by Kit Frazier
I scrolled through document after document and stopped when I came to Scooter’s archived wedding announcement. His handsome face shone, the prototypical golden boy as he stood, his arm around Selena. I stared at the monitor. As striking as Scooter was, it was Selena who absorbed the spotlight. In the photo, she looked sweet and fragile and very beautiful.
I looked at the notes I’d reconstructed with Logan. None of the pieces fit tidily, but there was one that didn’t fit at all.
I typed in “El Patron,” and got a page full of links about the group’s ties to South America, most of which I’d already seen when I’d been assigned to research the group for Ryder the News Boy.
I sat, staring at the monitor. Why did Diego DeLeon think Scooter was involved with El Patron? And, not to sound politically incorrect, but why was El Patron, a group known to support racist sentiments, be based in South America, where most people are Hispanic?”
I sat, tapping my lips. “Scooter died with both ears attached and he had not been treated to a Necklace. And if Scooter really was so depressed over Selena leaving him, why did he do two practice runs at suicide?”
And why did El Patron use a burning tire as an M.O. I keyed in Necklace+Tire and came up with side links leading to other gruesome forms of torture and interestingly enough, some truly ghastly porn sites.
I clicked the two most legitimate looking sites and got links to a group of Argentinean separatists.
“Separatists in Argentina? Well now,” I said. “Isn’t that interesting?”
Frowning, I typed in a cross-reference for “Aryan” and a link halfway down the page marked Vixen caught my eye. Hitting the link, I scrolled through the site’s pages. It seemed to be some kind of neo-Nazi recruiting port.
“Aryans, huh?” I printed the page and on a hunch, pulled up the CIA World Fact Book and the Cromwell Intelligence site and cross-referenced Vixen with El Patron.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, when a list of connected names and descriptions appeared on the monitor. Some of the cross-connected people were currently cooling their jets in Huntsville Prison for illegally transporting “artifacts” from South America.
I sent the documents to the printer and nearly jumped out of my seat when a voice right behind me yelled, “Got it!”
“Good grief, Remie, make a noise or something!”
“Sorry,” Shiner said, jogging behind Remie at a reserved pace. “We got the tape and just wait ‘til you see it.’
We trooped through the aisle of cubicles, back to the conference room and popped the tape into the machine, queuing until an image of Miranda appeared. She was doing some kind of “mi-mi-mi” musical scales before her interview and I tried not to scowl. The outtakes?
“You got raw tape?” I said. “How’d you pull that off?”
“That funny little guy in editing has a crush on Shiner,” Remie said.
“Can we just watch the tape?” Shiner grumbled, and we all settled in. The video whirred in the machine and Selena appeared on the television screen, beautiful and blond, quietly sipping a glass of water, listening carefully as Miranda told her about camera angles and cue lights. Selena’s mother lurked near the door. Just like the old pageant days.
Noticeably absent was David Banks, Selena’s clings-like-Saran-Wrap attorney. A makeup artist puffed and poofed Selena’s corn silk hair, an off-camera voice called, “And three, two…”
On cue, Selena’s mother stepped out of the camera shot.
The transformation was nothing less than miraculous. When Selena turned to the lens, her beautiful face went carefully grief stricken. Her posture was ramrod straight, her attire Donna Karan. A single tear clung to her lower lashes. Hell, she almost had me crying.
“Shiner, you are the best,” I said. Shiner’s gaze flicked toward Mia and I swear I saw him blush.
The television flickered as the tape rolled. “Look at her. She’s doing a young, blond Jackie Kennedy,” I whispered. “She could win a Golden Globe.”
Shiner fast-forward through the first part of the interview and hit play.
“All I wanted was to get Scott some help,” Selena said in a hushed voice, with the barest trace of her Latina accent. “But there was so much interference. People meddling where they didn’t belong…”
I sat on the table in front of the monitor. “Is it just me or does it sound like she’s blaming me for Scooter’s death?”
