MacKinnon 01 Scoop Read online

“Maybe. But I thought if you wanted something bad enough, you could have it. I thought I could get us to Hawaii with the sheer power of my brain.”

  Scooter snorted. “Did it work?”

  “No,” I said. “But I didn’t break my neck goofing around on the roof, so now, I can go to Hawaii if I want.”

  Silence stretched between us and he sat, picking at the paint can. “What happens if I walk out of here?” he said. “You know, with SWAT.”

  “Well, the guns had orange stocks which means they’re loaded less-than-lethal.”

  “They’re gonna shoot me with beanbags?”

  “Probably they won’t shoot you at all, but if they do, a beanbag won’t kill you. Most likely.”

  “Still hurts.”

  This from a guy who used to make a living getting charged by linebackers the size of bull elephants. I’d bet half the sum of my student loans it wasn’t physical pain Scooter was worried about.

  “Probably hurts like a sonovabitch,” I agreed. “But if we don’t come out soon, they’re going to start lobbing tear gas in here, and that can’t be good for your bird.”

  “Am I gonna get arrested? They never called SWAT before.”

  I shrugged. “I think they’re finished cutting you breaks. You’ll probably have to go to a hospital for some sorta psych evaluation.”

  Scooter considered that. “What about Sam?”

  The bird snapped his big beak at me and I flinched. I’d seen parrots bend spoons with their beaks, and Sam was much bigger than your garden-variety bird. “You said you had somebody to take care of the animals,” I said. “Give me the number and I’ll give him a call.”

  Scooter nodded, then reached into his shirt pocket. “Will you give this to Selena?” I looked down as he pressed a worn gold coin with something that looked like a two-headed bird into my palm. “It’s for luck.”

  I looked at Scooter’s sallow face and thought, Fat lot of luck it’s brought you, buddy, but I said, “You can give it to her yourself.”

  I tried to give the coin back to him, but he just sat there, staring at the thin shafts of sunlight streaming through door, and then around at the old shed.

  His red-rimmed eyes seemed to sink deeper in his gaunt face and he let out a long sigh. “I wish I was in Hawaii.” “I know,” I said. I leaned in and took his hand. “Me too.”

  “We’re coming out!” I yelled. “We’re unarmed!” Scooter locked the rickety door behind us and we walked out of the darkness, blinking in the bright, afternoon sunlight.

  A deep voice yelled, “Hold it right there!”

  Like a rolling, black thunderstorm, the SWAT guys charged in and had Scooter face down and frisked. A bit excessive for a suicide threat, I thought.

  They cuffed him and stuffed him into the back seat of an idling blue and white and as the cruiser pulled down the tree-lined drive, I could see Scooter through the back window, his head down, like things just couldn’t get any worse.

  A smooth, familiar voice startled me. “Well if it isn’t the Obituary Babe. Little early, aren’t you Cauley?”

  I came up short when a microphone was shoved under my nose, and I turned and stared into the too-handsome face of Alex “Live-at-Five” Salazar.

  “You know, when y’all call me that it wreaks havoc on my social life,” I said. “And this isn’t for the paper.”

  Ignoring me, he turned to his cameraman. “Cauley MacKinnon was taken hostage by a desperate man earlier this morning,” Salazar said to the camera. “Down-on-his-luck Dallas Cowboy Scott ‘Scooter’ Barnes barricaded himself in a shed at the back of his parent’s property…”

  Great. The News Boys had officially arrived. As he spoke into the camera, Salazar discretely signaled the KTEX television crew into position. All four local affiliates were roaming the scene, and I could hear Miranda with the KFXX crew interviewing the pizza kid about police brutality.

  SWAT always drew a crowd.

  “Can you tell us his demands, Cauley?”

  “Scooter Barnes did not take me hostage and there were no demands,” I said, shoving my hair out of my eyes and the microphone out of my face. “He just wanted to talk.”

  “You’ve spent nearly an hour negotiating with an armed man,” Salazar went on, his big, white teeth glinting in the sun. “How does it feel to be a hero?”

  I squinted against the glare off his incisors. I was hot and sweaty, and the last thing I wanted was to wind up on television in ripped jeans, Wal-Mart underwear and hair that looked like it’d barely survived a nuclear disaster. I popped the tape out of my old mini recorder and shoved it and Scooter’s coin into my back pocket.

