Parrots Prove Deadly (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

I took the letter with me. Albert, in all fairness, was loath to let it go. He’s enough of a coward to want to toe the line sometimes. But he can’t stand up to me, or any woman, really, and so I got it. What amazed me, as I drove off, was that he didn’t seem to notice how I reached for it—with my left hand—and how I kept my right hidden in my pocket until I was safely out the door.

Good thing Frank wasn’t there, I thought, as I pulled out of the lot. Once I was a few blocks away, out of range of Albert or any other prying eyes I stopped to look at the bite. Blood was still welling up; the raccoon’s teeth had gone deep. But I’d washed it, and I would keep it clean. I pressed the paper towel to the wound. I wasn’t going to kill that animal, or let Albert kill him. That decision had been made. If I was wrong, I was condemning that raccoon to a horrible end. I didn’t think I was, however. And he deserved a chance.

Still, on the slight possibility that I was wrong…In the back of my mind, I began doing the math: How long did I have?

It was all, I quickly realized, ridiculously complicated. I’d gotten the vaccine, years before, when I’d signed up for that practicum. The prophylactic treatment—a series of three shots—had become standard practice with the newer vaccine. It didn’t necessarily block the virus, but it did make treatment easier. The trouble was, once I’d dropped out of the program, I’d also stopped getting the booster shots every six months. I might still have antibodies, but I might not.

As I drove, I pressed my right hand against my leg and tried to remember anything else I could about the disease. I knew that time was important, that it could take anywhere from days to months for the virus to make its way to my brain. I seemed to recall something about infection site. It was my hand that had been bitten, not my neck or my body. Did that mean I had more time before the virus got to me? Less?

The disease itself wasn’t something I wanted to deal with. Yes, there was a case—we had studied it—of a girl who had been bitten by a bat somewhere in Wisconsin. They had put her in an artificial coma, and hoped for the best. She had survived. But she was the exception. What usually happened was simple, inexorable, and horrible: You came down with what seemed like the flu. That led to insomnia, confusion, and the classic hypersalivation that led to foaming at the mouth. By the time you were hallucinating, maybe it didn’t matter anymore. You were dead.

Rabies. A suspect bite. We had learned that treatment for a bite was considered medically urgent—not necessarily an emergency. I had a day or two. Maybe three, on the outside, if I wanted to be completely safe. It was pointless to speculate. I would start the shots as soon as I’d freed that raccoon.

First, I had to deal with Jerry Gaffney, and whoever had masterminded that letter. It felt good to think about something other than my hand, and this was a real puzzle. Jerry Gaffney hadn’t drafted that letter. Jerry Gaffney wasn’t the kind of guy who invoked legal counsel. If he knew the word “counsel” at all, it was from his own scrapes with the law. As our prior confrontation had shown, he had a much more direct take on animal control. No, there was someone else involved here, someone using the oafish property manager as the heavy.

Driving relaxed me, even as my hand started to throb, and as my car ate up the road, I realized that I was probably making the situation more complicated than it had to be. Why was I going to the Evergreen condos at all? What I should have done was simply taken the animal. Released him. Then I could have left Albert to deal with the consequences. Or, no, I had too much pity for dumb beasts—then I could have explained that we’d crossed wires. Between our full roster of responsibilities, Albert and I had simply mixed our messages. He’d gotten the letter and signed for it, sure. But by then, I’d already removed the animal somewhere far, far away.

Would there be legal ramifications? I didn’t want to reread the letter as I drove. Didn’t want to move my right hand, truth be told. But I didn’t see what they could do, really. It wasn’t like anyone else wanted Albert’s job. And mine, well, I was freelance anyway. Who else would be affected?

Doc Sharpe, that was who. If Jerry or his colleagues wanted to, they could make trouble not only for me, but for the old Yankee. And Doc Sharpe had been not only a good source of employment, but a friend as well. As different as we were, he had respected me. He’d also overlooked the lapses in my training and certification while referring me for jobs with his own credentials as backing. He had vouched for me, more than once. I didn’t want to bring more down on his head, not now.

