by Kit Frazier
Sighing, I called the Colonel, hoping he’d be home from church.
“Can I talk to you?” I said when he picked up the phone.
“You mean you want to tell me something and you don’t want me to tell your mother?”
“I don’t want her to worry, and I don’t want her and Clairee meddling.”
The Colonel sighed. “I won’t say anything unless I have to.”
Good enough for me.
I told him everything except the part about sleeping with John, which I judiciously left out, partly because I was embarrassed and partly because I was afraid the Colonel would get a big gun and go put a bullet in each of John’s favorite appendages.
As I talked the story through, the frayed threads spooled out and the Colonel listened without comment.
I told him about my suspicions about the connection between the Nazi flight from Germany to Argentina, the Anschluss Eagle, and how at least some of the coins wound up in Central Texas. I told him about the bills of lading Selena had signed, and how the shipping company used to transport the animals was purchased by a group that purportedly had ties to El Patron, who used the Necklace, the same burning tire treatment as the Argentinean thugs when they want somebody whacked.
“It’s got to be these coins, because there’s a Customs Agent involved, and Logan says there could be smuggling, but it’s not drugs or weapons. He said they’ve had dogs all over the place. But why would Scott and Selena smuggle? I mean, it’s money. Why not just bring it in through the proper channels?”
“Well, if the coins really are Anschluss Eagles, they’d probably be confiscated, and somebody might even wind up on trial over the whole deal.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re still deporting and trying war criminals. A couple of years ago, an international coalition traced large sums of money and gold to Argentina and Brazil, and there’s some ongoing investigation into what kind of role neutral banks and countries played laundering money and moving around property that the Nazis confiscated from Jewish prisoners,” the Colonel said.
“But how would they fence the coins if they could be confiscated?”
“Well,” the Colonel said, considering. “It could work a couple of ways. Whoever’s after those coins could be some nutjob Nazi memorabilia collector. Or they could have personal ties with the coins. Or, it could be just some greedy bastard out for the gold.”
“But you can’t spend or trade them, they’re too identifiable,” I said.
“No, but you could melt them down it’s a lot of gold. What’s the price for an ounce these days?”
My throat went dry. “You think I’m right? Somebody tossed Scooter’s pet store and wrecked my house looking for these coins?” I shook my head. “That just sounds…incredible.”
As incredible as it all sounded, it was a reasonable explanation for why everyone from the FBI to the Texas Syndicate had asked me what Scooter said in that shed and if he mentioned that he’d been hiding something.
“Everyone thinks Scooter told me where some kind of missing property is,” I said slowly.
“The problem is you’re dealing with thugs and you aren’t thinking like a thug. Look, Cauley. You’ve got trained professionals chomping at the bit on this one. Have you told them all of this?”
“I told John um, the Customs Agent, about the connections I’d found between the Nazi flight from Germany, Argentina and Central Texas.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I had a vivid imagination.”
The Colonel was quiet. “You trust this customs guy? You said he stole your research.”
I sighed, suspecting the Colonel knew there was more to that story.
“Why don’t you sit down with your FBI agent friend and go over the whole thing with him?” he said.
“I knew you were going to say that. And he’s not my FBI agent.”
“And you’re going to try to do it yourself.” He blew out a long breath. “Okay. You’re looking at the whole thing and it’s overwhelming. It’s like driving at night with the headlights. You can only see a few feet in front of you, but you can make the whole trip that way.”
“Been reading Doctorow again?” I said and smiled.
“Yeah, just like that,” he said. “Cauley?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be too proud to ask for help.”
“Thanks, Colonel. I mean it,” I said, and disconnected.
I dragged a dry chair in from the library and sat down with my notebook. I didn’t feel like going over everything again, but I had less than twenty-four hours to figure out if Scooter killed himself and if he didn’t, who did, and if it was in fact the Eagle coins everyone was wanting to know about and if so, where they were, before I was back to writing obituaries.
“Come on, Scooter. Is that what you were trying to tell me? Where you stashed the coins?”
I tapped the pen to my lips. “Why did he call me that day he holed up in the shed and not the police?” I said aloud to no one.
“Maybe,” I answered myself. “Because he knew I’d been researching El Patron for a piece Ryder was working on.”
I jotted that down in my notebook.
“And why did Van Gogh drive me into the lake?” I wondered. “He wanted to know what Scooter said in the shed. But all Scooter said was about Selena and how she was leaving him,” I answered myself.
I got up and paced the short length of the hall.
“Tanner asked me to stay away from Scooter because of Selena. I’d nearly been dragged to a room by Diego DeLeon because of El Patron,” I said aloud.
Selena was Scooter’s wife. She’d engineered the big turnaround at The Blue Parrot by importing exotic animals. And she engineered the importing from Argentina. And then there was John Fiennes a United States Customs Agent why would he tell me there was nothing to my theory? Logan told me search dogs had been all through the place and found no evidence of drugs or weapons. But those dogs wouldn’t have alerted on coins, I didn’t think…
My head was spinning, so I went back to the chair and sat, staring at my notes. I thought about what the Colonel said about trained professionals and asking for help.
