Shock Treatment (24 page)

Despite his brief attitude, Greg knew better than to try to weasel out of the assignment. Catherine was the supervisor now. She called the shots.

“Keep me posted,” she told him. Exiting the lab, she took one last look at the macabre tryst on the screen. “I want to know who that horny zombie is.”

Nick chuckled as he followed her out the door. “I can't believe you actually just said that.”

“Neither can I,” she said.

F
ANG WAS NOT
his real name.

Ted Santana lived in a trailer park outside Henderson, an industrial town a few miles southeast of the glitz and glamor of Sin City. The low-rent ambience of the park could not have been more different from the upscale environs of The Nile. Rusty mobile homes, in varying states of repair, squatted along both sides of blacktop roads. Drying laundry hung on clotheslines. Barbecue grills, toys, and cheap plastic playground equipment littered the patchy brown lawns. Weeds and potholes infested the pavement. Santana's neighbors eyed Sara and Vartann with myriad combinations of curiosity and suspicion. Laughing toddlers splashed in a blue plastic wading pool, oblivious to the strangers' arrival. A chained mutt growled at Sara, who remembered investigating a murder-suicide here a few years back. She doubted that Rita Segura had ever set foot in the vicinity.

“There he is,” Vartann said, leading the way. The park's manager, not wanting trouble, had told them where to find Fang Santana. It was mid-afternoon and the temperature had climbed into the mid-fifties. Sara was starting to forget what sleep felt like.

Their target was already in the system, due to a prior conviction for selling dangerous reptiles over the internet, but he would have been easy to spot even if Sara hadn't already eyeballed his mug shots. The black-market snake dealer was a walking advertisement for his wares. His shaved cranium had a distinctly serpentine cast to it. A snakeskin vest exposed a smooth, hairless chest. A curved fang hung like a pendant from his neck. Bony rattles were strung around his wrist as a bracelet. A bad case of eczema made his skin dry and scaly. Torn jeans and alligator boots completed his ensemble. Frown lines made him look older than his thirty-plus years. Old bite marks scarred his bare arms.

Talk about overkill
, Sara thought, getting a nasty vibe from the guy.
No wonder LaReue didn't want to get on his bad side.

Santana was seated on the steps outside his trailer, entertaining a couple of teenage girls who were way too young for him. The girls acted both repelled and fascinated by the banded milk snake Santana was handling for their amusement. They squealed in delighted horror as he extended the snake's narrow head toward them. A forked tongue flicked in and out of its jaws.

“Go ahead,” Santana urged the teens. “Touch it. You know you want to.”

Ick,
Sara thought.
Looks like we got here just in time.

Intent on his performance, he didn't notice Sara and Vartann until they were practically in front of him. The detective's shadow fell over him. “Mr. Santana?”

“Who wants to know?” He glared up at the new arrivals, annoyed at the interruption. Novelty contact lenses gave him yellow eyes with slitted pupils. A lisp impeded his speech.

Vartann produced his badge. “LVPD. We'd like to ask you some questions.”

The girls evaporated at the sight of the badge. Santana scowled at their departure. He rose angrily to his feet. “What's this all about?”

“Coral snakes,” Sara said. “You sold any lately?”

“Without a license?” Santana feigned shock at the very notion. “Why, that would be illegal!” He leered at Sara, undressing her with his eyes. “And you are?”

“Sara Sidle,” she replied coldly. “I'm with the crime lab.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sssara Sssidle.” He drew out the sibilants in her name. A forked tongue flicked into view, revealing the source of his lisp. His breath reeked. “Want to play Eve and the Serpent sometime? Maybe take a bite of my apple?”

“No thanks.” She found his bisected tongue more repulsive than shocking. She knew of several tattoo parlors in the city that performed the procedure, which involved a red-hot wire and an excess of bad judgment. “Too wormy for me.”

He shrugged. Lifting the snake to his lips, he kissed it on the mouth. “Don't know what you're missing, babe.”

“That's enough,” Vartann growled. “Save the sideshow act for the jailbait.” He got in Santana's face, standing at least three inches taller than the alleged snake dealer. “You dealing in hot snakes again?”

