by Kit Frazier
I got up and peeked through the blinds and watched Tanner print out my stuff. That ought to keep him busy for at least the next twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I could spend snooping.
I headed back to my desk to search public records for Scott Barnes. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but when you cast a wide net you can just keep sifting until you find something that makes sense, or until you find something that doesn’t fit. I pulled up public licenses and notices, including marriage, divorce, property tax, deeds and bankruptcy.
It felt like was going through my friend’s dirty laundry. You think you know someone until you start poking around in the nooks and crannies of their life. I winced, hoping no one would ever get the urge to poke around in mine.
I clicked link after link, turning circles in cyberspace until I landed on a link mentioning an arrest at a high school football game. Scooter was a gentle giant, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember Scooter getting arrested.
I sent everything to the printer at the back of the office, where I tucked the printouts in a big white envelope and stuffed the whole thing in my purse. I’d sort them out when I got home.
Back at my desk, I picked up the phone and called Cantu.
“Hey,” I said when he answered. “You know anything about an arrest on Scooter?”
“Hello to you too, Cauley. How’s the family?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What are you up to?”
“Running the plates on the abandoned El Camino we found out behind the Texaco,” he said. “Belonged to a guy named Burt Buggess.”
“Buggess?” I said, tapping my pen against my lips. Scooter’s pet shop guy? Apparently I wasn’t the first person Van Gogh had interrogated. I hoped Mr. Buggess had met a better fate than I had.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Let me guess. Our Mr. Buggess lives in close proximity to Scooter’s pet store.”
“Stay out of this Cauley,” Cantu warned, and I snorted.
“You were going to say something about Scooter’s arrest record?”
There was a long silence, and he said, “Is it important?”
“I don’t know.”
“And not for the paper?”
I pulled the handset away from my ear and stared at it. “I can’t believe you said that.”
Cantu sighed over the line. “You give me what you got and I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
I smiled happily and disconnected, then yellow-paged the number for Brackenridge Hospital and asked the receptionist for Scott Barnes.
After some shuffling and clicking, she came back with a bored, nasally voice. “I’m sorry ma’am. Mr. Barnes is in a no-call area.”
“The psych ward?”
“I can’t give out that information,” she said.
“Can you tell me when he’ll be released?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, either.”
“Is there anything you can tell me?”
“I get off at five.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve been a huge help.”
I hung up the phone and stared around the warren of cubicles. I’d done as much damage as I could for one day. I turned the events of yesterday over in my mind, from Scooter, the SWAT team, the bald earless guy, the abandoned El Camino…
“El Camino,” I muttered. Cantu seemed to think it was important, so I ran a search. The car was listed as a Chevy, but it looked like it was half car, half truck.
I Googled Burt Buggess and double-checked his number against the one Scooter’d given me in the shed.
“Bingo,” I whispered. “Same Burt Buggess.”
I ran MapQuest, which indicated that Mr. Buggess lived in Paradise Cove, a little community on Lake Travis that resembled paradise by nobody’s standards. It was, however, temptingly close to the Blue Parrot, Scooter’s pet shop, just as Cantu had said. I printed out the map and the information on the El Camino site, just in case.
“Wow, are you getting an El Camino?” Remie said dreamily. She’d been heading back to the front office from the breakroom and stopped to peek at my monitor. “I once lost something very important in the backseat of an El Camino.”
I doubted that Remie’d ever lost anything once, but I pointed to the web page.
“I just want to know what it looks like,” I said.
Mia, who’d been following Remie, wrinkled her nose. “And you need to know this because?”
“It could be another piece to a puzzle I’m working on,” I said. I hit print and casually sauntered down the aisle to swipe the web info off the printer. Snagging a fresh manila folder from the supply room, I made a new file and marked it Buggess.
Back at my desk, Remie cocked her hip. “You’re going to get in big trouble.”
“Me?” I said, tucking the newly constructed file under my arm. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been out of trouble.”
