MacKinnon 01 Scoop

by Kit Frazier

  “Spare a dollar?” he said, leaning into my topless, doorless Jeep, offering me a giant pixie stick—those big, festively colored plastic straws filled with flavored sugar that tastes like un-reconstituted Kool Aide. The man’s Army fatigues were tattered, his eyes tired, and his cheeks were hollow beneath his beard. “Whatever you can spare’ll help.”

  “Right,” I muttered, and gave him a five I really couldn’t spare while politely declining the gigantic pixie stick.

  I pulled the Jeep into the side street at Guerro’s about ten minutes late.

  “Rats,” I swore. Dressed in his usual suit and tie, Logan was seated outside at a table on the patio, reading a newspaper.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, fighting with Marlowe as he strained at his new leash.

  Logan stood, pulled out my chair and looked at me like he wasn’t surprised that I was late, which irritated me even more. I’m usually on time. Okay, I’m rarely on time, but I’m working on it.

  Choking against the leash, Marlowe pulled toward Logan, tail wagging, tongue lolling. Logan smiled down at the dog.

  The host came out with menus and I ordered a margarita on the rocks with salt. Logan didn’t say anything while the guy was there, but he looked at me intently.

  “Rough day?” he said.

  I nodded. “Cantu asked me to ID a body this morning.”

  “You know who it was?”

  I shook my head. “No, but it was pretty gruesome. Another Necklace the poor guy had a car tire shoved down around his shoulders and then they torched him. Found him out east between Austin and Bastrop.”

  “Lot of that going around,” Logan said, shaking his head.

  A server brought the margarita, and I sucked half of it down in one swallow.

  “I don’t know how people can do those kinds of things to each other,” I said, licking the salt from my lower lip.

  “People will do a lot of things, given proper motivation,” Logan said, studying my face. “Explains why you’re late. You want to do this some other time?”

  “No,” I said, the margarita warming my insides. “I need to get to the bottom of this. And I’m late because I got waylaid by a Pixie Stix guy.”

  Logan looked at me blankly.

  “You know, those homeless guys down at the shelter on Manchaca? They bus them out by van to sell Pixie Stix at stop lights.”

  “I must have missed them,” Logan said, shaking his head like I’d lost my mind.

  Marlowe bumped Logan’s hand with his nose and Logan automatically scratched the dog’s chin.

  “He seems to like you,” I said.

  “No account for taste,” Logan said, and I smiled when he scratched behind the dog’s ear as he mulled over the lunch selection. Sighing, Marlowe curled up under the table at Logan’s feet, quiet for a change. Traitor.

  I watched Logan as his gaze swept the area periodically, and I wondered if he ever let his guard down.

  The margarita was warming my cheeks and I glanced down at my menu. “I love the fajitas here, but I always feel terrible about ordering them because I can’t eat the whole thing.”

  “Because children are starving in South America?”

  “Your mom gave you the same speech?”

  “No, I just know how you are.”

  I frowned. “How am I?”

  “You’re the only girl I know who falls over fences, quotes Machiavelli and bats her eyelashes to get behind police lines.”

  I was very nearly offended. “I do not bat my eye lashes,” I said. “Are you saying I use the fact that I’m a woman to get what I want?”

  “I think you play to your strengths, which is exactly what you should do. You’re a beautiful woman, Cauley. A bit eccentric, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  I was trying not to get my feelings hurt when the waitress sauntered out of the patio door in typical South Austin style, flame-red hair piled high, skirt so tight it looked like two tomcats fighting in a denim sack. She set large glasses of water in front of us, and if she saw the dog at Logan’s feet, she didn’t say anything. “Y’all know what you want?”

  Logan looked at me.

  “I’ll have an ice tea and a chalupa, please,” I said, but my order was interrupted as two blue and whites whizzed down Congress, lights blazing, sirens blaring.

  Marlowe’s ears priced and Logan’s head barely moved as he and the dog watched the cop cars race by.

