MacKinnon 02 Dead Copy

by Kit Frazier

  “A lot of what I do is outreach,” he said. “I try to get the kids before they’ve done something they can’t take back. Some of it’s not pretty, and the only way I can do my job successfully is if the people I’m working with trust me.”

  I was quiet. I knew the people he was talking about weren’t his buddies on the force.

  “I won’t print anything you don’t want me to print,” I said. “And if you need some quals, you can talk to Cantu or anybody in his unit.”

  He was quiet a moment then sighed. “What are you doing after the demo?” he said, and I grinned a happy grin.

  “Whatever you’re doing after the demo,” I said, and, smiling, I hung up the phone.

  I stared down at the file I was going to have to eventually give to Shiner.

  Paul Shiner, fair-haired boy of the Sentinel’s up-and-coming News Boys.

  “Top that, Sports Boy,” I said, and happily got back to work.

  I was paging through the file for background when a familiar female voice behind me coughed “Ahem.”

  I scowled, muttering a string of inventive swears in my head. “Ahem,” she coughed again, and I swung around to find Merrily March, the Sentinel’s most annoying sales rep and resident busybody, staring down at me, clutching a clipboard to her pastel pink twin set. She couldn’t have been much older than forty, but she was easily the oldest person at the satellite and acted like a study hall monitor with The Big Book of Grammar rammed up her rear.

  “May I help you?” I snapped, slamming the folder shut, not really caring whether I could help her or not.

  It had been Merrily’s idea to slice the office into cubicles, which nearly caused an interoffice riot. She’s the publisher’s sister-in-law, and she’d been sent to the satellite to prevent the editorial staff downtown from pushing her out a fifth-story window. At the satellite, she’s gone mad with power, and unfortunately for our editorial staff, it’s a one-story building. Pushing her out a window wouldn’t be as satisfying.

  Merrily’s platinum hair was approximately the shape and consistency of a football helmet. She’s short but carries a big stick, and at this moment, her big stick was office supplies.

  “You’re over your allotment of Post-its,” she said.

  I stared at her. “There is no allotment of Post-its.”

  “There is now,” she said, and ripped a page from her clipboard and slapped it on my desk. “The supply closet will be locked until further notice. Fill out a request form if you feel you need something.”

  “Great.” I scowled. “Thanks for the update.”

  I turned back to the file, but Merrily didn’t move.

  “Is there something else you need?” I said, though I doubted anything short of something with a Y-chromosome with an incredibly low self-esteem was going to do her much good.

  “Since you asked,” she said, sliding another order form onto my increasing pile of paper, “My niece is selling meat for a fundraiser at her high school.”

  I frowned. “Meat?”

  “Yes. Meat.” She tapped her sensibly-clad foot.

  “What happened to cookies and candy?”

  “You get more money for sausage and jerky.”

  I shook my head and grudgingly picked up the order form. “What’s the fundraiser for?”

  “The flag team is going to Barbados you know, for spring break.”

  “Barbados?” My jaw twitched. “That’s not a fundraiser, that’s panhandling,” I said, but I figured any kid associated with Merrily was due at least a week for a mental health break. Sighing, I checked off a square for some smoked turkey.

  I passed the sheet back to Merrily, but she just stood there. “The jerky is really tasty,” she said. “You could get some for that nonexistent guy you’re always mooning over.”

  Merrily had been needling me about Logan since he’d left. It wasn’t that I didn’t date. I’d gone on the requisite setups from my friends and, God help me, my family, but I prefer men who don’t already have girlfriends, reek of Metamucil, have pending charges, or be so charming that women all over town drop to their knees for him at his house, at his office, in my driveway…

  To be fair, I had been mooning a little and pretty much lost interest in mingling with the opposite sex since Logan left town.

  Merrily cleared her throat and stood there, brow arched like a bat wing, waiting for me to sign over this month’s paycheck for her niece’s tropical retreat. I wondered if Logan would bail me out if I smacked her with a stapler and if I’d have to fill out a requisition for a new one if it broke.

  “Well, Merrily, I’d love to order the jerky, but it seems all my expendable income will now be going toward Post-it Notes,” I said. “And I don’t moon.”

