Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4)

by James W. Hall

  The screen blinked and a work order form appeared. It took her a moment to read, but apparently it was a plan to enlarge the cages in Bond's warehouse. Cost estimated by a local welding company.

  She exited the file, went hurriedly back to the main menu, tried Orders and Quotes this time. Same procedure, similar long list of gobbledygook. This time she picked the first item on the list and an order form filled the screen. Delta Laboratories, Westport, Connecticut. Twelve macaques, ordered in July the year before. Delta Labs did cosmetics research. Monkeys with eyeliner. Chimps with blush.

  She'd visited their Connecticut facility, taken their PR tour, written a scathing article for the newsletter. According to the order form, Joshua Bond purchased the twelve macaques locally from another Miami animal dealer. White Brothers Imports. Raimondo and Orlando White. A couple of shabby snake dealers who had been trying to branch out in the last few years. Allison had gone after them in her newsletters last winter, had succeeded in getting the county attorney general interested in their case, had even aroused Fish and Wildlife to raid their warehouse.

  Allison was surprised the White brothers had developed contacts to supply macaques. Interesting, but not what she was looking for. She sat down in Bond's chair, tried to consider this logically. She was certain this goddamn computer contained records that would uncloak dozens of crimes, but there was no time. Mrs. Bond was calling out for her, moving about the house.

  Allison exited, went back to the menu, chose the last category, Inventory, tapped the enter key. The submenu appeared, offering a list of animals: chimps, gibbons, macaques, other. Feeling a small jiggle in her pulse, she selected other, and watched as the screen blinked, then showed a list of dates.

  She chose the most recent, October 28, tapped enter again, and an invoice sent to Primates International filled the screen.

  A bill for 240,000 Singapore dollars. Wang Son Bird Emporium, 1133 Chan Avenue, Djakarta. Invoice number 1323. Account paid in full. Item sold: Six Orang.

  Allison took a deep breath. She scrolled down, read the next page, a shorthand note. Hold in south Dade warehouse. The six orangutans were to be FedExed Tuesday, November 8, to 15553 Hibiscus Way, Orlando, Florida.

  Next Tuesday. Three days.

  She sat back in the chair.

  According to the document, the shipment arrived stateside last week, a few days after Winslow's murder. Bond could have shipped the six young apes down to Djakarta, where they'd been repackaged and labeled as birds or reptiles. He would have greased their way with dollars, picked them up at Miami International four days later. And no one questioned why an animal dealer who dealt in primates was importing birds. No one questioned Mr. Joshua Bond, felt any need to examine the contents of his box, this golf partner of senators, overnight guest at the White House.

  Allison traced one of the wires leading from the computer to a small laser printer secreted behind a shelf of art books. She found the print screen command key, hit it, and the machine hummed to life.

  Now a man's voice had joined the other, calling out for the flower lady. Allison heard doors opening and shutting on her hallway, the deep voice singing out for her as the printer chattered.

  When the page was printed she folded it, tucked it into her bra, put on her glasses, and picked up the roses. As she was opening the door, the knob jerked out of her hand.

  CHAPTER 9

  Allison forced a smile to her lips. With a half dozen roses in her left hand, she put out her right and reflexively the big man's hand rose to meet it. He took her hand into his ample paw and Allison gave him a firm shake.

  "What a lovely house you have. I was taking a little unguided tour — I hope you don't mind — trying to get an idea just how to distribute the rest of the flowers. You know, you might consider putting in a standing order with Flower Circus, a weekly delivery, keep this place livened up with color."

  Allison moved past him into the hallway. Joshua Bond studied her with befuddled curiosity while Allison continued her smokescreen of babble.

  "It's amazing how a big house like this can seem drab and gloomy without the right kind of decorative plants. And we don't just do flowers either. We have palms, ferns, begonias, philodendrons, the full range of indoor potted plants. You really ought to have Mrs. Bond stop by our showroom and take a look. It's the best selection in the city. Now if you'll excuse me, sir, I suppose Mercedes has found more vases for me. I'll have to get back to work."

  He stepped around her, blocked her path.

  "Did you find what you were looking for, Allison?"

