Misgivings Page 13

  “I do,” she said pleasantly. “But I think I’ll just look around for a bit, first.”

  “Sure. Just let me know if I can find anything for you.”

  She strolled the length of the store. It seemed more to her like a boutique than a pet store; the layout, the lighting, the price tags, everything seemed as upscale as any designer clothing shop in South Beach. She saw gourmet dog food, cat jewelry, even interactive robot toys that claimed to simulate the movements of a mouse.

  At the back of the store was the aviary, an entire room walled off with wire mesh. Inside were dozens of species that ranged from tiny, black-and-white songbirds to brilliantly colored parrots as long as her arm.

  Calleigh took her time, looking around and getting the feel of the place. She kept an eye out for anyone who might be Marco Boraba, as well as anything unusual or odd.

  After twenty minutes or so all she had noticed was how many people under the age of twenty-five had come in shopping for small dogs. Where Calleigh had grown up in Louisiana, anything smaller than a bloodhound was hard to find; these days, the only kind of canine anyone seemed interested in had to be no larger than a house cat. She eavesdropped on one extremely blond and tanned teenage girl who’d been grilling a salesclerk for the last few minutes: “Now, are you sure this breed doesn’t get any bigger? I just bought this Prada bag, and I do not want him outgrowing it.”

  Of course, she thought to herself. The latest trend, the accessory dog. Soon to be followed by a parrot that can answer your cell phone and a trained bear to park your car.

  She shook her head and picked up something that looked like a long-handled ladle made of bright blue plastic.

  “Atlatl,” a voice said behind her.

  She turned. The man who had spoken was tall, well-built, with the kind of high widow’s peak of curly black hair that often seemed to crop up on middle-aged Latino men. He wore a black linen suit with a crisp white shirt and a bolo tie, two braided leather strands joined at his throat by a silver-and-turqoise eagle. One of his eyes, she noticed, was slightly bloodshot and puffy.

  “Pardon me?” she said.

  “It’s what the Aztecs called it,” the man said. “This particular version is designed to throw tennis balls for dogs, but its traditional uses are much more serious. It is one of the oldest weapons known to man, predating the bow and arrow by thousands of years. If I may?” He held out his hand. Calleigh hesitated, then gave it to him.

  “The word atlatl comes from the Nahuatl words for ‘water’ and ‘thrower,’” he said. “This is because they were used primarily for hunting waterfowl. Of course, they were not throwing tennis balls at them.” He chuckled, and Calleigh smiled politely. “The atlatl was used to throw the yaomitl, a kind of spear or long dart. The butt of the dart rested here,” he said, pointing to the round end of the ladle, “with the shaft held parallel to the atlatl itself. Other than that, it was used in exactly the same way, with an overhand or sideways throwing motion.” He demonstrated, moving his arm in a slow, exaggerated sweep. “It’s like adding another joint to your arm. It can increase the amount of throwing power up to two hundred times, letting you launch a five-ounce dart at a hundred miles an hour. The current world distance record for an atlatl dart is just under eight hundred and fifty feet.”

  “Impressive,” Calleigh said. “And here I thought it was a soupspoon. Silly me.”

  Allen walked up and stopped. He had that look on his face that people got when they have something to say, but don’t want to interrupt. His eyes flickered nervously from Calleigh to the man holding the dog atlatl and back.

  “Yes?” Calleigh said.

  “Uh, Mister Boraba?” Allen said. “There’s a phone call for you.”

  “Take a message,” Boraba said. “I’m busy talking to this young woman right now.”

  “Okay,” Allen said, and hurried away.

  “Mister Boraba,” Calleigh said. “I’m Calleigh Duquesne, Miami-Dade Crime Lab. I was wondering if you had a few moments to speak with me about Hector Villanova.”

  “Hector? He is not in any trouble, I hope?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mister Boraba. Mister Villanova’s body was recovered a few days ago in the Everglades.”