“Like I'd really tell you if I was,” Santana hissed, not backing down. “I've checked in with my probation officer this month, right on schedule. You've got no right to hassle me.”

Vartann rapped the corrugated metal wall of Santana's trailer. “And if I checked out your digs here, I wouldn't find any illegal reptiles?”

“You got a warrant?”

That would certainly make life easier,
Sara thought. Unfortunately, even with Santana's record, there was no way a judge was going to issue a warrant based on a vague tip from an unproven informant. Chip LaReue hadn't even known for sure if Santana knew anything about the Nile incident.

“You're a convicted felon on probation,” Vartann reminded him. “All I need is probable cause.” He peered at the brightly colored snake coiled around Santana's arm. “Hey, Sidle. That look like a coral snake to you?”

Sara played along. “Could be.”

“What? Are you kidding me?” Santana protested. “It's a harmless milk snake, perfectly legal.” He held out the snake for their inspection. “Look at the bands. You know how it goes, ‘red on black, pat it on the back.'”

“I don't know,” Sara hedged. “That only applies to North America. For all we know, that could be some exotic coral snake from overseas or south of
the border.” She called Vartann's attention to the carefree children in the wading pool. “Lots of kids in this park. A loose snake could pose a major threat to innocent lives. If there's even a chance our friend here is in possession of dangerous reptiles, seems to me that's grounds for immediate action.”

To be honest, she wasn't sure that argument would hold up in court, but Santana was already on probation. All they needed now was an excuse to turn up the heat . . . and see just how cold-blooded Santana actually was.

“Works for me.” Vartann pulled his best cop face on Santana. “So what's it going to be? We going to do this the easy way or not?” He tapped his jacket pocket. “Just for the record, I have your probation officer on speed-dial.”

If he'd been a cobra, Santana would have been spitting poison by now. Deprived of that option, he had no choice but to give ground. “Fine,” he snarled. “It's no skin off my nose.” He stepped aside to give them access to the trailer's front door. He held onto his pet snake like it was a security blanket. “See for yourself. I'm clean.”

“Maybe later,” Sara said. “First, I think we'll check out your
other
trailer.”

Santana's cocky attitude wilted a little. “Other?”

“C'mon, Ted,” she said, rubbing in his real name a little. “You think we didn't check with the park's management first? We know you're paying rent on
two
spaces.” She savored his obvious discomfort as she confronted him with the fruits of their homework. “You trying to hoodwink your probation officer, in case she drops by for an unannounced visit,
or are you just afraid to sleep under the same roof as your venomous contraband?”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” he blustered, but she could tell that they had him on the ropes. He nervously toyed with the milk snake. “You can't do this!”

“Watch us,” Vartann said.

The detective stayed close to Santana as they escorted him across the park to a second trailer three lots away. A rusty old Shasta travel trailer rested in the middle of an untended lawn. Its white aluminum exterior looked like it hadn't been washed since the Clinton Administration. Cardboard was taped up over the windows. A
KEEP OUT
sign discouraged nosy neighbors. A sheet was draped over a box by the steps. Sharp little squeaks escaped the sheet. Sara yanked the sheet away to reveal a cage full of live mice, resting atop a plastic milk carton. The mice scurried away from the disturbance.

“Dinner for some scaly friends?” she guessed.

Santana glowered balefully. “No law against keeping mice.”

“Maybe.” Vartann took hold of the suspect's arm, in case he tried to make a break for it. “But let's see what else you're keeping.”

By now, a small crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings. “Wonder what your neighbors would think if they knew you might be keeping poisonous snakes this close to their kids?” Sara didn't bother keeping her voice low. Angry mutters emerged from the crowd. “If I were you, I wouldn't count on them to back you up.”

She tried the door, only to find it locked. Vartann
frisked Santana for the key and handed it to Sara. Leaving the detective (and the surly residents) to keep watch over Santana, she entered the trailer. The cardboard over the windows kept out the daylight, so she resorted to a flashlight. The beam from the flash swept over the cramped, shadowy interior.

