath, aware that the jig was up. “I work with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”
“What?” Elena exploded. She jumped to her feet, knocking Geraldo over in the process. “What the hell are we doing wasting our time talking to you?”
Ramon picked up the leopard and positioned him so that the cat now sat facing me. I could have almost sworn I heard the animal growl. Then he reached up and grabbed his sister’s hand, gently pulling her back down to his side.
“Raquel, let me ask. If you’re not with the police, why are you involved in this case?” All the while, he stroked his sister’s hand.
“I knew Alberto because of the nature of his business,” I carefully replied. “I went to his house on the night he was murdered to discuss something he was helping me with. When I walked inside, the first thing I saw was that all his birds were missing. After that, I found Alberto’s body.”
“So, you’re the one.” Ramon solemnly nodded, as though I’d just passed some sort of secret test.
Elena held tightly on to her brother, unwilling to let me into their club. “That still doesn’t explain what right you have to come here and question us. If you’re not with the police, then what happened is none of your business.” Elena and Geraldo glared at me in perfect stereovision. “Or are animal officers after bigger game these days than chasing stray cats and dogs?”
I smiled, determined not to let a woman dressed like an overgrown feline get the better of me. “You must have me confused with your local animal control. Alberto was involved with smuggling endangered birds into the country. Those birds are missing, along with his other
s, which leads me to believe that a business rival could be responsible. I’m investigating his death from that standpoint.” I shot Elena a pointed look. “And don’t worry; I have every right to be here,” I lied.
“As I said, we’ll be glad to help in any way that we can,” Ramon warmly reassured me.
Dressed in cream-colored linen pants, a loose, pale yellow shirt, and tasseled loafers made from the very softest leather on his sockless feet, he looked as casually confident as only someone with plenty of money could be.
“Are you a photographer, as well?” I inquired.
Ramon gave a dazzling smile. “Oh, no. There is only one great artist in this family. I’m merely a simple businessman.”
“That’s not true at all,” Elena intervened, her voice set on slow burn. “My brother is every inch an artist. He’s known throughout the world for producing the best cigars anywhere outside of Havana.”
I didn’t mention the stash of Cuban Cohibas under Alberto’s bed. The Vallardes probably already knew. One of Elena’s fingernails followed the trail of her brother’s cheekbone, gently coming to a stop as it reached his lips. Ramon lightly kissed her finger, his gaze firmly planted on mine.
“One more thing,” I said, curious as to just how far their brother/sister act went. “When was the last time that either of you saw Alberto?”
Ramon’s eyes wandered off in one direction and Elena’s went in the other, as each carefully considered the question.
“It must have been at least two years ago,” Ramon finally offered.
Unless Tony Carrera was wrong, I’d just nabbed the duo in a very major lie.
Ramon tenderly slipped Elena’s ruby-red slippers back onto her feet as she rose with a purr.
“Enough. I must get back to work.” She cast a sidelong glance in my direction, picked up Geraldo, and headed toward the house.
Ramon put his arm through mine as he walked me to my car. “I would very much like you to come and see my cigar store in Little Havana,” he said, giving my arm a squeeze.
I planned to take him up on his offer. “What’s it called?” I asked.
The right side of his body pressed tightly against mine. “The store’s name is Puffin,” he whispered. “Come visit me soon.”
Two days seemed like plenty of time for Metro Dade’s medical examiner to have come up with the details of how Alberto had died. I decided it was time to check in with Hal Cooper.
“Well, hello there, sexy. I like it when a woman makes the first move and gives the man a call.” Coop nearly panted over the phone.
Oy vay, as my grandmother would have said. I pictured him twirling the tips of his mustache as he played with his bow tie. I didn’t even want to think about what else he might be doing.
“Now, I’m not going to play hard to get,” Coop warned, as if that were a major surprise. “So—yes. I am free tonight for dinner and dancing. We can take it from there, after that,” he added with a growl.
“I’m calling to see if you’ve come up with anything further concerning Alberto Dominguez’s death.” I kept my voice disinterested.
“Well, I’d say that all depends on what you mean by ‘further.’ Such as, we could discuss this ‘further’ over a glass of wine. Or, what say we take this relationship of ours the next step ‘further.’”
The man was doing a good job of driving me “further” away. “What I mean by ‘further’ is, do you have any more information regarding what exactly caused Dominguez’s death?” I asked, gritting my teeth.
“In that case, I’d have to say it was murder.” Coop barely bothered to contain the laughter in his voice. “Of course, I might be willing to help you out a little more if we were to get together in person.”
Right: He’d help me keep in shape, by making me run a few laps around his desk. Coop had me, and he knew it. Officially, as a mere Fish and Wildlife agent, I had no right to demand access to forensic information on Dominguez. It all came down to being a matter of Hal Cooper’s goodwill. Damn the man and his sexist games! But if those were the rules, then down and dirty was how we would play it.
“In that case, are we talking your place or mine?” I asked in throaty imitation of Elena. I could almost feel Hal Cooper’s testosterone level screech into overdrive through the phone.