“Do you think it really was a suicide?” Remie said.
“No,” I said, watching the monitor, “and I’m not sure Selena does, either.”
“Cauley. Can I see you a minute?” Tanner stood in the doorway of the conference room, his hands in his front pockets. I didn’t like the look on his face.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I said.
I followed Tanner down the hall. “What’s going on?”
In his office, he shut the door behind us. I didn’t sit.
“The M.E. called. They’re ruling Barnes a Suicide.”
I blinked. “That was quick.”
“Hey, you got a former Dallas Cowboy committing suicide, things get done.”
“Tanner, it’s not a suicide.”
“Scott Barnes holed up in a shed two times trying to get up enough nerve to kill himself.”
“With a shotgun. With SWAT drawing down around the perimeter for Pete’s sake. Testosterone junkies like Scooter go out with a bang and you know it. They don’t trash their place of business then slit their wrists.”
“That’s enough, Cauley.”
I crossed my arms. “Did you see the M.E.‘s documents?’
“They faxed them over a few minutes ago.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Cauley,” Tanner said. “It’s over.”
“Tanner, I just saw Selena Barnes giving the performance of her life. If you could just come look at it…”
“Doesn’t matter. We got what we needed.”
“Since when did you ever take the easy way out? You’re the one who’s always telling us to dig deeper. Check all the facts.”
Tanner let out a deep sigh. “Show me what you got.”
“I think it’s got something to do with Selena,” I said, leading him back to the conference room. When we rounded the corner, my friends scattered like rats.
I rewound the tape and hit Play. Selena sat, her blue eyes shining with tears. Luminous. Perfect.
Tanner watched, and I saw his throat tighten when Selena teared up.
“See?” I said, skipping back to the outtakes where Selena seemed calm, cool and reserved.
“People grieve in different ways,” he said. “Look at her. The woman is obviously distraught.”
I wanted to throttle him. “Women like Selena get away with this kind of thing because they’re petite and beautiful. They depend on the kindness of strangers.”
“Are you being objective, or are you letting the past cloud your judgment?”
I bit my lip. “Maybe a little, but I know in my heart Scooter didn’t commit suicide. If APD would just look at this tape, if the M.E. would just ‘
“Cauley, this isn’t like the movies where the entire Travis County Medical Examiner’s office grinds to a halt for one death, especially for a guy with a record of multiple suicide attempts. He got some special treatment because was a ballplayer, but they looked at the evidence, the facts and the history and made a decision. Unless you can show me something some shred of evidence that says otherwise, we’re done.”
“Done my ass,” I growled, stalking back to my computer. Dropping into my chair, I could still hear Selena’s soft Argentinean voice ringing in my ears.
“There was so much interference. People meddling where they didn’t belong…”
“Didn’t belong,” I muttered to myself. The CIA site was still flickering on my monitor. On a hunch, I typed in “Argentina.” Maybe I’d look up little Miss Selena’s family.
“What have we here?” I said, watching as numerous links to Aryan groups and El Patron
popped up on the screen.
I clicked on several links and found an old Sentinel article dated 1997 about the Nazi flight from Germany, primarily to Argentina, but also to Chile and Brazil. The author of the article was Rob Ryder, the News Boy incarnate at the Sentinel’s main office downtown. Scrolling down, there was a photo of a scattering of gold coins, each imprinted with an eagle, the tips of the wings pointing skyward. The caption read, Rare gold Anschluss Eagle coin stash found in Bastrop County.
Something about the coins seemed familiar they looked an awful lot like the coin Scooter had given me to give to Selena. For luck, I thought wryly.
The coin was the thing I’d been trying to remember when Logan and I had gone to lunch.
Not that it mattered. That coin was at the bottom of the lake with everything else in my purse.
I hit print and snatched the article as well as a hard copy of the search I’d done from the printer, got a fresh manila folder from the supply closet and went back to my desk, where I stuffed all of it into my purse.
