Bird Brained (6 page)

With my transfer to Miami came the task of finding a place to live. I had given a moment’s fleeting thought to renting in a quiet, safe suburb, but knew I would lose my mind there. Instead, I headed due south for the tip of Miami Beach, chasing memories of a vacation I’d spent playing tag with the waves as a child.

I remembered glitzy hotels, like the Fontainebleau and the Eden Roc, where glamo-kitsch was defined by women sporting lavender hair while decked out in mink coats and gold mules. The bubbas and grandpas hibernated at the row upon row of dowdier hotels. Their main activity was lying in beach chairs, soaking up every last ray of sun before hitting the early bird special. I used to think of them as birds heading south for winter, except for the senior citizens, moving to Miami was shorthand for checking into God’s waiting room.

Now, I swung onto the MacArthur Causeway and joined the caravan of cars headed for the mecca of South Beach. Something happens as soon as I leave the mainland and am suspended on the bridge high above Biscayne Bay. The smell of the ocean gathers strength with each revolution of my tires. The port comes to life, with its cruise ships bobbing like mutated marshmallows ready to head out to sea. But that’s just an intro for the carnival that waits up ahead. Gone are the days of Jackie Gleason, the June Taylor dancers, and my grandparents’ Miami.

These days, Miami Beach can be summed up as buffed, blonde, and burnished. Especially South Beach, the southernmost tip of the island, where looking good is the primary activity, rollerblading the national pastime, a cell phone is a must, and
Baywatch
babes are a dime a dozen. Even guys in thong bikinis put my butt to shame. It wasn’t the best ego boost for a perpetually sunburned redhead who daily faces the battle of trying to fit into last year’s jeans. Naturally, this was where I chose to call home.

I turned off the air conditioner, rolled down my window, and was smacked in the face by the sultry night air as my tires touched earth to be swept up in the frenzy of South Beach. A red signal brought me to a stop next to a Chevy Impala whose chassis had been raised high off the ground. The driver glanced at me over his shades and cranked the radio up a decibel above earshattering. Then the Impala gunned its motor and took off, the neon running lights on its undercarriage reflecting against the pavement like psychedelic snakes on speed.

My budget didn’t permit me to live in the oh-so-cool heart of the action on Ocean Drive. Instead, my neighborhood was enough off the beaten path to have a slightly run-down, seedy feel, complete with bodegas, bottles of Gallo wine at four bucks a pop, and the occasional abandoned building waiting to be discovered as Art Deco. A light layer of grime seemed to coat the entire neighborhood, seeping into its very bones.

The place where I lived was the exception, standing apart like a gaudy costume jewel. Hidden behind a dense wall of foliage, my house stood in a postage-stamp tropical jungle. Passion vines intertwined with sweet-smelling night-blooming jasmine, and garlic vines climbed up the thick stucco walls in a jumble. A wild profusion of hibiscus and bougainvillea jockeyed for space in a sensuous floral tango, clotting the air with their heady perfume. Elegant palms provided a discreet canopy for the orgiastic frenzy below.

My cottage looked like something that had been chewed up and spat out by a Caribbean disco club, with its hot canary-yellow exterior and iridescent tangerine door. While it might have been short on charm, it attracted every lizard and chameleon for miles around.

This was fronted by a concrete wall the color of pink cotton candy, inset with a row of sea horses determinedly standing guard. Access into wonderland was gained by passing through a turquoise gate topped off by a bright red arch laden with sea shells and pieces of colored glass. But this just set the stage for the real showstopper: the main house in which my two landladies resided. There was no other way to describe it than as a work of modern art gone awry. The dwelling was painted an intense periwinkle blue, adorned with salmon-and-green shutters. But that tended to change from week to week, according to my landladies’ whim.

I snuggled through the gate, the perch in one hand and the kennel in the other. Lulu, the resident cat, lay asleep outside my house atop an ancient air conditioner that wheezed a decrepit tune. The feline’s eyes magically sprang open the instant I walked by, locking onto the ball of feathers.

“Forget about it,” I warned the cat.

I set the perch up in a corner of my bedroom and then released the bird, giving him a view of his new abode.

“What a dump!” screeched my new roommate.