I needed to confront whoever was behind this. Have it out, once and for all. With a renewed sense of purpose, I accelerated. Evergreen Hills—or, at least, Jerry Gaffney—was in my sites. It was getting dark, and the rain had turned patchy, but I’d be damned if I let that overgrown bully get away with causing trouble for anyone—two- or four-legged—I cared about.

Not that he was easy to find. The rain had let up again by the time I turned in at the gaudy sign, once again wondering how the color green could be made to look so unnatural. But the light was dimming, the autumn afternoon fading fast. This time, I parked right in front of the office. The door was locked, and nobody answered when I knocked, so I set off on foot, convinced that the slovenly manager had to be somewhere in the complex.

It was beautiful, even soggy. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, as I followed the slate path between two of the buildings, I had to admire the setting. True to its name, the development—four buildings, total—was surrounded by towering pines. Deep in their greenery, I heard a cardinal singing, the usual macho boasts, and I stopped to look around. In the dimming light, I couldn’t see any sign of his red plumage, but that’s what the song was about, after all. And as I kept walking, it occurred to me to wonder just how thick these woods had been—and how many similarly majestic trees had been cut down to make room for these upscale homes.

“Mine! Mine! Mine!
”
The cardinal kept singing, the last call of the day. Yes, I guess the desire for a home was universal. But it wasn’t like folks were clamoring for condos up here. In fact, I had yet to meet a resident, although I knew that the development had been open—and supposedly selling—for more than a year.

“
Mine!
”
Well, birds had their seasonal homes, too. Though I’d have thought the foliage would have drawn some of the owners. Maybe they were weekend nesters; maybe they’d be snowbirds, coming in a few months to ski.

Something bright caught my eye as I turned toward the last building. A pickup was parked by the farthest building, the one that the raccoon had invaded. Its side advertised the condo complex, with the logo in green and yellow highlighting. And its bumper, which I recognized from having cut me off, was that same acid yellow as the sign. Another color not found in nature. Well, that was interesting. I doubted Jerry Gaffney or any of his minions had intentionally tried to drive me off the road the other day. Our near accident had been too random, and, besides, whoever had been driving had sped off. However, it had been careless—if not worse. I made a mental note to check the vehicle out. Maybe there’d be something I could use for leverage. Maybe I—and the raccoon—would get lucky.

“Pru.” As if on cue, Jerry Gaffney appeared in a doorway. “What brings you back here?”

“Nice truck.” I walked up to the vehicle and made a show of examining it. I wiped some beaded raindrops off the painted side. “Yours?”

He puffed out his chest, as I knew he would. That cardinal had nothing on the human male for attitude. “It’s one of my rides.”

I checked the back. Sure enough, the rear gate had a ding in it where the yellow paint had been chipped away. “You should be more careful with your driving, you know.” I ran my hand along the ridge. It looked new, and there was no rust. “You could get hurt.”

“That?” He had come up next to me, and I pulled my hand back. The movement had irritated the bite mark, and I didn’t want to have to explain the blood on my palm. “That’s from one of the yuppies. They’re city drivers.”

He said that like it was a bad thing, but I just smiled. I didn’t want to threaten him, not yet. What I needed was information. “Some of the owners are here?” The birds had gotten quiet as we talked, or maybe I’d managed to tune them out. No other voices had replaced that cardinal.

“A few. Nobody full time. Not yet.”

I nodded as if this meant something to me and looked around. Granted, it was a dull, damp afternoon, but I hadn’t heard or seen a sign of any other person on either of my visits. “Someone must live here,” I said finally. “Someone complained about the raccoon.”

“I figured that was why you were here.” Jerry Gaffney had piggy little eyes, and they weren’t improved as he squinted at me. “Albert showed you the letter.”

“Yeah, I was surprised.” I squinted back. It helped. “You didn’t write that.”

“My name’s on it.” He leaned back on the truck as if to present his pelvis. What really extended was his belly. “I’m the one in charge here.”

“Uh huh.” I neither backed away nor crossed my arms. I needed him compliant. “But the idea of legal counsel, of demanding test results. That’s not your way.”