It was obvious at a glance that nothing human lived in the extra trailer. The furnishings had been gutted to make room for a wall of metal racks supporting rows of large, plastic containers. The bins were piled on the racks all the way up to the fiber-glass and particle board ceiling. Coiled snakes slithered inside the bins, which had been labeled by a magic marker. Sara scanned the labels, which were practically a who's who of hot reptiles: sidewinders, green mambas, Gila monsters, cobras, rattlers . . . and coral snakes.

In no hurry to check out the contents of the bins herself, Sara decided to take the labels at their word. Emerging back into the sunlight, she gave Vartann a thumbs-up. “Notify Animal Control that we have a situation here,” she informed him. “Multiple situations, in fact.”

Santana looked around anxiously, as if contemplating an escape attempt, only to find himself surrounded by a sea of hostile faces. Even if he managed to break free from Vartann's grip, he wasn't going to get far. In fact, judging from his irate neighbors, he was probably better off in police custody.

I think this is one snake we can handle ourselves,
she thought.

She carefully locked the trailer door before
rejoining Vartann. She took the milk snake off Santana's hands while Vartann cuffed him and read him his rights. “Theodore Santana, you're under arrest for possession of illegal venomous reptiles, possibly with intent to sell.”

Assuming a judge didn't throw the evidence out, he was looking at up to five years in prison and fines of up to $250,000 for each charge against him. At the very least, he was in clear violation of his probation.

“Not to mention accessory to an attempted homicide,” Sara added.

“What the hell?” Santana said. “Where you'd get that from?”

Sara played a hunch. “We can run the DNA on those coral snakes. If they're related to this other snake we confiscated recently, one that attacked a woman near Summerlin a few days ago, you could be in even bigger trouble than you already are.”

“Holy crap,” Santana swore. He was shaking so hard his bracelet rattled. Slitted eyes pleaded for mercy. “Hey, maybe we can make a deal or something?”

Vartann smirked at Sara. This was going just the way they wanted. “No promises,” he told Santana, “but any cooperation at this point will count in your favor.” He got down to brass tacks. “You sell a coral snake to anyone recently?”

Santana wavered. “Maybe,” he said weakly. “I can't remember.”

“Time's running out,” Vartann warned. “Give us a name.”

Santana caved. “Never got his name. Just his money. He wanted a coral snake, no questions asked. Said he'd heard I was the guy who could hook him up.”

“And did you?” Sara asked.

“Sure,” he confessed. “But I swear, I didn't know what he wanted it for. I figured he was just a collector or something. How was I supposed to know about that crazy shit at the spa?”

Obviously, Santana had been keeping up with current events. Sara imagined the story was spreading pretty quickly through the reptile trade. A smarter perp might have disposed of the evidence by now, but obviously Santana had been too cocky—or greedy—to get rid of his scaly wares.

“Describe him,” Vartann ordered.

“Okay, okay.” Santana closed his eyes to concentrate. “He was this prissy little dude. Tubby. Losing his hair. Kind of straight-laced.” A sneer conveyed his scorn. “Not the kind of guy who looked like he was into hot snakes, but his money was good. Said it was a gift for a friend.”

Some friend,
Sara thought. But it was looking like Heather Gilroy, not to mention Chip LaReue, were off the hook. “Give us more. Height? Age? Race?”

“In his forties maybe,” Santana said. “White. Shorter than me. Nervous, like he couldn't wait to get out of here. Kind of spooked by the snake, too, which was weird.” Santana was throwing out everything he could think of now in hopes of finding a get-out-of-jail-free card. “I offered him a beer, but
he turned up his nose at it. Asked for an iced tea instead. Like I had any of that stuff around.”

A bell went off in Sara's head. “Is it just me,” she whispered to Vartann, “or does that sound like Brian Yun?” The Nile's overworked assistant manager fit Santana's description to a tee.

“I was just thinking that,” Vartann said. His ordinarily saturnine face showed unusual animation. “Brian Yun drinks iced tea. He offered Langston and I some Snapples.”

Makes sense,
Sara thought. Yun sometimes worked late at The Nile. He could have easily slipped the coral snake into the vivarium when no one was around, then sat back and waited for all hell to break loose in the morning.
But why?