I turned and stared at the cockatoo, its crest raised as if to warn me that that was its final word. Just what I needed—a critic. The bird’s head bounced up and down with silent laughter, taking delight in its keen appraisal.

“Hey, this is as good as it gets, buster—unless you have some house-cleaning skills I don’t know about yet,” I said, laying down the law from the start.

I left the cockatoo to cool his feathers. Pouring myself a glass of wine, I headed into the bathroom, where I stripped off the grunge of the day. Off came the shirt, with its layers of dirt and sweat. My jeans, doused in the aroma of Miami International’s bathroom floor, were rolled up and thrown in the hamper. I stepped into the bath and took a sip of wine, luxuriating in the warmth of the cabernet until I tingled right down to my toes. I had opened a good bottle, figuring I deserved it after the night I’d been through.

Closing my eyes, I rested my head back against the porcelain rim, only to discover that Alberto had followed me home. His eyes bore into me with an unspoken demand. I shivered, the bath water suddenly feeling cold. Leaning forward, I twisted the knob and a gush of hot water surged out, streaming down over my hands and fingers until my skin glowed pink. Oddly, it made little difference. My body continued to quiver.

I took a larger sip of wine, determined to rid myself of any lingering bugaboos. But there was no stopping the replay in my mind. I fast-forwarded to where the sack lay on Alberto’s living room floor, heard the rustle of the fabric with its mocking whisper, the feel of rough cotton pulling against my skin, as my fingers hurried to uncover its contents. Next came the flash of sleeping parrots with their vibrant whirl of deep blue feathers bedded down next to a shimmering green.

I turned the hot water back on, the warmth curling up past my stomach, to circle my chest and comfortably encompass my chin. But I couldn’t drown out memories of the heavy arm that had clamped around my neck, pressing harder and harder until I could no longer breathe. And there was no escaping Alberto’s eyes, which refused to stop haunting me.

Water dripped off my body as I stepped out and grabbed a towel. I had just begun to dry off when, in a horrifying replay, a pair of strong arms flew around me from behind, locking my body in place. My adrenaline soared, fueling my strength as I broke free and whirled around to confront my attacker, only to have the towel torn from my grip, its cover ripped off my body.

Then, before I could scream in rage, Jake Santou’s mouth firmly silenced my own. The world blurred and my blood pounded with the urge to fight, still furious at being caught off guard. But Santou’s fingers determinedly explored my body, transforming my fury into desire. I wrapped my legs around him and drew him down against me, where he paid for his transgression by ever so slowly putting out the fire.

I nestled against Santou’s shoulder, satiated and content. Heavy relaxation seeped through my limbs until a shriek sent both of us flying out of bed.

“I’m a horny boy!” screeched my neglected roommate.

“What the hell is that?” Santou demanded, pouncing for his gun.

I turned on the light and walked over to the perch. “Meet my newest acquisition,” I said, giving the bird a sour look. “Actually, I’m housing him as evidence.”

“To hell with the commander!” the cockatoo squawked.

“You want to tell me about it, Porter?” Santou asked, nodding in the bird’s direction. “On second thought, I’ll grab the wine and you can fill me in outside.”

I threw on a shirt and headed out to join him. Santou was settled on a makeshift bench, which in a former life had been the front seat of a ’68 Catalina. He held a glass of wine in each hand. I relieved him of one and sat down beside him, our legs comfortably entwined.

My transfer to Miami had turned into a compromise of sorts for us. A Louisiana Cajun, born and bred, Jake was a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. I’d already put in my time with Fish and Wildlife there, and wasn’t anxious to head back yet. The fact that Jake liked Miami meant that we could now spend weekends together without my having to fly out of state. Santou considered the arrangement a warm-up for the main event. To me, commitment was the fact that I’d given him a key. The thought of anything further threw me into a cold sweat.

I’d nearly lost Jake due to a breakup while I was stationed in Las Vegas. Now I couldn’t imagine my life without him, even if it was one weekend at a time. A few more silver strands were threaded in among his tousled black curls, and the creases lining his face had grown a bit deeper. But Santou could still make my pulse race more than any man I’d ever known.

“I found an informer of mine murdered this evening,” I told Jake. “All his birds had been taken except for the one in there.”

“The perp probably knew what he was doing when he passed that bird by,” Jake wryly noted as a series of squawks, screeches, and shrieks issued from inside the bedroom.