I picked up the phone and called Cantu.
“Have you seen the M.E.‘s report on Scooter?’
“Yeah, tough break, mijita.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “How much do you know about El Patron?”
Cantu didn’t say anything.
“Do you know anything about an Argentinean named Vix or Vixen?”
“Cauley,” Cantu said. “The M.E. report didn’t come out the way you wanted. I understand you feel bad about your friend, but he called you to the scene and you went. No one can blame you for what happened.”
I felt like yelling at him, but for once, discretion overcame drama, and I said, “Did you find out for sure if that last Necklace was Selena’s attorney?”
After a shuffling of papers, Cantu said, “Let’s see. They ID’d him. A Dr. Henry Smit he’s some sort of exotic animal veterinarian out of Bastrop.”
Chapter Fifteen
I’d never seen Dr. Smit, but apparently he wore glasses just like Selena’s attorney.
I sighed. I guess if I was honest with myself, I knew the M.E. would call Scooter’s death a suicide, but I’d been so sure that Van Gogh and his legion of doom had something to do with Scooter’s death.
I supposed it was possible that Scooter committed suicide, but the thought he may have really killed himself made me physically ill.
“Suicide,” I said aloud. The events of the past days started to catch up with me and all I wanted to do was go home and pull the covers up over my head. Feeling miserable, I called Marlowe from the graphics department, and on the way home, we went through the drive-through liquor store and got two bottles of Llano Estacado red wine.
At home, I ordered a pizza and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate ice cream and stuffed North by Northwest into the player. Misery is almost bearable when taken with Cary Grant, chocolate ice cream and a mountain of mozzarella.
After the food was delivered, I stripped down to my tee shirt and my pink days-of-the-week granny panties. One day soon I was going to have to break down and go shopping for some presentable undies. But what difference did it make? There wasn’t anybody around to see my undies anyway.
Wrapping myself in one of Aunt Kat’s soft old quilts, I flopped onto the sofa next to Marlowe to watch the movie. I was just wondering how Eva Marie Saint got her hair to do that when my phone rang.
“Hey,” Tom Logan said. “What are you doing?”
“Bingeing on Ben & Jerry’s and wondering who did Eva Marie Saint’s hair.”
“You heard about Barnes, then.”
“Yeah, I heard. That’s why I’m wallowing.”
“Have you heard from your customs agent?”
“No, and my nose is officially out of it.”
“Sorry, kid. Tough break.”
“Logan,” I said, figuring I had nothing to lose. “Do you make this for a suicide?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. “Well,” he said. “Let’s put it this way. I’m still on the case. Are you going to the funeral?”
“Scooter was my friend.”
Logan was quiet. “Don’t wander off,” he finally said. “Still got the dog?”
I looked at Marlowe, who was sitting next to me on the sofa, crunching on pizza crusts. “Still got the dog.”
“Been outside lately?”
“No. Why? Is there a bald earless guy sharpening his Bowie knife on my front porch?”
“No. Just a hell of a sunset.”
I stared at the phone.
“See ya ‘round, kid,’ he said, and disconnected.
“Ya know,” I told Marlowe. “I kind of like that guy.”
Marlowe put his chin on my knee and sighed.
My ears were warm and my lips were numb from two glasses of wine and I was lulled by the sound of Cary Grant’s voice when a thump sounded at my door.
“Well crap. What now?”
A low growl sounded deep in Marlowe’s throat. Wrapped in the quilt, I grabbed the phone and got up, my trigger finger on speed dial for 911.
I peered through a clear spot in the stained glass. “Who is it?”
“John Fiennes.”
I blew out a breath. I’d half hoped it was Logan. Sighing, I smoothed my hair and cursed myself for not jumping into the shower before cranking up the movie.
Cracking the door, I peeked out. Fiennes stood on the porch, the pale moon shining softly on his dark hair. Against my better judgment, I opened the door.
