Black Joint Point

26

The little prostitute was sitting on the flying bridge of Don’t Ask, munching an apple, apparently enjoying the late-afternoon breeze and the shade.

‘Where’s Gooch?’ Whit called as he came aboard.

‘He said he had to hunt down someone,’ Helen Dupuy said.

Hunt down. Not a good sign. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. He said he’d call in a bit. He said it was okay for me to be here.’

She had decided he was an enemy. He sat next to her, kicked his sandals off. ‘I’m sure it is. You’re his guest.’

She finished her apple, wiped her hands.

‘Do you normally get on planes with men you barely know?’

‘That’s a really stupid question,’ she said. She seemed a little less intimidated by him out of the robe. ‘What do you think?’

‘You’re either very trusting or you’re very naive or-’

‘Or maybe I just want to help Gooch get the guy who hurt me.’

‘Okay.’

‘You think I’m not good enough to be his friend. I can tell he told you what I do. You changed the way you look at me.’

‘Gooch has the widest range of friends of anyone I’ve ever known.’

‘He’s nice. Really nice.’

‘When he wants to be. Don’t get on his bad side.’

‘I bet I seen more bad sides than you have.’

‘So how long are you staying?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t have to rush back.’

‘You don’t have a pimp?’

‘I have a manager. Gooch explained to him I had a civic duty to come help.’

‘Oh, Lord.’

‘I’m not a streetwalker,’ she said. She drank from a glass of water. ‘I got a regular clientele. Blue-collar guys. Most of ’em aren’t even married.. They just can’t afford to spend a ton of money buying drinks for stuck-up girls who won’t give ’em none.’

‘More civic duty.’

‘You want my help or should I just leave now?’

‘I want your help, Helen.’

‘We talked with Jason Salinger. He didn’t have a photo, but my description of Albert and his of Allen Eck are both pretty much dead-on, except for Albert having black hair and Allen having brown. Both of ’em got a little part-moon scar on the corner of their mouths.’

‘How did you explain to Jason what you wanted to know?’

‘Just told him I was your secretary and you needed some more questions answered,.’ And like she was his secretary, she handed him a file. ‘Here. Gooch and I got on his laptop and went into the back issues site for the Times-Picayune. We looked up all the crime stories from between June first and June fourth. And a couple of days each way past that. Gooch said you’d be interested in the top story.’

As he started reading she gave him a summary. ‘Some rich guy up off St Charles named Danny Mouton. But he goes by the name Danny Laffite, claims to be descended from Jean Laffite – got a history of mental problems, it says. Someone killed his cousin, who was staying at his house. Single shot through the forehead, close range. They don’t say the caliber in the paper.’

Like Thuy Tran.

‘Was this Danny Laffite a suspect?’ Jason Salinger had mentioned Danny Laffite, too, the supposed forger kicked out of the Laffite League.

‘Nope. Visiting relatives in South Carolina at the time. Place was vandalized pretty heavily, apparently a TV, a VCR missing. A burglar. But Danny Laffite seems to have dropped out of sight afterward.’

‘No arrests made?’ He scanned the rest of the article, and a brief follow-up that was more about the checkered career of Danny Laffite than about the poor cousin, whose name was Phillip Villars.

‘No. We printed out all the stories about homicides – there’s always more in the summer in New Orleans – but Gooch said he thought only this one mattered.’ She sipped her water. ‘Gooch says Alex – that’s what I’m calling him now – is a treasure hunter, y’all think, and might have a connection to this Danny Laffite guy.’

‘Possibly a loose one. They have a mutual acquaintance named Stoney Vaughn.’

‘So that call Alex got, that he’d offed the wrong guy? Maybe Danny Laffite was supposed to get killed, not his cousin.’

‘Would you hand me the phone, please?’ Whit said.

He dialed 411, asked for a New Orleans listing for Daniel Mouton on First Street. A message said the phone had been disconnected. He clicked off.

A hazy shape was starting to form. But with Jimmy Bird dead by his own hand, would David or anyone else give a crap?

‘I’m going below and taking a nap,’ Helen said. ‘I had a long night and a long day and I’m tired.’

‘Helen, thank you.’ He hesitated. ‘I want you to know I don’t have a thing in the world against you.’

Helen Dupuy stood. ‘I’m real aware I’m not good enough for Gooch. I know it. He doesn’t. Maybe you could let me have a couple of nice days before he sees it and gives me a plane ticket home.’ Then she went belowdecks.

Whit went back to his car and his cell phone rang in his pocket. He answered. Within a minute, he was roaring out of the marina parking lot, speeding toward the Port Leo hospital.

