MacKinnon 01 Scoop

by Kit Frazier

  “The point is, it doesn’t matter how good the sex is,” I said, listening as Bogey told Astor he hoped they didn’t hang her by her pretty little neck. “Turning her in is the right thing to do.”

  Brynn stared at me. “Beckett, what did you use on her hair? It soaked into her brain.”

  “More martini, please,” I said.

  Shiner grinned. “Worried about your date?”

  “That we can settle right now.” Mia picked up my Magic Eight Ball and shook it. “Will Cauley have a good time tonight?”

  She turned the ball over. “ASK AGAIN LATER.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Beckett was dabbing my lipstick with a tissue when a thump sounded at the door. We all went quiet.

  A voice outside the door said, “Yo. Is there anybody in there?”

  “Great.” I scowled. “A Pink Floyd aficionado. I’m about to get beamed back to the eighties.”

  “Hey,” Shiner said. “Adam Sandler made a whole career out of it.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Brynn said, hustling me toward the door.

  Beckett almost teared up. “Our little Cauley has a date.”

  If there’s anything I hate more than an ass, it’s a pretentious ass, and Diego was definitely a pretentious ass. But curiosity had me wondering what would make a man take a sudden interest after years of no contact.

  I winced as we pulled up to the Shoreline Grill, the restaurant where everybody who’s anybody goes to pose, and is therefore a known haunt for that blood-sucking pseudo-reporter, Miranda Phillips.

  As Diego steered me down the stairs onto the elegant outdoor patio, I wished I hadn’t agreed to go in his car. It’s good to have an escape route.

  “Cauley, Cauley, Cauley,” Diego said after we were seated at an excellent table. He was darkly handsome, his teeth unnaturally white.

  The evening air was warm and wet with the threat of rain. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the smell of good food, and I could hear Town Lake lapping the shoreline below. Despite the elegant atmosphere, I had the creepy feeling that someone was watching me.

  Diego pulled out my chair, brushing against me at every given opportunity. Elegantly dressed society-types tittered around us and I wondered what Tom Logan was doing tonight.

  Sighing, I resigned myself to an irksome dinner at one of the best restaurants in Austin, determined to find out why I’d been summoned.

  The Shoreline is at the foot of the Four Seasons Hotel, a stop for celebs like Kevin Costner and Clint Eastwood when they’re shooting films in Central Texas. It’s nestled along the rolling green shores of Town Lake and in the summer, you can sit on the patio at sunset and watch the largest North American population of Mexican freetailed bats swoop out from beneath Congress Bridge.

  From the way Diego was looking at me, bats would be the high point of the evening.

  Lilting strains of an opera spilled from the small, special-events orchestra, and I looked at my program.

  “You like the music? I arranged for it especially for you,” Diego said with an oily smile. “It’s a Czech opera. The Cunning Little Vixen.”

  He looked at me like that was supposed to mean something. “It’s about a little fox caught by a forester and turned into a beautiful young woman,” he went on, “but the fox is clever. She escapes, returning to her beloved forest.”

  “Where she falls in love with another fox?”

  Diego smiled. “And then she dies.”

  Diego snapped his fingers and the sommelier hustled out. If the wine steward was annoyed at the finger-snapping, he hid it well. The steward nodded then scurried off and in moments, returned, brandishing what was probably a very expensive bottle of white wine. Diego made a big production out of sniffing the cork.

  “There is nothing like a good Sauvignon Blanc,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. He pursed his lips for a small sip. “Confident but not arrogant. Did you know that Sauvignon Blanc means the Savage White?”

  I didn’t say anything because he was talking at me, not to me, and I was getting more irritated by the minute.

  “Do you know anything about wine, Cauley?”

  “Only when to put a cork in it.”

  He took out his cell phone and pushed the “off” button. “Now,” he said. “You have my full attention.”

  Oh goody. My patience was wearing thin.

  I sat back and looked at him. If Diego was an ear-chopping axe murderer, he hid it well. He wore a silvery, slick-fabric suit and a salmon-colored shirt and tie, his dark hair crunchy with product. Just to confirm my suspicions, I sneaked a peek down his crossed legs. Yep. Salmon-colored socks.