  “It wasn’t an hour, I’m not a hero and you can read all about it in the Sentinel,” I said, which was a big fat lie. I’d never spill ink on a friend’s personal tragedy, even if it meant getting off the obituary page, but Salazar didn’t need to know that. I pushed past him to head for my old, stripped down Jeep.

  I didn’t look back.

  All’s well that ends well, I figured. Miranda had her exclusive, I talked Scooter out of the shed and the shotgun, and Cantu had his dinner if he could get to the pizza before the SWAT guys.

  I was about to congratulate myself when I looked toward the fence line and noticed something was missing.

  Then I realized that Captain America was gone.

  When I finally pointed my Jeep down Lakeside Boulevard toward home, it was late afternoon. I was dirty and sticky and my hair felt like twenty pounds of blond mattress stuffing. Despite the lingering effects of a monstrous hangover, I’d called Burt Buggess, Scooter’s lawbreaking bird man, to go wrangle Sam and take care of the store until Scooter got out of stir.

  The warm wind whipped around in the open Jeep, making me feel marginally better. Now all I needed was a shower and a nap and a half a pound of Prozac. I glanced into the rearview mirror. And an emergency hair appointment.

  Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I stared absently through the windshield, the winding road ahead of me shaded by a leafy arbor of oak trees.

  “Why on earth was an FBI agent interested in Scooter Barnes, and why had the SWAT guys come down so hard on the pizza kid?” I said to no one. “I mean, it was a suicide standoff, not some Waco-type siege. It wasn’t like the pizza kid was smuggling guns or bombs into the shed for Scooter.”

  Maybe I’d just find that FBI agent and pump him for information…

  I almost didn’t see the dog in the road. My heart jammed in my throat and I stomped on the break. The Jeep jerked and skipped toward the animal. The dog had a strange white face and he looked a lot like a wolf. I yanked the wheel a hard right, tires squealing, horn honking as I spun onto the gravel shoulder. The dog stood, staring at me.

  “Jeez!” I yelled. There were strict leash laws in my neighborhood. Dogs didn’t just roam the streets like wild animals.

  I turned in my seat. “Good grief, dog, who the heck left you in the middle of the road?” But I was yelling at nothing. The dog was gone. I sat for a moment, trying to catch my breath.

  When I got my pulse under three hundred thirty, I put the Jeep in gear and headed up the steep hill toward Arroyo Trail and felt marginally better when my eclectic little neighborhood unfolded on the hilltop before me. I live in one of those 1940s lake area neighborhoods that started out as a resort community and evolved into a funky little soccer mom neighborhood. It’s settled along the banks of Lake Austin, but it’s still excitingly close to the downtown corridor of tie-dyed hair and body piercing.

  Turning into my drive, I slowed to a stop and stared at my sprawling white porch, where a large man lounged on the porch swing.

  “Captain America,” I whispered and sucked in a breath.

  Glancing at my reflection in the rearview mirror I swore every swear I could think of and made up a few more for good measure. My cheeks were smudged with red dirt and my hair was an unmitigated disaster. Not exactly a Chic Magazine Glamour Girl moment.

  “Cauley MacKinnon?” the
man said as he rose from the swing. He was a lot taller and way better looking up close. I sat, glued to the driver’s seat. Why on earth was the hot FBI guy camped out on my doorstep?

  “Special Agent Tom Logan, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He up his badge. “Do you have a minute?”

  I blinked at him. “How did you find me?”

  “Hey.” He grinned. “I’m FBI.”

  Chapter Two

  “Oh. Right,” I said, climbing out of the Jeep. Cauley MacKinnon, mistress of witty repartee.

  Tom Logan had a nice smile. He reminded me of Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird, good looking in a quiet way. Dark hair, dark eyes, a strong chin and no wedding ring. Did I mention tall?

  I smacked the dust off the back of my torn jeans and tried to smooth out my hair, wishing I had a ponytail holder.

  Special Agent Tom Logan held out a hand and helped me up the steps. Strong grip, and a lefty, too. Looking up, I couldn’t help getting a better look at those dark eyes.

