William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“Amazing. Is there much money in parrot smuggling?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. And the rarer the bird, the higher the price. Some go for as much as a hundred thousand dollars.”

Ben whistled. “How much could a guy get for an Imperial Amazon?”

Langdell smiled bitterly. “You’ve been to see Quinn Reynolds.”

“Yeah. Nice bird.”

“It’s a revolting situation. Quinn Reynolds is an ethical toxic waste dump.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Damn right I don’t approve. He keeps that bird in a cage every second of its life. It never gets a chance to fly free. If you must keep a bird in captivity, particularly one that size, you have a moral obligation to keep it in an aviary.”

“Wouldn’t that be expensive?”

“Reynolds can afford it. And if he can’t, he can send the bird here. The Tulsa Zoo takes exceptional care of its animals. That’s where the bird should be, assuming it has to be in captivity.”

“You think it should be set free?”

“At the very least, I think it should be set free of Reynolds. He doesn’t care for it worth a damn. Parrots need attention, care, grooming. Reynolds doesn’t provide any of that. That bird gets the same oilseed to eat every day, and virtually no attention. The last time I was in his office, the poor thing had started feather-plucking.”

“Feather-plucking?”

“Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? It is. It’s an aberrant behavior pattern brought on by monotony of diet, lack of companionship, and inability to bathe. In the tropics, parrots bathe themselves in the frequent rains. That never happens in Reynolds’s eighteen-inch cage. So the bird begins yanking its own feathers out, trying to clean itself. Sometimes they bite off their own toes. Unless some change occurs, the bird will continue mutilating itself until it’s plucked out every feather it has. And then it will die.”

Ben felt a churning sensation in his stomach. “Aren’t there any laws restricting traffic in rare birds?” he asked.

“Oh yes. The Imperial Amazon is an endangered species. We’re not even sure they exist in the wild anymore.”

“Can’t you turn Reynolds in to the authorities?”

“He claims he hasn’t done anything illegal. That’s the problem with lawyers. They can talk their way out of anything. The 1973 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species forbids trade in certain species, including Amazona imperialis. But, as Reynolds is quick to point out, he isn’t engaged in the parrot trade and the Convention does not forbid ownership. Lombardi claims his bird was a gift. Damned expensive gift, if it was.”

“If this bird is so controversial, why would Reynolds want one in his office?”

“Ego. The hotshot collector with his one-of-a-kind rare bird.”

A sudden shriek pierced the aviary. Ben whirled back toward Christina.

“I’m under attack!” she cried.

Ben ran across the aviary, Langdell close behind. A large bird was hovering over her head, pulling Christina’s long red hair with its beak.

“It’s just like the movie!” Christina screamed. “What is that monster, a vulture?”

“A buzzard,” Langdell said, smiling. “And it’s not attacking you. It’s trying to build a nest. Your hair looks like prime nesting material.”

“I don’t care if it’s trying to save the universe,” Christina said. “Make it let go of my hair!”

Langdell picked up a stick and gently inserted it into the buzzard’s beak. The bird released Christina’s hair and flew away.

“Bless you,” Christina said. “I think you just saved my life.”

“I doubt it,” Langdell said. “But I may have saved you some hair. Did you have any other questions, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Yes. What happened when you went to see Lombardi the night he was killed?”

“Nothing. The security guard let me up. I knocked on the door. No one was home, or if they were, they didn’t answer. After a few minutes, I left. The next morning, I read in the World that Lombardi was dead.” He was silent for a moment. “My God, do you think Lombardi was already dead when I was there? Or”—he swallowed—“that the murderer was inside?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” Ben took a step toward Langdell. “You were determined to put an end to Lombardi’s parrot trade, weren’t you?”

“Now wait a minute, counselor. If you’re trying to twist my concern for the rights of other living creatures into a motive for murder—”

“I’m just asking questions. I have to explore all the possibilities.”

“It’s true I wanted to shut down Lombardi’s parrot operation,” he said cautiously. “But I wouldn’t kill the man. I knew his death wouldn’t accomplish anything. Lombardi had an assistant who worked on everything with him. For all I know, he’s going to follow in Lombardi’s footsteps. No, it made no sense for me to try to kill Lombardi. I could be much more productive pursuing the tried-and-true paths of political activism to effect change.”

“I guess that’s all I need to know at the moment,” Ben said. “I might come by again later if I think of something else.”

“I have a lot more information about parrots.” Langdell reached inside his coat pocket. “Here, take some brochures.”

“No thanks, I have other—” On the top brochure, Ben saw a photograph of a beautiful Amazon parrot, with regal green wings and penetrating orange eyes. Langdell was right. They did look intelligent.

“Well, perhaps one or two,” Ben muttered, He took a fistful of brochures and left the aviary.

18

DESPITE HIS TECHNICAL INCOMPETENCE at most fundamental secretarial chores, Jones still managed to impress Ben from time to time.

“How did you ever get me an appointment to see Albert DeCarlo?” Ben asked.

Jones just smiled. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

There was no denying it. Ben was definitely nervous as he strode into the offices of Intercontinental Imports. The place looked legitimate enough—very high class, very corporate. It reminded Ben of the days when he visited Sanguine Enterprises, when he almost became their in-house counsel. Unfortunately, by the time Ben had finished investigating them, most of the officers were facing securities fraud charges, and the whole corporation went into receivership. Which might explain why Ben hadn’t been getting those high-tone corporate clients lately.

Ben introduced himself to a gorgeous receptionist who directed him to the top of the building, the twentieth floor. He mentally noted the omnipresent security cameras in the lobby, the elevator, and the hallways. He wondered if the place was wired for sound as well. Probably.

When Ben arrived on the twentieth floor, he faced a comely woman announcing that she was DeCarlo’s personal secretary.

“I’m Ben—”

“I know who you are,” the woman interrupted, “Please go on in. Mr. DeCarlo just arrived himself.”

The woman pushed a button, and the wood-paneled double doors swung open. Not bad.

Ben stepped into the inner office. He faced a huge bay window; practically the entire back wall was window. The adjoining walls were lined with bookshelves, and the shelves were thick with books of all kinds and sizes. The furnishings were contemporary and utilitarian. The one exception was the heavy oak desk in the center of the room, with Albert DeCarlo standing behind it.

DeCarlo extended his hand. “I’m Albert DeCarlo,” he said. “My friends call me Trey. I hope you will, too.”

Almost like a statue, Ben shook the proffered hand. DeCarlo was not at all what he’d expected. Among other things…he was young. He was Ben’s age, maybe a few years older, but not many. He was tall and lean; his jet black hair was pulled straight back and tied in a ponytail. He was wearing his trademark outfit: dark sunglasses, dark muffler, and white overcoat.