  Despite his flamboyant wardrobe, Diego was more sophisticated than I remembered, but time hadn’t taken the predatory edge off him. He ordered for both of us without asking me what I wanted, then reached across the table and took my hand.

  I knew this was more than a casual date, but I wasn’t sure what. My eyes flicked around the twinkle-lighted patio, and felt a bone-deep stab of envy when I caught sight of Miranda Phillips in a drop-dead black dress, fully engaged in an intimate conversation with a very handsome assistant district attorney who looked like he’d barely passed puberty.

  “Are you all right?” Diego said.

  “Yeah,” I said, spreading my napkin in my lap and trying not to think evil thoughts about Miranda. “I thought I saw a snake.”

  Oh, well. I’ve never been a slave to the angels of my better nature.

  The server came soundlessly with our spinach salads and Semolina crusted oysters.

  “I understand you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of trouble,” he said, forking an oyster and lifting it to my lips. “I may be able to help.”

  I sniffed the oyster and opted for the salad. “What are you talking about?”

  He looked at me intently. “Scott Barnes.”

  I ate a forkful of baby spinach and raised a brow.

  “I saw you in the newspaper. With Scott Barnes.”

  I had to stop myself from grinding my teeth.

  “I understand you are suffering a bit of fallout because of your conversation in the shed.” He leaned forward. “I can offer you protection, but I must know what Mr. Barnes told you.”

  I stared at Diego, wondering when he started talking like a mobster in a B-movie. “Protection?”

  “Of course,” he said. His brows dipped sharply over his nose. “You are friends with Scott Barnes and right now it seems you are his only friend. If you tell me what he said about El Patron, perhaps we could work a deal.”

  I nearly choked on my salad. “El Patron? The gang?”

  Diego sat back in his chair. “El Patron is not a gang. More like a network. They finance a number of activities my family would like to know more about. And frankly…” Diego stopped and poured more wine. “We believe that Mr. Barnes has something that belongs to El Patron. We’d like to know what it is.”

  I shook my head, trying to get rid of the buzzing.

  “You know people connected with El Patron?”

  Ignoring the question, he said, “I like you Cauley, I always have, and it would be mutually beneficial for both of our…businesses if you were to tell me what Scott Barnes said to you in that shed.”

  “What businesses?” I said, and my voice sounded high.

  “You work for a newspaper.” Diego waved his free hand in a bored manner. “I work with my family. Importing, exporting,” he said. “Entrepreneurial financing.”

  I swallowed hard. “And financial compliance?”

  “Only when absolutely necessary.”

  Well-dressed couples waltzed around the patio keeping time with the music. The swollen sun hung low in the purple sky and patrons at the bar moved closer to the rail overlooking the water for a better look at the bats, which would soon make their exodus from beneath the Congress Bridge.

  For the first time, I realized two dark-haired men who looked like they could be Diego’s second cousins lounged bonelessly at the table b
ehind us. Telltale bulges showed near their waistbands.

  The voice of Tom Logan’s secretary echoed in my brain. Agent Logan’s in Organized Crime.

  A surge of panic pooled in my stomach. Oh, Scooter, what have you done? And more importantly, where was Tom Logan when you needed him?

  I stared at Diego.

  “You’re Texas Syndicate,” I said. “I’m on a date with the Mafia?”

  He smiled. “Not the whole Mafia. Just me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Diego smiled a shark’s smile and I could practically hear the theme music from Jaws thrumming from the river below.

  “Texas Syndicate,” he said. “Let’s just say we have mutual financial interests with our, uh, colleagues, in El Patron.”

  Unease crept up my spine and I shook my head. “Then why the big pretense of a date?”

  “Who says we can’t mix business with pleasure?” he said. “I thought we could have a little drink. A little dance. I’ve taken a room here, if that would be more comfortable.”