  He looked down at me. “You okay?”

  “Hm? I just…had a bad night,” I stammered, reaching up to smooth my hair. “I mean, a bad day.”

  He grinned. “I see that. I noticed you made it through the police line.”

  I smiled as winsomely as I could, given that I looked like a ragamuffin. “That’s not a federal offense is it, Agent Logan?”

  “That crime scene tape is there for a reason.”

  I sighed. “I know, but Scooter’s a friend. He’s done this before. He wasn’t really going to commit suicide.”

  Logan nodded. “A repeat suicide attempt. Maybe your friend should have had professional help the first time he tried to bite a bullet.”

  I looked up at him and he seemed almost amused, which irritated the hell out of me. Not to mention that he was probably right.

  Straightening my shoulders, I said, “Is there a reason for this visit, Agent Logan?”

  “Just a couple questions,” he said. “And you don’t have to call me agent.”

  His dark eyes flicked toward the door, and I could tell he was waiting for me to invite him in. I bit my lip.

  I’d spent the previous evening drinking my body weight in bourbon and Diet Coke, bemoaning my current man problems. There were dishes in the sink, and if I remembered correctly, I’d stripped in the living room and left my clothes where they’d dropped. Thank God the stained glass in the front door didn’t allow Agent Logan a clear view into my living room.

  “I have a few minutes, but I have a big evening planned,” I said, sliding a glance at the sky hoping God wouldn’t strike me dead for lying.

  Logan looked at me like he knew I was lying and pulled a plain black notebook and pen from a pocket inside his suit jacket. “You mind?” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes, but shook my head. What harm could come from answering a few questions?

  “Could you take me through your conversation with Mr. Barnes while you were breaching the police line?”

  He looked up from his notebook. Humor glinted in his dark eyes, and I could see little crinkle lines at the corners. He probably got that humor-glint a lot.

  I shrugged. “Nothing to take you through. Scooter called me early this morning and said he wanted to talk, but I was a little late getting out to the shed ‘

  “He said he wanted to talk to you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But that’s the weird thing. When I got there, he didn’t really say anything. We talked about when we were kids, a little about his wife, that sort of thing.”

  “His wife?”

  I narrowed my eyes, wondering why an FBI agent was interested in Scooter’s wife. “Honestly. He didn’t say anything, only that she’s leaving him,” I said, and I rose to my tiptoes, trying to sneak a peek at what he was scribbling. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  Logan smiled enigmatically. I don’t know how he did it, but his body seemed to shield his notebook without him moving a muscle.

  Dropping to normal height, I frowned. “Is the FBI involved with Scott Barnes, or is this personal?”

  Logan flipped his pad closed and smiled. “I’ll let you know. Any chance I can talk you into staying out of this?”

  I stared at him.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. He shook his head. “Thanks for your time.”

  I watched as he tucked his notebook back into his official, dark gray federal suit jacket.

  Before I could stop myself, I tipped my chin and said, “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than sit around worrying about me.”

  “Just doing my job,” he said, and vague sense of disappointment washed over me.

  “See ya ‘round,’ Logan said, and he shot me a little salute. Turning, he took the stairs two at a time, heading for his white Bureau car, which was parked in front of my neighbor’s house. Some reporter I’m going to be. I hadn’t even noticed.

  Halfway down the stone path, Logan turned toward me. “Take care of yourself. And keep your doors locked.”

  “Hey,” I said, regaining the use of my gray matter. “I have a few questions for you.”

  But Logan had already slid into his car and started the engine. I stood on my porch, staring as his taillights skimmed down the street.

  And as I turned to the door, I realized the only person who’d been pumped for information was me.

  “Stay out of it, my butt,” I swore, twisting the doorknob. It gave without the key. Ack. I’d forgotten to lock my door. Again. Had Logan noticed and let himself in? I was pretty sure that was illegal. You at least needed a warrant and the only crime I’d committed was monumental stupidity.

  My phone was making a muffled shriek somewhere down the hall, and the noise cut through my frontal lobe like a buzz saw, being’s how I was still queasy from the bourbon and Diet Coke the night before.