  “What’s this about mooning?”

  Merrily made a bleating sound and every bit of air left the room when I turned to see Logan sauntering past the front desk with Mia, who was grinning a mile wide as she trotted along beside him.

  “Look what I found!” Mia sing-songed, and then she leaned close to me and whispered, “Interoffice Hottie Alert!”

  Logan grinned a little, looking at me.

  Hottie Alert was right. Merrily was standing there with her mouth open, and the heads of copyeditors and junior staffers popped above partitions like a field of alarmed prairie dogs.

  Logan looked down at me, amused.

  “Where’s the dog?” I said, brushing the hair out of my eyes as I rose to meet him.

  “In the car with his new best friend,” Logan said. He looked at Merrily, who was still gaping at him. “Am I interrupting?”

  I grinned. “Not at all. Merrily here was just telling me I’m in danger of going over my Post-it quota.”

  Merrily made a gakking noise, and I smiled.

  I shuffled the papers in my inbox and nonchalantly showed Logan the envelope with the fake obituary.

  “Still on for Friday?” he said, and warmth rushed to my cheeks.

  “What’s Friday?” Mia wanted to know, and Logan said, “We’re taking a mutual friend to the Pier for some live music.”

  “Oh!” Mia all but bounced on her toes. “I love the Pier! We should ask Ethan to go, too.”

  “We?” I said.

  “Well, of course,” Mia said. She turned to Logan and whispered, “Our friend is having girl trouble.”

  “Lot of that going around,” Logan said. “I heard you needed a ride home,” he said to me. “You ready?”

  That was a loaded question. I’d been ready for months. “Um, yeah,” I said, reaching for my purse from beneath my desk.

  “We’re on a tight schedule,” Logan said, and I sighed.

  “Message received,” I said, but I felt like somebody burst my balloon.

  I glanced over at the Cage. Tanner was on the phone, rubbing the back of his neck as he went over the budget report. Probably worried about office supplies.

  I smiled at Logan. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  Merrily was still standing at the corner of my desk, mouth working like a catfish stranded in a low-water crossing.

  I shouldered my purse, grabbed the file Tanner had given me to research, and turned to Merrily and whispered. “You’re mooning,” I said. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  Chapter Six

  I slipped Logan the envelope with the fake obituary, and he dropped me and Marlowe off at my house, which left me with mixed emotions. I wanted to spend time with Logan, but Puck had gone way over his limit on egg muffins and the whole car smelled like fried eggs and Puck. Never a good combination.

  Logan said he and Puck were going into lock-and-load mode to prep for the trial the translation, as I took it, meant they’d be off the radar until Friday, when we would all meet at the Pier.

  In the front yard, I let Marlowe off the leash, encouraged him to pee on my neighbor’s rosemary bush, and then admired my little Lake Austin bungalow. Well, it’s not really my little bungalow. I’m currently mortgaging my soul to my great aunt Katherine, a fabulo
usly famous romance author who is as darkly beautiful as she is slightly crazy. But in Texas, we like crazy. In fact, we reward it. Just take a look at the legislature.

  And as far as the soul-selling goes, Aunt Kat is a forgiving proprietor. All she asks is that I do my best to follow in her Manolo-clad footsteps and try not burn her house down, which is sometimes easier said than done.

  To that end, she’s left me in charge of her Lake Austin bungalow crammed with bizarre antiques, many of questionable origin. My favorites are the old Wurlitzer jukebox, the Remington Scout typewriter, and a cranky old calico she calls Muse.

  Despite my lack of sleep and a file full of research for a story I’d never write, I was in a pretty good mood. While I didn’t have a date with Logan in the strictest sense of the word, I figured a Friday night hanging out with him and a couple of cold beers at the Pier was the next best thing.

  Marlowe followed me up the steps onto the wide, white front porch. As I dug the key out of my purse, Marlowe bristled and growled low in his throat.

  The little hairs on the back of my neck lifted.

  “What’s the matter, boy?” I said, pushing the key into the lock. The door gave without any pressure. I stopped inside the foyer and listened. Marlowe bristled, his growl deepening. The breath caught in my throat.

