Bird Brained Page 5

  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, chère.”

  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, chère. 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.

  “This won’t be enough to protect you next time. I love you, Rachel. Don’t make me regret that.” Jake picked up the pepper spray and dropped the can inside my shirt pocket.

  “Danger comes in all different forms,” I sharply reminded him. “Sometimes it’s a razor. Sometimes it’s white powder that people snort up their nose.” I instantly regretted the remark, as Jake nailed me with a look that chilled me to the bone.

  “That was my past, Rachel. What we’re talking about is your present and our future.” Santou picked up the wine bottle and refilled both our glasses. “This is something we’ve been needing to discuss for a while anyway. It might as well be now.”

  My stomach twisted into a tight knot, already aware of where the conversation was leading. “Backup or not, your job is just as dangerous as mine,” I pounced, taking the offensive. “The only difference is that I manage to live with what you do. Why can’t you accept me for who I am, and realize that my work is as important to me as yours is to you?”

  Santou sighed deeply. “Because I have enough stress just dealing with my own career. And I don’t think I can stomach downing any more Mylanta.”

  “Whoever asked you to deal with mine?” I quickly retorted.

  Jake stared at me for a long moment, as if weighing what he was about to say. “There’s no way I can help it, chère.” Then, taking hold of my finger, he dipped it into his wine glass and slipped the tip into his mouth, gently sucking on it until my soul clung to the edge of my skin. “Remember, I said there’d be no games between us?” His voice was as deep as a tom-tom beating a warning.

  Those were the words Santou had used back in Las Vegas, when he’d first asked me to marry him. My finger fell from between his lips, and I suddenly felt cold.

  “We can’t put this off any longer, Rachel. It’s way too important, and you’ve been dodging the issue for months. I’m ready to settle down. I want a real home, with a wife and children. I’m not talking about some time in the foreseeable future. I mean here and now.”

  “Don’t tell me: You’ve got a justice of the peace hidden around the corner, just waiting for you to give him a sign,” I teased, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.

  “Say the word, and I’ll have one over here faster than you can whip up a wedding garter,” Santou challenged.

  “I don’t even know if I can get a transfer back to New Orleans,” I replied, playing for time. “Unless you’re thinking of applying for a job with Metro Dade. In which case, I’ll have to check and see if Fish and Wildlife would be willing to let me stay on in Miami indefinitely.”

  Santou’s expression put a stop to my rambling. “That’s what we need to talk about, Rachel.” He hesitated and my heart teetered on the edge of a bottomless precipice. “The more I think about it, the more I realize I can’t deal with a part-time wife and mother who fits me and our kids in between working on cases and shrugging off death threats.”

  I began to laugh, only to realize that Jake was serious. “You’re joking. You expect me to give up my job?” I asked incredulously. “All for kids that we don’t even have yet?” Santou veered away from my gaze, but only for a moment. Then his eyes met mine, their intensity settled into stubborn resolve. “That’s part of it. I also need someone who’s there for me, 100 percent of the time.”

  “Don’t you think I am?” I asked, the words dry as sawdust in my throat.

  “Only when it fits into your schedule,” he replied. “From what I can tell, you’re interested in a relationship that takes place in installments, depending on where you’re transferred next. That’s not something that I can live with.”

  I couldn’t be certain which was pounding harder—the beat of my heart, or the throb of my growing anger. “You’ve known from the start that I’m not the domestic type. Since when did you become such an old-fashioned guy?”

  Santou’s jaw visibly tightened. “Call it what you want, Rachel. But I need to be number one in your life, and our children number two. You can’t deny the fact that your job takes precedence over everything else, at the moment.”

  “I didn’t realize my work posed such a threat,” I responded with forced coolness. “But if those are your demands, then maybe I’m not the right woman for you.” I held my breath, waiting for him to vow that there was no other woman in the world for him.

  A nerve twitched beneath Jake’s right eye, as if in reaction to an invisible slap. “Should I take that as your final word on the subject?” he quietly asked.

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “Then maybe you’re right, Rachel. Maybe you’re not the woman for me, after all,” he replied, equally cool. And then he stood up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked numbly, too stunned by the speed of events to believe what was happening.

  Jake leveled me with a look. “I’m going back to New Orleans,” he said, his voice betraying the slightest tremble. “We’re headed in two separate directions, Rachel. It’s best we realize th
at now, before it’s too late.”

  How could he give up so easily?

  In a fit of white-hot rage, I snapped, “You’re absolutely right. Any man who truly loved me would never feel threatened by what I do. And he certainly wouldn’t demand I give up something that’s so important to me. I’m glad I found out how you feel before I made a terrible mistake.”

  Santou didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing as he headed down the path, through the arch, and out to his car. Then I began to cry too hard to hear anything more.

  When I woke up, my bed felt empty. I caught a whiff of Jake’s scent on his pillow and put my head against it, fighting back tears. I thought of the promises Santou had made in the past. At one time, he vowed I would learn to trust him. He’d been right about that. I had allowed myself to believe that true love was real and we were meant for each other. One more fairy tale shot to high hell. Damn the man anyway!

  I showered and dressed, moving on automatic pilot to a cockatoo serenade. Then I headed into the kitchen, determined not to let thoughts of Santou rule my day. I found my landlady, Sophie Gertz, waiting with two steaming cups of café con leche, an unlit cigar stuck in her mouth. Sidestepping into her midsixties, Sophie could have been your typical Jewish grandmother—but with a definite twist.

  Sophie had unceremoniously dumped her husband of twenty-two years and moved from New York to Miami a decade ago. That’s when she’d come roaring out of the closet. She claimed to have spent the majority of her life toiling as a designer in the garment district, though to look at her, I had my doubts. Along with a weakness for turbans, Sophie dressed as if she’d been peeled off a pop art canvas. In addition, her taste in sunglasses was as varied and changeable as the colors she painted the house.

  This morning she was decked out in a nod to the fifties, wearing a hot fuchsia top and white capri pants that had pink poodles running up and down both legs. A kelly green turban sat like a beehive on top of her head. The only modern item was her deck shoes. I walked in with Baretta Jr. perched on my shoulder, but I had the feeling Sophie already knew what to expect. She’d have to have been stone deaf not to have heard last night’s antics.