‘Jesus, you look good,’ Whit said, touching Claudia’s hair. Lotion covered her skin, bandages wrapped her hands, an IV dripped into her arm. Her lips were swollen like jelly candies, her face blasted red with sunburn.

‘You’re the worst liar on the planet. I look like hell. I feel like I ran a marathon. On my knees.’

She had spent nearly eight hours in the Gulf, treading water, waving her, as she told him, ‘goddamned red pillow’, until a sailboat with a retired Michigan couple aboard spotted her and pulled her from the water. They’d hurried her into Port Aransas. Even before they reached Mustang Island, she was wrapped in heavy blankets and on the radio with the coast guard, telling them about the kidnapping, giving them details on Jupiter and Miss Catherine, and saying that Danny was headed to Stoney’s house at Copano Flats, off the bay.

‘Danny Laffite,’ Whit said. ‘Christ.’

‘But his boat didn’t make it. Apparently it sunk earlier in the day, a bit off the Flats. No sign of Danny. And no one is at Stoney’s house. They’ve sent people looking for him.’

‘I saw him today.’ Whit let go of her hand, sat on the edge of her bed. When he’d arrived she’d scooted her hovering parents out and asked a worried David to give them a moment’s privacy, which had been granted with a frown but not an argument. She’d been talking with the coast guard command, the sheriff’s office, and the FBI had been summoned in from Houston.

‘Why?’ she asked.

He told her the complete story then, all of it, from the discovery of Patch’s and Thuy’s bodies, the links he kept finding between Stoney Vaughn and Patch, the connection to the Laffite League, Triple A and Helen Dupuy, the murder a month ago at Danny Laffite’s house, the suicide of Jimmy Bird and the coins found in his pocket, his theory about a treasure dig.

She told him Danny’s story. Whit sat.

‘It’s David’s case,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure there was enough evidence about these connections… but based on what you’ve said-’

‘We need to find Stoney Vaughn. Find Ben.’ She closed her eyes. ‘danny and his thugs were demanding ransom for us right after the kidnapping. At least as of this morning, Stoney thought Danny had his brother. Which suggests to me that Stoney paid no ransom or the redhead – Danny says his name is Zack – never picked up the ransom.’

David stuck his head back into the room. ‘Pardon me, Whit, but we need to talk to her some more.’

‘Actually,’ Claudia said, ‘we all need to talk.’

An hour later, Claudia said good-bye to Whit, gave a feeble wave.

David watched him go. ‘I mean, you and him, you can just take the fucking case yourselves.’

‘David, no one could know that it was a much more involved case than anyone-’ she started, but he was mad, his skin flushed.

‘Christ. You’re both gonna make me look like an utter fool. All this other stuff, it still doesn’t change the fact that Jimmy Bird killed himself, left a suicide note pretty much admitting he killed Gilbert and Tran. The FBI’s handling the kidnapping. They’ll take it from me quick, and if all this is mixed up together, the Feds’ll take that case from me, too. What the hell am I supposed to do, Claudia?’ He stared at her, wobbled on his feet. ‘You could have been killed. Christ.’

‘I’m okay. I’m okay, David.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘Find Stoney. Find Ben. Stoney Vaughn seems to be the driving force behind all this mess. Y’all find him – he’s the key to this whole case.’

He nodded. It was like they were still married, she thought. He knew what to do on a tough case but he had trouble delving to the heart of the matter, letting himself get distracted too easily. ‘Stoney Vaughn. Yes, you’re right.’

He went and poured them each a cup of ice water. He brought her hers; she wasn’t so thirsty now, with the IV hydrating her, but she took a sip on her sore lips.

‘I need some more information from you if we’re to find your… boyfriend.’ He said the last like he had a roach in his mouth.

‘David,’ she said gently, ‘this clearly upsets you. Why don’t you let me talk to another investigator?’

‘It doesn’t upset me.’

She let it be.

He sat on the edge of the bed, had a notebook out but didn’t open it.

‘What else did you want to know?’

‘Um…’

‘Because I’m exhausted, David. I’m really, really exhausted. I’d like to get some sleep.’

‘Sure.’ He stood. ‘sure. I’ll be back soon. You rest.’ And awkwardly, he leaned down and kissed her forehead, quickly, chastely.

She watched him step out of the room.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d be out of the hospital. She’d check herself out, help in the search for Ben and Stoney. The FBI, she knew, would be poring over the Vaughn house, looking for Jupiter up and down the Texas coast.

Maybe Ben still breathed. She’d find him if he did. And if he didn’t, she’d find the bastards who’d killed him.

She fell asleep.