Sighing, I picked up the phone and speed-dialed Logan, mentally preparing the message I would leave on his ubiquitous voice mail.
“Tom Logan,” he said, and I nearly fell over when I got his actual live voice, not a recorded message.
Recovering quickly, I said, “Hey stranger. You got a minute?”
“Can you hold on a second?” he said, and I frowned, looking over my notes while I waited. The only thing that didn’t fit tidily with anything else in the notes was Selena. I thought about her the way I’d known her best, small and blonde and beautiful, playing Blanch DuBois off-stage as often as on.
Sure, she played on her looks, and she could be manipulative, but I just couldn’t imagine pale little Selena masterminding a plot to smuggle mysterious gold coins into the country.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when Tom Logan’s voice came back on the line. “You there?” he said.
“Um, yes.”
“You okay?” he said.
“Well, my house isn’t on fire and I’m not getting chased into the river by an earless German guy,” I said, “but I think there is a German connection.”
“What’ve you got?”
“I’ve been looking over my notes and talking to a few people and I’m seeing some connections.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“This might seem crazy, but will you hear me out?”
He made a loud snort, and being the eternal optimist I am, I took it to mean yes, so I told him about the animals imported to Central Texas from Argentina and I told him about the coin Scooter had given me that day in the shed.
There was a heavy silence on the line and Tom said, “Let me call you back on a land line.”
The dial tone trilled I realized he’d hung up on me. Puzzled, I hit the disconnect button, and jo
lted when the phone rang almost immediately.
“Cauley?” Logan said. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I think I’m on to something.” I flipped through the notes I’d jotted.
Talking very fast, the way I do when I’m nervous, I said, “This whole mess started because Scooter called me, wanting to talk, but then all he talked about was Selena. But Logan, Scooter knew I’d been researching El Patron for Ryder.”
“He mention El Patron?”
“Well, no, but here’s the thing. El Patron has ties to the shipping company Scooter and Selena were using to import animals from Argentina. Everyone wants to know what Scooter said in the shed, including you and the Customs Agent, and I think Scooter was trying to tell me that they were mixed up with El Patron and that they were smuggling those coins. I think he was trying to come clean. Logan, he gave me a coin and I think it was one of those Anschluss Eagles like they found out near Bastrop two years ago.”
“He gave you a gold coin?”
“To give to Selena.”
“Where is it now?”
“At the bottom of Lake Austin.”
There was a long, dead stillness on the line, and I said, “Logan? Are you still there?”
“Cauley,” he said, sounding very tired. “I’m asking you to stay out of this.”
I felt my eyes go wide, and the back of my neck prickled like mad. “I’m right?”
“Cauley. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“Well, yes, but ‘
“No buts,” he said. “You’re about to mess up a perfectly good investigation. Just sit tight, and all this will be over soon. I’ll tell you what I can when we’re done.”
“Fine,” I said, not feeling fine at all.
“Look,” Logan said. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can go to lunch and talk all about it, but I need to get back to work now.”
“Right,” I said, and my voice sounded very small. “I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Hey, you’re doing fine, kid. But you’re in over your head.”
I disconnected and the weight of the let down settled over me. Looking over my notes, I shook my head.
“I know I’m right,” I said stubbornly, keenly aware that no one was there to hear me. “Aren’t I?”
Dropping the notebook on the counter, I looked around the empty house and wished Muse and Marlowe were home. I hadn’t realized how much I would miss them. The house smelled like a big wet dog, I thought, wrinkling my nose. Maybe I should do laundry. When all else fails, procrastinate.
I shoved the wet towels that Mia, Brynn and I had used to soak up water into a laundry basket and wandered into my bedroom, thinking about Scooter and wracking my brain for something he might have said, something I might have missed…
Then I thought about John, and felt a terrible sense of loss. I’d told John the same theory, a little less evolved, and he’d said I had an overactive imagination. And now Logan was insisting I stay out of it.
Frowning, I plucked a damp blanket from my bedroom floor and noticed a shirt and a pair of jeans under my bed.
It took me a few moments to remember that my friends had come over to help me get ready for a date with Diego the Mobster-in-Training several weeks ago and I’d shoved a pile of dirty clothes under my bed. Cauley’s Code of Emergency Housecleaning.
Sighing, I took off the too-tight jeans and tee shirt I’d found at my mom’s house and chucked them into the basket, too. Hefting the basket to the laundry room, I went to load the washing machine, checking pockets as I went. An ink pen and a receipt to the video store. Two crumpled dollars, Tom Logan’s card with his cell phone number penciled in. And an unlabeled micro cassette.
I stood, staring at the cassette, trying to remember when I’d put it in my pocket.
Time slowed, and my heart skipped a beat.
That cassette was a record of my last conversation with Scooter.
My favorite mini recorder might be languishing at the bottom of Lake Austin, but I’d stuck the cassette and the coin into my pocket that morning when I’d been accosted by News Boy Salazar and his obnoxious television crew outside the shed.