Grabbing my purse, I dialed up Shay at his auto shop, who reported he’d taken my motor apart to drain the lake water, and not only was it going to cost a small fortune to dry it out and put it back together, it wouldn’t be ready for at least another day. Thanking him, I disconnected and sighed.
I was going to have to bum a ride to Paradise.
“Mia,” I said. “Did you ever lose anything in an El Camino?”
Hot wind blistered us through Beetle’s open windows as Mia and I zoomed down the rolling hillsides of Ranch Road 620, past the bait shops and liquor stores on Hudson Bend and into Paradise Cove.
Paradise was wedged between two affluent neighborhoods, a proud throwback to a time when libertarians ruled Central Texas and Texas Rangers wrote official reports on cigarette wrappers. In its heyday, the little Lake Travis community was a place for families to rent cabins for quiet country weekends outside of the hustle and bustle of 1940s Austin. As the sprawling city limits of Austin crept closer, the cove gave way to decaying mobile homes and world-weary lake houses patched together with tar paper and plywood.
We turned down Doss Road, where single-wide trailers perched precariously on cinder blocks, surrounded by tall, twisted trees and patches of fenced-in dirt. A rangy looking guy with piercings on every part of his body I could see and probably parts I couldn’t wandered into the road.
“What’s the matter?” Mia said.
“Just trying to remember the last time I had a tetanus shot.” I looked down at the map printout. “This is it. I think,” I said, biting my lower lip as I tried to match the address in Shiner’s file to anything other than the solitary stone fence circling a row of shiny, chrome-covered motorcycles.
“I think we’re here, but this doesn’t seem right,” I said, looking at the map.
“I guess we just pull in the drive,” Mia said, nosing the Beetle up to the fence. A pack of dogs in assorted shapes and sizes scrambled out of the gate, the smallest of which was barking so hard his hind legs lifted with the effort.
“Is that a dog or a rat?” I said. Mia uncapped her Nikon and fired off a shot.
The barking came to an abrupt halt as an ominous shadow slid over the passenger-side door.
“Uh, oh.” Mia whispered.
Uh, oh was right. A fleeting image of Van Gogh rushed through my mind and I cringed. Peering over my Ray-Bans through the open car window, I saw the dark form of a man who eclipsed the hot, afternoon sun.
“You need sumthin’?”
He wasn’t Van Gogh, but his voice boomed over me. My heart pounded in my throat. Get a grip, Cauley, I thought. You’re overreacting.
I swallowed hard. “Burt Buggess?”
His dark eyes narrowed and he looked as though he was considering the pros and cons or ripping us limb from limb.
“I’m the one who called you yesterday. You know. About Scott Barnes? I asked you to pick up Sam and look after the shop for a couple of days?”
After a few moments, in which I swear I could hear his synapses firing, a smile split his shaggy black beard. “You’re Scooter’s friend, ” he said, nodding. “Co
me on back, then.”
The man’s arms were scrawled with prison tattoos and he had one of those permanent teardrops inked below his left eye signifying a gang kill. I swallowed hard. “Uh, Mr. Buggess, I just have a few questions. We could take care of it out here.”
“My friends call me Bug,” he said over his shoulder, and he disappeared into a thick patch of gnarled mesquite trees.
Mia shrugged. “He seems nice,” she said, slipping her camera strap around her neck. “And he likes dogs.”
“So did Hitler.”
Mia peered at me over her little round sunglasses. “You’re the one who wanted to come out here, and you gotta get this done before your big date.”
The dogs resumed leaping and yipping, jumping so high they were level with the passenger door.
“Hey!” I yelped. The rat-dog vaulted through the window and landed in my lap.
“Oh, look!” Mia said. “She likes you.”
“I see that.” I stared at the wriggling rodent in my lap. I wondered if this was some kind of omen about my so-called date. The little dog licked me right in the mouth. Apparently so.
“Yuck!” I said, spitting and hacking, probably more than necessary. I got the sinking feeling this was going to be the high point of my day.
Scooping up the hairless beast, I bundled it across the seat to Mia. “It’s drooling.”
