by Kit Frazier
“You’re batting a thousand, kid. Why don’t you go wash up. You want some tea?”
I nodded. My bones felt like rubber and I couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.
Making my way to the bathroom, I felt strangely safe, glad that Logan was in the living room. He had stopped Muse and Marlowe from the canine equivalent of World War III, and he’d taken total control at The Blue Parrot. He’d briefed the police and settled things with Cantu, who said he’d bring my Jeep by later.
Logan was a natural leader, I realized, dealing with Scott’s body, organizing forensic search patterns, delegating tasks and ordering reports before quietly driving a hysterical, trouble-prone obituary writer back to her house.
Scott’s body.
I nearly threw up again. Instead, I climbed into the shower and stood under the hot water until it went cold. Dressed in a big, soft tee shirt and a pair of faded shorts, I felt clean, but even then, the world seemed muted, out of focus.
In the living room, Logan handed me a cup of tea and I curled up on the sofa, my hair still damp, my feet bare. Logan dragged the overstuffed chair next to the sofa and sat, Marlowe trotting along at his heels.
“You want to talk?”
“No,” I said. “But I suppose that’s exactly what I should do. There have to be pieces missing. Something I’ve overlooked. None of this makes sense.”
“The pieces may not make sense independently but the do make sense. These things are like a puzzle.”
“Fit them together for the big picture,” I said, nodding numbly. “I faxed Cantu some of the notes you went over with me.”
Logan nodded. “You up to starting at the beginning?”
I shook my head but said, “Yes.”
The thought of going over everything again made my stomach feel even oilier, but I blew out a long breath and began, starting with Scooter in the shed, recalling our conversation, which was mostly about Selena, as best I could. About Van Gogh, the Bug and the animals in bad shape, and his mysterious veterinarian. Then there was Diego’s deliberate date, his questions about a vixen and references to El Patron, the breakin and stolen files I’d put together on Scooter, the severed ear in my couch, and the latest torched, ear-chopped, unidentified corpse, presumably the work of El Patron. And somehow it was all connected.
“I’ve got to be forgetting something,” I said. “You know how something bumps at the edge of your brain but you can’t quite see it clearly?”
Logan nodded. “It’ll come to you.”
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory of Scooter dead in the middle of his pet store. “Logan, the Blue Parrot was wrecked. You think somebody was looking for something?”
Logan’s dark eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. It was just a thought.” I rubbed my eyes. “Hey, how did you know about The Blue Parrot? Do you have a scanner?”
“Yes, I have a scanner,” he said, and I didn’t notice until later he’d skipped the first half of the question.
“The broken window?” he said.
“I did that.”
“And the 911 call?”
“I did that, too.”
He smiled and shook his head. “What were you doing skulking around breaking windows?”
“My editor finally gave me the green light on a real story. I was going to talk to Scooter before Tanner changed his mind. I knew Scooter was out of the hospital and I wanted to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on.”
“And you went alone?”
“I called Fiennes but he wasn’t there, so I left him a message and went myself to see if Scooter and I couldn’t work out a plan before we got the authorities involved. Again.”
“Fiennes?”
“You know. John Fiennes. The Customs Agent.”
If I had just met Logan, I wouldn’t have noticed the subtle change in his expression.
“You didn’t mention a Customs Agent last time we spoke.”
I shrugged. “I told him everything I told you, and I figured y’all were working together.”
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Hey,” I said. “You don’t think this is about drugs, do you?”
“What would make you think so?”
“Well, the Customs Agent being involved and the animals imported from South America. They could be using the animals as mules to smuggle illegal substances.”
Logan looked at me levelly. “We’ve had dogs all over Barnes’s store, truck and house. If there were drugs or weapons, the dogs would’ve alerted.”
I nodded, narrowing my eyes. “So how come you didn’t know about the Customs Agent?”
Logan leaned back in the chair. “I’ll tell you a little story. Off the record. A couple of years ago I was under cover at a Klan rally. While I was surveilling the bad guys, I happened to notice another assistant district attorney—also UC. Then I really looked around, and spotted a couple of local cops in on the gig, too.”
“Another assistant district attorney?”
“Before I joined the Bureau.”
I blinked at him. “You’re an attorney?”
“I know,” he said. “All this and brains, too.”
“But you didn’t know someone at your own office was under cover at the same rally? What if things had gone south? Y’all could have been shooting at each other.”
“There’s always that.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t take your job for the world,” I said.
“Right now, your job doesn’t seem so hot either, kid,” he said.
I was quiet for a long time.
Logan sat back, scratching the dog’s chin. “Nice dog,” he said. “You always take him with you?”
“You mean because of the restaurant? No.” I sighed. “He’s not really my dog. He’s just hanging around here until I find his owner. In the mean time, I’m calling him Marlowe.”
“Marlowe, huh?” Logan smiled like he’d heard a private joke. He rose and picked up his suit jacket. “Can I talk you into staying somewhere else tonight?”
“Probably not.”
He nodded. “You going to be okay?”
“Someday.”
I walked him to the door and felt an odd urge to ask him to stay. I wasn’t about to embarrass myself. No matter how nice he was, he’d already made it clear this was just another job for him.