“Can I help you?”
“May I come in?”
The look on his face was strained. Curiosity got the best of me, and I pulled the quilt more tightly around me and let him in.
Marlowe bristled, and I laid my hand on his head. “Easy boy,” I said.
“Hello, dog,” he said, and held out his hand for Marlowe’s inspection. Nice.
The dog stood down, but made a big production of sniffing Fiennes in a very private manner. Fiennes redirected the dog’s nose and scratched him on his neck.
Marlowe padded back to the sofa, turned three times and lay down, his little doggie eyebrows lifting as we spoke as though he was following the conversation.
“I understand you had quite a time at the pet store. I know Mr. Barnes was a friend of yours and I am sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah,” I said miserably, dropping onto the sofa next to Marlowe. “Thanks.”
Fiennes looked around the house. “I understand you’ve had trouble here as well?”
“I was burgled, if that’s what you’re talking about.”
Fiennes pulled a chair closer to the sofa and sat, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees as he spoke.
“You should have waited for me,” he said. His accent was smooth in the middle, rough around the edges. Not like Cary Grant, but very sexy just the same.
“I called you and got your voice mail,” I said. “My boss finally gave me the go-ahead and I wanted to get to Scooter before he changed his mind.” A sudden image of Scooter slumped over his computer made my stomach turn. “Can we talk about this some other time?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I must ask you about the breakin at your home. Are you going to be all right?”
The wine was making me dizzy and my thoughts whiplashed from guilt over Scooter to the fact that I’d been yanked off a real story, and back to John Fiennes. I sat, listening to the poetry of his speech patterns.
“Where are you from?”
He didn’t sit back, but I felt him draw away. “All over the world, really.”
“You said that, but what kind of accent?”
“I was born at Ramstein.”
“The US air base in Germany?” I said. “Your parents were military?”
“My father was Air Force. My mother was a German national.”
“Was?” I said.
“They are both gone.”
I studied John’s face, which had gone hard.
“I grew up with my aunt,” he went on. “We moved ar
ound a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. It seemed we had something in common. We’d both lost our fathers, and in that moment, I felt my heart shift.
He blew out a breath. “And so my accent is just an echo from a long time ago, and nothing to talk about on a moonlit night in the company of a beautiful woman.”
“Well,” I said warmly. “I like your accent. You sound like Jean Claude Van Damme.”
“But better looking.”
I smiled. “And way more humble.”
Fiennes grinned. “I must know what was taken from your home.”
“They trashed the place, took a file, my hard drive and all my disks, then they busted up my computer.” I shook my head, which was starting to throb from the wine. “Oh, yeah. They also stuffed my cat in the sofa and left me a severed ear.”
“They took a file of papers and your hard drive?”
I nodded. “The file I was putting together on Scott Barnes.”
Fiennes narrowed his eyes. “Do you remember what was in that file?”
“That’s the bitch of it. There wasn’t anything in that file worth taking.”
“Perhaps there was something and you didn’t recognize it.”
“People keep saying that.”
Fiennes looked at me intently. “How do you feel about searching your friend’s belongings?”
I blinked, not sure I heard him correctly. “My boss pulled me off research, and I think he was right. I shouldn’t have gotten personally involved. If I hadn’t interfered, Scooter might still be alive.”
“Perhaps,” Fiennes said. “Perhaps not. Will you go the funeral?”
I nodded, feeling miserable and tired.
Fiennes rose and I walked him to the door, with Marlowe trotting along with interest. “Glad to see you brought your dog inside.”
“He’s not my dog.”
Fiennes smiled. “Of course he’s not.” He looked down at me. “You must consider dressing before answering the door.”
I adjusted the quilt. “I knew it was you.”
“And don’t forget to lock up.”
I opened the door and John stepped onto the porch and stopped, eyes sparking green in the moonlight. “Cauley?”
“Yeah?”