“Sweetheart, you’re not playing games with old Coop now, are you?” he asked, all aflutter.
“Not unless there are certain games you really like to play.” I fought off the overwhelming feeling of nausea.
I heard Coop begin to breathe heavily and decided to cut to the chase, not wanting to risk his having a heart attack. “But first, don’t you think you could give me the teensiest bit of information? Just something to keep me going until we meet later on?”
It was hard to believe that men actually fell for this stuff, but Cooper did a double somersault, and then landed a triple flip.
“What is it that you want to know?” he nearly wheezed. Desire clearly had hold of one part of his body, completely cutting off the flow of blood to his brain.
“What was the murder weapon that was used?” I kept my fingers crossed that Cooper would remain anxious to please.
He took his time, weighing whether or not to hand over such information.
“I know this great little place for oysters,” I added shamelessly, counting on his firm belief in the power of aphrodisiacs.
“All right! I’ll tell you!” Coop raised the white flag of surrender. “The murder weapon was a serrated knife.”
“Are you sure about that?” A nagging inner doubt made me question it.
“As sure as I need to be for my report,” he retorted, making it clear that was all I was getting for now. “So then, what time shall I pick you up? Or should we skip dinner and just head straight for dessert?” His voice trembled with enough lust to send me screaming for a suit of armor.
“Oops! Sorry, I just remembered. I’ve already got plans for tonight.”
“Goddammit, Porter!” Coop’s shriek bellowed through the air as I quickly hung up the phone.
I felt fairly certain I could expect no further information out of Coop on any case in the foreseeable future. Picking up the phone, I dialed Vern.
“Reardon here,” Vern drawled in his best John Wayne tone.
“Hey, Vern. It’s Rachel.”
“Hell. In that case, I can get back to drinking my coffee,” Vern said, taking a slurp.
At least I always knew where the man’s top priorities lay.
“So, what’s up now, Porter?” he asked, beginning to munch on what I imagined to be a donut.
“I noticed that one of Alberto’s file folders was gone when I was last out there. It had a complete inventory of Dominguez’s birds. Do you think I could get a copy of the contents?”
My question was met by a long pause.
“What the hell are you talking about, gal?” he asked, sounding totally dumbfounded.
“You know: It’s a record that gives the date of each bird’s birth or purchase,” I began to explain.
“Jesus Christ, Porter! I know what the hell an inventory is. I just never saw any such thing there!” Reardon exploded.
It was my turn to feel puzzled. “But I thought you took it.”
“Well, if I had, don’t you suppose I’d know what you’re talking about?” Reardon observed.
“You’re sure that you didn’t see it?” I refused to believe the information had simply disappeared. “It was a thick folder filed in the bottom drawer of Alberto’s desk, labeled BREEDS.”
“You could tell me it was a pink elephant with purple ears, and I still wouldn’t have it,” Vern retorted. “Musta been those damn Santeria devil worshippers—cause I sure as hell can’t think of what Skunk Ape would have wanted it for.”
I got off the phone, cursing myself for not taking the folder when I’d had the chance, even though that would’ve been illegal. Then I made one more call.
“Dr. Samuels,” the voice resonated in my ear.
“I think I need a favor and a drink,” I morosely informed him.
“Porter?” Dr. Bob laughed. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a high-maintenance dame?”
“Yeah, me and Ivana Trump. I hear we both shop at the same place,” I parried. “Do you have time to take a quick break?”
“Don’t tell me: You’ve managed to injure a few more people on the job,” he replied.
“Very funny. Meet you at the QT Diner in about a half hour?”
“My favorite place,” Dr. Bob cheerfully agreed. “They never blink when I walk in with a body bag.”
I hopped into my Ford and headed straight for the heart of Miami.
The city of Miami is a whole different animal from South Beach. It’s a Wild West atmosphere, with a simmering stew of Cuban, Haitian, Nicaraguan, Colombian, Mexican, Dominican, Honduran, and Peruvian refugees. The local joke is that the only true Miamians to be found are the Miccosuke Indians, now relegated to running bingo games and wrestling gators on their Everglades reservation.
As far as I was concerned, if there was a center for wackos anywhere in the world, it had to be right here. After all, this is the place where an angry ex-lover spent a day driving around town, exhibiting his girlfriend’s decomposing corpse to a gang of his buddies. It was also here that a drunken driver was discovered slumped down in his seat, with his pet iguana steering his car. And only in Miami would government employees express their job dissatisfaction by hanging voodoo dolls, with their necks in tiny nooses, all over city hall.
Dr. Bob was waiting at the counter of the QT when I arrived, ogling kool-pop waitresses decked out in fifties-style shirtwaist uniforms, their dresses unbuttoned to showcase low-cut, black lacy bras. Combat boots and body piercing added distinctive personal touches.
What I liked best about the QT was that it was a no-nonsense diner that had finagled itself a liquor license. I ordered a vodka tonic and waited for Dr. Bob’s tongue to reel back inside his mouth.
He took a sip of his beer and then turned to me with a grin. “Okay—the doctor’s now in. What can I do you for?”
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