“Logan?” I finally said, and felt my voice stick in my throat. “About what happened back there. Scooter I mean, Scott. Do you think it was suicide?”
Logan stopped. He studied my face. “That’s for the M.E. to decide. Take care of yourself, kid, and do me a favor ” He opened the door. “Don’t let anyone in or out.” He looked pointedly down at the dog. “And don’t talk to anybody without good ID.”
From the front window, I watched him start up his old gray Bureau car. He pulled out of the driveway.
Watching him leave, my stomach roiled on a fresh wave of nausea. Until now, I thought I’d convinced Scooter that life was worth living, when what I’d really done was prevent him from getting the kind of help he needed. Too late for help now.
Rubbing my forehead, I tried to erase the image of my friend slumped over his computer, blood caked at his wrists and crusting around his feet. I tried not to think about the authorities notifying his parents. His wife.
I leaned my head against the cool glass of my living room window and said a silent prayer for all of them. Scooter’s wife, his parents, the police…and I watched the red glimmer of Logan’s taillights skim into the night.
And I said a little prayer for him, too.
Chapter Fourteen
Former Dallas Cowboy running back Scott “Scooter” Barnes, was found dead yesterday afternoon of an apparent suicide…
Suicide. My fingers stilled over the cool metal keys of the old typewriter. But I cleared my throat and pressed on.
…according to police officers on the scene. Barnes was 32.
Barnes was found with cuts to both wrists, slumped over his computer in the exotic pet store where he and his wife, former beauty queen Selena Obregon, had made a successful second career after his brief time in professional football.
“The pet store was in a state of disarray,” acknowledged one crime scene investigator, who declined further comment, pending autopsy results.
By the time I finished the obituary, my head was pounding and my stomach was tied in knots. I knew Logan wouldn’t mind being quoted if I kept his name out of it, but I felt sick when I ripped the paper out of Aunt Kat’s typewriter and faxed it to Tanner, ensuring The Sentinel would get the news before any other print media did.
Tomorrow I would make some calls, see if I could get the police to make a statement for the follow-up. Then I’d talk to Scott’s parents. Maybe a former teammate or two. And then I’d have to call Selena.
The full effects of gravity pulled at me as I trudged off to bed. I didn’t sleep and I’m not sure how I got up, showered and dressed, except I didn’t know what else to do. I ripped open my new pack of days-of-the-week granny panties and selected a pair that was Pepto Bismal pink to match my queasy mood. As I slid into the panties, I realized they were the wrong day, but who cared, because there was no man in my life to count the days of the week, anyway.
I still felt disoriented, like I was walking on the bottom of the ocean when Cantu showed up early with my Jeep, a trough of iced tea, and thank God, donuts. Marlowe sniffed Cantu with interest, but spared him the usual growling routine.
Sitting at the dining room table, Cantu helped me fill out paperwork, something we’d been doing a lot lately.
“Have y’all located Selena?” I said.
“Didn’t have to.” Cantu said. “She held a press conference early this morning. You should have seen her. She looked like a princess or something.”
“Let me guess. Her mother arranged the press conference and Miranda did the interview.”
Cantu shot me an ironic grin.
“Hey,” I said on a long shot. “How does this all fit in with El Patron?”
“Who says it does?” Cantu said. He unhooked his radio from his utility belt and called for a Cruiser. “Why don’t you take a couple a days off?”
Avoidance. Practically a confession.
“Would you take a couple days off if you were in my position?” I said, giving the dog a bite of donut under the table.
“We’re not talking about me,” Cantu said, but he shook his head. I’d won this round. The Cruiser must have been waiting nearby, because Cantu’s radio squawked, and he rose from the table. “You gonna be okay?”
“I gotta get to work,” I said, thinking about Miranda and her exclusive press conference with Selena.
“Thanks, buddy. Tell Arlene I said hey,” I said, and ushered him out the door.
Marlowe and I showed up at the office a half-hour late, images of Scooter’s empty eyes still haunting me. My stomach was tied in a perpetual knot, but I had to get out of the house and do something. Anything.
I flashed my badge at security and rushed through the lobby. Tanner stuck his head out of his office. “What are you doing here?”
“I still work here, right?”
Tanner stepped aside, meaning he wanted me in his office. Now.
I sighed, threw my purse under my desk and trudged into the Cage. Marlowe skipped the invitation and padded down the hall toward the graphics department, hot on the trail of peanut butter cookies, Diet Coke and Skittles.
“You look like hell.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I feel like hell.” I didn’t sit.
“Okay. Let’s hear it,” he said, dropping into his chair, his arms crossed behind his head. The obituary I’d faxed over that night was laying on his keyboard, and I noticed Tanner’d given me the front page of the Metro section. It was only a twelve-inch column, but it was above the fold.
“I just went to check on him,” I said, amazed at how steady my voice sounded as I told Tanner about the pet shop in a shambles, about Scooter’s death, about how I was pretty sure it was going to be ruled suicide. I told Tanner about the animals running wild in the pet store and Selena’s press conference earlier this morning.