  “Oh, hon.” The waitress laughed. “You think that’s bad, you shoulda been over to my house last weekend. My neighbor’s brother was doin’ this buy and he had a suitcase full of weed. Well, his scumbag brother-in-law was stayin’ with him, and don’t you know, the suitcase come up missin’. You know what my dumbass neighbor did? Called the cops to report the suitcase stolen.”

  I shook my head, hiding a smile. Logan practically had “Fed” tattooed on his forehead, and this poor woman was prattling on about things you wouldn’t even tell your own mother, let alone a federal agent. To his credit, Logan sat, listening to the waitress, a trace of amusement in his eyes. The woman’s chatter trailed off as she finally caught his gaze.

  “What?” she said, cocking her helmut-haired head at Logan. “You’re not a cop, are ya?”

  Logan looked her. “Not exactly.”

  She fidgeted. “Drug enforcement?”

  “FBI.”

  The waitress stared first at him, then at me. “You’re shitting me.”

  “I would not shit you, ma’am.” Logan didn’t smile, but I could tell he wanted to.

  “You got a badge and everything?”

  “And everything.”

  “You carryin’ a gun?”

  “Always.”

  The waitress shifted her hip. “Can I see it?” I don’t know how she did it, but the question sounded suggestive.

  “I’ll have the fajitas,” he said in a tone that said the conversation was over.

  The waitress looked at me and I shrugged.

  When she was out of earshot, I said, “You won’t let her see your gun?”

  “You let ‘em see it they want to touch it.’

  “All men think that,” I said, and Logan actually laughed out loud. He had a really great laugh. He should do it more often.

  I slipped my glass of water beneath the table and set it next to Marlowe, who lapped noisily.

  The waitress didn’t say a word when she brought our salads. Sprinkling pepper on mine, I asked Logan, “Does that bother you?”

  “What?”

  “Being treated like that? You know, like you’re not a real person.”

  He grinned. “Sometimes it’s amusing.”

  I watched him drip ranch dressing on his salad. “Seems kind of lonely.”

  “We were going to talk about those Barnes files,” Logan said, and I nodded, accepting the change of subject.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We were.”

  Logan, as always, was on the job.

  “We’ve been over this before,” I said.

  “Doesn’t hurt to go over it again,” Logan said, and he transferred some of his fajita onto my plate.

  I smiled. “Want some chalupa?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you feeling bad about starving South Americans.”

  “Even if I’m eccentric?”

  “I didn’t say eccentric was a bad thing.”

  I tried not to smile even wider, and over shared plates of some truly excellent Tejana comida, I started with everything I could remember about what Scooter said while we were in the shed. We both jotted notes as I told Logan everything I could remember about the photos, news clippings and research I’d done on Scooter, from his family history to his football career to the pet store’s resurrection as an upscale exotic pet boutique.

  I scribbled notes to myself in my little red notebook as I tried to mentally reconstruct my file on Scooter.

  “A flow chart?” Logan said, looking amused.

  “More like a timeline with the pl
ayers and their connections.” I showed him my chart.

  He smiled. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got the handwriting of a serial killer?”

  “All part of my plan. Anyone steals my research they’ll have to kidnap me to decipher it.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said a bit gruffly. “What else you got?”

  I told him about the Bug and the mysterious veterinarian in Bastrop. And although it wasn’t part of my original research, I tried to remember most of the names of journalists who’d written articles about Scooter during his glory days as well as those about Selena and I jotted down approximate dates of clippings as best I could recall. Rob Ryder, one of the downtown News Boys, had written most of the sports articles before he’d made it to the City Desk. I was probably going to have to go down to the Sentinel’s main office at some point and talk to him.

  During a break in conversation, I looked at Logan across the table. It was amazing how much easier reconstructing my notes was when Logan and I went over it together. He listened, nodding as he ate, stopping periodically to take a few notes, and frequently, to slip bites of beef to the dog. I copped a look at his notebook. He didn’t make a flow chart.