  There were probably better ways to deal with man trouble, like doing ten miles on a treadmill with Aretha belting R-E-S-P-E-C-T on really great speakers. Maybe I’d try it some time. But then, I’d have to buy a better sound system and a treadmill, and there wasn’t enough room in my little house.

  Okay, it’s not really my little house. I’m sort of buying it from my Great Aunt Katherine, who is a fabulously famous romance author with jet-black hair and exotic dark eyes. She was once voted one of Chic Magazine’s Most Beautiful People of the Year. Aunt Kat is the most elegant, talented person I know. I don’t look a thing like her.

  My name is Cauley MacKinnon. I was born and raised in Austin, Texas, an Oasis of rivers and trees and an endangered population of card-carrying liberals in the middle of the rest of God-fearing, gun-toting, right wing Texas.

  After five years in a disastrous marriage to Dr. Frank Peters, the lying-cheating-sonovabitch my friends kindly refer to as Dr. Dick, I wound up with little more than a divorce decree and a very bad attitude. If there was ever a time to yell, Do Over, that was it.

  So, I did the only thing I could do. I burned all his underwear and worked brief intervals between getting hired and fired until I’d saved up enough cash to buy an old CJ-7 Jeep and head to California, where I got a truly crappy efficiency apartment and applied for a mountain of student loans. I worked the night shift at an emergency vet clinic and finally, finally finished the journalism degree I’d abandoned when I’d married Dr. Dick. I came back home for a yearlong internship at the Austin Journal, where I learned the second rule of Cauley’s Code of Conduct Never, Ever Date Your Boss.

  It’s not so easy to land a job in print media, so after my debacle at the Journal, I was lucky to land the obituary slot at the Austin Sentinel. Being an obituary writer is what happens to interns who’ve been very good. Or reporters who’ve been very bad. Somehow I’d managed to do both.

  Getting another newspaper gig in Austin was fortuitous, but it’s a known fact that as an obituary writer, my core readership was made up of hypochondriacs, octogenarians and people in search of downtown apartment space. No doubt about it. I’d hit rock bo
ttom.

  At the Sentinel’s West Austin field office, I rewrite death notices and research other people’s stories for a salary that almost balances out to minimum wage. But Aunt Kat began her fabulous career as a novelist by starting out as a society reporter, and hopefully, the apple doesn’t fall far from the worm. Or something like that.

  I followed the chirp of the phone through the bungalow, which is pretty much what you’d expect in a funky, lake area abode wide windows and hardwood floors. The foyer flows into a large living room, flanked by a short hallway and library in front, kitchen facing the living room, and a longer hall leading to a small den and bedroom in the back. It’s cute and cozy in a rambling sort of way, and crammed to the ceiling with Aunt Kat’s eclectic jumble of antiques.

  “Hold on, hold on,” I grumbled at the ringing phone. I was having trouble finding the cordless handset until I remembered that I’d stuck it in the refrigerator so I wouldn’t return calls from Mark the Shark, my former boss and present ex-boyfriend, after I got all warm and fuzzy on the effects of way too much alcohol.

  I have a strict No Poaching Policy, and Mark Ramsey is the reason I’ve amended the first question in my Potential Boyfriend Quiz from “Do you have a girlfriend?” to “Is there anyone out there who thinks she’s your girlfriend?”

  “Hello?” I finally said, pulling the phone out of the barren vegetable crisper. It was nice to know the refrigerator was good for something.

  “Hey, chica, que pasa?” Marina Conchita Santiago’s voice breezed through the receiver like a tropical wind chime. Despite her long, dark curls and liquid brown eyes, Mia is like a human firecracker, small but loud, and she knows how to make an entrance. She’s a Girls Gone Bad video just waiting to happen, and even worse, she’s got a way of dragging you into whatever Pandora’s box she happens to be ripping open at the moment. We worked on the yearbook staff together in seventh grade but I’ve loved her like a sister ever since we wound up in detention for boycotting the Biology for the poor treatment of the class’s lab rats. Well. I boycotted. Mia burned her sports bra. But you’ve got to admire that kind of commitment.

  One of the best things about Mia is that you can say anything and she’ll either ignore you or find a way to make whatever you’ve said the best thing since the anthrax vaccine.