Sleeping With the Crawfish Page 18

  Feeling like her rib cage was full of helium, she went up the back stairs and headed for the window through which she’d seen Woodley and Lewis the day before. And yes . . . there they were!

  Returning to the first floor, she walked quickly past the lunchroom without looking inside, then went to the locker room.

  Thankfully, it was empty.

  She donned her lab coat and slid the recorder with Lewis’s voice on it into the right pocket. The other recorder went in the left pocket, along with the duplex plug and the connector cord. She then went up the back stairs to the ladies’ restroom to prepare the tape, forcing herself to appear casual and take her time.

  When she stepped into the restroom thirty seconds later, her heart sank, for she saw feet in the first stall.

  Afraid it would appear suspicious if she left, she entered the other stall, took off her lab coat, and hung it on the back of the stall door. She lowered her slacks and her panties and sat down to wait the other party out, making sure the Lady-smith didn’t show.

  Seconds ticked into minutes and nothing was happening next door. Feeling that she ought to be making some appropriate sounds herself, she tried, but was too keyed up to succeed. Another quiet minute passed in silence. Jesus, was that person in the next stall even real?

  Kit checked the reserve watch she’d pressed into service after Snake Bayou had ruined her good one.

  12:40.

  Damn it. . . . Woodley and Lewis would be gone until 1:30. Another twenty minutes and most everybody else would be back from lunch; then the chance of getting in unseen would be greatly diminished. And Jenny would start wondering where she was—might even call her where she was supposed to be living.

  Suddenly, the toilet next door flushed, carrying away all those fears.

  Kit waited until she heard the hall door shut, then waited a few seconds more to be sure no one else had come in. Detecting no further sounds, she adjusted her clothing and got out the recorder with Lewis’s voice on it.

  She fast-forwarded the tape, stopped it, and hit the play button.

  The restroom became a disco.

  Two more cycles of that brought her to the sound of jiggling glass. She let it play until Lewis spoke, then rewound slightly and let it play again, stopping at a distinctive glass noise she’d noted just before the all-important word.

  Satisfied, she slipped the recorder back into her lab coat, left the stall, and donned the coat.

  12:45.

  Fifteen minutes to go. No need to panic—plenty of time. Once she got into the lab, it’d be easy to finish. She went into the hall, walked down to where it intersected the one leading to Woodley’s lab, and froze at the corner.

  Voices . . . male . . . by Woodley’s door.

  She remained around the corner, unseen by the two men, silently urging them to wrap it up and go away. She recognized one of the voices as Mudi’s. He was telling a story that sounded as though it could go on forever.

  “I put the cobra in a bag and tied it to the back of my bicycle, thinking it was dead. . . .”

  Till that moment, she’d found his accent charming. Now, it was like a jackhammer in her ear.

  “When I got home, I put the bag in my room, intending to take it to the university after lunch. . . .”

  12:47. Thirteen minutes left. Her safety margin was slipping away. The coiled spring on which her heart was balanced threatened to launch it through her chest. In her desperation, she wanted to pull the Ladysmith and tell them to move their asses.

  Then the other man was laughing. Mudi’s story was over.

  She prayed the other guy wouldn’t counter with a tale of his own. Miraculously, he didn’t. They ended the conversation and Mudi moved off down the hall. The other guy walked a short way in the same direction and went into his lab.

  When Mudi was out of sight, Kit walked quickly to Woodley’s door, stood in front of it, and got out the tape recorder. Until this moment, she’d thought the chances were even that the door’s sound sensor was still on. But as she pressed the play button on the recorder, she was engulfed by pessimism.

  “Access.”

  And . . . by God, the door opened.

  She darted inside and it closed behind her.

  Even though she knew Woodley and Lewis were behind the building eating lunch, a part of her expected them to leap out of hiding. But they didn’t. She was in, and she was alone.