  “I’m trying to figure out where to put this thing about Diego wanting to know what Scooter said about El Patron,” I said. “The thing is, Scooter didn’t say anything about El Patron, and I haven’t seen any kind of a link at all. And I swear, Logan, Scooter wouldn’t be mixed up in some gang.”

  “What makes you think he’s involved in a gang?”

  “Well, you’re in FBI’s Organized Crime division, right?”

  Logan looked at me for a long time. Leaning back in his chair, he finally said, “This thing’s all over the board, Cauley, and El Patron isn’t a gang. They’ve got international ties and they like to think of themselves as businessmen. And don’t underestimate your friend Barnes. Your friend is suicidal.”

  “So you’re looking at Scooter?”

  “Let’s just say he’s a person of interest.”

  “He wouldn’t do anything with El Patron, he’s got no reason. The Blue Parrot’s doing great. I snooped around in public records and financials. The only thing that worries me about the pet store is that they seem to be importing animals that aren’t well taken care of, and I know in my heart Scooter would never mistreat animals.”

  “Where’d he get the cash to import?” Logan said, and I blinked.

  “He and Selena have money—not obscene amounts, but they seem to be doing okay. He spent a season with the Cowboys, and he’s managed his money pretty well. And the only kind of trouble he’s ever been in is for fighting over Selena. Scooter told me the suicide attempts are because Selena’s leaving him. He said so that day in the shed.”

  “You talk to her?”

  “Who?”

  “The wife.”

  I felt my face color. “No,” I admitted. “Until very recently, I thought I was just helping a friend out of a bad time. I didn’t take this thing very seriously.”

  Logan nodded. “You know her?”

  “You could say that. We were rivals in high school.”

  “Let me guess. Debate?”

  “I was in debate, but Selena beat me at drama.” I fidgeted, not wanting to tell him the rest of the rivalry.

  Logan waited.

  “We were in a pageant together,” I muttered.

  He grinned, and to my eternal horror, I felt my face go hot pink. “Like a beauty pageant?”

  “It was a long time ago,” I said, defensively. “My mother living vicariously.”

  “What about Selena’s mother?”

  “She was the worst stage mother I have ever seen,” I said around a swallow of margarita. “The woman was beautiful and perfect, but I never saw her smile. Not even when Selena came up with a crown, which was most of the time. They went off on the pageant circuit and we lost touch. I never much liked Selena, but I always felt kind of sorry for her.”

  Logan sat, very still, watching me.

  Self-consciously, I swallowed a bite of fajita. “What I don’t understand is what’s with all the federal attention. Do you think Scooter’s smuggling something? Drugs or weapons?” I stared down at my notes. “And maybe that’s where the animals fit in.”

  You think they’ve figured out a way to use the animals to smuggle something?” I looked up from my notebook. “But they wouldn’t still be at it if they knew you were on to them.”

  Logan shrugged. “Maybe they’ve done what they meant to do.”

  “But wouldn’t we have heard about it before now?”

  “When we do our job well, you never even know we were there,” he said, and I got a cold chill.

  Logan cocked his head. “Did your pal Diego and Barnes hang out together?”

  “Diego’s not my pal, and no, I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Just seems odd that in a city like Austin with a metro population of more than a million, everybody and their dog knows a small-time pet store owner.”

  “Scooter played for the Dallas Cowboys almost a season and he married a beauty queen. Agree or not, that holds a lot of weight in this part of the country.”

  “Yeah,” Logan said. “But you can’t find that many people who know who the mayor is.”

  I thought about that as I sat, staring at the free association of events outlined in my notebook. “You make anything out of this?”

  “I don’t know yet. Right now we’re looking at a lot of different pieces.”

  “But you’ll tell me if any of this information helps?”

  Logan looked at me for a long time. “How about I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

  I wanted to be skeptical, but the thing was, I believed him. He wouldn’t tell me everything, but he’d tell me what he could.