“Oh, come on, she’s sweet,” Mia said, making smoochie noises as she accepted the dog.
“So’s my Great Aunt Irene, but that doesn’t mean I want to kiss her on the mouth.”
“Your aunt drools?”
“Only when she’s awake.”
I climbed out of the Beetle and waded through a sea of wagging tails and twitching noses. Mia trotted along behind, clutching the rat-dog.
We followed the path through the thicket until a perfectly manicured lawn unfolded around a tidy stone cabin. Flower beds rioted with plants I recognized as rosemary and mint and a dozen other herbs I couldn’t identify without a field guide.
“Come on in,” the man called from somewhere inside. The door was open. “I’ll get you some tea.”
“We don’t need any tea, Mr. Bug,” I said, but I did as I was told. The Bug rounded the corner with two cups of tea, which were dwarfed in his ham-sized hands.
The floors were hardwood, the walls white-washed, and crocheted doilies dotted the surfaces of polished antique end tables. It looked and smelled like a grandma house, except for the wall-to-wall cages and aquariums stocked with strange little animals. And there, on top of an old 1940s radio, perched Sam.
“Hey, buddy!” I said, moving to scratch his neck. Mia set the rat-dog on the floor and snapped a photograph of the cages.
“Have some tea,” the Bug said. “I grow the leaves myself.”
I sniffed at it and took a sip, hoping the contents were legal. I winced. It was so acidic it stung the roof of my mouth, but it didn’t seem to burn the enamel off my teeth. Things were looking up.
“Mr. Bug, you work with Scott Barnes?” I said, and the man let loose a laugh so deep it made his considerable girth shake.
“Ah, Scooter. Good man in a bad situation, and I know a fair bit about bad situations.”
I raised my eyebrows and waited. The effective use of silence was one of the many things Mark Ramsey had taught me.
“Yeah,” the Bug said, running his hand over his shaggy beard. “I went over to the shed for Sam and then on to the Blue Parrot right after you called me. Went in, fed the critters, mopped cages, took care of a few things here and there, and I went out to the parking lot and damned if my car was gone.”
“An El Camino?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding his head so hard I feared it would snap right off his big neck. “It was the darndest thing…”
His voice trailed off when a small, fluffy white dog with a tiny bandaged foot thumped around the corner.
“Scuse me,” the Bug said, his big, bearded face breaking into a wide grin. “You needin’ your bandages changed, there Muffin?”
I smiled involuntarily at the tiny dog. “What a sweet little puppy,” I said, trying not to succumb to whatever instinct it is that makes you talk baby talk when you see something that cute. I reached out to pat the ball of fluff as it limped pitifully past my leg.
“Ouch!” I yelped. “It bit me!”
“Oh, she don’t mean nothin’ by it,” said the Bug.
“I think she did,” I said. “She’s not letting go.”
Flash! Mia snapped a picture.
“Here, now Muffin. There’s a good girl,” the Bug said. He pried the dog off my hand, taking a fair-sized chunk of my thumb with it.
“Let me have a look at that,” he said, restraining the snarling fuzzball under one big, tattooed arm as he looked at the puncture holes between my thumb and index finger. “Got somethin’ that’ll fix that right up.”
“No, really, I’m fine…” The Bug’s tea tasted like battery acid. I didn’t even want to know what he thought would fix a dog bite. But he’d already retrieved a jar of something that smelled like old socks and was spreading it on my bleeding bite wound.
“There now.” He grinned and turned his ministrations to the dog. Mia trotted over to study his handiwork.
“Some people say I got a way with animals,” he said.
Nearby, a sugar glider with a nasty gash to the head lounged in a bed of cedar shavings next to an aquarium of tiny, colorful frogs. The frogs were making small, chirping noises like tiny tropical birds. The whole place looked like the Betty Ford center for animals. Soft hearts and weird animals. I could see why the Bug and Scooter had been friends.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Bug,” I began, hoping to get down to business. I pulled my little red spiral notebook, a pen and the file I’d started out of my purse. “May I ask you a few questions?”