  She moved quickly to Woodley’s office and went to the table that held the phone. She knelt to start work and her eyes fell on an appointment book open beside it. In the blank for 8:00 P.M. was an address in La Place.

  Turning to the job before her, she dumped the contents of her left coat pocket on the carpet and pulled Woodley’s phone cord free from the jack. As she plugged the duplex into the old jack, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

  The hall door had opened.

  Suddenly so short of breath she felt dizzy, her hand went to the cuff of her slacks and raised the fabric. She eased the Ladysmith from its holster. With the gun resting solidly in her hand, she got to her feet and slowly crept to the office door, where she posted herself on the right, a few feet away from the opening, and waited to see who had come in.

  But no one came, nor did she hear any more noise. Of course it was hard to hear anything over her own labored breathing. Were they waiting for her just outside the office door?

  “Who’s there?” she said, her voice cracking.

  No answer.

  She thought about saying she was armed, but why warn them? God but it was hot in here.

  Unable to take the tension any longer, she burst through the door at an angle that would take her away from anyone waiting just outside. Reaching the long table that stretched from one side of the lab to the other, she spun quickly to her left, brought the gun up, and supported it with her free hand.

  Had she fired, she’d have shot up a wall chart showing all the sugar-specific enzymes available from Boehringer Mannheim Biochemicals—and that’s all she’d have hit, for there was no one else in the room.

  Elated at not having to shoot her way free, yet despairing at the amount of time she’d lost, she holstered the gun and went back to work, her hands shaking.

  In less than two minutes, she was finished and standing at the door to the hall. One last hurdle—one that no preparation could minimize. Would anyone see her leave? The door was windowless, so she had no way of knowing if anyone was passing in the hall. If they were, she’d be seen leaving and word could get back to the wrong people. It was a problem without a good solution.

  With no means to choose one moment over another, she pressed the red button that would let her out. As the door slid into the wall, the apprehension cramps in her belly stopped. The hallway was empty. After a quick look in both directions, she stepped out of Woodley’s lab, immensely relieved, the only tarnish on the moment the knowledge that at some point she’d have to go back in and retrieve the recorder she’d left.

  18

  “I’m sorry, but something’s come up here at the office, so I won’t be able to drive you to the zoo,” Noell said. “How about catching a cab and I’ll meet you there?”

  “I can do that,” Broussard said into the phone. “What about the Tate County sheriff? Is he comin’?”

  “He’s got another commitment. Said for us to get the lay of things and he’ll follow up if we find gold.”

  “Should I wait until you arrive before startin’ any discussion?”

  “You begin, and when I get there, you can fill me in.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Broussard’s cab dropped him at the zoo entrance, which was impressively done up like an Egyptian temple colorfully decorated with rows of hieroglyphs and stylized human figures. In front of the temple, two screaming kids up on a ribbon-thin statue of a hippo were defending their position against three noisy pretenders on the ground by flailing at them with rubber snakes. It was almost enough to make Broussard sorry he was childless.

  Yeste
rday, it had been spring. Today, the late-afternoon sun had run the temperature up to ninety, baking the pavement leading to the entrance until it radiated heat like a sauna. The humidity, too, had crept up to New Orleans standards.

  Dodging an oncoming twin baby carriage being pushed by a woman so busy talking to her friend that she almost ran him down, Broussard headed for the members’ entrance, where he explained his business and was directed to the administration building.

  The Egyptian theme continued inside the gates, with a columned temple gift shop on his right and a temple admin building on his left.

  Suddenly, he got the connection: Memphis, there was one in Egypt, too. Give the man a round of applause.

  He walked to the admin building entrance and went inside, finding the rush of cold air that met him a welcome treat. He stated his business to the receptionist on duty and she paged the reptile curator.

  While waiting, Broussard walked around the reception area, looking at framed color photos of zoo scenes hanging on the wall. When he’d done them all, he stood at the glass door through which he’d come and watched a parade of zoo employees outside, trucking the props for an educational program back to wherever they were stored.

