MacKinnon 01 Scoop

by Kit Frazier

  Logan raised a brow.

  “I’d started a file on Scooter. It’s gone.”

  “You have a backup?”

  “No.” I muttered. “The bitch of it is, I was getting my clips organized and had some sketchy notes on a couple of connections. I think I was getting somewhere.”

  Logan raised a brow.

  “Well, Scooter started threatening suicide when Selena left him. I’ve been through their financials, and they aren’t in any trouble that I can tell, and every time I turn around, I run into something about Selena. So whatever he’s gotten himself into, it seems to revolve around Selena,” I said. “Or that’s what I thought until Diego started pumping me about El Patron and stolen merchandise.”

  “Stolen? You said that DeLeon said your friend Barnes had something that didn’t belong to him.”

  I started to say same difference, and stopped when I realized that it wasn’t the same at all.

  “You know what? Now that I think about it, Van Gogh asked about something Scooter had hidden,” I said. “Diego said Scooter has something that belongs to El Patron. You think Scooter’s involved with El Patron?” I bit my lip. “Or maybe Selena’s involved with them and that’s why Scooter called me? For help?”

  Logan’s expression didn’t change, but he said, “Why would you think so?”

  “Well,” I said. “Selena is the catalyst for Scooter’s suicide attempts, which seem to be the beginning of this thing, and El Patron is the odd piece that doesn’t seem to fit with anything else. And why would Diego DeLeon, who I haven’t seen in years, go to all the trouble to make a date with me out of the blue and then get rough with me when I didn’t know anything about some mysterious stolen ‘

  Logan looked at me.

  ” I mean mysterious missing property, which seems to have piqued the interest of El Patron?”

  Logan was quiet for a long moment. “How did you end things with DeLeon?”

  I snorted. “Not nice. A friend happened to have a suite at the Four Seasons and he helped me get out of it.”

  I wanted to tell him about Fiennes, but it felt weird, talking about Fiennes with Logan. Even though there was nothing between Logan and me and he was just doing his job, it felt funny bringing the subject of another man into the conversation. Of course, he would know all about Fiennes anyway, because they were both federal agents and seemed to be working the same case, right?

  I noticed Logan’s jaw muscles tighten. His gaze was hard, but he nodded, scanning my semi-trashed house. “You got a place to stay tonight?”

  “I have friends,” I said.

  Logan looked at me like there was more to say. But he handed me a fresh business card, seeing as how the one he’d given me was at the bottom of the lake.

  “You see any sign of your friendly neighborhood thugs or you get yourself into any more trouble, you dial 911, then call me on my cell,” he said. He looked around my little house. “You have a gun?”

  Thoughts of John Fiennes’s unusually large gun bubbled to the top of my short-term memory. “You know anything about a Desert Eagle?”

  Logan raised both brows. “You have a Desert Eagle?”

  “No. It’s for something I’m working on.”

  Logan eyed me. “An Eagle can drop a charging rhino.”

  I frowned. “And they’re not standard issue for government agents?”

  “Not our government agents,” he said, stepping toward me. “Cauley…Do you have a gun?”

  “I had one. It sort of got taken away from me.”

  “Someone took a Desert Eagle from you?”

  “No, a .38.”

  Logan looked confused, like he’d walked in on the middle of a conversation. “And this gun,” he said. “You didn’t get another one?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” he said. “Some people have no business carrying concealed.”

  “Hey. I could learn to use a gun if I wanted and I’d be very good at it. Armed prophets conquer.”

  Logan stared at me for a long moment, then said, “You doing anything for lunch tomorrow?”

  “You just said I was a maniac.”

  “No. I said some people are better off not carrying weapons they’re not qualified to handle.”

  I thought about that. “What kind of lunch?”

  “Your choice. You’re tired tonight and you’ve had a rough day. I want to go over what you had in those files. See if we can reconstruct some of the information.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling vaguely disappointed. I thought he meant lunch lunch. Somehow I always managed to forget that this was just a job to him.

