Scoop (The Cauley MacKinnon Novels)

About the Author Kit Frazier (Austin, TX) is a two-time first place winner in the Writers' League of Texas and San Antonio Romance Authors Emma Merritt awards. She is the managing editor of a regional magazine and participates in search and rescue missions with the FBI and local police. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. I ducked under the crime scene tape the way I always do, like I know exactly what I'm doing, but this time I was a little more careful on account of the black-clad SWAT guys drawing down around the perimeter. Sometimes I think the only things standing between me and certain doom are instinct, pure dumb luck, and a kick-ass hairdresser."Little early, aren't you, Cauley?" Jim Cantu was lounging against his cruiser looking like a Hispanic Marlboro Man as he surveyed the rugged limestone hills and gnarled oaks at the back of the Barnes' ranch. "What we got here is your basic suicide threat," he continued, squinting into the hot Central Texas sun. "Don't obituaries get written after somebody's turned up a corpse?""This isn't for the Sentinel," I said, swatting dirt from the seat of my jeans. "Scooter called me this morning and said he wanted to talk.""Doesn't matter. No media behind the line," he said, nodding toward the SWAT guys. "You're lucky you didn't get shot." "Calling m e media is pure charity on your part," I said. "And I almost never get shot."Cantu grinned down at me as I settled in beside him. Every now and then, Cantu cuts me a break because once upon a time, he'd been a rookie beat cop when my dad was a detective, and he sometimes steps in where my dad left off.Cantu and I stood, staring at the tumble of weathered planks that comprised the shed where Scott "Scooter" Barnes had holed up, presumably sucking on the business end of a shotgun. This wasn't the earth-shattering incident it might seem elsewhere in the world. Here, you don't ask if you have any crazy people in the family; you ask which side they're on. In Texas, we believe our own myths, and the wet heat of summer presses heavily on already fanciful minds.Crossing his arms, Cantu looked at the bruise that was blooming on my forehead. "All right, blondie, I give. What happened to your head?""Banged it on a big piece of wood," I said. Despite a raging hangover, I'd climbed a crosstie fence to get past the police line. I was hot and sweaty, and I had enough dirt under my nails to repot a geranium. Plus, now I had a bump on my head and a hole in my jeans, which showed a big patch of Wal-Mart underwear. These things almost never happen when you're wearing nice undies."Hurricane Cauley." Cantu shook his head. "You want off obits? Go chase a real story. I hear El Patron's on the move." 3 I had to stop myself from growling. Cantu knew I'd sell my great aunt Kat's china for a story that would get me off the obituary page, and while I'd been assigned to do some of the research on El Patron--the latest South American syndicate to set up shop in Central Texas--the News Boys on the City Desk got the byline on the story. For the most part, I spend my days rewriting death notices, and if I'm lucky, I occasionally get to do legwork for the real reporters.But getting something on El Patron could fix that for me. Organized crime was nothing new in Texas, but El Patron crossed the city limits into Looneyville when they shoved a heavy-duty Firestone around some poor bastard's shoulders and burned him alive. Talk about a front-page scoop."Yeah, well, El Patron will have to wait," I said, and winced as one of the SWAT guys with an orange-stocked sniper rifle disappeared into a thicket of sage. "Did you have to call the Jump-Out Boys?" I said, staring at the rest of the SWAT team, which was scattered among bushes and perched in the gnarled forks of live oaks."Had to," Cantu said. "I got dinner duty tonight.""You called SWAT because it's your turn to cook?" I said, thinking of Cantu's three kids, who could make a sane person call SWAT on a good day. "You know Scooter would never hurt anybody.""And he won't hurt anybody. Captain's called a negotiator.""We don't need a negotiator. Let me talk to him.""You talked to him last time.""Hey," I said. "That thing with the goats was not my fault." Cantu snorted. "You busted in the back of that pet store and scared los cabras so bad they passed out cold.""They were those weird fainting goats," I said, staring at the shed. I shook my head. "Exotic animals. I don't know why Scooter can't sell dogs and cats like a normal person.""He's not a normal person. He's a serial suicide. This is the second time he's threatened to bite a bullet this month. It's standard procedure to call SWAT and I shoulda never let you talk me out of it the first time."I started to say that serial suicide was an oxymoron and that Scooter had issues, what with his wife leaving him and all, when I sucked in a breath and stopped dead in my tracks. "Who is that?" Near the fence line, a lone man loomed, speaking into a cell phone as he surveyed the scene. I'd practically grown up in the West Side substation, and I knew all the precinct cops and most of the usual suspects.This guy was no usual suspect.Tall and bronzed, with a wide-legged stance, he was a dead ringer for Captain America. I had to remind myself to close my mouth. Probably my hormones. The closest I've been to a steady relationship has been since I set my cell phone to vibrate."Tom Logan." Cantu scowled. "FBI.""You don't like him?""Nothing personal. We just don't need a bunch of feds fucking up a local case.""They're here on a suicide threat? Why would the feds care if Scooter Barnes is having a bad day?" I said, but the rumble of an engine rolled over my voice. "Miranda," I swore.Miranda Phillips stepped out of a white van, shook out her platinum hair, smoothed her slim skirt, a