  A sudden wave of deja vu sent my heart plummeting to my stomach.

  Not long ago, a bald, earless guy I called Van Gogh had terrorized me in my own home, but he was dead. I knew he was dead. I saw John Fiennes shoot him in the head right in front of me. He had to be dead…didn’t he?

  My heart kicked up about ten beats, and I glanced around the room. The last time I had this feeling, Van Gogh had turned the place upside down, destroyed most of the furniture, and shoved my cat into the sofa along with a gift-wrapped package that contained a severed ear.

  Something was wrong. I glanced around the house. The place was just as I’d left it. Not exactly ready for a photo spread in Southern Homes & Gardens, but no overturned furniture, no gift boxes of chopped ears, no cat trapped in the sofa…

  The cat!

  Where in God’s name was Muse?

  “Muse!” I screamed, my heart thumping hard against my ribs. “Muse?”

  Marlowe barked, something he rarely does, and lit out down the back hall to the bedroom, where he skidded to a stop in front of the closet. He circled three times and snarled what he’s supposed to do when we’re running our search and rescue drills, but a whole lot meaner. My heart hammered in my throat.

  Scrambling, I raced back to the bar that opens to the kitchen, reached over the counter and grabbed the cast-iron frying pan the Colonel had given me as a wedding present five years ago. I don’t cook, but I’ve found that the pan does come in handy.

  “Muse?” I hissed, creeping back down the hall, brandishing the frying pan like a baseball bat.

  Sucking in a breath and a big dose of courage, I threw open the closet door.

  “Muse?” I called again, panic blistering my insides, when something the size of a fat, fuzzy football with spikes leapt onto my head from the sweater shelf, screeching like a banshee.

  Like a flash of silver lightning, Marlowe snarled and leapt past me into the closet, tearing the pile of shoes sprawled along the floor.

  “Marlowe,” I yelled, dropping the frying pan as I tried to peel Muse’s claws out of my scalp. “Marlowe, no! Not the shoes!”

  The frying pan clanged as it bounced on the floor, and I struggled to pull Muse’s sharp nails out of my earlobe.

  And then I heard it: a male voice. And he was yelling.

  It’s not often I hear a man yell in my bedroom, but there it was, and Marlowe came crashing out of the closet in pursuit of a man with slicked-back hair clad in camouflage, a red bandanna masking the lower half of his face. The man was flailing at the dog, scrambling to get away from Marlowe’s snapping, snarling, spit-spewing jaws.

  The breath left my body.

  The man lunged at me, a long-bladed hunting knife glinting in the dim light. Marlowe chomped down on his right hand, barely missing the sharp blade.

  The man howled in pain, trying to jerk his arm from Marlowe’s death grip, but Marlowe bit down, hard.

  “Holy hell!” I screamed, and Muse screamed, too.

  The man landed on me, all greasy haired and smelling like three dollars’ worth of bathroom Polo. Marlowe was still clamped on his hand, and we all fell in a writhing pile on the floor beside the bed Marlowe snarling and biting, Muse whirling about the man’s head, spitting and scratching like an angry badger.

  Pinning me, he ground his pelvis against me, his dark eyes locked with mine in a terrifying embrace. I gulped and turned away, thinking about fresh air and a good dental hygienist.

  I wriggled against the hard surface of the floor, struggling to get out from under the man, stretching my arm to reach the frying pan.

  Wriggling, he dug his knee into my stomach so hard I saw stars flicker in front of my eyes.

  Muse whirled about the man’s head, screeching and scratching, she sunk her fangs into him and took a good chunk out of his ear. The fleshy chunk fell by my cheek in a shower of blood. The man howled. I screamed.

  Muse continued to do her Tasmanian Devil routine about the man’s head and neck—Marlowe had him by the back of the neck.

  “Get these animals off me, or I swear I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to them!” the man yelled, glaring down at me with eyes so dark and empty it was like looking into the eyes of an East Texas alligator. The bandanna covered the lower part of his face.

  For a split second I froze, his knee digging into my kidneys. I laid there, staring into his eyes like I’d been hypnotized. Muse screeched and slashed his cheek, tearing at the handkerchief.