“Bug,” he said, re-bandaging the dog’s tiny white paw. “You cut your hand so don’t touch those frogs.”
“Not a problem,” I said, looking into the aquarium of tiny frogs, which were such bright hues of electric blue and candy-apple red that they didn’t look real. I hadn’t cut my hand, I’d been attacked by a fuzzball, but I didn’t see the need to belabor the point.
“Poison dart frogs,” the Bug said, and his tone reminded me of Scooter when he was in the middle of one of his lectures on obscure animal facts. “From Argentina. Indians used to boil the skins and dip their arrows in the poison. Paralyzes the prey.”
I moved away from the aquarium. “Is it legal to own these things?”
“No law against it in Texas.” He shrugged. “They’re safe long as you don’t have a cut.”
“Or a dart,” I said.
“This is so cool,” Mia said, and snapped a picture of the neon frogs. “I saw some cages around the side of the house. Do you mind if I go snap a few shots?”
The big guy shrugged. “Please yourself.”
“Exotic animals,” I said, watching as Mia wandered out the back door. “And you’re taking care of these animals for Scott?”
“Some of “em. I do his rehab,” he said. “I don’t know what company he’s got importing those animals, but some of those little fellas get here in real bad shape. I take “em to the vet, get “em fixed, and if I need to, find “em good homes.”
I nodded, but wondered what kind of home would be good for poisonous frogs.
“What kind of bad shape are the animals in?” I said, hoping it wasn’t something truly awful.
“Hungry,” the Bug said. “Skinny. And real dirty. You know. Covered in their own filth.”
I winced. “Do you mind if I ask what veterinarian you take them to?”
The Bug hesitated, and I knew” I’d gone too far. Great, Cauley. Now he’s going to clam up.
The Bug eyed me for a moment, and to my surprise, he said, “Doc Smit, out east in Bastrop. Only a few vets in town take exotic animals.”
I nodded, trying not to breathe a sigh of relief when he didn’t go
quiet on me. I wanted to be able to talk to him again if I needed to, and, truth be told, I kind of liked the big guy.
“You know, I use that El Camino to tote them around,” the Bug said. “You know. To new homes, out to Doc Smit. That sort of thing.”
I stared at the notebook on my lap. Scooter and his exotic animals were connected to the Bug, who’d had an El Camino that had been stolen in Scooter’s parking lot yesterday. Cantu said he’d seen an abandoned El Camino at the Texaco where I’d been jumped by Van Gogh. Yesterday. Cantu told me this morning the El Camino had been traced back to the Bug. Standing near the cage of colorful frogs, I smelled a rat.
“Mr. Bug,” I said, watching from the corner of my eye as Mia wandered back in, snapping pictures as she moved. “I think I may know how to get your car,” I said the Bug.
“Well, now. That’s cause for celebration.” He grinned and startled me when he scooped us both into a big, group hug, and I could feel Mia stifling a giggle.
When he let go, I said, “Just one more thing, Mr. Buggess.” I looked up at the gang-kill tear tattoo, which loomed high on his bushily bearded cheek.
“Mr. Buggess. Have you ever…killed anyone?”
Tucking the fluffy little dog into the crook of his arm, the Bug touched the tattoo on his cheek.
“Not on purpose,” he said. “And nobody that didn’t need it.”
Chapter Eight
“You really think he killed somebody?” Mia said when we were back in the Beetle.
“I don’t think he was lying,” I said, shifting my knees so they didn’t hit the dash. I could not wait to get my Jeep back.
“What I don’t understand is that the Bug said Scooter’s animals were in bad shape,” I said as we snaked our way out of Paradise Cove and down 620, where Mia pulled into the perfectly landscaped parking lot at The Blue Parrot. “That doesn’t sound like Scooter.”
We climbed out of the car and peered through the window. The pet shop was closed, but it was neat and orderly, like a Disney-fied jungle crammed with tropical plants and colorful animals. Lizards and snakes lazed about in spacious, clean aquariums. A capuchin monkey chided us through a large brass cage.
