Death of a Songbird (19 page)

Pulling herself together, she scurried down the hall to Buzz’s room and repeated the procedure. She’d used up fifteen minutes at Katherine’s. At this rate, she wouldn’t finish in time.

Buzz’s room was immaculate, the exact opposite of Katherine’s. In fact, it looked so tidy, Lark wondered if it had even been used. She could have bounced a quarter on the bed, and there were no soiled towels or washcloths in the bathroom.

Well, someone had been in here the night her house had been trashed. She remembered seeing the curtain move.

A thorough search turned up nothing. The ledger wasn’t there.

Slipping out into an empty hallway, she tromped down one flight of stairs to the third floor. Carlene’s cart was pulled up outside Jan’s room, number 312, and the door to Jan’s room was open.

She’d just have to start with Norberto’s room. She rapped twice. No one answered.

Norberto’s room looked unlived in. Not the unused look of Buzz Aldefer’s room, but unused as if the occupant felt uncomfortable there. The bed appeared rumpled, indented by someone sleeping on top of the covers rather than under the sheets. A single wet towel hung neatly on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, but the bath mat was untouched and still in place on the edge of the tub. The coffeemaker and the minibar remained untouched.

Norberto’s clothes were neatly packed in a small suitcase sitting on top of the desk. Before searching there, Lark checked the dresser drawers, then moved to the bedside tables. One was empty, one contained a set of local White and Yellow Pages. She started to close the drawer, then stopped. Something was sandwiched between the two phone books. Lark grabbed a corner of the White Pages and pulled the book to one side. Underneath, she found what she’d been looking for. A plain, brown, leather-bound ledger.

Flipping open the book, she leafed through the pages. Esther’s chicken scrawl leaped off the page, reassuring her it was the real thing. There was page after page of notes, but, after talking with Paul, the numbers made sense. They were Esther’s accounting of times and dates and weights, annotated as shipments of coffee made to the United States by Jitters Coffee Company, acronymed JCC. And the numbers were high.

Higher than the 30 percent Jan had claimed Jitters purchased from Norberto. Lark added numbers, rounding up, rounding down. According to her addition, he’d actually sold Jitters over fifty-five thousand bags of coffee last year. Quite a feat, considering Mexico only produced sixty thousand bags of organic coffee. The question was, did Jan know, or was she merely the victim of Norberto’s get rich quick scheme?

Spelled out in black and white, the truth of the coffee industry was a tragedy any way you looked at it. Coffee production paid for the livelihood of approximately three million people in Mexico. Modern techniques improved productivity and increased the crop yield but damaged or destroyed the environment. Unfortunately, those who cared the most about the people were the same ones who cared most about what happened to the land, to the bird habitat, to the environment.

Lark’s gaze shifted to Norberto’s suitcase. She’d started with the bedside drawers and found what she was looking for. But there were still missing pieces to consider.

Crossing to the bag, she carefully lifted the folded clothes out of the bag and set them on the dresser. A clean pair of black jeans, two clean black T-shirts. His underwear was white, plain briefs, Fruit of the Loom.

Nothing
.

She repacked the case, taking care to put everything back where she’d found it. Checking one side zipper compartment, she found a toothbrush and toothpaste and miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The other side pocket coughed up the goods. A photograph of Teresa standing in front of a shabby farmhouse wearing a native outfit—and a black mask embroidered with EZLN.

A sudden spurt of harsh laughter erupted from the hallway and jarred her to life. Jan was back. A hand jiggled the door handle.

Shit
.

Lark jammed the mask back into the bag and glanced around. There was nowhere to hide. The box the bed rested on was framed in. The windows only opened an inch. There was the shower, but it had a see-through glass door.

“The maid’s still in my room. Do you want to go back downstairs with me for a minute?”

Yes
.

“No, but you can wait in here.”

No
.

The drawer where she’d found the ledger stood open. Quickly, she slipped the book back into its hiding place. She had to tell Bernie what she’d found and let him collect the evidence in the proper fashion. Besides, if she got caught inside, she didn’t want Norberto to know she’d found everything.

It occurred to her to try standing behind the door when it opened. She’d seen it done in the movies. The door opens, the bad guys enter, the hero slips out. Clichéd, but a plan.

Moving in that direction, she noticed that the adjoining door between Norberto’s room and Jan’s stood half open. Jan’s side was closed tight. A knock might get Carlene’s attention.

By the sounds of it, the maid was still vacuuming the room. Lark scurried over and tapped on the door. The vacuum shut off. Lark tapped again.

“Did you hear that?” Jan asked.

Lark tapped again, more urgently this time.

“It sounds like it’s coming from inside your room.”