  Logan picked up the check then rose and walked me to the Jeep, Marlowe trotting along at his side. Logan stood at the open door as I climbed in.

  With his forearm resting against the roll bar, he looked down at me. “What was your talent?”

  “What?”

  “In the pageant. What was your talent?”

  I felt my face go beet red. I hesitated. “I was supposed to sing and play piano,” I said. “But at the last minute, I did this, um, enthusiastic Mayan dance my friend Mia’s grandma taught me. You should have seen my mother in the audience. She about had a cow.”

  “An enthusiastic dance, huh?” Logan grinned, stepping away from the Jeep. “You’ll have to show me some time.”

  I was still gaping when he got in his old gray Bureau car and pulled out of the parking lot behind us, heading north on Congress, back to our respective offices.

  “Was he flirting with me?” I said to Marlowe. The dog looked skeptical. I eyed Logan in my rearview mirror.

  At the light at Riverside, Mr. Pixie Stix hobbled up, just like he hadn’t hit me up an hour before. Sighing I scrounged in my purse for a dollar.

  My cell phone chirped.

  “Cauley MacKinnon,” I said, still searching for money.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the voice said, and I looked back through my mirror to see Tom Logan on his cell phone, staring at me through his windshield.

  I disconnected.

  “Here,” I said, and gave the guy my last buck. He smiled his hollow smile and started to hand me the three-foot, powder-filled pixie stick. The light turned green.

  “Give it to the big guy in the ugly gray car behind me,” I said. Grinning to myself, I stomped on the gas.

  With the first half of the day wiped out, I parked in the loading zone at the Sentinel and swung past security, straight for my desk, Marlowe padding along beside me.

  I checked my messages. Three from my mother, one from Mark and one from Cantu.

  I tossed my purse under my desk and speed dialed Cantu’s cell.

  “Any more on the Necklace?”

  “Been working it all last night and most of today,” he said. “I meant to tell you sorry I didn’t make it out to yo
ur house last night.”

  “You can’t come running every time I get in trouble,” I said. “You link that burned body last night to El Patron?”

  “Actually, yeah. We’re waiting on forensics, but word is it’s El Patron’s attorney.”

  “Mafia has attorneys?” I said.

  “Who needs attorneys more than crooks?”

  “I briefly met Selena Barnes’ attorney,” I said, remembering the crime scene photo Cantu had asked me to look at, and thinking about the bespectacled, blond man who’d followed Selena through the Sentinel office like a whipped puppy. “And he had glasses.”

  “Used to have glasses,” Cantu said. “Lot a good now.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The burned guy seemed bigger built than Selena’s attorney, but I’ve only seen him once.”

  “Forensics aren’t back yet.”

  “But you’ll check it out, right? And keep me posted?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I live to keep you informed.”

  “I know you don’t, so thanks,” I said. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Just stay out of trouble,” he said, and disconnected.

  I was hanging up the phone when I heard Tanner roar from inside the Cage.

  “Is that a dog?”

  “Looks like it,” I said. I happen to know Tanner loves dogs, and it’d be a cold day in hell before he made me get rid of a husky in this heat.

  “Get him under the desk,” Tanner grumbled. “And I need to talk to you about the Buggess outline.”

  Rolling my eyes, I headed for Tanner’s office where I hopped up to sit on his desk.

  Marlowe trotted in behind me and sat at Tanner’s feet. The dog thumped his tail, and I could tell the gesture melted Tanner’s Grinchy little heart.

  “What’s with the dog?” he said.

  “He’s been haunting the neighborhood. I put flyers out this morning and I’ll place an ad with classifieds today. I didn’t mean to bring him, but he sort of jumped in the Jeep and wouldn’t get out.”

  Tanner made a rusty noise that almost sounded like a laugh. He cleared his throat. “About Buggess.”

  I shook my head. “What about Buggess?”