  “Dr. Broussard?”

  He turned, to see a lanky, long-faced fellow in khaki zoo clothes coming his way, hand outstretched.

  “I’m Icky Carr, the reptile curator,” he said, echoing the words written on his name tag. “I also do amphibians, but we don’t have many of those—at least not on display.” His handshake started out lax, then tightened, like a boa choking its prey. “Are you alone? I thought you were coming with a detective.”

  “She was detained.”

  “They’ve got women detectives now? I mean, I’ve seen Cagney & Lacey, but this is Memphis.”

  “They’ve got at least one.”

  “You think a woman could make a guy talk if he didn’t want to?” Carr glanced at the receptionist, who was giving him the fish eye, or, in this case, the snake eye. “Meena, don’t look at me that way. I got nothing against women, you know that. I just think there are some jobs men can do better.” He looked back at Broussard. “I’ll bet when she wants to sweat a guy, she asks for male help.”

  Not wanting to be a party to any criticism of Noell, Broussard tried to put an end to this line of conversation. “Let’s hope neither of us ever has reason to find out.”

  Carr’s brow furrowed as he sought the meaning of that. Obviously still puzzled, he turned and motioned for Broussard to follow. “Come on back where we can talk in private.”

  Broussard glanced at the receptionist and she gave him a thumbs-up.

  Carr, too, unexpectedly turned her way. “Meena, I saw that. Where’s your loyalty? When the illustrious female detective arrives, send her back.”

  In Carr’s office, the chair behind his desk and the one in front of it were the only concessions to people. The rest was a shrine to frogs. On the table behind the desk, there was a large terrarium in which Broussard saw tiny flashes of orange and black hop across its simulated forest floor. To the left of the terrarium, the remaining tabletop was filled with jars whose sides were covered with tiny flies—a mutant drosophila with vestigial wings, Broussard guessed, easy prey for the frogs.

  There was another, slightly smaller terrarium on a table against the right wall. This, too, contained little living, hopping jewels. Carr’s desk was paved with shallow water-filled porcelain containers, each housing a single tadpole. To the left of the door, another table held two rows of plastic shoebox terraria that housed more tiny frogs. On the left wall, a chart depicted an incredible array of the most beautiful frogs one could imagine, each a little work of art. In testimony to Carr’s amphibian husbandry skills, the office was filled with froggy trills and peeps of satisfaction.

  And why not? Even the temperature in the place had been adjusted to frog comfort. Unsure of how long he’d be able to take the heat, Broussard accepted the chair Carr offered.

  Carr sat, too. “What did you mean back there when you said you hoped neither of us would ever have reason to learn whether your detective friend is good at sweating out the truth?”

  Broussard didn’t want to get into the substantive part of his inquiry until Noell arrived. He therefore parried Carr’s question.

  “We’ll certainly discuss that. But for now, I’d like to explore what you know about poison-dart frogs.”

  “Dart-poison frogs,” Carr said.

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘poison-dart frogs.’ That’s not what they’re called. That makes it sound like they shoot poisonous projectiles at people. The real name is dart-poison frogs.”

  “Of course. It’s always best to begin with the correct terminology.”

  Carr turned to face the wall with the chart, rocked back in his chair, and folded his arms over his chest. “There are about fifty-five species of poisonous frogs, all belonging to the family Dendrobatidae. They’re all quite small and all lay their eggs on the forest floor, where, in some species, one of the parents keeps them moist by periodically urinating on them. When they hatch, the young climb onto one of the parents and are carried to water—often, small pools that collect between the leaves and stems of certain plants.”

  This was not the kind of information Broussard was after. “That’s very interesting, but—”

  Acting as though he hadn’t heard Broussard speak, Carr rolled on.

  “In some species, only one tadpole is left in each of these little pools, which are often practically devoid of nutrients. To compensate for this, the female lays a single unfertilized egg in each pool to serve as a food source.”

