Dead Pelican: A Spy Shop Mystery, #2

Prologue

Thursday, October 5

11:00 a.m.

On a warm morning in Christmas Bay, Texas, newlyweds Babs and Trevor Sosa paddled awkwardly in their see-through tandem kayak. The nature adventure was Trevor’s idea, and he’d found and purchased the kayak off Craigslist a few days before their wedding as a surprise for his bride.

Babs failed to appreciate her husband’s romantic gesture and was miffed that Trevor’s eco-tour was keeping them from his-and-her full body waxing sessions with the former Chippendales dancer-turned-body-landscaper Big Wally. She swatted at a mosquito the size of a White Castle slider. I don’t see the pretty fish you promised.

This was the murky brown-green Gulf Coast water. Even though it was a bright, cloudless day, she saw very little in the water—some grasses, the occasional blue crab, a few brownish fish, and the lumpy bottom of the shallow bay. And then the bottom moved.

What’s that? Babs pulled her paddle above her head, leaned back, clunked Trevor on his shoulder, and nearly capsized the kayak.

Trevor ducked and then resumed paddling. I didn’t see anything. But he sounded unconvinced. Let’s check out the shoreline over there for our picnic.

Trevor had packed her favorite foods: wine, Cheez Whiz, pickled okra, and cannoli. He’d told her the plan was to enjoy lunch on a remote beach and make wild, in-front-of-Mother-Nature-and-so-therefore-somehow-better love before kayaking back to where they had parked their car. She’d decided to humor her husband’s dreadful wishes, knowing she’d need his support for a few expensive ideas she had about how they should spend their honeymoon. However, she was now less tolerant as their outing had gone seriously sideways.

Babs remembered that the owner’s manual for the Sea Star EX-T kayak boasted how the clear hull would enhance what they could see in the water. But it failed to mention whether sea life would get a good look at them, too. She saw the large alligator open its mouth as it rose to the surface, lung forward, and rock the lower side of the kayak.

Shit! It’s trying to eat us! Babs shrieked. She then threw her paddle in the direction of where the gator submerged.

Trevor groaned as the paddle floated farther away. Don’t panic, Babsy. Stay still, and I’ll get us to the shore.

Babs wasn’t panicking. She’d transcended that stage of implosion to full-blown pissed-off mode heading toward deadly. She wondered if she could get the marriage annulled due to spousal stupidity. I don’t want to die on my honeymoon! Get me out of here, Trevor, NOW!

Trevor paddled faster. We’re not going to die.

Babs pointed when she saw the gator had caught up to them. It launched onto the side of the boat, bit down, and held on to the smooth curved surface of the hull. Babs screamed and began wailing. The kayak vibrated and tilted back and forth. Trevor whacked the gator on its head with his paddle several times until it backed off and slid back under the water.

Babs grabbed the handbag she’d placed between her legs and pulled out a full-size can of hairspray. Use this, it killed the mouse living in my mother’s shoe closet.

Trevor put his hand on her shoulder. We’re almost there. Don’t do anything extreme. Stay still, honey. OK?

Trevor paddled and then beached the kayak. He first looked around for the gator, then jumped out into the shallow water and pulled the kayak up onto the beach. He reached for Babs’ hands and helped her onto the shore.

Is he going to come get us? Babs stared at the water. I want to go back to our hotel!

We’re going to be fine. Trevor sounded like a used car salesman guaranteeing the reliability of a piece-of-shit clunker with eighteen previous owners.

I’m leaving now! Babs said then trudged inland, unaware they were on an island. Are you coming?

Wait. Where are you going? What about the kayak?

Babs turned her head and torso but kept moving. Screw the kayak if you ever want to screw me again.

The soft breeze carried a few wispy clouds across the sky. Ideal conditions for a picnic. Except for the bugs. And the killer-freaking-gator that had pursued them. Babs’ heart rate settled back down even though she was livid Trevor was making a hot mess of her honeymoon. She thought about ways she could ensure he made up for this debacle and turn the situation into a win-win.

The bright pink sandals Babs had bought from Neiman Marcus were supposed to show off her pedicure and rose gold toe rings, not kick at grasses and dried seaweed. As she moved inland, she hoped the shiny finish on the pleather straps wouldn’t get scratched. Trevor lagged behind while he looked up the number for the Hotel Galvez then dialed.

