by Kit Frazier
“Can I have a copy of that?” I said, and trying not to look excited, I went back to my microfiche, watching Ryder in my peripheral vision.
Just when I didn’t think I could look at another article on hydrilla weeds invading Lake Austin, I found the article I’d come for. It was in an article in an old copy of the Journal, depicting the grand reopening of The Blue Parrot.
“Local Pet Store Goes Wild With Exotic Animals,” the headline read. I peered into the monitor. There was something about that photograph…
Selena and her mother stood center stage in the photo, behind a big, red grand opening ribbon. They looked very slim and very blonde, like a pair of European aristocrats you see in those old Movie Reels on Turner Classics. Standing next to one another, Selena seemed like a scanned copy of her mother, the same, but smaller and less defined, a little blurry around the edges.
Mother and daughter held the ceremonial scissors, smiling perfect publicity smiles. Selena’s attorney, David Banks, stood between them, looking like a bespectacled, love-struck ferret. Selena’s father stood a little off-center, dark and handsome and almost out of camera range, looking like an obsolete conquistador.
Scooter was standing in the back, near the door, with Sam perched on his forearm.
Interesting. I remembered the article of the grand opening with the Chamber of Commerce, back when the shop sold regular old dog food and held Humane Society pet adoption days under a tent in the parking lot. And I remembered thinking it was odd that Selena’s mother wasn’t in that picture. Neither was Selena.
Quietly, I made a copy of the microfiche article, folded it and slipped the copy into my pocket before filing the fiche back in place. I nearly jumped out of my skin when Ryder rounded the corner.
“Mother lode,” he said, waving a stack of Sports and Lifestyle copies at me.
“I need to get going,” I said.
Ryder eyed me for a long moment. “You’re not going tell me what this is really about?”
“I already told you. I don’t think Scooter’s death was a suicide.” I scooped up the last of my fiche and the articles I’d copied on Scooter’s signing contract, his marriage to Selena and his knee injury.
“Because some German guy threatened you?”
“Yep.”
“And somebody said something about some obscure coin?”
I smiled.
Ryder stopped rustling through his copies and looked at me hard. “What did Barnes really tell you in that shed?”
“Just what I told you,” I said, finishing up my copies. “He didn’t say anything. Look, thanks for your help, but I really gotta run.”
Ryder nodded. “Would you tell me if he had said something?”
I grinned. “Probably not. But thanks for your help.”
Ryder laughed and shook his head, rifling through my stack of discarded fiche. “Now that I know what I’m looking for, I’ll scoop you, you know.”
“I know you’ll try,” I said, and headed for the stairs to keep a date with a certain Customs Agent who happened to look like James Bond.
Chapter Twenty
Outside, the warring weather fronts had called a truce, so it wasn’t raining, but the skies were a thick, iron gray and the streets were slick with drizzle. Driving in the rain in Austin is a full contact sport. I ducked and dodged and slid through traffic, and it took me more than an hour to get home.
I fed the dog and cat and went back to my bedroom where I yanked on a black tank top. The black jeans were a problem. I hadn’t worn them since winter, and I had to shimmy into them, plopping back on my bed and sucking in a breath to get them zipped. Time to get back to the gym.
I slipped on a black pair of Prada riding boots, the only black shoe-type apparel I owned with less than three-inch heels. Besides, they were really great boots. I shoved my hair into a ponytail, ran some lipstick over my lips no sense seeing the hot Customs guy with chapped lips popped a fresh tape in the mini recorder and I was ready to go.
In the kitchen, Muse lounged on the counter, twitching the tip of her tail as I filled her champagne glass with water. Marlowe trotted around the corner with his leash.
“Oh, no, buddy, can you hold it? I’m already running late.”
The dog trotted to the door, shifting from paw to paw.
“Ahhhhh! All right, but please hurry!”
I took the dog-slobbered, broken leash from his mouth and snapped it to his collar then rushed him over to the Bob’s, where he promptly peed on the rosemary bush. I coaxed the dog back into the house, bribed him with the rest of Shiner’s ham, jumped in the Jeep and hauled ass. I really hate being late. Amazing how often I am.
I squealed into the parking lot at The Blue Parrot about a quarter after nine. The lot was deserted, the windows in the pet shop were dark. A Closed sign hung in the front door, just as Scooter’s parents had said.
I looked around and caught sight of Fiennes. He was dressed in black chinos, a long-sleeved black polo shirt and black leather jacket, leaning against his BMW in the restaurant parking lot next door. My heart stuttered.
I couldn’t see it, but I knew he had the big, rhino-killing Desert Eagle tucked in his waistband. I’d never seen a spy, but I bet they looked a lot like Fiennes.
He motioned, and I nosed the Jeep into the next lot. I shoved my purse beneath the seat and climbed out, my black jeans catching on door latch. I unhooked myself from the door latch and nearly fell over. Way to go, Grace. Somehow I always managed look like an idiot when I was within ten feet of this guy.
The evening air was wet and it felt like breathing warm water. Luckily, I still had the canvas top on the Jeep in deference to the threat of rain.
“Emma Peel as I live and breathe,” he said, his gaze running from the tips of my boots to the scoop of my tank top.