  Calleigh studied the man’s reaction carefully. He had seemed cordial and at ease at first, but a guarded quality had entered his eyes when Calleigh had told him who she was; that was only to be expected. What she saw when he learned of his friend’s death, though, was—relief? Just a flash of it, perhaps, followed by an immediate rush of grief.

  “Are—are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said gently. “However, the circumstances of his death are somewhat mysterious. Anything you could tell me about Hector and his activities in Miami would be appreciated.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, but I’m afraid Hector and I did not see each other very much. He tended to keep to himself—or, at least he did when he was in Miami. I saw him more often in São Paulo than I ever did here.”

  “The two of you weren’t close? Or did you have a falling out?”

  He sighed. “We were friends. Good friends, once. In recent times less so, but there was no falling out, no argument. You know how it is with friends from school, yes? When you are young, you are bound as much by your differences as your similarities; you seek the new, in people as well as experiences. You are all fellow travelers, eager but nervous. You make friends as much out of fear of being alone as any common interests. Then, as time goes by, you discover who you are, what you like and dislike, what your goals and limitations are. And somehow, your friends drift away, like boats on many different currents.”

  “Not always,” she said. “Some friendships last a lifetime. You two kept in touch, right?”

  He nodded. “Yes. We were very different, though; Hector, at heart, wanted the safe, the familiar. A wife, a family, a house. I was always the adventurer.” He tapped the atlatl against his open palm absently, staring past Calleigh into the distance. “That is why we were friends, I suppose.”

  “Well, he must have had some adventure in his soul,” Calleigh said. “He came to Miami to take advantage of a business opportunity, after all.”

  “Did he? I was under the impression it was simply a vacation.”

  “He was here for two months. That’s a pretty long vacation.”

  “That depends on what you are taking a vacation from. I only spoke to him once or twice, but I could tell he was still in a great deal of pain. His wife left him, you know.”

  “I know. She says Hector claimed he was coming to Miami to make a lot of money—and on the last night he was seen alive, he appeared to be celebrating. You wouldn’t have any idea why, would you?”

  Boraba frowned. “No, I have no idea. How— what was the manner of his death?”

  “He was killed by an explosive device.” Normally Calleigh wouldn’t give out that much information about an ongoing case, but she wanted to see Boraba’s reaction.

  He shook his head, seeming more puzzled than shocked. “A bomb? Who would want to kill Hector with a bomb? It makes no sense.”

  “Not so far. But sooner or later, Mister Boraba, it will.”

  Calleigh turned into the lab’s parking lot at the same time Wolfe and Tripp were getting out of Tripp’s car. She pulled up and rolled down the window of the Hummer.

  “Hey, Calleigh,” Wolfe said.

  “Hey, guys,” Calleigh said. “Anybody seen Horatio?”

  “I think he’s in his office,” Wolfe said. “He mentioned something about that FBI agent coming by just before I left. Didn’t sound too happy about it, either.”

  “Any news about Pathan?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” Wolfe said. “I don’t think the kidnappers have been in touch yet. Why are you asking me, anyway? I thought you and Delko were working that.”

  “I’ve been . . . reassigned,” Calleigh said. “H needs my help on another case.”

  “What, the John Doe
from the swamp? Yeah, like he’s going anywhere.” Wolfe shook his head. “I don’t know. I hate to second-guess Horatio, but you’d think he’d want his best people on a kidnapping.”

  “Horatio knows what he’s doing,” Calleigh said coolly. “He also knows when to keep his mouth shut.” She rolled up her window and drove on.

  Wolfe stared after her with a frown on his face. “What? What did I say?” he asked Tripp. “I could have sworn I just paid her a compliment.”

  Tripp shook his head. “Wolfe, you may be a helluva CSI, but you have a lot to learn about office politics. Not to mention stepping on other people’s toes.”

  Horatio followed his nose down the hall and into the main lab. “Mister Wolfe,” he said. “It smells like a Greek restaurant in here. Is this case-related, or is the lab branching out into other areas?”

