Flight

by Laura Griffin

  “Overtourism.” Joel sounded just as skeptical as his brother.

  “Yeah. It’s a problem, and some people are quick to point it out. People like Liz and Will go zipping around in their trendy camper, taking pictures in front of iconic views—like the Half Dome in Yosemite, or the Rainbow Bridge in Utah, or White Dunes Park here on the island, or wherever. And droves of people see their posts and follow in their footsteps, overwhelming all these places that aren’t used to such an onslaught of traffic. And a lot of the people who come don’t really care about these places at all; they just want to snap a selfie they can post online. Which leads to more traffic and makes the problem worse.”

  Joel just looked at her.

  “It’s a serious issue. Look it up if you don’t believe me. There are places—in Thailand and the Philippines, for example—where they’ve had to shut down entire islands because people’s social media posts have prompted hordes of people to descend on these little communities and they’ve been completely overwhelmed with cruise ships and foot traffic and pollution.”

  Joel folded his arms over his chest. “So, you’re saying they’re hurting the cause, not helping it.”

  “Exactly. And they’ve gotten some blowback about it on some of their social media posts. So, I started thinking, what if that’s why they were targeted? We have a killer who seems to be motivated by ideology. Defending the environment, preventing the destruction of the planet, however you want to think about it—”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” he said.

  “Okay, but it’s our working theory. The best one we have so far that ties all these cases together. Anyway, we’ve been stuck on the motive for these two young victims—how can they be targeted by someone like that if they’re members of this activist group—but maybe not all Alpha Omega Now members are created equal. Maybe some extremist within the group didn’t like what these two were doing and thought they were hypocrites.”

  Joel gazed down at her but didn’t respond. She couldn’t tell whether he didn’t buy her theory or was giving it serious consideration.

  “By that logic—twisted though it is—people like Liz and Will are just as bad as a real estate developer or an oil executive or someone who owns a logging company,” she said. “They’re degrading the environment for personal profit. And maybe the two of them are worse, because their social media posts encourage people to follow in their footsteps, so their negative impact is amplified.”

  She took a deep breath, watching Joel’s reaction. She couldn’t read him.

  “Owen thinks I’m in the weeds,” she admitted. “What do you think?”

  “It’s an interesting take.”

  “‘Interesting’ as in you think it has merit? Or you think it’s totally out-there?”

  “It has merit. We should discuss it at the next task force meeting. Tee it up.”

  Nicole felt a swell of pride. He thought her theory had merit and he wanted her to take credit for it. His support meant a lot.

  Nicole’s phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out to read a text. She recognized the Houston area code.

  “You say Miranda’s at the library?” She looked at Joel.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I have a text from my detective contact in Houston. He sent over that photograph she wanted.”

  Joel frowned. “What photograph?”

  “The feather recovered with the Houston murder victim. The oil-and-gas executive. Miranda wanted a close-up of it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I figure she’s investigating it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Joel ducked into the empty conference room and called Miranda. He’d been thinking about her all day but had been determined to give her some space. As much as he could, anyway, given all the shit that had been happening. He deeply regretted getting her involved in his case.

  “Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  Just the sound of her voice loosened the knot in his chest.

  “Okay,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Just okay?”

  He sat on the table, staring at the crime scene photographs that had been haunting him for days. “Yeah, the suspect list isn’t coming together. So far, no overlap.”

  “Damn.”

  “What about you? Are you still at the library grading papers?” he asked.

  “Actually, I’ve been doing some research.”

  “The feather.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “How’d you know?” she asked.

  “Nicole mentioned it. You dig up anything interesting?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I’ve been going through books here. They’ve actually got a nice collection of ornithology references. You must have a lot of birders on the island.”

  “We do.”

  “Well, I’ve narrowed it down, I think. It’s definitely a South American parrot, possibly a scarlet macaw. Those aren’t endangered, like the indigo macaw and the yellow-browed toucanet. But their habitat is certainly endangered. So, it reinforces our theory about the killer being ideologically motivated.”

  Joel stepped closer to the board and studied the photograph that had been stuck in his mind for days—the two young victims intertwined in the canoe. From day one, Joel had thought they looked posed. And he wondered now if that might be part of the killer’s message.

  Their social media posts encourage people to follow in their footsteps, so their negative impact is amplified.

  Nicole might be onto something with her theory. He liked that she was thinking creatively.

  “Joel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “So, what are you going to do about your suspect list?”

  “Keep working on it. I may have to add the sixth case.”

  “What sixth case?”

  He sighed. “I guess I didn’t tell you about the poisoning.”

  “Someone was poisoned?”

  “This was that logging company that Alpha Omega Now protested a couple years ago. Turns out their CEO died from hemlock poisoning.”