  My heart thumped hard. Behind me, tiny wings began to thwack rhythmically from beneath the bridge. The sound quickened and grew to a fury and within moments, more than a million pairs of leathery wings pulsed on the evening air. The bats screeched, spiraling up from beneath the bridge, their small, brown velvet bodies snaking over the setting sun.

  “Did your friend say anything odd or unusual?” Diego said. “Perhaps, something about…Vixen?”

  I had a very bad feeling I was about to be in big trouble.

  “Like the opera?” I was getting confused.

  “No, not like the opera.” Diego stared at me intently. “Did your friend mention Selena?”

  “Of course he mentioned Selena, she’s the one who started this whole thing. She left him. That’s why he’s been threatening to bite a bullet. But honestly, Scooter didn’t say anything about El Patron or a vixen or anything else important.”

  “Perhaps he did and you weren’t aware. Perhaps we would be more comfortable in my suite,” Diego said, casting an uneasy glance at the bats. Probably afraid he’d turn into one.

  “What?” I said, but Diego stood, his fingers gripping my upper arm. A sudden vision of my encounter with Van Gogh made my throat go dry. I would not go through that again. Eyes wide, I searched for something, anything, and found a butter knife on the table.

  Diego jerked me toward him, rubbing a raging hard-on against my hip.

  I felt sick. My heart hammered as I gripped the cool metal of the knife, and from somewhere in the near-distance, a voice boomed through the twilight.

  “Cauley! There you are.”

  I’d know that accent anywhere. The dark figure of John Fiennes parted the crowd, the cinnamon sky swirling with life behind him.

  A vein popped on Diego’s forehead, visible beneath his dark, perfectly groomed hair. “Who the hell is this?”

  Grinning, Fiennes gave me a little wink. “My friends call me Bond.”

  “Back off, cabron.” Diego tightened his grip on my arm. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “I think it does.” Fiennes badged him and took my hand the one that held the knife.

  Diego’s colleagues at the table behind us rose, their hands sliding inside their suit coats.

  Fiennes and Diego stared at each other for what seemed a small eternity.

  And from the din, a familiar female voice purred, “Well, hello, Cauley. And look what you brought.”

  “Miranda,” I swore as she prowled toward us.

  “Is this a private party or can anyone join?” she said to Fiennes. Her black dress was cut to her navel, and she brushed her breasts against Fiennes’ arm as she spoke.

  Fiennes looked at her for a long moment, then at me. “I’m afraid this party is by invitation only,” he said, and pulled me from Diego’s clutches.

  I smiled. The assistant DA rose to join her, and Miranda stood in the middle of the patio gaping like a catfish out of water.

  I could have kissed Customs Agent Fiennes on the lips right then and there.

  At that moment, a bulldog-shaped guy in a bad suit swaggered into the fray. He had hotel security badge clipped to his belt. “Is there a problem here?”

  “No,” Diego said, glaring at me. He waved a hand at the men behind us. “No problem.”

  “Of course not,” Fiennes said, and he brushed a soft kiss to my cheek.

  Diego’s hard gaze never left John’s. “This isn’t over, chilito,” he said to Fiennes.

  “It never is,” Fiennes said. And then he pulled me close and led me out onto the dance floor. My heart was still pounding, but my knees were weak with relief.

  As my pulse slowed to near normal, I noticed Fiennes was a very smooth dancer. I should have felt elated, but all I could feel was the hard gaze of Diego as he skulked to a dark corner, where he sat, watching us from the shadows.

  “Thank you for that,” I said, my heart still skittering.

  “For what?”

  “That thing with Diego,” I said, and gave a nervous little laugh. “But mostly for Miranda. She beats me at everything.”

  He looked down at me, his gaze glinting green in the warm moonlight. “Not everything,” he said, a zip of electricity pulse along my skin.

  “You should keep better company, Ms. MacKinnon.”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “Thank you, Mr. Bond. How did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t. I have a room here,” he said, and I thought, A federal employee with a room at the Four Seasons? That didn’t make sense. He took the butter knife from my white-knuckled grip and set it on a nearby table, much to the chagrin of the elderly couple who were sitting there.