  “This is a tough case.” Logan picked up the Magic Eight Ball, which the thugs had tossed into the foyer. “Any chance I can talk you into staying out of this?”

  It was my turn to smile enigmatically.

  He grinned wryly and turned the ball in his big palms.

  “MY SOURCES SAY NO,” he read aloud. He shook his head. “That’s what I thought. You need a ride somewhere?”

  He tossed me the Eight Ball and I caught it neatly, first try. “No.” I said. I didn’t tell him I wasn’t about to let a bunch of slimy bastards run me out of my own damn house.

  I set the Eight Ball next to the typewriter in the library before walking Logan out to a big, battered gray car.

  “A Mercury,” I said. It was missing a side mirror and part of the front bumper. “What happened to the Crown Vic?”

  “It went down in the line of duty,” he said.

  “High speed chase?”

  “Renegade stop sign.” Logan said. “You going to be okay?”

  I heard a noise near my house and noticed the white-faced dog lying under my porch swing, partially obscured by the big potted fern.

  “Hm?” I said, distracted by the dog. “Oh. I’m always okay.”

  He looked at me like he didn’t believe a word I was saying. “You’ll call me if you need me?”

  “You don’t have to be so nice,” I said. “I know the drill. Just doing your job.”

  Logan looked like he wanted to say something and didn’t. He nodded, folded himself into his car, started the engine and drove away, muffler rattling noisily as he went.

  I turned back to the house. The dog lifted his head and looked at me.

  “Well, the prodigal phantom returns,” I said.

  The dog didn’t say anything.

  “I’ve had a really long day,” I said to the dog as I climbed the porch steps. “So if you’re going to bite me, please, just get it over with.”

  I knelt, extending my hand. The dog bellied forward from beneath the porch swing and drew himself into a sitting position. He sat stoically, chest out, head back, and I almost laughed because he reminded me a little bit of Logan. The dog leaned his head forward and sniffed. His fluffy tail thumped twice on the porch.

  The dog’s face was white, his back gray. Probably some sort of Siberian husky mix, but jeez, he looked like a wolf.

  “It’s a miracle you haven’t been picked up by the pound,” I said, scratching his chin. His eyes were clear, his coat clean and glossy and he had a collar. This dog obviously belonged to someone, and if he spent the night on my porch he would probably earn himself a one-way ticket to the puppy pokey. “You got a name, big guy?”

  He looked at me intently, like he was waiting for me to say something he understood.

  “Strong silent type, huh?” I said, and reached for his collar. Expensive, worn brown leather with a rabies tag. No name or address.

  “You want to come in for a drink?” I said, and chuckled aloud at the way it sounded, but the dog was up and by my side as I opened the door. “If I’d known I’d have company I’d have cleaned the place up.”

  Logan had helped me straighten up most of the mess. The dog picked his way around the rest, sniffing the coffee table and Turkish rug with interest. He turned around twice on the rug and made a strange warbling sound at me that reminded me of the way my dad’s German shorthair pointers
used to alert on duck hunts.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Are you hungry?” I said. At the word hungry, the dog left whatever was bothering him about the carpet and padded after me into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the refrigerator. Well, at least his hunting instincts were intact.

  I made the dog one of Shiner’s ham sandwiches and poured him a bowl of water, which he lapped noisily as I checked on Muse. The Queen of Cantankerous had vacated the Wurlitzer, annoyed that I hadn’t cranked it up, and probably utterly incensed about the dog. In a snit, she’d burrowed into one of my cashmere sweaters on the top shelf in by bedroom closet.

  I peeked into the closet. “You okay in there?”

  The cat scowled at me and I quietly pulled the door nearly closed, leaving it open a small crack. I’d introduce her to the dog later.

  I turned and looked at my panty-strewn bed and shivered. I had a big day tomorrow.

  I’d make some “Found Dog” flyers to distribute around the neighborhood and finish some paperwork at the police substation. And somewhere along the way, I ought to stop by my office to remind Tanner I was still alive and willing to do my job. I would go check on Scooter, and at some point, I was going to have to go panty shopping. I picked up a shredded scrap of silk and felt violently ill.