  The man’s hand flew to his face, and we all rolled in a confused, furry, bloody jumble, bumping hard into the bed, where a small box had been perched at the bedside.

  The box fell beside my head, and a small, yellow bird rolled out, right beside my face. I stared at the stiff body of the bird, its black eyes open, its tiny feet stiff, curled in death.

  I screamed.

  Marlowe let go of the man’s arm and went for his neck.

  The man made a horrible gurgling sound, and I reached for the frying pan, rolled out from under him, reared back, and hit him right on top of the head.

  The man didn’t keel over, passed out, like they do in the movies. He wobbled a moment, shook his head, then glared at me with a hatred I’ve only seen in ex-husbands.

  “This isn’t over, blondie,” he said, and leapt to his feet, racing for the hall, Marlowe hot on his heels, his fuzzy white muzzle dripping with blood.

  “Marlowe, no!” I yelled, but the dog was in pursuit mode, chasing the man into the foyer and out the front door. Marlowe stopped on the porch, still bristling and barking, as the man disappeared into the brushy back of my neighbor’s yard.

  I stood in the doorway, holding my stomach where the man had kneed me, panting and staring around the yard, hoping he had come alone.

  “Good boy, Marlowe. Good dog,” I panted, dropping to my knees to kiss him on the head, careful to avoid the bloody muzzle. “Come on,” I said, staggering into the house. “We gotta call the cavalry.”

  *

  I was sitting, wrapped in a purple chenille throw that smelled like lavender, at my neighbors’ house. Beckett and Jenks have been partners as long as I can remember and are a source of friendship, support, and a steady supply of sample sale shoes.

  On the sofa, Marlowe pressed against me as Muse made a fool of herself, purring until she slobbered, wrapped around Jenks’ neck.

  “A dead bird? Somebody broke into your house, attacked you, and left you a dead bird?” Beckett said, bringing me a tall glass of bourbon and Diet Coke. “Oh, honey, you have the worst luck with men.”

  Red lights flashed outside the large living room window, and both Beckett and Jenks swiveled toward the window.

  “Is that your FBI
agent?” Jenks said breathlessly as a heavy knock sounded at the door.

  “That would be him,” I said, trying not to stumble over Marlowe in the entryway.

  “Logan,” I said, swinging open the door.

  “Are you hurt?” he said, and I shook my head, even though my whole body felt like it’d been run over by a bulldozer.

  Logan stood there, looking tall and dark and dangerous on the front porch as he did a visual checklist of bumps, bruises, and scratches on my body. Beckett and Jenks went into a simultaneous swoon. Logan nodded to them and said, “Thanks, guys. I’ll take her from here.”

  “Will you keep the cat until forensics gets through with the house?” I asked Jenks, and he grinned.

  “Is the agent going to come back for the cat?”

  Logan actually blushed as he ushered me out the door. “I’ll be back,” he said, and then turned to me. “Come on, kid. We got a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time to do it.”

  Inside the house, I led Logan back to the ransacked bedroom and unmade bed.

  “He toss your room?” Logan said, and I said, “Um, yeah,” like the room wasn’t always a mess.

  Marlowe scowled at me, the traitor.

  “What happened?” he said, his gaze sweeping the room from the roof to the floorboards and probably places I couldn’t even see.

  I told him, trying not to leave out any details, from the guy’s empty reptilian eyes to the red bandanna and camouflage clothing.

  “Red bandanna?” he said, and I nodded. “What?”

  He shook his head, but his jaw was set as we moved toward the bed. Marlowe followed him, bristling, obviously in on the investigation.

  “And the bird?”

  I pointed under the bed, where the box lay next to the pitiful pile of yellow feathers. A lone bullet casing rolled around in the box. Logan knelt and cocked his head for a better look, and I sidled in next to him. His large body felt solid beside me, and my frenetic heartbeat began to slow.

  A steak knife impaled a note on the small white box.

  The note was one line, written in big, boxy letters with a red marker:

  Know what happens to birds who sing? I do.

  My heart slammed into my throat.