Babs screamed. She stopped in front of a body of a man dressed in a khaki vest and shorts. His swollen legs were dark purple and bloody. A frothy stripe of dried yellow vomit ran from his head to his hands, which had been cuffed in front of him. The dead man’s lips and bulging eyeballs were stuck half open. He had something white in his mouth.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. This is so not good. Babs then saturated the body with Big Sexy Hair Spray Intense Hold and ran in the opposite direction while holding the can in front of her like a loaded pistol.

Um, we’re going to need some help, Trevor told to the hotel operator.

***

Twenty miles northeast of Christmas Bay, Jimi Hendrix music blared as Ned Quinn, aka the Pelican Man, prepared for necropsy #287, a female roseate spoonbill. He put on a mask so he wouldn’t ingest rotting food or viscera liberated by his speedy scalpel—a lesson he’d learned the hard way. With two days until the editorial deadline for his popular column, Bird Guts, there was no time for mistakes.

Ned’s sizable laboratory took up the southeast corner of his ten-acre wildlife sanctuary called the Last Resort Flight School. He needed room, so he could play air guitar—with dramatic flair—while working through his backlog of dead birds. The solid six foot medical physicist and former NASA researcher could’ve been Samuel L. Jackson’s doppelganger. But his moves looked more like Elvis’ rubber legs as he pulled the pink spoonie out of the lab’s walk-in cooler, took it out of a zippered plastic bag, and unwrapped it from the industrial paper towels that kept it moist. He was about to examine the bird’s exterior when he felt a buzz in his right front pants pocket.

Damn. Should’ve turned that off.

He took off his right glove, stepped away from the examination table, and pulled out his phone. He saw a text from Rosa, one of the staff members at the Galveston Island Birding Association, begging him to fill in for a guide who no-showed for a sold-out birdwatching tour.

Dipshit.

This wasn’t the first time Forrest Yates had left them in the lurch. Ned bellowed in frustration and turned off the music. He re-wrapped and bagged the spoonbill and placed it back in the cooler. The necropsy on #287 would have to wait.

Chapter 1

Day 0, Saturday, October 7

8:45 a.m.

Nobody starts off wanting to be a human resources professional, no matter what they tell you. It’s a lose-lose craphole of a job. Employees hate you because you’re in charge of ethics, rules, and denying pay raises to low performers. Executives hate you because you’re in charge of ethics, rules, and cutting their six-figure bonuses based on the uptick of sexual harassment complaints against them. You hate yourself because your education is being used to hand out cupcakes the week before the employee engagement survey. People ignore your phone calls and go out of their way to avoid passing you in the hallway. You eat lunch alone. Every day. And you receive weird shit in the mail. Like dead rats and pretty Bundt cakes that smell funky.

After getting my Juris Doctor degree and passing the bar exam, I worked in a law firm where my specialty was employment law. This meant charging despised HR executives five hundred dollars an hour for advice about how to mitigate the legal exposure their gnarly situation du jour had caused. The pay was great, but the job was boring—too removed from the scumbaggery—so I left and took a position in human resources.

I was promoted to vice president and head of internal investigations at the Granny’s Home Corporation after a couple of years in middle management. The youngest VP in the company’s history! I loved everything about human resources and often wore all-black to embrace and reinforce the fear and loathing my position earned. It was fun to sit in the middle of the lunchroom and watch people act as if they weren’t watching me. A tilt of my head or jotting a note down could launch a weeks’ worth of rumors about who might be in HR’s crosshairs.

My corporate career ended abruptly after I planned and executed a sting operation I refer to as the glorious incident that changed everything. It was an amazing piece of work that highlighted my willingness to do damn near anything to bring slimeballs to justice. My unprecedented level of commitment exposed the bad behavior of several C-level execs and earned me a lucrative separation agreement from my employer—and led to zero job offers from other companies. A bunch of chickenshits is what they were.

After much soul searching and Scotch drinking (in Scotland and elsewhere), I decided to put out my shingle and be my own boss. Carpe Diem and he who hesitates is lost are my guiding mottos. My worried parents couldn’t fathom the upside of my circuitous career trajectory from Houston attorney to human resources executive to private investigator and spy shop owner on itty-gritty Galveston Island.

