Bird Brained (39 page)

“But Weed was the one supplying you with the arms. I don’t get it.” I hoped the opportunity to show off just how smart he was would buy me time.

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, since you won’t be around to do anything about it.” Langer removed an offending shred of tobacco from his tongue. “Weed had a line into DRMOs, which is how we get our arms. Everything went just fine until he caught the greed bug like Dominguez.” Langer shook his massive head. “Weed got out of control, selling military weapons to anyone and everyone who flashed him a wad of bills. He was even selling to your two friends over there in the cage.”

“What!”

Langer nodded in commiseration. “That’s right. C-4. Plastic explosives. Nasty stuff for two batty old women to have.” Low roars emanated from the cage behind me.

“You were there the morning that Willy died. I saw your van,” I quietly said.

Langer’s eyes turned as hard as granite. “Weed was getting sloppy. He eventually would’ve been caught. Tregler will be sure not to make the same mistake his buddy did. I won’t have Omega-12’s mission blown over carelessness and greed.”

“And just what do you get out of all this, Langer?” I asked. “Why’s a gringo like you working for a Cuban paramilitary group, anyway?”

Langer chomped down hard on his cigar before handing me the last piece of the puzzle. “I go back to the days when Tito Vallardes was Omega’s leader. I was with the CIA at the time.” Langer’s voice was flat and hard. “My job was to train Vallardes and his recruits for an all-out attack on Castro. Then came the Bay of Pigs disaster. The U.S. officially pulled the plug on Omega-12, and I was yanked out of Miami and assigned to the Washington office. Later I landed in Central America, where I worked with the Contras. When I retired a few years ago, I decided there was nothing better I could do than help out my old friends here in Miami.”

I opted for a tactic my first boss had taught me—when in doubt, go for the jugular. “Don’t tell me: you were available for hire, and they were offering to pay big time.”

Bingo! Langer’s eyes flinched as I hit my mark. Funny, how greed has a way of spreading. For all his spouting of high morals, Langer was nothing more than your average paid mercenary.

“Tell me, what do Ramon and Elena think of the fact that you murdered Alberto to appease your ethics? Surely you reported that to Ramon. After all, he is the commander of Omega-12, isn’t he?”

Langer’s mouth twisted in contempt as he lifted the gun and aimed it at my head. “Actually, I’m the commander. Elena and Ramon Vallardes do as they’re told.”

There was no more time for a plan. I held my breath and closed my eyes. But in place of the searing pain of a bullet, a pair of feet shot out from between the bars of the cell, smashing into the back of my legs. The force sent me flying down to the floor.

At the same time, a smoky voice thundered from the door, “Wrong, Langer.
I’m
the commander of Omega-12, and your job has just been terminated.”

The deafening blast of a gun roared through the room. I looked over to where Langer lay dead, his blood mingling with the dingy suds on the floor. Then I raised my eyes. The feline-clad form of Elena Vallardes stood defiantly over his body, my pump shotgun fiercely clenched in her hands.

The sound of Sophie’s paint brush was as soothing as a lullaby, its long, smooth strokes as steady as the beat of the sun. She stood back and let loose a dissatisfied “harrumph” as she examined her handiwork.

“Whadda you think? I’m not sure it’s colorful enough.”

I took a break from playing tug-of-war with Bonkers to look. The walls pulsated an iridescent purple, and she’d highlighted the shutters with a retina-burning tangerine.

“There’s no worry of that,” I reported.

Bonkers made a beeline for my fingers with a saucy squawk, his body tottering back and forth. Then he screeched,
“Yo! Adrienne!”

I gave Sophie a questioning glance.

“He thinks he’s Stallone. It must be all those
Rocky
reruns he’s been watching lately,” she explained with a shrug.

A trickle of laughter drifted toward us from the walkway. Lucinda and Terri had returned from the beach. Lucinda’s gold-lamé bikini blended in with her tan. Terri followed behind, kvetching with each step. Lucinda now had us on a regimen of lifting weights and learning self-protection. I had to admit that her master-sergeant tactics were working. I could finally button a pair of pants I’d never worn.

Lucinda strode over to Sophie’s side and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You’ve done it again. The colors look great.”

“You really think so?” Sophie lowered her neon-pink sunglasses sporting dancing birds. She’d worn the same pair for a couple of months now. It was her way of mourning the deaths of Tallulah, Lula Belle, and Carrera’s three other flamingos.

“I’m going inside to make power shakes for everyone. Why don’t you take a break from painting and come help me?” Lucinda suggested.

“Do I have a choice? It’s the only way I can keep you from overdosing us all on protein powder.” Sophie abandoned her brush and accompanied Lucinda inside.

Terri plopped down on the bench, taking a seat beside me.