He shrugged, so I continued. “No, you were talking about having Joey set some traps. Taking a more direct approach.” I almost said “manly.” It wouldn’t have been too obvious, but he’d already taken the bait.

“City folk, like I said.” He looked around. “This place is big money, and that means they let the lawyers run it.”

“They?” I leaned in, trying not to hold my breath.

“The board.” He shrugged again. “But I don’t have to deal with them, mostly. They’ve got some guy in town, runs it all part-time like. He handles the paperwork.”

“Maybe I should speak to him then?” I reached for the letter in my pocket. My hand had pretty much stopped bleeding.

“I’m the guy you deal with,” said Jerry. “That’s why I signed the letter.”

I nodded. You hire someone like Jerry because you want a heavy. Or a fall guy. “Well, there may be some problems with this,” I said as casually as I could. “And we over at animal control wanted to discuss the options.”

“There are no options.” He jutted his chin out. He was beginning to look annoyed. The rain had started up again, which didn’t help. “You’ve got it all in the letter.”

“Look.” I leaned in. “Can’t we go somewhere? Talk about this?” I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t think Jerry Gaffney would be that hard to manipulate.

“You come in? Nope.” He shook his head. “I’ve locked up the office for the day, and I’m going home.”

“Can’t we just step in?” I gestured to the building, quiet and dark, before us. “Just to get out of the rain?”

“No, no way.” He started walking up to the cab of the truck. “These are the exclusive property of Evergreen Hills, and you’d be trespassing.” He climbed into the cab. “I’m sorry, really, but it’s not allowed. Just do what the letter says, Pru, and we’ll be fine.”

With that he got in his truck, leaving me to hike back along the wet stone path to my car. The cardinal had long since left, retreating to some warm, dry nest for the evening, and I was ready to do the same. I was soaked, and my hand hurt. What really bothered me though were the questions that Jerry had raised. I understood why he would want to claim to be the boss, but he’d just about admitted that he took orders from someone—the director of the development. And he’d held me off when I’d pressed for a name. I knew Jerry Gaffney from the old days. He didn’t respect authority, and the way he treated that truck showed that property, like money, was something you got and used. No, there was a different note in his voice when he talked about the director. A note that had given him some steel when he’d ordered me off, and then retreated. I thought, maybe, Jerry Gaffney was afraid.

Chapter Twenty-six

Attraction is a funny thing. You’d think that having studied animals, I’d have some insight. Truth is, I barely get it: I know what I want, but I don’t always know why. Jim Creighton, for example. Sure, he’s good looking, in that healthy boy-next-door way. And there’s something about that short, light brown hair that begs to be touched. But he is a cop, through to the bone. And while I’d dated cops before, I’d never really spent time with a clean one. Not voluntarily. Tom, my ex from the city, barely counted. He’d been on the job when we hooked up, but giving me my switchblade, which he’d taken from some young thug, had been the least of his transgressions. Last time I’d seen him, he’d gone into the private sector. He’d also gone to seed. I’d let him go, thinking I’d seen the last of him. When I thought of Tom, it was of somebody far out to sea. He was going to sink, and I couldn’t help him.

Creighton, though, he was different. And as I sat in my car by the side of the road, I found the good-looking detective preying on my mind. Part of that was because of the time. Going on eight, there was a good chance he’d be dropping by the house soon. He’d probably have another pizza, or maybe a six-pack. He didn’t need an offering, though. We’d gotten into a good routine.

He wouldn’t find me at home tonight, though, not any time soon. I was waiting by the side of the road for Jerry Gaffney to leave work, and wondering why he hadn’t. There was something going on with the Evergreen Hills condos, that much was clear, and while I seemed to have developed a taste for a law and order man, my own methods were more direct. Then again, maybe that was why I liked Creighton. Contemplating what I was about to do wasn’t that far from ruffling his neat, short hair.

The thought was tempting, almost enough to make me give up and drive back home. Besides, my hand needed a proper bandaging, and I needed some aspirin and bourbon. As I reached for the key, however, I finally saw the headlights. Jerry Gaffney in that fancy truck pulled onto the main road and drove back toward town. I was ready to go.