I’ve no regrets and relish the adventure every day brings. I’m Xena Cali, by the way, and this the story of a more memorable case my team and I recently tackled.

***

I was in my office, lights out, staring at my computer screen. I finished a bag of chocolate espresso beans, picked at the skin on my lips, and reread the 2:00 a.m. e-mail from Gregory Jackson, who I’d worked with on the sting operation in Houston. He owned a spy shop as well, did private investigation work, and was my mentor and friend.

My hands were shaking. Enough with the caffeine, Xena, you’re like a coked-up Tasmanian devil trapped in a coconut shell, I explained to myself as I swigged my third coffee. My right hand searched for the chocolate bean I’d dropped on the carpet an hour ago.

I heard people walking around my store, the Paradise Lost Spy Shop. It was time to show my face. I ran my fingers through my hair a couple of times and put a dropper of CBD oil under my tongue.

It’s for anxiety. I know you were wondering, but let’s talk about that later.

I stood and assumed a Wonder Woman power pose for a minute before thrusting open the door. Good morning, crime fighters!

I smiled as I watched Sparky and Dora prepare for our annual display and inventory reset. Sparky fiddled with a bunch of wires in one hand and his long, stringy, still-wet hair—that had become tangled in the wires—with the other. He made the store smell of pineapples.

Dora had dried and styled her short, gray coif before getting to work. She hummed as she removed and wiped down everything from the glass counter on the display case that bisected the front and back sections of the shop. I looked down at my arm-length dragon tattoo and Mad Iguanas tank top and chuckled because it hit me how different and predictable we all were. I swallowed the last of my double cortado and joined my team in the main retail space.

Sparky—thirty-eight, one year younger than me—was an enigmatic, untamable genius and my chief technology guru. He used the hair-wire knot as a pointer. Did you see the news flash from the GPI?

That’s our local paper, the Galveston Post Intelligencer.

Body found in Christmas Bay? I asked.

That’s the one.

A natural-born planner and analyst, Dora, sixty-six, was my chief researcher and managed the shop as well as my private investigation practice. She folded a used paper towel to put under her tea cup. What’s this?

Posted last night. Sparky pulled up the story on his phone, then read it aloud. "Breaking news: a death investigation is underway after the body of a white male was found on a small uninhabited island in Christmas Bay. A spokesperson for the Galveston Police Department told the Galveston Post Intelligencer they got a call at 1:43 p.m. Thursday when a couple on their honeymoon discovered the body while kayaking. Investigators have not released any information about the body or whether the cause of death is considered suspicious. This is a developing story."

Ah, on their honeymoon? Dora said. That’s sad.

I think at least one person’s day turned out worse, Sparky replied.

True. Do we know who died?

He scrolled through the story again. Nope, just that it was a white man.

I’ll get the skinny from Steve, I said. I’m sure he’s covering the story. I’m taking him for drinks tonight to settle a bet.

He doesn’t have a date on a Saturday night? Sparky asked.

Said he was taking a break.

Ouch. Must’ve been a bad scene.

My thought exactly. I grabbed a scone from the boxful I’d picked up on my way in and turned on the Alt Nation satellite radio station. Are you two ready to transform this place?

Every October we close for a day to redesign our displays and fill the store with products we think will be that year’s holiday gift-giving sensations. Two years ago, the stuffed pirate/hot lips/hedgehog video cams were a huge hit, only to be outdone by last season’s fake STD test boxes people scooped up for stocking stuffers. I was betting the Cell Silencer™ would be the hot gift this year. With two screen taps, users could block cell reception and radio waves within a fifty-yard radius. It was the perfect gift for parents desperate to resuscitate family dinner conversations or first dates worried about premature social media evaluations posted during mid-meal bathroom breaks. I imagined communications directors using this amazing gadget to keep their politicians from tweeting in the middle of the night, and crime fighters deploying the top-of-the-line model to secure sensitive sting operations. We carried three models that started at forty-nine dollars.

Each team member planned and led a part of our reset. I was in charge of fuel, finances, and fun. In other words, as long as I approved new product orders and kept people fed, Dora and Sparky were in control and used me as a pair of hands.