“So, how was the beach?” I asked, extricating my earring from Bonkers’s beak.

“The usual,” Terri responded. He dipped a hand inside his beach bag and displayed a turquoise yarmulke, decorated with sequins sewn in the shape of dog biscuits. “I’ve been checking the orders and so far this is our biggest seller. Definitely a must among poodles.”

Then he took out a plain fuschia yarmulke, a needle and thread, and a container of bugle beads, and started to work on his next creation. “So, tell me. What’s the latest news on Elena these days? Any idea how long she’ll actually be in jail?”

Elena had been sentenced to seven years in Miami Correctional Center for Langer’s murder. She’d told me the gun running charge would never stick, and had proved to be right. The paper trail had led to Langer and stopped there. As for Buzz Tregler, he was officially listed as AWOL, having run for his life after Willy Weed was found dead.

I was still awaiting the DNA results to prove bird-smuggling charges. Without having nabbed Ramon or Elena in the actual act, DNA tests were the only way to prove their birds had been caught in the wild. Not that it really mattered. In a city battling skyrocketing rates of homicide, heroin, and theft, parrot smuggling was a penny-ante crime. Add to that the Vallardes’s political connections, and nothing would ever come of the charge, no matter what the tests proved. Still, at least the pipeline had been shut down for now. And word was out on the street: smugglers knew that Fish and Wildlife meant business.

“Elena will serve four years with good behavior. Maybe less,” I told him.

“It doesn’t really seem fair, does it?” Terri remarked. “If she hadn’t shown up when she did, the three of you would be dead.”

That’s exactly why we had all appeared as character witnesses. Funny, the twists and turns that our justice system takes.

“Have you heard from Ramon?” Terri ventured.

I shook my head. If Ramon was doing the lambada these days, it was with someone else.

The brightest spot in all this was that Carlos had gained his share of glory, with his reputation restored and shining brighter than ever. After Langer had been shot, my first call had been to my boss. The second had been to the police. With no arms to be found at Langer’s house, I had a pretty good hunch where they were stored. I also knew that the only way I’d hang on to my job was if I turned the information over to Carlos. Shortly after my phone call, Carlos broke into Langer’s warehouse and uncovered a large cache of arms that had been ripped off from Robins Air Force Base.

Then there was Sophie and Lucinda. Their secret life remained locked away, buried in that deep, dark cage. The only demand I’d made was that their career as pet-containment bombers come to a halt. They had promised to retire.

Equally good was that Weed’s and Langer’s critters, including Fidel, had been placed in reputable sanctuaries. That left only the parrots inside the Vallardes’s cottage. Ramon had donated them to a number of reputable bird breeders, claiming that without his sister around, he no longer had the time to care for the birds.

I watched Terri fashion the bugle beads into a pattern of puppy-dogs’ tails. “How was your trip to New Orleans?” It was the first time I’d dared ask since his return a few days ago.

Terri didn’t stop sewing. “What you’re really asking is, did I see Santou and was he filled with remorse?”

That was the downside to being best friends. Terri knew me too well to be fooled by my question. “I admit it, Ter. I’m curious.”

Terri stopped sewing, put the yarmulke down, and took hold of my hand. “Are you saying that you regret your decision?”

I slowly shook my head. “No. There was no other choice to be made. If Santou can’t accept me for who I am, we have no future together.” I paused. “Maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I thought for sure he was the man I’d grow old-and-gray with.”

“Bite your tongue! That’s what hair color and plastic surgery are for,” Terri chided. “Listen, Rach. We’re all looking for that special someone to connect with. But believe me, make the wrong choice and your shining knight can quickly turn into your jailer.” Terri patted my hand. “Besides, I wouldn’t write Santou off just yet. You never know. He might wise up and come around.”

I shot Terri a dubious glance.

“In any case, I’m certain that you won’t be spending your golden years alone. In fact, I’d bet my last G-string on it.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” I asked, a smile slipping across my face.

“Because you’ve got me,” Terri said, planting a kiss on my cheek.

The sound of flapping wings made me raise my eyes upward. Above us flew a flock of beautifully free birds, their backdrop the seamless blue of a perfect Miami sky. Their wings enveloped my heart and I closed my eyes and wished them well on their flight, a feeling of peace stealing over me.

JESSICA SPEART is the author of ten Rachel Porter mysteries, as well as the nonfiction thriller
Winged Obsession
. Speart created her mystery sleuth — U.S. Fish and Wildlife Agent Rachel Porter — after years of investigating wildlife and drug-trafficking crimes for publications such as
The New York Times Magazine
,
Omni
,
Travel & Leisure
,
Audubon
,
National Wildlife
,
Mother Jones
,
Wildlife Conservation
,
Earth Journal
and
Animals Magazine
.