While I’d waited, the storm had passed, and a bit of faint moonlight lit my way back up the condo road. Driving slowly—my engine can be loud—I bypassed the main office building and pulled in by that last building, a little back from where Jerry had parked. If anyone looked, I hoped the dark and the trees would keep my car from being obvious. At least in this light, the baby blue paint job wouldn’t be particularly noticeable. Before I got out, I reached into the glove compartment for my flashlight, and I was set.

My time with Tom had taught me a few things. One was that burglars could be stupid. A set of break-in tools—jimmies, and the like—will secure a conviction as quickly as fingerprints. I traveled light. Sure, my switchblade was illegal, but even Creighton knew I carried it. Self-defense would be my claim, if I had to make one. That and the flashlight were all I needed. The blade was thin and strong, and I had the simple catch unlocked in under a minute. Maybe the developer told buyers crime wasn’t a problem out here, away from the city. Maybe they just didn’t care.

The flashlight was a big one, metal and heavy. It was as much a weapon as my blade, and I didn’t turn it on until I had stood inside the door for a full minute. If anyone approached me, I wanted to be able to back out unseen. The quiet, though, told me I was alone, and so keeping the beam aimed low, I turned it on and began to explore.

Evergreen Hills was nicely set up, I’d give it that, made up primarily of side-by-side townhouses, each slightly angled for the illusion of privacy. The door I’d unlatched had let me into some kind of a foyer, with what proved to be a coat closet right at hand. The floor seemed to be stone, practical and cool-looking. To the left was a great room, made larger by its emptiness. Keeping the light low, I could see the big bay window facing the back, and I could imagine the view. I wondered if anyone had seen it. Nobody lived here; it hadn’t even been staged to sell. Which meant that no resident could have complained about the raccoon rattling around upstairs.

The stairs were off the great room. Once I found them, I turned the flashlight off. No sense in risking a light when I could use the curved banister to find my way up. I stepped carefully, still, aware of every creak in the wood. Just because the downstairs was empty didn’t mean there wasn’t a surprise waiting for me on the top floor. Maybe Jerry was letting one of his relatives crash here. Maybe more than one. I stopped where the stairs did, and waited, listening. No sounds, animal or human, greeted me.

When the silence had lasted a good fifteen beats, I risked the light again. Nothing. Shiny hardwood floor and white-painted walls, broken only by more hardwood—what looked like closets or bedrooms. I stepped into one, large enough to be a master bedroom, and saw where the ceiling had already begun to leak. A gap not much larger than my fist separated the closet frame from the wall. That must have been the corner where the raccoon got in. For all these fancy finishes, the construction on the condo had been shoddy. At least, I saw with a sigh of relief, there were no traps set. Unless—I crossed the room—there was an attic space, where poison could have been set down.

I walked over to the corner with the gap and raised my flashlight to examine the space behind it. I couldn’t see much. Nothing to indicate a crawl space or storage area. Running my light around the rest of the ceiling, I saw a few more damp spots. One in particular caught my eye, over by the window, and I looked around for something to climb on—a box or a step ladder—when I saw it. A flash, coming from outside. A car was pulling up slowly, its engine nearly silent.

Cursing my foolishness, I dropped to the floor, switching off my own light as I did so. I smacked my hand on the way down, starting it throbbing again, and I bit my lip to avoid crying out. I was too tired for this. I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I was hurt.

I was also, it seemed, safe. No other lights came through the window above my head. No sounds of entry or footsteps from the floor below. After another minute, I dared to move. Cradling my injured hand against my body, I made my way slowly out of the bedroom and back down the stairs. Heart in my throat, I stood at the front door for several more minutes, before daring to open it. Nothing waited but the night, and if the usual animal sounds were quieter than usual—no murmurings of prey or predator—well, that could have been because of the rain, which had moved in again. Crouching low, I ran to my car and started her up. Nobody stopped me as I rolled back to the main road, my heart racing loud enough to give me away.