“And what do we have here?” he muttered, slipping on a latex glove before reaching in, behind the boulders.
He had come upon an odd item for the baboons’ lair: a ladies’ brown high-heel shoe. Rotating the shoe in his hand, he deciphered remnants of letters on its inner side: G cc. S ze 6?. Gucci? Size 6 ?? He examined a dark stain on the shoe’s heel. Baboon shit…or human blood? he wondered.
And where was the other shoe? He scanned the immediate area. Nothing. Cautiously, he approached a second cluster of rocks that adjoined the baboons’ quarters. A putrid stench assailed him.
“Don’t they ever hose out that cave?” he yelled to the trio of animal handlers.
“A crew goes in there once a month,” said one, moseying on over to where the detective was standing.
“Don’t you smell that?” Raios winced, popping a handful of tic tacs into his mouth.
“Whoa!” the handler gasped.
“I’d better check out that cave,” said Raios. “Any chance of moving those overgrown monkeys and raising the gate?”
“But we just got them in there!”
“Then I suggest you get them out.”
The overlook, west of the grassy knoll, was now congested with spectators. When the immediate area was cleared, the animal handler approached a small metal box embedded in a concrete wall near the baboons’ cave. Using a brass key, he unlocked the box and depressed a button inside. The gate on the mouth of the cave went up.
“Detective, you may want to stand behind me,” the handler suggested.
“You got that right,” said Raios.
Though the gate had been lifted, the baboons remained inside.
“They waiting for some sort of invitation?”
“C’mon, Whiskers…c’mon, Plato…come on out, Joe…Figaro, c’mon. It’s time to play,” coaxed the handler.
“Are they always this shy?”
“Never.”
“Keep tryin’.”
“Hey guys, the rain’s over. C’mon now, I got a handful of Good ’n’ Plenty. They’re your favorite.” He shook his hand, rattling the sugar-coated candies. “Come and get them.”
The baboons stood defiantly inside.
“Maybe they lost their sweet tooth,” said Raios.
The handler approached their hollow and sprinkled the pink and white confections on the ground just outside the mouth of the cave.
Nothing happened.
“They’re not goin’ for it,” said Raios.
“These things always work. There’s something really wrong here.” The handler stepped back. “Okay, have it your way, guys.”
With Raios in tow, the handler sauntered over to the metal box and depressed a red button.
“I’m setting off an ultrasonic sound inside their cave. It’s a frequency we won’t hear. But it’s like fingernails on a blackboard to them. It’ll get ’em outta there in a hurry!”
“In what kind of mood?” Raios grumbled as the pack of baboons let out a ferocious growl. “That howling doesn’t make me feel too comfortable.”
The four primates lumbered out of the cave and scrambled for the Good ’n’ Plenty.
“These the same guys that ripped apart that kid an hour ago?” Raios asked, eyes fixed on the docile foursome.
“The very same.”
“Then I’m glad I’m in here with you.”
The two other handlers netted the baboons.
“Detective, the cave’s all yours,” the lead handler announced.
“I hope ya got some of those candies left. That smell is only gonna get worse inside and I’m fresh outa tic tacs.”
The handler tossed Raios the near-empty box.
Armed with a Parks Department flashlight, a mouthful of licorice, and a hunch, Raios approached the cave. Was it merely the stench of the baboons’ habitat that assaulted his sinuses, restricted his breathing, and filled him with nausea? Or was it something else?
He crouched down and ventured inside the cave, his eardrums reverberating with the throbbing of his heart. Ten feet in, he heard a buzzing sound. Following it, he found a frenzy of flies disturbed by his flashlight.
Beyond the flies, the beam of light exposed a rib cage. It appeared to be human. And still fastened to the end of one elongated fleshy bone Raios found what he was looking for: the matching Gucci shoe.
Chapter 28
The voice of the TV spokesman for Hair Weave International startled Driscoll out of his sleep. What happened to Robert Taylor and Lana Turner? he wondered, taking in his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was Lana Turner turning down the overtures of Mr. Taylor in a black-and-white film on American Movie Classics.
“Call me now and I’ll throw in a year’s supply of conditioner at no extra cost!” the adman barked.
“No! I don’t need a hair weave. And you can keep your damn conditioner!” Driscoll growled, pulling himself out of the recliner. “Where the hell’s that remote?”
The TV spokesman was dialing the number that appeared at the bottom of the screen. Driscoll heard the sound of a phone ringing.
“Yeah, right!”
He leaned forward and depressed the TV’s power button and watched Mr. Hair Weave fade to black. Silence prevailed. Momentarily.
Again, he heard the sound of a ringing phone.
Mary?
Following the sound into the kitchen, he spotted his cell phone next to the plate that had held his ham-and-cheese sandwich and answered it.
“Sorry if I woke you.” It was Margaret. She sounded anxious. “The ME just called. We may have ourselves another one.”
“Where’d they strike this time?”
“The Bronx Zoo.”
“The ten o’clock news did a piece about the guy who jumped into the baboons’ compound and got ripped to shreds. You’re not talking about him, are you?”
“If it wasn’t for him, we may have never found the other body.”
“What other body?”
“A precinct detective found the half-eaten body of a young woman in their den. Pearsol’s finding it hard to come up with an exact cause of death, with the condition of the remains and all, but she does have sharp force trauma to the right parietal. How she ended up as a Happy Meal for the baboons is anybody’s guess.”
“Got an ID on her?”
“I’ll say. Try Abigail Shewster. The Abigail Shewster.”
“Holy shit!”
“We sent out for dental records just to confirm, but her California driver’s license was found at the scene. It makes sense. She arrived in town last Thursday for this week’s grand opening of the Zoo’s Old World Primate Pavilion. The one the Shewster Pharmaceutical Corporation had so liberally funded.”
“California. That makes her a domestic tourist.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a perp changed the rules.”
“Hold on. I got another call coming in. And I think I know who it is.”
Chapter 29
The Mayor’s call was to inform Driscoll that Malcolm Shewster would be at Gracie Mansion at six o’clock sharp. It was safe to say that the pharmaceutical mogul would not be in a cheerful mood. Driscoll, too, had been “invited” to attend. That gave him a little more than five hours to get a run-down on the investigation and come up with an answer as to why the New York City Police Department failed to protect the daughter of one of the richest and most influential men in the state of California.
The Lieutenant knew the mayoral residence well. He had been a guest of many of its former illustrious tenants. David Dinkins boasted a powerful backhand and often preferred to discuss important police matters on the tennis court. Ed Koch was a gourmet, and Driscoll remembered some memorable entrees. Abe Beame was a gracious host, boastful of the grandeur of the estate. But, with the mansion’s present inhabitant, it was strictly business. And business his way.