“Actually, the bird was smart enough to hide. He’d scooted under the bedsheets,” I revealed. “That’s where I found him.”

“Lucky you.” Santou flashed a lopsided grin that warmed my skin nearly as much as the wine. “Any idea who murdered your informant?”

“Metro Dade has narrowed down the possibility to either a Cuban bird theft ring, the Skunk Ape, or followers of Santeria,” I said scornfully.

“Santeria?” His hooded eyes penetrated straight through me, even in the dark of night. “Why Santeria?”

I began to squirm and instinctively resented the intrusion. “Birds are sometimes sacrificed in Santeria rituals,” I replied calmly.

But Santou’s eyes continued to burn, demanding more of an answer.

“Jagged cuts were found on the body that might have been made with a serrated blade. Evidently that type of knife is used in certain Santeria ceremonies.” I kept my tone nonchalant.

Nonchalant wasn’t an adjective to be found in Santou’s vocabulary; his moods swung between intense lite and intense dark. His moodometer now veered toward the dark mode. “I hope you don’t plan on getting involved any further in this,
ch
è
re
.”

I didn’t answer but kept my eyes on my wine glass, studying the curve of the rim. The abundant foliage in the garden cast shadows that ranged from ebony black to ashen gray, as a breeze rustled the fronds of a coconut palm, setting off a flurry of whispers.

“What are you, crazy, Porter?” he asked, his tone tinged with disbelief. “Do you have any idea what it is that you’re possibly getting involved in?”

“A three-hundred-year-old Afro-Cuban religion which is big on animal sacrifice for marking the passage of such events as births, deaths, and initiations into the faith.” I hoped my meager knowledge on the subject was scoring some points. “There are close to seventy-thousand followers here in south Florida.”

I’d already seen the aftermath of Santeria ceremonies left lying beside the Miami River. The most memorable had been a goat’s head I’d stumbled upon, its white muzzle stained where it lay in a pool of brown blood. Next to it, a Santeria vessel had been overturned. But I was damned if I was going to cave in to yet another boogeyman in the dark.

“What their gods are big on is blood—and not just from animals, either.” Santou’s voice seared through me. “A hell of a lot of their ceremonies go way beyond a blessing or two at marriages and births. I’m talking black magic, and playing with people’s minds. This stuff is as powerful as voodoo—maybe even more so. And they don’t take kindly to strangers butting in.”

“I never realized that Cajun superstition of yours ran so deep, Jake. Besides, mind games don’t work unless someone is a true believer. You’re overreacting. I’ll be fine,” I remarked impatiently.

Santou stood up and went inside without a word, returning a few moments later. “I want you to carry this with you at all times,” he said, thrusting a small spray can into my hand.

I didn’t need a ray of moonlight to read the label. I already knew what it was, and I hated pepper spray. It had been used as part of my education at Glynco, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife training center, where an instructor had taken great pleasure in making sure that each and every one of us got hit with a dose in the face. It didn’t matter that coolers of ice water had been placed directly at our feet; I still couldn’t get the fire out of my eyes and lungs fast enough. The only consolation had been that even the most macho guys were brought to their knees for a good twenty minutes.

“No way, Santou. This stuff is death in a can.” I set it on the bench between us.

“For Christ’s sake, look at where you live,
ch
è
re
. There’s enough crime on this street alone to make New Orleans look safe. Now you’re telling me that you might be running around getting involved with practitioners of black arts?”

“Why is it that I never give you the fifth degree about cases you’re working on?” I shot back. “Yet you constantly feel it necessary to question and prod everything I do and say?”

“Because you work alone, Rachel; I always have backup. I see you walking by yourself into situations and taking stupid chances. You never bother to consider the consequences.”

I shot him a warning glance but Santou ignored it, determined to drive his point home.

“Since the day we met, I’ve spent way too much time worrying about you and the foolhardy choices you make,” he said, a harsh edge to his voice. His finger traced the faded red scar on my neck that had been made by the kiss of a razor. “That’s a permanent reminder of one of your run-ins. And let’s not forget the housewarming bomb you received in Vegas.” Santou played with the Saint Christopher medal that dangled from a chain around my neck. A gift from its previous owner, it had been meant as a memento to keep me safe. So far it had.