  He was wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt with epaulets, pants to match. Every day a safari for this man. She took off Winslow's glasses, held them in her free hand, and stared into the man's eyes. She had never been this close to Bond before, and now she saw something behind the glaze of anger and menace — a flat and stunted light. Around his eyes there was a fine tracery of wrinkles, but the eyes themselves seemed simple and young, as if he might be trapped in some unending boyhood. Doing today exactly what he had done fifty years ago, no more, no less.

  "What the hell are you doing in my house, woman?"

  Bond's wife approached down the hallway, and Allison could see in her careful step, the sag of her shoulders, that her authority over this house ended when Mr. Bond came home. Surely Mrs. Bond would be disciplined later for allowing this intruder inside the fortress.

  "Let me ask you something, Joshua."

  She watched for a moment as his wide chest swelled and shrank inside his shirt.

  "Is there anything alive," she said, "you haven't killed?"

  He snorted, and an ugly smile disfigured his face.

  Mrs. Bond drew on her nervous cigarette and shifted her gaze from Allison to her husband, letting the smoke seep from her mouth. Bond glanced at his wife and his smile soured before he brought his gaze back to Allison.

  "Let's just put it this way, Mrs. Farleigh," Bond said. "There isn't anything on earth I wouldn't kill."

  Allison held out the half dozen roses to Mrs. Bond, who, after a moment's uncertainty, took them.

  "Sprinkle a little sugar in the water," Allison said. "They last longer that way."

  A curl of smoke rose from her cigarette and laced through the bright red blooms.

  ***

  "Good luck, Mrs. Bond," Allison said, and walked past the two of them out of the house.

  As soon as she got home, Allison faxed a note to Sidra Tindusiri in Borneo. Could Dr. Tindusiri confirm that a four-or five-year-old male orangutan living in the sector of the jungle where Winslow was murdered had a rare and distinctive silver patch of fur on its head? Urgently need an answer.

  At five minutes past eight on Sunday morning, the fax rang in Allison's bedroom. She climbed from her sleepless bed and watched the paper inch from the machine.

  Yes, Dr. Tindusiri could positively confirm that a young male orangutan with that very unique marking had lived in the sanctuary until just recently. Furthermore, she could state unequivocally that this young ape's mother had been the one that was shot at the same time and the same location where Winslow Farleigh's murder had taken place.

  ***

  Allison spent all day Sunday phoning her local members. Told them what she'd learned. Could they help? Twenty-three calls earned twenty-three pledges of devotion.

  Steady, keeping her voice quiet, measuring her breaths. Here was the plan. Monday afternoon. Monday at four. In time for the evening news. Monday at Joshua Bond's warehouse. They would find six orangutans, one of which was a young wild-born male with a streak of silver fur on its forehead. An orangutan with a very provable, very direct link to her daughter's murderer.

  Most of her members had a friend, or a friend of a friend in the media. Twenty-three guarantees. The Miami Herald would be there, all four TV channels, several AM radio stations. Joshua Bond, man-about-town, was going to be charged with murder. You don't want to miss this. Monday at four, they'd converge on Bond's warehouse in south Dade county.


  Once they had him on the orangutan-smuggling charge, the rest of it would fall into place. Place him in Kuching on the day Winslow was murdered, have Dr. Sidra Tindusiri confirm the identity of the orangutan, do ballistics tests on Bond's weapons, match them against whatever slugs the Malaysian police had found, use customs records to learn who Bond's traveling companions, his fellow hunters, were, interrogate them, offer plea bargains. When the mountain of circumstantial evidence reached critical mass, she was certain it would convert into irrefutable proof.

  Late in the evening on Sunday, she got through to Bill Taylor, senior partner at Barker, Hoff, Taylor, and Stern, lied to him effortlessly, saying Harry urged her to get in touch. Would Bill be willing to use his considerable influence, make a call on the Farleighs' behalf? Because she'd obtained concrete evidence, a document from Joshua Bond's own secret files, proving he was the man behind Winslow's murder. Shocking, he said. Unbelievable. Believe it, she said. But why not proceed through normal channels, Allison? Turn it over to the D.A., get a grand jury working on it.