I turned the cassette over in my palm. I’d undressed in the living room after my first meeting with Van Gogh after I landed in the lake and came home hurt and tired and dripping wet.
I laid the cassette on the dryer and reached deeper into the jeans pocket and came up with a dull, worn coin.
I stared at it. The eagle had two heads. The wings pointed skyward, and as I stared at it, the floor seemed to rock beneath me. The coin was dark gold and the craftsmanship was beautiful, the way some snakes are beautiful. I shivered. People had lost their lives for this coin, probably in the past, as well as the present.
I nearly fell over when the phone rang.
“Cauley?” Jim Cantu’s voice seemed very deep over the line.
My breath caught. “What’s wrong?”
“Couple of things. I thought you might want to know your buddy Burt Buggess is in ICU.”
The phone felt cold in my hand.
“Hey,” Cantu’s voice came over the receiver. “You okay?”
I shook my head, but said, “Yeah. I’m great. Where is he?”
“Brackenridge.”
“Any problem seeing him?”
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll go with you,” Cantu said. I could hear a television and Cantu’s kids fighting about something called Blue’s Clues in the background. One of the kids sounded like he was coughing up a lung.
“You’ve got your hands full,” I said. “I’m not snooping. I just want to see him.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about.”
I sighed. “Would it make you feel any better if I called Logan?”
“He still in town?”
“He was with me until late last night,” I said, and braced for a wisecrack.
“You spending time with him?”
“Jim,” I said. “He’s just doing his job.”
Cantu was quiet. “You could do worse, you know.”
“I have done worse,” I said.
“Call him,” Cantu said. “If you don’t get him, call me back.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“They took the accelerant dog through your house. He alerted at what was left of that little coffee table and your living room rug. Probably whoever broke into your house the first time was planning to do more than steal your files. Most likely you surprised your burglar when you came home early from your little date with the mobster.”
“You mean Van Gogh was in my house when I came home?”
“Well, we got no forensic evidence it’s your earless guy but it’s a pretty good bet,” he said. “We’re going to send a uniform to cruise your street for a while. Keep an eye on things.”
“How come I didn’t smell chemicals?”
“Some accelerants dry pretty quick and don’t have an odor humans can’t smell.”
I was quiet.
“Cauley?” Cantu said.
“Yeah?”
“Be careful,” he said, and he paused. “And call Logan.”
“Thanks, Jim. I really appreciate it,” I said.
I disconnected and true to my word, I called Logan and got his voice mail. Either he was on a stake-out and turned it off or he was out of range. I left a harried message that came out a little breathy, because I was rummaging for clean jeans and a fresh tee shirt.
As I dressed, I thought about calling John on the off-chance he might know something. If I did call, would I sound desperate and needy? I thought about the Bug lying in a hospital and dialed John, desperate and needy or not.
“You have reached the voice mail of John Fiennes,” John’s recorded voice announced. His voice still sounded like dark velvet and my heart did a sad little slide.
After two aborted tries at a message that didn’t sound stupid, I was tempted to hang up and write a script. On th
e third try, I got it right. A calm mix between cool and confident. I hit the pound sign to hear what I’d said and the way I said it.
Listening to my own voice message, I only sounded somewhat desperate and needy, so I hit send.
I closed the windows, turned off the fans, got my purse, and double-locked the door behind me.
Chapter Twenty-five
I parked in a spot marked Police and hustled through the sliding doors at Brackenridge Hospital’s emergency entrance. A tiny little blue-haired woman who looked a lot like a garden gnome presided over the information desk.
“Mr. Buggess has been moved to Critical Care on the third floor,” she said when I asked about Bug. “He’s under police protection. I can’t give you the room number, honey. Hospital rules, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Thank you. You’re a doll,” I said, smiling with all my wit and charm. Who needed a room number when you could just go hunt down the gun guarding the door?
I took the elevator to critical care and looked for a beat cop. He wasn’t hard to spot. He looked young, probably went straight from high school to the police academy. He was sporting a bad attitude and a closely cropped platinum crew cut that made him look like an ambulatory Q-tip.
Even in obits, you get a press pass, just like the big boys, and I flashed it at the cop. He wasn’t impressed. He eyed me with the suspicion cops always give media and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Got anyone to vouch for you?”
“Detective Jim Cantu and half of Club West,” I said. I stood in the white, antiseptic-scented hallway, waiting as he made the call.
“Right,” he said into his radio. He swung the door open, still not looking impressed. I gotta work on my wit and charm.
Inside, the room smelled like rubbing alcohol and misery. Tubes and cables snaked in and out of the sheets, and a bank of machines beeped steadily in the corner. Burt Buggess looked like one of the illustrations of the Lilliputian’s capture in Gulliver’s Travels.
“Mr. Buggess?” I said. a mountain of heavy gauze wound around his neck, and there was blood seeping through.
His massive chest rose. “Thought you were calling me Bug,” he said, and opened one red-rimmed eye.