  Wolfe gave him a rueful smile. “Well, it beats decomp—but, yeah, the aroma is a little strong. I’m testing samples from a delicatessen; I think this is how our dead Santa wound up with two anti-depressants in his bloodstream.”

  “I see. Any leads on suspects?”

  “Frank’s bringing in one of the organizers of the event. The deli stop was planned in advance, but it’s unclear if the killer was involved or just taking advantage of the situation—calls made to the business were from a pay phone in downtown Miami, could have been anyone. And we still have no idea why the vic was murdered.”

  “The holidays can be a very stressful time,” Horatio said. “Family conflicts come to the fore, finances are strained . . . all factors that can trigger a murder. Have you looked into his relatives?”

  “Only one we’ve been able to discover is a sister, but she lives out of state and hasn’t talked to her brother in years. Frank says her story checks out.”

  Horatio nodded. “How about money? Insurance policy?”

  “No. Patrick was an actor—he didn’t even have health insurance, let alone life. So far, the only reason anyone might have to kill him was a couple of bad commercials he made. I found his demo tape and played it—his big moment in the limelight seems to be an ad for a supermarket chain he did five years ago. Since then, he’s been in a few local plays and done some voice acting. Barely paying the bills, as near as I can tell.”

  “Well, the entertainment industry is built on overnight success stories,” Horatio said. “And for every actor who suddenly hits the jackpot, there’s a long line of people behind him who didn’t make the grade.”

  “So if Patrick suddenly got his big break, whoever he beat out might have felt cheated,” Wolfe said thoughtfully. “Nobody likes second place.”

  “But removing Patrick,” Horatio said, “would put them back in first.”

  “Jenson’s decrypting Patrick’s hard drive right now. Hopefully, that’ll tell us what his current project was.”

  “Don’t forget to check in with his agent,” Horatio said. “And you might want to reinterview a few of the other Santas as well. If he’d just gotten a big part, Santacon may have been his way of celebrating. In that case, it’s doubtful he could have resisted talking about it.”

  “None of the Santas I interviewed mentioned anything like that, but they were all pretty intoxicated. I’ll do some reinterviews, see if I can jog a few memories.”

  “Do that,” Horatio said. “And Mister Wolfe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good work . . .”

  11

  “HEY, NATALIA,” CALLEIGH SAID. “You’ve got access to more than just human DNA databases, right?”

  Natalia Boa Vista set down the tray of samples she was carrying beside the autoclave. “Sure. The Justice Project is primarily about using DNA to reexamine old cases, but we exchange data with all sorts of other agencies, including ATF, Fish and Wildlife, and APHIS.”

  Calleigh looked puzzled. “AFIS? I thought that was a fingerprint database.”

  Natalia smiled. “Not AFIS, APHIS—the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service. They oversee the importation of flora and fauna into the country.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of resource I need. I’ve got a suspect who might be involved in animal smuggling, and I may need to match a sample against prohibited species.”

  “Well, there’s no shortage of those—of the three hundred and thirty species of parrot, two hundred and twenty-eight are regulated. Forty-five of those are on a list banning all trade, and the rest require export permits from their country of origin.”

  Calleigh’s eyebrows went up. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  Natalia shrugged. “I knew a guy who was a parrothead. Not a Jimmy Buffett fan, a tropical-bird nut. When I found out how big the black market in animals and animal parts is, I took a professional interest—according to some estimates, the only other criminal enterprise that makes more money is the drug trade.”

  “Even more than arms dealing? Maybe I went into the wrong branch of forensics.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place, anyway—the U.S. is the biggest market for wildlife and wildlife products. A law was passed in 1992 restricting the import of psittacine species, but by that point, we were bringing in a hundred and fifty thousand birds a year. And that was just through legal channels—there was an underground even then, and it’s gotten a lot bigger since. Birds are usually ‘laundered’ by bringing them in through Mexico, where it’s easier to get export documents.”

  “How about Brazil?”