Tanner rubbed his forehead as he listened.
“Why don’t you go on home,” he said. “Shiner can do the follow-up.”
I gaped at him. “Now you’re taking obituaries away from me?” I said. “Tanner, I am going to that funeral, I’m going to write the follow-up.”
“Cauley. You’re not responsible for Barnes’s death.”
His words struck like tinfoil against a loose filling and I took a deep breath.
“Maybe I’m not responsible,” I said. “But Scott Barnes called me for help, and the only real way I could have helped him was to make sure he got to a shrink. Scooter had real problems and I interfered. I never should have crossed that police line.”
Tanner looked at me and didn’t say anything.
“If I’d stayed out of it ‘
“The guy had two prior suicide attempts. He left a note.”
I swallowed hard, steeling myself for what I had to say. “Tanner,” I said. “I don’t think Scott Barnes committed suicide. I read up on the pathology. Men, especially former pro football players, do not slit their wrists. Besides, according to everything I’ve read, if you really want to kill yourself, you slash the length of your arm from wrist to elbow. Scooter’s wounds spanned the width of his wrist.”
“Leave it, Cauley. He was your friend. We got somebody else to cover the funeral.”
“Yes, Scooter was my friend, but I was there at the beginning of this thing and I want to see it through. I need to do this, Tanner.”
He rose, going for a licorice whip and leaned against the glass door, watching reporters and copy editors rush around the Bull Pen. It was quiet in the Cage, which magnified the clattering keyboards and chattering phone conversations on the other side of the door. Finally, he turned to me and said, “You may be sorry about crossing that police line, but you’d do it again.”
Sighing, I nodded.
“All right,” Tanner said. “Go to the funeral. And take Shiner with you.”
I wasn’t about to take Shiner or anyone else with me. I’d caused at least part of this mess, and I was going to see it through. I slouched out of Tanner’s office and across the aisle to my desk, where Mia and Remie were waiting for me. The phone was ringing. Mia picked up the receiver and handed it to me.
“Front page above the fold,” a familiar female voice purred over the line.
“Miranda,” I swore.
“I guess you’ve found a nice little silver lining for yourself on your friend’s suicide.”
I slammed the phone down, gritting my teeth.
“Wow. You look terrible. What’s going on?” Mia said. As much as I loved them, I didn’t know if I could take any more at the moment.
“That was Miranda.”
“So we gathered,” Mia said, shooting Remie a concerned look.
“Something is very, very wrong,” I said, almost to myself. “Why would Scooter’s estranged wife hold a press conference the day after her husband supposedly killed himself?”
“Anything we can do to help?” Mia said.
“Look into the past,” I said.
Remie jabbed Mia with her elbow. “Getyour crystal ball.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mia snorted. “Crystal balls are for the future, not the past.”
“Yeah, but there is a way to look into the past,” I said, booting up my computer. “Background research. What I really need to do is sit my butt down and start over from the beginning.”
Mia grinned. “Our butts are at your service.”
Remie, bless her all the way up to her great big, ozone-destroying hair, took Shiner and went down to the KFXX station to get a copy of Selena’s press conference video, and Mia called Jamal, the Journal’s ace photographer, to come over after-hours and go t
hrough photo archives. Even if the photos they dug up didn’t help with the investigation, we’d need them for the Metro story on Scooter, his football career and his final days as the owner of an upscale exotic pet store.
Mark had been right. A star-crossed Dallas Cowboy with such a colorful past was a big story and I would do it right. I owed Scooter that much.
Above the chattering keyboards, Scooter’s voice echoed, soft and sad, as it had that day in the shed…I wish I was in Hawaii.
I created a new file on my computer desktop and labeled it Hawaii. My fingers stilled over the keys. I hoped Scooter was finally in a place where he felt safe and happy.
Opening the new file, I settled in and put my nose to the digital grindstone, hoping like hell I could do the man justice.
I picked up the phone and hit speed dial for Cantu so I could ask for another copy of Scooter’s arrest record, which I’d forgotten to mention when he’d dropped off my Jeep that morning. “Also, can you fax me back the notes I faxed you on Barnes?”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re a big pain in the ass?”
“You’re the first today,” I said, “but it’s still early.”
“What in hell did you do with the records I gave you?”
I bit my lip. “They got stolen when I got robbed.”
“Burgled,” he grumbled. “A robbery is ‘
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Also, can I get a copy of the crime scene report from The Blue Parrot?”
“Sure. You want me to change your oil and rotate your tires while I’m at it?”
“No thanks. Shay already took care of all that.”
“You gonna give me what you got?” Cantu said.
“I’ll give you whatever I can,” I said.
He grunted and I said, “Thanks, buddy. I owe you.”
“Yeah, ten transfusions, a kidney and two weeks of babysitting.”
“You’ll have your kidney by tomorrow,” I said. “And tell Arlene I said hey.”
Turning back to my computer, I stared at a ten-year-old article in the online archives as it flickered on the monitor. There was Scooter, head lowered, football tucked in the crook of his arm as he mowed through San Francisco’s defensive line. He was young and blond and unstoppable. Or so we thought.