Dora selected and ordered all products except the stuff Sparky oversaw. She opened a box she’d pulled from the stockroom. Does pepper spray expire?

Yep, the potency degrades. Takes years, though. Look at the bottom, Sparky replied. He grabbed a peach walnut scone and went to the front of the store, where he was adjusting some lights.

It’s good to check, I said. Would hate for someone to piss off but not disable their attacker.

Dora turned over several cigarette-lighter-sized canisters in the box and sighed. Still good for two more years. I’m going to put the pepper spray next to the new Bug-a-Salt™ guns. Get it? Salt and pepper?

Sparky and I exchanged looks.

Love it. I patted Dora’s shoulder in support.

Dora pouted and then grinned. Come on, one gets rid of bugs and the other immobilizes bigger pests.

This is how the yearly reset day always went. We brainstormed how to best show off our products and tried to outdo each other’s humor and creativity. Sparky often had the most out-there ideas. Like when he created a scavenger hunt using thermal cameras and virtual reality goggles. Our customers loved competing for prizes like mini-recorders and lockpick kits. And no, we didn’t encourage people to break into houses or cars and do bad things. Most people picked locks because they misplaced their keys or wanted to break into their teenager’s room to search for drugs or porn.

Sparky researched and ordered our expensive stuff such as security and surveillance systems, cloud-based video storage, and anything requiring professional installation: panic rooms, love dens, and security control centers.

I’ve been working on something really cool. Sparky smiled at us and rubbed his hands together. Xena, you ready to shine?

You know it. I cracked my neck and rolled my shoulders. There was no telling what he’d cooked up, but I welcomed his weird challenges.

Sparky turned on several red laser lights he’d set up to crisscross the open retail space that ran through the center of the store from the entrance to the sales counter. I want you to try to make it from the front to the back of the store without touching the lasers. A siren will go off if your body breaks through any of the light beams.

Will it hurt people’s eyes if they look into them? Dora asked.

This product emits light at a harmless wavelength. New technology. And get this: If Xena makes it through unscathed, the lights stay on, ready to challenge unwanted visitors. Kids will be better at maneuvering through the lasers than their parents, so I think these kits will be on every teen and tween’s holiday wish list.

That’s brilliant! Dora said.

"What do you mean if I make it through? I placed my hands on my hips. And are you calling me an old lady?"

If the shoe fits! Sparky then waved his hands back and forth as if he wanted to retract his statement. Nah, I know you’re all ninja warrior and stuff, but I think I’ve got you this time.

Sparky was referring to my love of parkour—the extreme sport of natural forward movement often called free running—which I’ve used to get into or out of challenging situations during stakeouts and investigative confrontations. I’d practiced parkour since I was a teenager in Cincinnati after quitting the gymnastics squad because it was boring—a decision that disappointed my mother, who was the team coach at my school and a celebrated gymnast in her native Scotland.

To warm up, I pulled my hair into a short ponytail, sprinted a couple of blocks back and forth outside the front of the store, and did a few somersaults, jumps, and handstands just for fun and to show off a wee bit. Dora and Sparky watched as I assessed the configuration of the twelve streams of light to determine my path through them.

I’m ready. I emptied my lungs, breathed in deep, raised my arms, dove into the laser field, and landed on my hands and knees near the center of the store. I paused and imagined being chased by an assassin. Adrenaline pumping, I crouched low and looked out of the store to see if he—or she—was closing in. Not yet. I hopped over a waist-high light beam, then slid under the next one and tilted between two more. I made it through the laser field and dove behind the sales counter, safe from my imaginary killer. I popped back up, pointed my invisible weapon toward the front door, and shot. Gotcha.

Sparky and Dora cheered from the front of the store.

I bowed. Victorious again!

Sparky checked the light settings using an app on his phone. Pretty impressive… He lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. But can you make it back out?

I bluffed. Piece of cake. I knew this time would be harder because there wasn’t enough room to get a running start.

After staring at the red beams for a minute, I vaulted over the first set of lasers and tried to cartwheel my way through the rest as fast as I could. My whole body spasmed when the siren blared inches from my head. I tumbled to the ground outside the front of the store and into a tall man, nearly knocking him down.

Sorry! I bounced up dizzy and looked at the familiar face.

Sparky turned off the siren. "You’re