  I may not be Nancy Drew, but I was fairly certain the severed ear was a clue. Because of the severed ear, I could surmise that it had been Van Gogh who’d tossed my house.

  I had to get some sleep, but I couldn’t stand the thought of crawling into sheets that Van Gogh had probably touched. And God knew what else. Yuck.

  Slipping off my undies, I swished them around in the sink with some hot water and liquid soap and hung them over the shower rod to dry. Ignoring Muse’s protests, I dragged a blanket out of the closet, skimmed into a big tee shirt and went back to the living room, where I found an unbroken DVD to pop into the player.

  The Big Sleep filled the screen, and I settled in on the sofa next to the dog.

  “Now, see, dog, that’s Philip Marlowe. He’s handsome, smart and funny, and he doesn’t take crap off anyone,” I said, pointing at the flickering black and white image. “He has his own code of ethics, and he does the right thing, not the easy thing.”

  The dog seemed to be listening. He looked at the television, then back at me. Letting out a long sigh, he laid his head in my lap and went to sleep.

  “Yeah,” I said on a yawn, as I stroked his velvety ears. “Me too.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I dreamed of Philip Marlowe that night and woke up sprawled on the couch in a very unflattering position. Static sputtered from the television. I had a crick in my neck and the distinct smell of dog breath in my face.

  “Good morning, Mr. Marlowe,” I said, my voice thick with sleep. “I see my luck is changing. A male spent the night in my house and he’s still here.”

  The dog broke into a big doggie grin and hopped off the couch, his nails clicking along the hardwood floor as he danced his way to the front door.

  “Can you give me a minute?”

  The dog woofed, and I figured the last thing I needed after a drawer full of shredded underwear was dog doo in the foyer.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “Hold on.”

  I put on a pot of tea, slipped on a pair of shorts and looked around for something to tie the dog with, settling on the strap from my purse. I decided not to brush my hair or teeth because I’d have to look in the mirror, which might persuade me to do some damage control, which would mean the dog would have to wait.

  The dog was shifting from paw to paw in the foyer, and I noticed a key had been shoved under the door. My car key!

  I swung open the door to find my Jeep in the driveway, complete with an invoice tucked under the windshield wiper marked No Charge. Not even for parts. God bless Shay and his felonious little heart.

  The dog and I took a short stroll past the Bobs, where I encouraged him to pee on their rosemary bush, and we headed back to the house where I fed him another of Shiner’s ham sandwiches.

  I showered, slipped into my last pair of undamaged undies, still damp from being washed in the sink, then yanked on a pair of jean shorts and a clean tee shirt. I blasted my hair with the blow dryer then fed Muse, who was still on sabbatical in the closet. Chores done, I headed next door to Beckett’s to borrow his computer to make some Found flyers for the dog.

  “You are a huge pain in the rear,” I told the dog as we went for a longer stroll, tacking flyers along telephone poles and message boards through three blocks. More exercise than I’d had in months. Of course, when my friends and I workout, we spend about twenty minutes on the machines then hit the Mexican martini happy hour at Flores’.

  Posting the last of the flyers at the Methodist church, we headed home, where I sat at my kitchen counter and made a To Do List. I wrote down Walk Dog and Create and Distribute Found Dog Flyers so I’d have something on the list to check off.

  Go by Police Station, Get a New Cell Phone & Mini Recorder, Make an Appearance at the Office, Check on Scooter…

  I wriggled, trying to ignore the damp panties creeping into my nether regions. Quick Stop at Victoria’s Secret…

  I shut the door to the bedroom so Muse wouldn’t run into the dog unannounced. I folded the To Do list, stuck it my tee shirt pocket and headed for the door.

  As I stepped out onto the porch, the dog streaked past me and leapt into the topless Jeep. He sat smugly in the passenger seat, staring at me.

  “Look, buddy. You are not going with me. It’s going to be very hot today, and you are way too furry.”

  The dog stared at me.