  "Normal channels? Bill, you know Bond, the influence he has. If this isn't exposed in a very public way, the whole damn thing will disappear in some whitewashed back room and get nibbled away by lawyers, mitigated into oblivion."

  "Those lawyers," Bill said, "those damn lawyers."

  Finally Taylor agreed to make the call, inform his friend at the D.A.'s office of her allegations, strongly encourage him to meet with Allison at four tomorrow.

  Next was Fish and Wildlife. It was their jurisdiction, six endangered animals smuggled illegally into the U.S. They should be elated to make a major bust like this one, the whole thing landing in their lap. The problem was, Allison had long ago converted Fish and Wildlife from allies to enemies.

  Mrs. Farleigh, the agents called her now. Always so officially polite. Mrs. Farleigh, you must understand we're doing all we can. There simply aren't enough wildlife agents in the entire country to check every crate that comes through Miami International. Mrs. Farleigh, we appreciate your concern, your interest, your commitment, your energy, your research, your insightful observations, but there's only so much six officers can do against two hundred-plus animal dealers registered in South Florida, hundreds of shipments coming through the airport each week. Only so much we can do, only so much, so much.

  Last spring, with the help of some of her local volunteers, Allison had run a survey on a typical month of Fish and Wildlife inspections, and printed the results in her August newsletter. In the month they studied, June, over ninety percent of the wildlife containers entering Miami International Airport got no visual inspection whatsoever. Not that the agents were lazy or derelict. They were simply overwhelmed, had to make choices on whose shipment to rip open, whose to pass through.

  Crate after crate of boas, jaguar skins, sea turtle eggs, and tropical fish in the millions arrived every day from Peru, Costa Rica, Trinidad, Nigeria. Reptiles, birds, mammals. Skins, skulls, eggs, live animals. A great deluge of the world's exotic live animals or pelts, on their way to collectors all over America, was flowing steadily through the back room of the Miami airport every hour of every day with only those six agents at work, and the majority of their time was spent manning phones, reviewing documents, issuing export certificates, preparing investigative reports, and responding to calls at the passenger terminal or foreign-mail room.

  For the ninety percent of wildlife cargo they couldn't eyeball, they had to trust documentation. If the paperwork claimed the crate held a hundred Grand Cayman iguanas, then more often than not it was approved. Grand Cayman iguanas were legal. What could they do, open every crate?

  The Wildlife agents were good people. Smart, sincere, well-educated, badly underpaid. They cared about animals. Were knowledgeable and dedicated. But with Allison it was, "Thank you very much, Mrs. Farleigh, for your continued concern, but we secretly and politely and unofficially and unspokenly would like you just to fuck off and stay fucked off for as long and as far away as you can possibly manage it, thank you very much, Mrs. Farleigh, and please don't quote me in that goddamn libelous piece of shit newsletter of yours either."

  She understood how they felt. Even sympathized. She could see herself from their eyes. Affluent, bossy housewife, always critical, badgering. A woman who didn't have to pay allegiance to handbooks of rules and official guidelines like they did.

  And sure, she'd admit to that. On the other hand, if it weren't for all those folks with badgering ways, annoying cries from the sidelines, the great clunky machinery of status quo would never move at all. It would grind away as it always had, day after day, slowly replicating itself, slowly reproducing today the exact same results it had produced yesterday.

  At ten-fifteen that Sunday night, Allison located the home phone number of Penny Richmond, the newest Fish and Wildlife agent. Just moved to Miami from Idaho a month before, perhaps still boggled, hadn't gotten the lay of the land yet. Maybe she didn't have the official scoop on Allison Farleigh yet either.

  The phone rang a half dozen times before someone answered with a sleepy hello. Allison introduced herself as Gretchen Jones, saying she worked for a Mr. Joshua Bond. Was Penny familiar with Mr. Bond? She'd heard the name, she said. An animal dealer? That's right, the biggest one in the Southeast, third biggest in the country. What about him? Penny said, waking up now. Well, I hate to snitch on my boss, Allison said, I'm not a whistle-blower by nature, but what he's doing isn't right. What's that? Penny said. Orangutans, said Allison. He's holding them in his warehouse. Six wild-born orangs, no documentation. Is that right? Yes, Allison said, and listen, Penny, I know he's going to be at the warehouse at four tomorrow afternoon. Four o'clock? Yes, four o'clock precisely.