  “Hemlock? How awful. That stuff causes paralysis and respiratory failure.”

  “The police looked at a bunch of people and homed in on his wife,” he said. “I need to call them up and find out who else they talked to. It’s still an open case.”

  “Sounds like a bit of a stretch, though,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, typically poison is more of a woman’s MO. We’re looking for a man with a size eleven shoe, and he uses a gun.”

  “I know, but I’m running out of leads here.”

  He turned away from the murder board and stepped to the window. Parting the blinds, he looked out over the parking lot. The big push he’d hoped to make today hadn’t materialized, and he was still hours away from being able to wrap up. Which meant Miranda would be going home to an empty house.

  “Sounds like you’re going to be there late,” she said.

  “I am. What about you? You’re still working?”

  “Yeah, but they’re about to close here. Maybe I could finish up at the station while you get the rest of your work done.”

  Joel liked the sound of that. He’d been on edge all day, and having her close by would be a relief.

  “Then we could pick up dinner,” she suggested. “Or do you plan to be there really late?”

  “People can reach me at home if they need to,” he said. “Picking up dinner sounds good.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

  “You have your pepper spray?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be careful. And pay attention to your surroundings.”

  “Joel, seriously.”

  “Seriously, Miranda. You need to pay attention
.”

  “I do pay attention. See you soon.”

  He ended the call, feeling like a nag. But it didn’t matter. She needed to be vigilant, and he didn’t care if he sounded overprotective. The thought of something happening to her put a ball of dread in his gut. He hated that this case was dragging on, and he wouldn’t relax until they had someone in custody.

  Joel took out his phone and scrolled through it for the number of his FBI contact. Just as he located the contact, a call came in.

  He didn’t recognize the number.

  “Breda.”

  No response.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this . . . Joel Breda with the Lost Beach Police?” It was a woman’s voice, and she sounded nervous.

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s Gillian Copeland.”

  Joel’s pulse gave a kick. And he knew his shit day was about to change.

  “Hi, Gillian. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to see if you could meet me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s something I want to show you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Miranda pulled into the parking lot and gazed out over the marsh. The place had cleared out for the day, and she parked in a front-row space close to the entrance. For a minute, she sat behind the wheel and absorbed the quiet. The marsh was lavender in the dusky light of evening, and the breeze off the bay sent ripples through the salt grass. The tall wooden observation tower was empty except for a lone bird-watcher with binoculars.

  Miranda gathered her thick accordion file and got out. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass, and a green riding mower sat beside the path. Tucking her file under her arm, she walked up the sidewalk and went around to the back door near the boardwalk. She tried the door and found it unlocked, as promised.

  Stepping into the dim lobby of the nature center, she looked at the reception desk and felt a pang of sadness as she pictured Xander Kendrick with his blond ponytail and his laid-back smile. It was hard to believe someone so young and vibrant could suddenly be gone.

  Behind the empty reception desk, the science laboratory glowed. Miranda walked across the lobby and spotted a man in a white lab coat standing at a microscope.

  “You’re early.”

  She turned around to see Daisy Miller crossing the lobby. She wore her big straw hat and had a silver bucket in her hand.

  “Hi,” Miranda said.

  She smiled. “I was just feeding the turtles.”

  “Need a hand?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. They’re done for today.” Daisy gestured toward the laboratory. “Come on back.”

  Miranda followed her to the laboratory. Just inside the door was a tall stainless-steel shelf. Daisy set down her bucket of turtle food and peeled off her hat.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Miranda said. “Hope I’m not keeping you here too late.”

  “Not at all. It takes hours to close this place. All our creatures need to be fed and settled for the night.” She smiled. “You need any water or anything?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  The guy with the lab coat had disappeared, and Miranda followed Daisy past the empty counter to her computer. Miranda glanced around the lab, taking note of all the microscopes and sinks and cabinets filled with glass beakers. They must do a lot of research here, and she wished she knew more about it.

  “So.” Daisy tossed her hat on the desk and ran her hand through her wild gray curls. “You have another feather for me.”

  “That’s right.”

  Daisy pulled out her swivel chair. “Sit down.” She nodded toward the chair at the computer station beside hers. “You can use Jason’s chair. He just left.”

  Miranda sat down and opened the accordion file.

  “Once again, I only have a photograph.” She pulled out the picture Nicole had sent her. The long red feather with a bluish tip was on a steel table with a ruler positioned beside it.

  Daisy fished a pair of reading glasses from a drawer and perched them on the end of her nose. “And where did this one come from? Don’t tell me there was another murder.”

  “There was, unfortunately. This one’s from Houston.” She handed over the picture. “It happened a while ago, actually.”