“What?” I said, flushing as I tugged up on the top, which was lower cut than I remembered.
“The Avengers. I thought all Americans watched too much television.” He reached into the back seat of the BMW and extracted a black leather bag.
“You’re American, too,” I said, still tugging. “Besides. The Avengers were British.”
“My mistake. Do you own a watch, Cauley?”
I looked down at my bare wrist. “I have a watch. Somewhere.”
“Watches only work when you wear them.”
“Sorry about the late thing. Extenuating circumstances.” I didn’t feel compelled to say, The dog who lives with me had to pee.
“I’m prepared to finish this, whatever it takes, Cauley,” he said. “Are you?”
My heart skipped a beat. Whatever it took? Was this going to get dangerous? Despite the damp heat of the evening, I shivered and nodded.
Fiennes grinned in the darkness. “Come on then.”
“Is this legal?” I said as we skulked toward the back of the pet store, staying close to the building and getting pricked and poked by the boxwood bushes.
“Didn’t you break in here once before?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I had a bad feeling about it then, and I have a bad feeling about it now.”
As we rounded the corner, I stopped, staring at the window I’d broken two weeks ago. Someone had boarded it up with heavy plywood and tacked it with enough nails to re-stock a small hardware store. I’d been in such a hurry to meet Fiennes that it hadn’t occurred to me I was going back to the place where I’d found my friend dead.
An image of Scooter slumped over his computer hit me hard. Suddenly, my feet felt heavy and I couldn’t move. Fiennes turned to look at me.
“Hey.” He slipped an arm around my waist. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. I think it was a nod.
“This was a mistake,” Fiennes said, sounding very European. “You must go back to the car and wait for me. I will go through the records and return.”
I shook my head, swallowing hard. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“Documented import activities. Anything that looks out of pl
ace. You were Mr. Barnes’ friend. I thought perhaps you might know where to look.”
“You want me to help you find proof my friend did something illegal?”
“You must trust me on this, Cauley. I am not out to destroy the memory of your friend.”
“And this will prove Scott didn’t kill himself?”
“It could.”
His arm was still around me and I could feel the heat of his body through his open jacket, and my whole body warmed. He was treating me as an equal. Like a partner.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I can do this.”
I looked at the boarded window and felt my stomach slide. “Just promise me this will turn out all right.”
Fiennes looked at me. “That is a promise I cannot make.”
Fiennes snapped on latex gloves and handed a pair to me.
I blinked. “Federal agents wear rubber gloves?”
“Federal agents don’t usually allow citizens to…how did you say it, tag along?”
“Yeah, I like that about you,” I said and worked the rubber gloves onto my hands. I stood outside the back door as Fiennes flipped open his bag and pulled out what looked like one of those leather travel-manicure kits.
I felt like I wasn’t contributing much to this endeavor. “When I busted into the shop last time there was no alarm,” I said, trying to be helpful.
Fiennes looked up from the knob. “I know.”
“Fine. I’ll be quiet,” I said.
He extracted two small, slim tools and slipped them into the lock. Within moments, he turned the knob and the back door swung open.
Swallowing hard, I followed Fiennes into The Blue Parrot.
The silence was the first thing that hit me. No scurrying of tiny paws, no fluttering of feathers. I went to flip on a light and Fiennes covered my hand.
“No lights,” he said.
He removed a large, heavy-looking flashlight, just like Cantu always wears in his utility belt and hit the button. But his beam illuminated a triangular patch of red on the floor and he searched the place like a television cop. He ran the beam along the high ceilings, careful to avoid the windows, and down, through the cages. All open, all empty. There was no Sam snapping his beak by the cash register, no slithering snakes in large aquariums.
“This isn’t right,” I said. “There’s a guy, Burt Buggess he helps look after the animals.”
“I would ask for my money back.”
“It’s not like that. The Bug would be horrified at this mess. I’m going to call him,” I said, pulling my cell from my back pocket.
“Later,” Fiennes said. “Office?”
Shoving down the queasiness threatening to come up my throat, I pointed. Fiennes motioned for me to follow.
The office door was open, the computer was quiet in the darkness. There was no blood, but I could feel Scooter’s presence in his absence.
“Notice anything missing?”
I stared at the empty chair. “You mean besides Scooter?”
I made a wide path around Scooter’s chair, trying to keep my mind in the present. The oak desk was still under the window. Telephone, green-shaded bankers lamp and computer undisturbed on the desktop.
Fiennes moved past the desk, rifling through drawers, running his hands beneath them.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking for documents taped beneath the drawers and behind furniture.”
“Oh,” I said, making a mental note to remember that. He searched behind photos, in, above and behind the bookshelf. His efficiency was astonishing.
“What are we looking for?”
He turned to the bank of file cabinets and began pulling open drawers. “Anything unusual.” He stopped and looked at me. “Someone has been through these files.”
I shrugged. “Crime scene techs go over everything.”
“Not in this manner.”
I peered into the long file drawer and ran my fingers along the gaps between files.
“Look,” he said, shining the red beam on the folder tabs. “All of these bills of lading are domestic.” He pulled several sheets from each file and shoved them into a manila envelope.
