Endangered: A Zoo Mystery Part 2

I so did not want to come back here.

When the tortoises were all loaded, I took a peek at the parrots in the marijuana barn. They had eaten most of the food. I topped up the bowl again. "Listen, you guys," I told them, "One more day in here and we're all out of this place forever."

Chapter Three.

"Iris, you don't know that these animals are smuggled." Dr. Reynolds, the zoo's veterinarian, spoke in a reasonable voice similar to the one I used with Robby, my toddler son. "It's rare, but it's legal to import wild birds with the proper permits, and then it's legal to sell them. We don't know for sure that they are wild caught. They could be captive-bred. Every one of those birds could be legitimate. We don't have enough evidence."

I was shut down in mid-rant about wildlife profiteers and how the zoo ought to move heaven and earth to see them arrested. It was eight in the morning, way too early for moral indignation. The vet-a slim, serious woman in a lab coat-outranked me, and I had no choice but to simmer in silence. We were at the zoo's hospital building, where Denny had taken over one of the three quarantine rooms for the tortoises. He and Dr. Reynolds had stayed late the night before to set up housing for them, while I'd defected to pick up my son. The tortoises were now sorted by species and housed in Denny's best efforts at the right conditions for each, with particular attention to their humidity and food requirements.

He held the littlest one, which was still bubbling from its nose and looked to be on its last legs. I stifled another diatribe about the people who s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of its native habitat where it could thrive for decades and sent it instead to an early death in Was.h.i.+ngton State.

"Can't speak for the birds," Denny said, "but some of these guys aren't legal in trade."

Yes.

"And that's the curator's job," the vet said. "Neal will follow up."

Denny thrust out the ailing animal, which was about four inches long and beautifully patterned with yellow lines radiating from each dark sh.e.l.l plate. Dr. Reynolds flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder, pried one leg out from its sh.e.l.l, and stuck the tortoise with a needle full of antibiotic. "Our job is to keep these healthy and let the justice system sort out the rest." She put the tortoise back into its own little habitat. "Marian will set up the middle quarantine room for the Amazon parrots. The third one I have to reserve for zoo animals, so we're maxed out. Where does Neal want to put the macaws?"

Good question. "He hasn't said. Would you mind asking him?"

"I will. And, Iris, be sure that all your clothing is washed with disinfectant after you handle those birds. The Amazons are likely to be carrying viruses. Wipe out the van and the carriers with disinfectant. We need to protect the macaws from exposure to the Amazons and the zoo's bird collection from exposure to either of them. I can test for herpesviruses and vaccinate over the next few days, but that isn't any guarantee. Hygiene is essential."

She was treating the Amazons as wild birds despite the quibbling.

"Also," she added, "wear a face mask when you're handling them."

Right. I didn't need any bird-borne diseases either.

"Let's go," I said to Denny.

He shook his head. "You don't need me for parrots."

"Neal says you're going. He wouldn't let me have anyone else." I had tried for my friend Linda, the feline keeper, or Hap, the commissary manager. No luck. Neal had tagged me and Denny for this job, and me and Denny it would be. I herded him away from the torts to the employee parking lot, ignoring the reasons why he couldn't possibly go.

I took the driver's side of the van again. Denny driving and talking at the same time could be life-threatening. I stuck in a Shakira CD, one of the Spanish ones so I didn't have to strain to understand her words over the heater. The only Spanish I knew was "mojito."

DellaStreet woke up and, according to her little screen, began searching the airwaves for her mother s.h.i.+p, no doubt so she could learn once again that she wasn't in Chicago. She had failed to find the Tipton farm yesterday, despite her advanced satellite communications, and wasn't needed today. I sent her back into hibernation.

The rain was at it again, this time with wind tossing the tree tops around. There's not enough coffee in the world for January in the Northwest.

Exit signs slipped past on the freeway. Denny was soon bored. "Why is Neal hot for a new aviary when the reptile building is just as decrepit?"

"The reptile building isn't falling over. The aviary is. He'll get around to Reptiles."

"In my lifetime?"

I didn't answer. After a few miles, he said, "Calvin will retire, and you'll get to design it."

Calvin Lorenz was senior keeper of Birds and my immediate supervisor. "He hasn't resigned yet, and there's no guarantee I'll get his job when he does." Calvin had been talking about retiring for years. If he did, then he wouldn't be with his birds anymore. Arthritis battled with his love for everything in feathers.

"If you go for it, you'll get it." Denny stuck a foot on the dashboard, searching for a comfortable position.

"Maybe. More stressful." Single parenting and a full-time job provided plenty enough stress. I didn't feel like sharing my shaky decision that I would try for senior keeper.