  “Home of the Amazon rain forest? Let me put it this way—what cocaine is to Colombia, exotic species are to Brazil. The illegal wildlife trade there generates somewhere between six and twenty billion dollars a year, involving the theft and smuggling of up to thirty-eight million birds and animals. They’re trapped in the forest, then routed through big cities like Rio or Brasília.”

  “Or São Paulo?”

  “Sure. Then they’re smuggled out of the country to customers in Europe, the Far East, or here. In Asia, they seem to favor using animal parts for aphrodisiacs; in Italy, it’s all about gourmet cuisine. Spiedo uccelli is still considered a delicacy.”

  “Am I going to regret asking what that is?”

  “Depends on how you feel about robins, thrushes, and finches. It means ‘songbird on a spit.’”

  “If you can’t find the bluebird of happiness, settle for having barbecue?”

  Natalia laughed. “Something like that. Here in the States, we seem more interested in keeping them as pets—and apparently, we’re willing to pay for it. A bird like a Lear’s macaw—of which there are only about two hundred in existence—will go for upwards of sixty thousand dollars.”

  Calleigh whistled. “I hope it talks. For that much money, it should dance and sing, too.”

  “Actually, a captured bird like that will be lucky if it can still breathe. They use large nets to catch them in flight or coat branches in glue. Only one in four smuggled birds lives through the process— sometimes as little as one in ten. Often, they’re drugged and crammed into tiny spaces, or even taped to people’s bodies. And even if they don’t die from being crushed or dehydrated or just sheer stress, they often carry diseases that can kill them and infect other birds.”

  Calleigh looked thoughtful. “Which diseases?”

  “I’m not sure—parrot fever is the only one I can remember. According to my friend, it can be transmitted from bird to human, but it’s rarely fatal.”

  “Do you remember anything about the symptoms?”

  Natalia studied Calleigh for a second and frowned. “Why? You don’t think you’re—”

  “No, no. I’m just collecting data.”

  “Well, I’ve about exhausted what I know about the subject.”

  “That’s okay,” Calleigh said with a smile. “I think I know just the person to go to next.”

  Monica Steinwitz was obviously not happy to be sitting across an interview table from a CSI and a police detective. She’d pushed her chair back and sat with both her arms and legs crossed,
a scowl on her face. She had a long, angular face, made more so by her dark hair pulled back in a tight braid. She was dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that had a large cartoon pig wearing sunglasses on it. Wolfe didn’t think she’d chosen the shirt by accident.

  “You’re one of the organizers of Santacon,” Wolfe said for the third time. “We know it and we can prove it. So why don’t you just admit it?”

  “Am I being charged with something?” Steinwitz asked sharply. “Because I have a lawyer who will just love both of you.”

  “No, you’re not being charged,” Tripp said.

  “Not yet, anyway,” Wolfe said flatly.

  Tripp gave him a warning glance, then continued, “We’d just like to ask you a few more questions about your group.”

  “It’s not my group,” she snapped. “There is no formal organization. There are no leaders, no membership lists, no grand plan—just some people who exchange messages on the Internet. And none of what we discuss is illegal.”

  “Right,” Wolfe said. “So who planned your Santa route, elves?”

  Tripp sighed. “Look, you’ve got the wrong idea. We are not interested in prosecuting Santacon for illegal activities. But we have reason to believe that your group was used to help plan a crime, and the quicker we find the person responsible, the sooner we’ll leave you alone.”

  She didn’t seem convinced. “If a Santa committed a crime, they did it on their own. Anyone can join the group, anyone can put on a suit and rampage.”

  “But not everyone can tell the Santas where to go to eat,” Wolfe said. “You did that. Which means that right now, you’re our number one suspect.”

  She glared at him, but Wolfe met her eyes with a hard look of his own. After a few seconds she looked away. “It wasn’t my idea to use the deli. It was somebody calling themselves Amelia Claus. And no, I don’t know her real name; I never even met her in person. She told me she could get the deli to pony up ten percent of whatever Santa spent to go to charity, plus deli food is fast and we could get back on the street sooner.”