  Daisy frowned at the picture. “A scarlet macaw. I can tell just by looking at it.”

  “You don’t need to enter it in your database?”

  “Nope.” She handed back the photo. “That’s a central tail feather, forty-six centimeters, or almost half the bird’s length. They’re long birds. They’re poached for their feathers as well as for food.”

  “They’re not endangered, though, right?”

  “No, but their habitat certainly is. Why do you ask?”

  “Just a theory we’re working on.”

  “We?”

  “Investigators looking at the case.”

  Daisy looked at her for a long moment. Then she gazed down at the photograph.

  “So, I was wondering,” Miranda said. “Last time I was here, you said your database—what is it called?”

  “The Global Feather Index?”

  “Yes, that. You said it’s used by law enforcement. People who deal with animal trafficking?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I got to wondering. Who keeps the specimens? Is it the law enforcement agencies?”

  Daisy tipped her head to the side. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, who has the actual feathers? The ones used as reference samples.”

  “You mean, who maintains the collection?”

  “That’s right. Sorry, let me back up,” Miranda said. “One of the detectives I work with made a point the other day, that these feathers of endangered birds aren’t just floating around, right? And yet someone is planting them at crime scenes. So, I’m wondering who has access to feathers of species that are protected, like the indigo macaw.”

  Daisy looked down at the photograph on the desk. “Hmm.”

  “I mean, it’s not like you can get these at a pet store. Some feathers, like the scarlet macaw, you can get through online vendors. But the endangered species are another story. Very few of these animals are even in zoos. So that’s why I’m wondering.”

  Daisy pursed her lips as she looked at the photograph. She swayed slightly.

  Miranda leaned forward. “Are you all right?”

  She glanced up. “Yes. I just remembered something. Would you wait here a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  She got up and looked around. “One minute.”

  She crossed the lab and walked out, and Miranda stared after her.

  Her phone vibrated in her purse, and Miranda pulled it out. Nicole.

  “Hey,” Miranda said.

  “Joel had to run out, but he said he’d be back soon. Are you coming by the station?”

  “In a bit. I stopped by the nature center to ask a question about the feather.”

  “Is it a scarlet macaw, like you thought?” Nicole asked.

  “According to their ornithologist, yes. Those aren’t endangered, by the way.”

  “I know. A friend of mine has one as a pet.”

  Miranda stood up, stretching her legs. She’d been sitting all day.

  “When you get here, come find me,” Nicole said. “I’ve made some progress on the social media front, and I want to show you what I found. I’ll be in the conference room.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  Miranda ended the call and looked around. The lab was quiet and still. Where had Daisy gone?

  She wandered to a second glass door, which stood ajar. Miranda leaned her head into the next room, which was the Discovery Center. She stepped into the cavernous space and looked up. Mobiles of aquatic animals hung
from the ceiling. Miranda stepped over to a tank and examined the array of starfish and sea anemones.

  A clatter on the other side of the room caught her attention. She walked over to another glass door, this one leading to a long corridor lined with metal tables on both sides. The space was being used as a greenhouse.

  A blur of pink caught her eye.

  “Daisy?” Miranda peered down the corridor. She tried the door and found it unlocked.

  The greenhouse was dim and silent as she stepped inside. The warm air smelled like compost, and in the corner was a big plastic bag of organic fertilizer. The long steel tables were filled with dozens and dozens of potted plants. Beneath the tables were buckets containing different types of dirt and potting soil.

  Miranda approached the nearest table, where clay pots brimmed with leafy green plants. She identified many of them by sight, but little metal placards provided scientific names: lavandula officinalis, thymus vulgaris, ocimum basilicum. Her gaze fell on a pot of lacy white flowers in the back row. conium maculatum.

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She took a step backward. And another.

  Thud.

  Miranda whirled around.

  * * *

  * * *

  Joel pulled into the parking lot and scanned the area. The convenience store was busy, but he saw no sign of Gillian Copeland or the black Honda. Joel pulled into a space on the edge of the lot.

  The store’s door opened, and Gillian stepped out, looking directly at him.

  He slid from his truck and crossed the lot toward her. She wore an actual shirt this time with her cutoff shorts. She also wore a baseball cap, and her long blond ponytail trailed down her back.

  She cast a worried look over Joel’s shoulder and then motioned for him to follow her around the side of the building. In her hand was a plastic bag filled with Pringles and soft drinks.

  “I can’t stay long,” she said.

  “Where’s Trevor?”

  “Back in the room. I walked.” She cast another look over his shoulder. “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joel gazed down at her. Her eyes were bloodshot, and he couldn’t tell whether she was high or she’d been crying.