A mile or two rolled by with Denny s.h.i.+fting on the seat, tapping a foot, adjusting the heater. He said, "Pete and Cheyenne have lasted a long time."

I glanced at him. They were animal keepers hired two years ago who shared my house. "Why wouldn't they? Cheyenne's happy with the new elephant yard, and she's on the design team for the new barn. Pete seems fine with being a floater. They've got a good deal living with me." Why was this coming up? "Did you hear something?"

"No, just thinking about the future. Possible changes."

"How adult." Was this an opening to talk about how he had broken the heart of Marcie Altman, my best friend? I couldn't find the strength.

Denny launched into lighting equipment for tortoises, all the ways to emulate suns.h.i.+ne. Since daylight mattered to birds as well, I listened with half my attention.

I pulled off the freeway onto increasingly narrow side roads. We found the farm with no trouble this time. The gate was open and the Animal Control van was back in yesterday's slot, along with most of the vehicles we'd seen before. Ken was there, setting up live traps for the loose dogs in the pouring rain. He directed a chipped-tooth grin and a wave toward our van. The rogue photographer was also back, still in the black jacket and wool cap, a camera bag hanging from one shoulder. He backed up from the house, shooting it from various angles, unconcerned about the camera getting wet. His limp seemed to be a permanent feature rather than a recent injury. He turned his attention to the roving Boxer mix and snapped it as well. The dog backed away.

"Ire, check out the gate," Denny said. He hopped out and pulled it partly shut to expose its greeting. I peered at it through the van window.

Bare plywood and red acrylic paint, the lettering possibly done with a child's water color brush. The boards varied in age and decrepitude, no doubt created and wired to the gate as inspiration struck. The message was unambiguous, if incorrect: PRIVAT PROPERTY KEEP OUT. That was the most weathered. Others announced: Trespa.s.sers will be shot!!!

Attack Dogs Lose on Property!!!

If you are Government, We Shoot to Kill. No Sellers, No Politicans, No Phonebooks Delivery, No Census, No Nothin.

Denny pushed the gate back open, got into the van, and shook his head like a wet dog. I held up a hand to block the spray. "Charming welcome. They didn't figure out that red is the first color to fade." My sign-painter father would be pleased with my a.n.a.lysis.

I drove us through the gate and across the muddy yard and parked close to the house. Aside from Ken and the photographer, no one was wandering around the property today. Too wet and windy. We went inside to check in. Before we'd left the night before, I had reported my visitor and what she said-that the raid had missed a Tipton, a girl. The sole deputy remaining had raised an eyebrow and turned away to make a cell phone call.

This morning I asked the deputy who seemed to be in charge, a solidly built woman with blond hair, whether they had learned anything about the missing Liana. She thought about it and apparently decided we couldn't cause too much damage. "The mother's been asking for her. She says she has a teenage daughter, but there's no birth or school record of a girl a.s.sociated with the Tiptons or with this address."

"Which fits," said Gil Gettler, the crew-cut one who'd been in the house with us the day before. "These people probably kept getting more and more isolated until that last kid was totally off the grid. Home birth out here and n.o.body'd ever know."

I couldn't imagine how big a paper trail my son Robby had already. Hospital birth, social security number, health insurance. Not yet three years old, my boy was totally doc.u.mented.

"I wonder if she's wherever the other Tiptons are staying," said Gettler. "They're not likely to have all that many options."

"What?" I said. "They're not in jail?"

The woman said, "You didn't hear? We've got a judge who'd probably let Ted Kaczynski out on bail. The Tiptons were released yesterday."

"It was a lot of bail," Gettler said. "n.o.body thought they'd make it."

"Well, they did. And now n.o.body knows where the h.e.l.l they are." She turned to us. "Don't worry. They've been warned not to show up here until we're done with the place. So they must be camped out somewhere else."

Denny and I exchanged a look. This did not sound good, but what choice did we have? We got on with the job. I moved the van close to the marijuana barn and quick-stepped inside before I was soaked. I was relieved to find that the heater was going and no more parrots had died. I unloaded pet carriers, stacking them inside by the buckets holding marijuana stumps. "Why'd you take all those down?" I asked the chubby electrician, pointing to the row of long fixtures leaned against the wall.

"Good for fingerprints," he said. "You'll get the birds out today? I need to shut this barn down."

"I'm going to try." I turned to Denny. "Get the nets, will you?" I pulled on a face mask and light-weight leather gloves. The gloves wouldn't provide much protection against a bite, but thicker gloves made it hard to hold a bird gently. I went with the largest of the three nets I'd brought. The trick was to nab the bird flying, straight into the depths of the net where it would be surrounded by soft cloth, and not whack it with the rim. I stepped into the cage, hoping that the avian panic attack would send one into my clutches, but they all crowded away from me. I moved closer, and one finally lost his wits and flew past me. Bingo. I grabbed the back of its neck to control the beak, squeezed the wings together where they joined the body, and eased the bird out of the net.