“I don’t understand.” I shook my head. “There should be foreign bills of lading. Scooter was importing animals from other countries. The Bug told me so. He said some of the animals got here in really bad shape.”
Fiennes raised a brow. “Why would forensic techs take only foreign bills of lading?”
“Maybe the FBI took them.”
Fiennes stiffened, but he didn’t comment. I sighed. Boys and their agency pissing matches.
Fiennes moved toward the bookcase, where he began pulling books, flipping through pages. I stood next to him, watching as he pulled book after book, but one caught my eye. I slid a book titled, Living in Buenos Aires off the shelf and frowned.
“Buenos Aires,” I said, almost to myself. Fiennes pivoted and glared at me. He took the book from me, a little rougher than I thought necessary, and flipped through the pages.
“Nothing here,” he said without looking up from the book. “Mr. Barnes was your friend. Perhaps you must search the desk.” He shoved the book back on the shelf.
Wow. Touchy. I turned toward the desk and stopped. A wave of nausea rolled through me, but I moved the chair and searched the desktop, feeling Scooter’s presence like a third person in the room. I hit the play button on the answering machine.
“You’ve reached The Blue Parrot.” My breath caught at the sound of Scooter’s voice.
On the recording, another voice sounded. “Leave-a-number. Leave-a-number,” Sam’s tinny voice trilled.
I laughed, and for a moment, thought I was going to cry. Pulling out a pen and my notebook, I scribbled as the tape whirred. Three hang-ups, two calls about pet food deliveries and a message from Scooter’s parents.
“Scott, where are you? Please call us, hon. We’re worried about you.” My throat tightened. The message was from the day before Scott’s death. I took a deep breath. Keep it together, Cauley. You’ve got work to do…
I scrolled through caller ID, writing down numbers, then turned the machine upside down and scribbled the code for remote message retrieval in case I wanted to listen again later. Picking up the phone, I hit redial to see what the last number dialed was and got a disconnect signal.
Turning, I noticed Fiennes staring at me.
“You surprise me, Mrs. Peel.”
I sighed. “My father was a detective, Mr. Bond.”
I stood in front of the computer, not wanting to sit in Scooter’s chair. Booting up the computer, I turned to the disk holder. “Hey,” I said. “All the disks are gone.”
I ran a few search functions on the computer, looking for document titles that might mean something, then ran a reverse search for documents created between Scooter’s first incident and his death.
I felt a soft bump at the back of my legs.
“A chair from the lobby,” John said, then stood behind me, his face illuminated in the blue light of the monitor. I nodded and sat.
“Come on, Scooter, talk to me,” I whispered, clicking through documents in his Favorites folder.
Files buzzed across the screen as I did a hidden folder search through C drive. And there it was. A hidden file. It was marked Hawaii.
“Oh, Scooter,” I said aloud, thinking of the same name on the file on my own desktop at work.
I jumped at the sound of metal clattering in the alley.
“Jesus,” Fiennes growled. He whirled and had his gun out, its muzzle glinting blue in the near darkness.
“Shit!” I said.
“We must get out of here.”
More fumbling in the alley, then glass shattered at the back of the store, and a soft thud, as though someone had just landed on the linoleum.
My heartbeat kicked to three thousand b.p.m. and my hands shook as my fingers tapped the keyboard.
“This is it, I know it!” I whispered, reaching into the holder for a d
isk. And then I remembered that there were no disks. “Shit, shit!”
I heard the leather bag rumple and Fiennes smacked a disk into my hand.
“Jesus, John, what are you, a Boy Scout?”
“Something like that. Hurry.”
“I can’t copy the file. It must be protected.”
Fiennes slid in behind me, popping a fresh disk and a CD into the drives. The motor whirred and ground, and the monitor flashed like a strobe.
I stared at him. “Are you deleting the hard drive?”
He glanced toward the door. The sound of leather soles slapping linoleum sounded through the maze of cages.
They were heading toward the office.
“We must get out. Now!”
“What the hell are you doing, John?” I hissed, reaching for the keyboard. “That’s evidence! What you’re doing is against the law!”
“Ms. MacKinnon, you will find that I don’t always play by the rules.” He popped the disk out and left the CD in the drive. Then he shoved open the window, picked me up and dumped me over the edge.
The breath slammed out of my lungs as I landed with a whump on all fours, the force of the impact shooting through my palms and knees. Fiennes landed lightly on his feet beside me, his hair perfect, bag in hand, the big envelope tucked in the crook of his arm. If I could’ve caught my breath, I’d have tripped him.
“Go!” He grabbed me by the arm and propelled me toward the Jeep.
“What about your car?”
“It’s a rental. I’ll send someone,” he said, climbing into the Jeep. “Drive.”
My hands were shaking when I jammed the key into the ignition. Nothing.
“Dammit!” I hissed, and turned the key again. The engine sputtered to life.
“Go!” Fiennes yelled, and I did.
The jeep almost tipped as we took the corner and tore out of the parking lot. My mouth was dry, my heart pounded in my ears and my knuckles were white on the steering wheel as we sped through the night.