  “Come on,” I said, and reached for his collar. He growled. Great. The second time I’d been threatened in my own Jeep in a matter of days.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll call a veterinarian and trace the number on your rabies tag when I get to the office. Then we’ll see who’s boss.”

  At the police substation, the guys all had nice things to say about the dog, but they all made sure to make fun of the purse strap I was using for a leash. I signed paperwork and requested copies of the incident report for my insurance company.

  On the way out, I stopped by Cantu’s office. He was out on a call, so I left him a note.

  I climbed back into my Jeep, grateful to have it back, and pulled into a strip center on North 620. I went into Pet Guys for a bag of expensive dog food and a cheap leash. Tanner had given me an advance on my check, but I suspected he hadn’t meant for me to spend it on stuff for a dog that wasn’t even mine.

  Because Marlowe scowled at everyone in a two-foot radius, I decided to forego Victoria’s Secret for the time being and popped into the discount store next to Pet Guys for new undies. Since they weren’t a bastion of fine lingerie, I settled for a set of economy-size days-of-the-week granny panties before hitting the electronics store, glad, for once, that there was no one in my life to see the sorry state of my undergarments.

  In the electronics store, the dog and I stood in line until half of hell froze over to get a new cell phone and another mini recorder. I was surprised to find that if you act like you know what you’re doing, people don’t question the dog. They might have thought he was a service dog if he hadn’t made a low, rumbling noise at every body who got too close.

  With my new cell phone programmed by the pimply-faced kid at the counter, I was ready to rock, and made a command decision to postpone telling anyone remotely related to me that I was once again mobile and wireless.

  Back in my Jeep, I pulled out my To Do list and jumped when my new cell phone rang. I answered and was oddly pleased that it was Logan calling to check on me and I suspect, to find out if any more catastrophes related to Scott Barnes fell on my front door step.

  “I just got this phone. How did you get the number?” I said.

  “I’m very good at finding people.”

  Seizing the opportunity, I asked him if he had any more news, and being Logan, he didn’t tell me a thing
.

  “You still up for lunch?” he said.

  “Um, I’m running some errands, and I sort of have a dog with me.”

  There was a long silence, and when Logan finally spoke, I could hear a smile in his voice. “Guero’s has a patio.”

  “See you at noon,” I said.

  I called home to get my messages and cringed at Cantu’s recorded voice. It didn’t sound good. I dialed him on my new cell.

  “You find your buddy the earless guy?” he said, sounding grouchier than usual.

  “Have you had any hysterical calls on your cell?” I said.

  Cantu ignored my sarcasm. “We just got another Necklace. Found him on the eastern edge of Travis County, near Bastrop. He’s missing an ear but he’s still got some of his face. Want to come give him a look?”

  My stomach folded in on itself. “A burning tire shoved down around his shoulders? Not drowned?” I said, and I got an unpleasant image of an earless Van Gogh crawling out of Lake Austin, draped in duckweed like a swamp monster.

  “Not drowned,” Cantu said, further supporting my fears that it really was Van Gogh who had broken into my house.

  “You think the Necklace was El Patron?” I said, remembering my conversation with Diego DeLeon and his mysterious inquiries into the orgnization.

  “We got no proof,” he said. “But it’s a pretty good bet. I’d like you to come down and make sure it’s not your earless thug. You can look at pictures if you want. Avoid a trip to the M.E.‘s office.’

  “Yeah,” I said as I turned my Jeep back toward the police station. “See you in ten.”

  The crime scene photos made my insides twist into a big, queasy knot. The face in the photo was scorched beyond recognition and his charred glasses were burned into what was left of his nose. I don’t know who this burned up earless guy was, but the body was too small to be Van Gogh’s. I wasn’t feeling up to lunch or anything else as I left the station. Cantu told me to keep in touch, and by the time I headed for Guerro’s, I was running abysmally late.

  Flustered and nauseated and trying to wipe the image of those photographs from my long-term memory, I cruised down Congress, past the eclectic little shops and antique stores, thinking about the body the police had found in Bastrop, until I was waylaid by one of the Pixie Stix guys at the light at Riverside and Congress.