I'd read endless news reports about the trade in wild animals. It was a different matter to hold a quivering bird in my hands and feel the too-thin breast muscle. This one had a toe missing, a raw stump. Strangers crowded together had fought to s.p.a.ce themselves out and the weak couldn't escape. I released it into an animal carrier.

I caught birds and Denny stacked carriers in the van, where the heater was running. I was grateful they weren't in the barn with meth-at least we didn't have to rinse them. By lunch time, I had most of them caught up and we were low on carriers. I hadn't added any injuries except a broken feather or two.

Ready for food and a break, I pulled off my gloves, shut the back-room door behind me, and looked around the marijuana part of the barn. The activity level was diminished, with only two technicians working. Denny wandered around uselessly. "This is old s.h.i.+t," he announced. "The water tubes are starting to crack and so are the buckets. They've been growing for years." He poked a finger into a bucket.

"Denny, these cops are focused on the drugs. They might not have looked for evidence about the wildlife violations. Don't mess anything up."

"Right. Maybe they missed something. I'll look around."

Not what I meant, but I was okay with it.

I spent a few minutes sorting through a garbage can in the corner of the grow room until a technician noticed and told me to leave it alone. I didn't find anything useful.

The rain had let up, so we gathered our lunches and trotted to the house under a thick dark sky that promised more deluge any minute.

"I want to take a look at that VW," I told Denny.

"The tires look good," he said. "This might be their only wheels. Every other vehicle here has a logo on it."

"Not if they had something to leave the jail. Unless you can rent a car from the slammer."

I peered through its road-grimed windows. "There's room inside for boxes of animals. You could drive this to LAX, pick up a load, and come back here to market them. No one would expect to find illegal wildlife out here in the boonies."

"Let's take a look."

That had been my inclination, too. I itched to pull the door open and search the van for gas receipts, feathers, whatever. But that might mess up crucial fingerprints. Reluctantly I stepped back without touching it. "No, better not. We can make sure the cops go over it."

Movement caught my eye-the skinny Doberman. She slipped into the brambles along the barn. I looked around for Ken. He wasn't in sight, and his white truck was gone. If I caught her, she could stay warm in the house while I tracked him down, instead of spending the night outside in the blackberries or in a wire trap. "You go ahead. I want to see about that dog."

I broke off a bite of meatloaf sandwich. Moving slowly through the mud in the dog's direction, I flipped the morsel toward the place she had disappeared. She emerged to snap it up and half-crouched at the edge of the weeds, looking wet and miserable. Ken could charm a pit bull. I ought to be able to woo this one. I squatted and chatted softly, flicking another bite toward her. She gulped it. The next bite landed closer to me. She whined, took a step forward, and changed her mind, backing into the berries.

When the chill had crept up my calves and knees to my b.u.t.t, I stood up stiffly and meandered closer. A spattering of rain warned me to give up soon. I squatted again and duck-waddled toward the gap where she'd disappeared. She couldn't be so scared of people that she had to pa.s.s on a meatloaf sandwich. I make a great meatloaf.

The heavens opened and dumped water on me. In seconds, my hair was plastered to my skull and rivulets ran down my neck, under my collar, and between my shoulder blades. I heard her whine again and the sound helped my eyes and brain sort through the vegetative chaos. Through the soggy tangled brambles, I made out the dog watching me, lying down with her nose pressed flat on...a person. On the chest of a girl. A dead girl. I teetered and struggled with my balance, then scrambled up and pushed a sharp-spiked blackberry cane aside.

I'd found Liana.

Chapter Four.

The afternoon was a herky-jerky blur of uniforms, questions, and prohibitions. A whole new law enforcement bunch showed up, the homicide team. I hadn't much to contribute, but I delivered the scanty details several times. Most of the afternoon Denny and I spent, once again, cooling our heels at the kitchen table, forbidden to finish loading the parrots, forbidden to depart. We gleaned from the cautious communications of people coming and going for coffee and the bathroom that the girl I'd found had been shot in the chest, that it was not clear how long she had been dead, and that crucial information would be available only after lab results came back. We overheard comments both bewildered and snarky about how she could have lain there undiscovered since the original bust. "Hid in the bushes and caught a stray shot" seemed to be the consensus.

I topped up the macaws' food and water. They were a task for the next day-one more visit to this miserable place. I worried about the birds already in the van and I worried about transporting the macaws, but mostly I kept seeing Liana in the cold.