  The floor began to vibrate and the sound of running feet could be heard in the hall. Carr rocked forward and grabbed a two-way radio from between the terrarium behind his desk and the bottles of flies. He raised it to his lips, obviously concerned. “This is Carr. What’s happening? Come in. This is Carr. Do you need me?”

  “Negative on that,” the radio belched. “Everything’s under control.”

  Carr put the radio back on the table and turned to Broussard. “From time to time, people fall into the tiger pool and I have to help get them out. Where was I?”

  Not wanting to hear any more little frog natural history, Broussard said, “How is the poison obtained and coated on darts?”

  “Apparently, there are two ways. The northern Choco Indians impale the frog on a stick they run into his mouth and out one hind leg. The stress causes the frog to secrete the poison, which comes from glands in the skin. Sometimes the Indians hold the frog over a flame, which increases the yield. I must say, I don’t care for that method at all.”

  “I’m sure the frogs don’t, either.”

  “Apart from the cruelty involved, that approach negatively impacts the frog population. I much prefer the way the southern Chocos do it. They keep the frogs like pets and simply wipe their darts across the frog’s back without stressing it beyond what handling induces.”

  “How long does the poison remain active when it’s dried onto a dart?”

  Carr’s answer was delayed by a knock on the door. At Carr’s invitation, Sergeant Noell joined them, with apologies for being late. Both men rose and she and Carr shook hands.

  “Here, take my chair,” Broussard said.

  “It’s all right. I can stand.”

  Reluctantly, Broussard returned to his seat. “Mr. Carr was about to say how long frog poison remains active after it’s coated onto darts.”

  “Anywhere from six months to a year,” Carr said, also sitting.

  Noell took a small notebook from her linen blazer and wrote that down. When she looked up, Broussard said, “Do you want to take over?”

  “Sure, thanks.” She gestured to the terrarium and the tadpoles on Carr’s desk. “Are all these poison frogs?”

  “If you mean are they all species generally classified as poisonous in nature, yes.”

  “Where’d you get them?”

 
“The tadpoles are from eggs laid by the ones in this terrarium.” He gestured to the frogs behind him.

  “What about the adults?”

  “I bought them.”

  “From where?”

  “Various zoos around the country—from their surplus animal lists.”

  “Is this the only place here at the zoo where poison frogs are kept?”

  “I’ve got some at the education center, some at the reptile house, and some at the aquarium.”

  “So a lot of other people have access to your frogs?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “Would you know if any are missing?”

  “I know how many I have, but as you can see, it’s hard to inventory a terrarium. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “Do you know a man named Anthony Hunter . . . a professor at UT?”

  “I’ve talked to him a couple of times—at zoo functions—but we’re not friends or anything. Didn’t I hear he died?”

  “He’s dead, yes. Poisoned, we think, by”—she checked her notebook—“by batrachotoxin, a poison from frogs like these.”

  “And you think that toxin was from my frogs?”

  “We don’t know, but it certainly seems possible.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Two reasons. One is, the toxins in poison frogs are not manufactured by the frogs; they’re acquired from the insects they eat, which, in turn, get them from the tropical plants they feed on. Since captive frogs don’t get the same diet they do in the wild, they aren’t really toxic.”

  “You’re saying all your frogs are captive-bred . . . no wildcaught specimens among them?”

  “None. And they’re the wrong frogs.”

  “In what sense?”

  He pulled open one of the drawers in his desk and leaned over. After a lapse of a few seconds, he straightened up, holding a stapled sheaf of papers in his hand. He riffled through them, folded some of the pages back, and handed the sheaf to Noell. “That’s a copy of an article from Scientific American. The five frogs shown there, comprising all the known species of the genus Phyllobates, are the only ones that secrete batrachotoxin. It’s true. . . . Turn a couple of pages. I’ve circled the part about batrachotoxin being limited to those frogs. And I don’t own any of the five.”