  “What were you going to do?” he said. “Butter his toast?”

  I relaxed a little and my breathing began to even, but I didn’t respond.

  “You’re leading,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I doubt that.”

  I smiled. “You know, Diego called you some pretty awful things.”

  “Small minds resort to small words,” he said.

  “Yes, but that’s not what he was saying was small,” I said.

  “Envy is an ugly thing,” Fiennes said.

  I was quiet for a moment, trying to put all the events together as we glided across the dance floor. “You speak Spanish?”

  “I have many useful skills,” Fiennes said, and dipped me low. My heart gave a hard thump against my chest.

  “Let’s give your friend a few minutes to cool down,” he said, “then I’ll take you home.”

  Righting me, Fiennes pulled me closer and I felt a great big gun-shaped bulge beneath his blazer. While I don’t carry a gun and never have, I’ve been around enough of them to know that it was an unusually large piece of weaponry.

  I raised my brows. “Happy to see me?”

  “A Desert Eagle,” he said, and swung me into an exceptionally low dip. “Never leave home without it.”

  “And you just happen to have a room here?” I said.

  Fiennes smiled. “What’s the matter, Cauley. You don’t believe in coincidence?”

  The truth was I did not believe in coincidence. I was going to have to look for the connection. Why had Fiennes swooped in, just in the nick of time? My guess was that he was either following me or he was following Diego. Or he could have been following us both.

  If Fiennes was following me, I wondered if Tom Logan was following me too, but it didn’t seem likely. Tom Logan didn’t seem like the kind of man who would keep still if a woman was about to get dragged up to a hotel room against her will.

  With a word to the concierge, Fiennes had his car brought around and he held the door of his black convertible BMW for me. I wondered if lusting after his car made me shallow.

  “A civil servant with a new BMW and a room at the Four Seasons?” I said when he got in and pulled out of the elegantly landscaped circle drive.

  “The car is a rental.”

  “An
d the suite?”

  “I have resources,” he said. “And please, call me John.”

  I shot him a sidelong glance and wondered if he was doing some kind of sting in the hotel. That would explain the big budget and high profile. “Speaking of Customs Agents, can I ask you a question?”

  “Fire away,” he said easily.

  “I met with a man today who has a tie to the animals at Scott Barnes’s pet shop. He said some of Scooter’s animals arrive in the United States in very bad shape. Is that why Customs is involved?”

  “There are a number of reasons we are involved,” he said.

  I was about to ask him about Smit, the disreputable veterinarian, but the look on his face said I was pushing my luck. I had a feeling this thing was far from over, and if I alienated him now, I’d lose a potential source of information forever.

  “Anyway,” I said. “Thanks for taking me home.”

  “My pleasure. My day hasn’t been so hot, either.”

  “Tell me about a bad day in Customs,” I said, leaning back, enjoying the soft leather seat, the warm, wet night and the soothing sound of his voice.

  “I spent most of the day at a Neo-Nazi rally.”

  I turned my head against the headrest. “As a participant or an observer?”

  “You’re quite the wit, Ms. MacKinnon.”

  “Anything you can talk about?”

  “Not at the moment. Who was your friend back there?” he said, changing the subject.

  “He wasn’t a friend. It was supposed to be an evening out.”

  “A date.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a date. More like a favor for my mom and a bout of my own sheer, morbid curiosity.”

  “A blind date.”

  “I don’t do blind dates,” I said. “He had a proposition.”

  John crooked a smile. “In that dress I’d be disappointed if he didn’t.”

  I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Diego DeLeon wanted the same thing everyone else seems to want these days,” I said.

  “World peace?”

  “Information about what Scooter said in the shed. Diego said he’d trade information for protection.”

  “Yours or his?” he said.

  Smiling, I looked over at John’s profile in the darkness. The violet glow of the city played along his elegant face as we headed west, down the winding cliffs of Ranch Road 2222, toward home. He looked so handsome in his dark shirt and jacket, and I for some reason, I got a small pang and wondered what Logan was doing tonight. His job, as usual, I thought and sighed.