No matter how strange and felonious her upbringing with this outlaw family, she should have had her chance at a decent life. So young, maybe seventeen. A small, st.u.r.dy body. Strawberry blond hair in long wisps, the white skin and freckles that came with it. A broad face with features too small for beauty but right for strength and determination.

I was reading too much into a glimpse and a clean-scrubbed kitchen.

I phoned my mother and arranged for her to pick up Robby at day care. I left Cheyenne, one of my housemates, a message on her cell phone that I'd be late. Then there was nothing to do but wait for some official's permission to finish our task.

Denny was as rattled as I was and wouldn't stop talking. He processed and reprocessed scenarios for her death. The first ones were reasonable: Her own father accidentally shot her during the bust or the cops accidentally shot her. After he'd sucked the juice out of those, he tried on another: she killed herself rather than be captured.

He seemed to be working out a screenplay for this last one when I noticed that, after two hours of waiting on hard wooden chairs, we were alone in the house. "Let's blow this scene," I said. "Load the rest those parrots and get gone." We pulled on our jackets and walked out as if we had permission. It was late afternoon and almost full dark. Spotlights on the corners of the house and barns illuminated the yard unevenly. Our van still idled, keeping the heater on, although a glance inside showed that the tank was on its last gasp. Exhaust fumes lingered, held in place by the still air. I opened the rear and checked the birds. They seemed to be alive.

The temperature had dropped; spa.r.s.e snowflakes floated down. The girl's body was gone. The blackberry brambles were cut and piled to one side to clear the area. I paused at the tape barrier and looked at the cold ground where she'd lain. The harsh light seemed as unkind as the icy mud.

The parking area still held two vehicles, but we'd been forgotten. No one interfered or questioned us. The remaining officials must have been in the meth barn. Lugging out the last animal carrier, we startled the overweight electrician. He said, "I thought you were long gone. I'm shutting down the electricity. Another minute, and you two woulda been padlocked in."

"Go ahead," I said. "We got all of these birds out. But don't shut down the house. The macaws need some heat." He helped us find the Tipton gas can and empty it into our tank. I pointed the van toward home, eager to put this day behind us.

We didn't get far.

Halfway between the gate and the highway, out of sight of the house, the headlights revealed a log across the driveway. It wasn't a big log, but enough to stop us. "Blow-down?" Denny said.

I automatically shut the van off. We got out and headed for opposite ends to toss it aside. Three men emerged from the woods. They weren't wearing uniforms, and they didn't look like good Samaritans. "Uh-oh," Denny said.

"Get them," one of the men bellowed.

Their timing was off. We scrambled back inside the van, but one of them grabbed my arm and pulled before I got the door shut. Half out of the van, I wrapped my elbow around the steering wheel and held on. He was stronger by far. I let go before he dislocated my shoulder somehow slammed the door, and hurled myself toward him. He staggered back, but didn't fall.

"Jeff, get the other one," came a roar from the front of the van, and my attacker hesitated. The man giving orders stood in the headlights, big-bellied and bearded. "You are trespa.s.sing and you're stealing my property. Get the h.e.l.l out of this van."

The man who had yanked me out shoved my chest and sent me hard into the mud on my rear, and, bizarrely, winked at me before going back to the van. Whatever Denny did, it resulted in a yelp of pain. I'd barely gotten to my feet when he was standing beside me breathing hard. I turned away and dug my cell phone out of my pants pocket, only to have it slapped into the mud. Denny threw an awkward punch, and the guy shoved him against a tree. I reached into my jacket pocket and clicked the lock switch on the key. The van chirped, a bird sound lost in the fray.

The old guy stayed in front, in the headlights with snow flickering around him, and yelled at the other two to open up the van. "Get my birds out of there." He sounded like an Old Testament despot on a bad day, rasping and furious.

I sucked in a breath. Another. The fear-fog cleared a little. I strained to think, to pay attention. Two men confronted us, fists ready. Both wore jackets, jeans, and muddy lace-up leather boots. The one that attacked me had thick dark hair and a dark beard. The other was a little smaller and clean shaven with a green ball cap. The third, the old guy, had a s.h.a.ggy gray beard and a brown jacket. Father Tipton and his sons, without a doubt.

Tipton Senior closed in on us, and I stopped memorizing details.

"We don't mind hurtin' you if we have to. That's my property and you're not getting away with stealing it," he said in a voice that could carry half a mile. His chest heaved and even in the headlight glare his face looked flushed. "Get my birds." The two younger ones stepped away from us and started yanking on the van's rear door. He was a grizzly bear and he had two grown cubs obeying him.