The deadbolt on the adjoining door clicked at the same time Norberto inserted his key in the lock. Lark shoved past Carlene, closing the door behind her and flipping the lock.

“Ms. Drummond, what—”

Lark cupped a hand over Carlene’s mouth, and alternated between pointing frantically at the door and pressing her finger to her lips. Carlene, wide-eyed and frightened, jiggled her head up and down.

“How strange, Norberto.” Jan’s voice sounded muffled. Someone tried pushing against the door. “Maybe I should go check out my room?”

Double doo-doo
.

Lark scooted around the bed and flattened herself against the wall. Carlene stared wide-eyed at her. Shaking her head, Lark pointed at her eyes, then toward the door.

“Oh. You’re still in here.”

Carlene faced forward. “Yes.”

“Did you hear anything strange coming from my friend’s room?”

“No.” Carlene glanced at Lark out of the corner of her eye, and Lark prayed Jan wouldn’t pick up on the gesture.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” Carlene stayed rooted in place, smiling and nodding like a jack-in-the-box doll.

“How long before you’re finished in here?”

“Soon.”

“Well, do you mind hurrying up?”

Lark heard movement, a door shut, then Carlene jerked her head sideways and mouthed the word
Go
.

Quietly, Lark slipped from the room and scooted past Norberto’s open door. Bolting down the hall, she yanked open the exit door and bounded down the stairs two at a time. If there was a heaven, this was the time for prayer.

At the second-floor landing, she heard a door open above her and slowed her pace, hugging the wall. As long as she stayed away from the stairwell opening, no one could see her. Besides, the idea that Norberto or Jan had followed her was ridiculous. The door closed again, and no footsteps followed. She breathed a sigh of relief and went on.

Exiting on the first floor, Lark heard the elevator bell ring. The doors opened. Jan stepped off, smiled stiffly, and walked away.

“Let me get this
straight,” Crandall said, staring at her from behind his desk. “You broke into Norberto Rincon’s room and searched through his belongings.”

“For the last time, Bernie,
yes
. I thought you’d be happy I found something.”

“Oh, I’m happy.” He stroked his hands through his hair, tipped his head way back, and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m happy to know that Teresa’s, okay, and a felon is taking full responsibility for her whereabouts. I was happy to haul Peter Jacobs’ butt down here and arrest him for assault. I was happy to hear what your father had to say, and for the update on the coffee wars. But…” He leaned forward again. “I am not at all happy with the stunt
you
just pulled.”

“Why?” She couldn’t believe he was angry. “You know you could never have gotten a search warrant. If I hadn’t gone in there, you wouldn’t have anything.”

“I’ve got zilch now. Nothing I can use, and nothing that ties any of this directly to Esther’s or Paul’s murders.”

Confused, Lark sat back in her chair. “What about the mask?”

“Okay, the mask ties directly to the killing. But we only know it’s there because you illegally searched Rincon’s room.”

“It wasn’t a big deal. I was spot-checking housekeeping. I became suspicious and looked around. You now have just cause to go in and collect the evidence.”

He snorted like a frustrated bull. “You don’t get it, do you? How did you get out of his room?”

“Through the adjoining door into Jan’s room.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Carlene, the third-floor maid. What’s your point?”

“The maid now becomes a potential witness for the defense. She can testify that you were in Norberto’s room under suspicious circumstances, based on the fact you snuck out. Even if I recover the evidence, given the right defense attorney, any judge worth his salt would toss any evidence right out of court on the grounds you might have planted it there.”

The silence between them stretched. Truth was a hard thing to argue against. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“
We?
No! Outside of
my
finding some hard evidence to prove Rincon or one of the others had a good reason to kill Esther, there’s not a damn thing
we
can do.”

“I guess I screwed up.”

The regret in her voice must have played through, because Crandall’s growl softened. “Look, I’ll try bringing him in for questioning. If I say I have reason to believe he’s in possession of some items the police are looking for, he may panic and try dumping the stuff. If we can catch him in the act…” He huffed out a breath. “It’s a long shot.”

“I’m sorry, Bernie.” She meant it in more ways than one. The clock was ticking. On Thursday, after her closing speech, the Migration Alliance ended. On Friday, with nothing more than Crandall had to go on, the Alliance members would scatter to the winds, leaving behind only their contact information in the event Crandall wanted to question them.

“Just go home,” he said, ignoring her apology. “And stay there.
Please.”

She’d done as he’d asked. After checking on Teresa, who was eating breakfast, she wandered over to the Drummond Convention Center to sit in on the white paper sessions. Designed as one-hour overviews, the talks covered a variety of bird-related topics and were designed to stimulate, or put you to sleep, depending upon the lecturer and his knowledge or passion for the subject at hand. Lark chose carefully.