  As Allison was setting the phone in the cradle, it rang in her hand.

  "Christ, Allison, don't you have call waiting? Goddamn phone's been busy for hours. What if your attorney had an emergency, had to talk to you right away?"

  She said hello to Jeff, told him he was on her list to call, that she was almost to him.

  "Okay, now listen to me, Allison. A little while ago I had a very disturbing conversation. Roy Rothstein called me. You know who I mean? The man who represents Joshua Bond."

  "Go on."

  "Roy claims one of my clients broke into his client's home yesterday afternoon. Is this man nuts, Allison, or are you?"

  "Broke in?" Allison said. "That's perhaps a bit strong. I finagled my way in."

  "Finagled, broke. Any way you say it, it isn't good."

  "Jeff," Allison said. "I want you to set up a meeting. We'll settle this. Suits, countersuits, breaking and entering, all of it. I have a deal to offer the man. Face-to-face."

  "You have a deal? Now, that's rich, Allison. Hey, they're pressing charges against you. It took all my persuasive powers to keep them from sending the squad cars over to your place tonight. What deal could you offer him, for god's sake? You're the one that needs to cut a deal."

  "Tomorrow at four, Jeff, a meeting with Bond. Can you arrange it? It has to be four o'clock, and it has to take place at his warehouse out near Krome Avenue. Okay?"

  "Are you serious?"

  "It's going to happen, Jeff. Either you set it up, or I'll have to find someone who will."

  "What kind of meeting are we talking about here?"

  "Four, okay? Four o'clock."

  ***

  The attendance was excellent. A circus of police cars, and bland white government Fords, green pickups from Fish and Wildlife, television vans, one after the other rolling up the dusty road, a great pincer movement of press and law enforcement and concerned citizens. It was a credit to her organizational skills. Fifteen of her Wildlife Protection League members attended, a couple from as far away as Jacksonville.

  At exactly four o'clock Allison marched to the door of his warehouse, a hubbub of electronic media gathering behind her. People calling her name. Shoulder cams. Halogen lights. Microphones. Men with pads and pencils jostling other men with
pads and pencils. Even Thorn was there in cutoff jeans and a T-shirt, looking uncomfortable. Jeff Aronson, in the back of the crowd, his shoulders slumped, shook his crew-cut head.

  Allison hammered on the door. A second later, Mr. Bond swung it open, smiled into the bright lights. He crossed his arms over his chest, blocked the entrance.

  "I hope you people brought a warrant. We're still using those little things, aren't we?"

  "We want to see these." Allison handed him the invoice.

  He stared at her for a moment, then took the paper, looked it over, sighed.

  "All this effort, Allison, all these people? You break into my house and this is all you can manage? I'm disappointed in you, sweetheart."

  "Show us, Mr. Bond."

  He studied her for a moment, his ruddy face darkening. He took a slow breath, blew it out, and stood aside.

  "Come on, Allison. In fact," he called out to the crowd, "why don't you all come in. Have a nice long look around."

  During the next hour Joshua Bond allowed the group access to every cranny of his forty-thousand-square-foot structure.

  "Rip it apart, if you like. I'll provide the hammers, the crowbars. Stay as long as you want."

  There were no orangutans. None with silver markings, none whatsoever. Not in the cages, not in the bathrooms, the offices, behind the dropped-ceiling panels. There were, however, six matched orange-banded thrushes, which Joshua Bond had purchased in Djakarta last week as a gift for his daughter, whose wedding was next Friday in Orlando. He had all the documents for the thrushes, everything precisely in order.

  Six Orang, the bill of lading read. The other information matching exactly that on Allison's printed page.

  "They're songbirds, Allison. Zoothera peronii, found in the lowland deciduous forests of Wetar, Timor, also on the small islands of Romang, Damar, and the Babars. Anything else you want to know about them?"