The first session covered the aspects of wind and weather. The lecturer, a meteorologist from Cambridge, dutifully explained how high-pressure and low-pressure systems combined to create horrific situations for migrating birds. He told stories of tropical birds, disoriented and lost, arriving in Newfoundland in time for the first winter storm; of birds so tired from being swept up in a hurricane that they died of exhaustion by the thousands on the beaches. Natural weather disasters, while good for the birders, are so bad for the bird populations.

The second session was presented by Katherine Saunders. She looked thinner and older, and her black bob drooped. She wore a pants suit and flats, and for the first time Lark realized how short she was.

“I want to talk to you today about the coffee industry. About its effects on the migratory songbirds of America. For those of you who are unaware, the decline of the Eastern songbirds is significant…”

Lark allowed Katherine’s lilting voice to wash over her. She droned on about the farms, the technification of the coffee plantations, the processing plants that polluted the waters - the packaging and sales.

“To stop this decimation, we must become responsible consumers. We must fight to educate the people of our nation. We must sponsor legislation that requires all coffee imports to pass the Food and Commodities agricultural testing limits required for organically grown crops. My friends, this is truly the only way we can hope to insure that the coffee we import is produced in shade and bird-supportive habitat. It is our duty to be responsible consumers.”

Testing
. The word resonated in Lark’s brain, drilled in by the applause of the audience. The speech flowed like political rhetoric—some truth, some skewed perception—lulling the listeners into a point of view. But the words
testing
triggered an idea.

One hundred bags of coffee sat in the warehouse in Lyons, scheduled for delivery in the morning. Bags of organic coffee from the Cruz farms in Chiapas, Mexico. The same coffee Norberto Rincon sold to Jitters.

Esther must have stopped the coffee deliveries because she realized the coffee Cruz sold her was contaminated with pesticide residue. According to Paul, she claimed to have proof that would blow the lid off the Jitters Coffee operations. The kilo bags, depending on how they were tagged, might or might not provide the link Crandall was looking for. Either way, it was worth a shot.

The police chief was out of the office when Lark called him from home to tell him what she intended to do. She left a message with the desk sergeant to let him know she was headed to the warehouse, and that he should meet her there if he was interested.

“You’re going out?” Teresa stood in the doorway in jeans and a peasant blouse. Dark curls cascaded around her shoulders and down her back. Dark eyes appeared vulnerable in the fading light.

“Just for a little while.”

“I’m going with you.”

A footstep on the front porch caused Lark to whirl around.
Jumpy.
“It’s probably Velof.” He’d left her pretty much to her own devices most of the day. She walked toward the door, and heard a clattering of feet. Yanking open the screen, she found no one. A dusty set of prints indicated whoever stood there had beat a hasty retreat.

The sun was dropping behind Longs Peak, throwing long shadows across the ground. The parking lot, jammed with cars, separated them from the Drummond. She could hear people laughing in the distance. She sensed someone watching her and glanced up at the fourth-floor windows. A curtain swayed.

Teresa snatched up her sweater. “You can’t carry the coffee alone.”

Lark’s heart crow-hopped. If she had heard the message Lark left Crandall, then the person skulking by the front door might have, also.
Damn!

She left another message for Crandall, this one more urgent, then grabbed her keys off the kitchen counter. Like sand through the hourglass, time was running out.

The Commercial Storage warehouses were located in Lyons near the junction of Highway 7 and U.S. 36. The small town, population 1,200, sat at the confluence of the North and South Saint Vrain Canyons, twenty-one miles east of Rocky Mountain National Park at the base of the foothills. What started as a ranching community was now most famous for its annual Canine Festival. Once a crossroads, Lyons was now a budding metropolis, consisting of a main street and several cross streets. Restaurants, bike shops, music shops, art galleries, and antique stores congested the roadways.

It was nearly six when they’d reached the warehouse lot. The sun had dropped behind the mountains and dusk blanketed the valley. Fluorescent lights winked on above the storage areas. Lark glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t being followed, then pulled up to the front gate. Black iron fencing encircled the lot. A coded lock box guarded the entrance.

Rolling down the truck window, Lark punched in the number from the file: 12354. Creative security. Keep it simple. That way, the customers will never forget the number and wake up management in the dead of the night, and the criminals will never guess the code is so easy to crack.

Chipe Coffee Company’s unit was located around the back side of the buildings, and it was about the size of a two-car garage. Teresa shivered as they rounded the corner and the street disappeared from view.

“It’s okay,” reassured Lark. “We’re alone here.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Parking the truck, Lark dug in her pocket for the set of keys to the Warbler. There had been two keys that didn’t fit any locks at the café or at Esther’s house. One or both of them had to fit the padlock on the warehouse door.

The first odd-shaped key didn’t work. It didn’t even fit in the lock. The second key scraped in halfway and jammed.

“Move it around,” Teresa said.

Lark jiggled the key. Slowly, in small increments, it settled into the lock. When it reached its hilt, she turned the key. The padlock popped open. Teresa jumped. Unhooking the lock, she slid back the deadbolt.

The door, made of corrugated metal, rolled up like a garage door. Lark shoved it up out of the way, hooked the lock on the opened door so she wouldn’t lose it, and groped for a light switch. A single, long fluorescent tube blinked on.

The building, constructed of a steel frame and wood exterior, contained two small windows blackened with paint at ceiling-level. Several two-by-fours were nailed haphazardly across a hole in one wall, and the concrete floor crumbled in places where water had seeped in and froze.

Piled in the middle of the room were two mounds of bagged coffee. In one stack, white nylon sacks measuring as long as Teresa and twice as wide held sixty kilos of coffee beans. In the other were smaller bags emblazoned with the Chipe Coffee Company logo.

Coffee was imported raw. In most instances, beans were roasted before they were distributed, but in Chipe’s case, some of the smaller specialty stores roasted their own. Talley had indicated there was a shipment ready to go. This had to be it.

She checked the bags. Each one was marked with the type of bean—roasted or raw—the type of coffee, the grade, and the name of the intended recipient. Client names jumped out at her—large chain supermarkets, small cafés, large restaurants—all clamoring for Chipe Coffee.

It was the original mound of coffee that interested Lark the most. The bags shimmered with an iridescent quality some fashion designer would charge millions for. The contents malleable, the bags had shifted until they resembled a pile of pasty bodies stacked four and five deep in places. The necks were clamped shut with huge metal staples and encircled with wire-bearing, stout tags.

The top few tags all read the same: “Cruz Farms. Sold to Chipe Coffee Company.” Dated December, they were stamped with the appropriate agricultural mark for organic foods and initialed as received by Esther. Tests run on the coffee would determine whether or not Cruz sold pesticide-laden coffee as organic, but it didn’t provide the link to Jitters.

“Teresa?”

At the sound of the male voice, Lark shoved the girl behind her. “What are you doing here? How did you get through the gate?”

“We followed you. The gate was open.”

We?

“Jesus?” Teresa cried, clawing Lark’s arm to get around her.

Norberto Rincon stepped into the light.

“Jesus!” Teresa launched herself into the man’s arms.

“Teresa.” Rincon spun her in circles, then bent to kiss her. He stopped midway and held her under the light. Pointing to the bruise, he muttered something in Spanish.

“It’s nothing.” Teresa turned toward Lark suddenly, as though forgetting her manners. “Lark, this is Jesus. Jesus, Lark.”

“We’ve already met.” Lark’s gaze darted around the warehouse. The two lovers stood between her and the door.

Teresa looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“He may be Jesus to you, but he was introduced to me as Norberto Rincon.”

“What?” Teresa blanched, her coppery skin turning a sickly yellow in the artificial light. She gripped Rincon’s arm. “Tell her who you are, Jesus.”

“Let me explain it to her,” Buzz said Aldefer, stepping around the corner. “I’m with him.”

“This is turning into a regular nonbirders birding convention,” Lark said, trying to act nonchalant. She grew more uneasy by the minute and prayed the sergeant had given Crandall her message.

“He is not Norberto Rincon,” Buzz told Lark.

“I got that picture.” She paused, then decided she had nothing to lose by spilling what she knew. “I also know you aren’t a birdwatcher,” she told Buzz. “You are a spy. You gather intelligence on the Mexican civil war for a man named Dean Munger at the CIA.”

“Did your daddy give you that information?”

He’d done his homework on her, just like she’d done her homework on Jan. “Yeah.”

“Well, he’s got it right, which probably means the gig is up.” Buzz’s face took on a sad expression, then he shook it off. “Several years back, I met Norberto, the real Norberto, in a bar in San Cristóbal de las Casas. I had information that he was a known PRI supporter, so I struck up a conversation, just to see what kind of information I could get. Turns out he was soused and in need of a friend. He and a partner had come up with this idea to pass off inorganic coffee as organic coffee and pocket the difference. Damned if it didn’t work. He used his PRI influence to persuade farmers to go along with him, and sold over four million dollars’ worth of bad coffee to Jitters last year. The man’s a frigging millionaire.”

Lark’s anger bubbled up along with her fear. “And you did nothing to stop him.”

“Little lady,” Buzz said, straightening his bolo tie. “It wasn’t my job. My job was to observe and gather intel, and I did my duty.”