Black Joint Point

33

‘I don’t think Lucy’s very interesting as a suspect anymore,’ David said. He’d run into Whit at the Coke machine in the courthouse hallway, Whit in the office to use the faster Internet connection than what he had at home, David doing whatever he did on a Saturday he had duty.

‘You got a new mouse to play with?’ Whit could guess where this was going.

‘Jimmy Bird killed those old folks. No question. His tire tracks match the tracks found on the Gilbert land, same gun killed him as killed Mrs Tran. I just made your inquest real easy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now. What’s interesting to me is your theory about how maybe Stoney Vaughn had a connection to old Jimmy.’

Whit fed quarters into the machine, selected root beer, waited for the can to drop. ‘Or, wow, even better if Ben Vaughn did. Now wouldn’t that get your nipples hard?’

‘Be grateful for small mercies. I’m leaving your girlfriend alone.’ He handed Whit the Saturday edition of the Port Leo Mariner, the semiweekly local paper. ‘Nasty letter to the editor in there about you. You pissed off the other half of the Gilbert family. Bring that back when you’re done, would you? I got a new puppy I’m training.’

Whit didn’t open the paper, wouldn’t give David the satisfaction.

David got a Coke from the machine. ‘Given what’s in that paper, you might have a crowd at your inquest. With a recall petition.’

‘David, may I give you a friendly word of advice?’

‘What?’

‘You’re never getting her back,’ Whit said. ‘Ever. And I don’t think it’d make you happy anyway. So you might as well get over being mad at Claudia and all her friends you have to work with. You ever want to be sheriff? It’s never going to happen, as long as you keep pissing on people.’ He turned and walked off. ‘I’ll bring your paper back when I’m done.’

Whit took the paper back to his office, shut the door. He’d been searching for information on the Devil’s Eye emerald and Santa Barbara on the Internet, impatient to wait on what Iris Dominguez and her colleagues might find. He’d found one site devoted to famous lost jewels that included a description of the Devil’s Eye. There was no photo, of course, and the actual existence of the Eye was questioned by the article. The emerald’s supposed weight – estimated by modern standards to be just shy of two kilograms – was listed, its story told as part of the billions in mineral and gemological wealth mined from the New World and dispatched to fill the Spanish treasury. Estimated value of the Devil’s Eye – named by a disapproving priest of the viceroy who claimed the weak-willed stared at it, as though hypnotized – ranged from a million to four million US dollars. Having been lost for so long, its legend and value had grown.

His phone rang. ‘Whit Mosley.’

‘It’s Iris. Listen, I talked with the gemologists in Mexico. You asked how you might sell an emerald like the Devil’s Eye.’

‘Not in a pawnshop, right?’

‘Don’t joke. My friends say there is an underground market for emeralds, and it’s controlled by emerald traders in Colombia. You know Colombia suffers much violence and corruption. Prominent emerald traders there have been accused of sponsoring right-wing paramilitary groups. These are dangerous men.’

‘And these men would be the buyers for the Devil’s Eye?’

‘If one wished to get the maximum amount of profit, yes. For a stone like the Devil’s Eye, there’d be much competition.’

‘So our seller has to have the balls to deal with rich Colombian extremists. How reassuring.’

‘I thought you should know. I’ll let you know what else I learn, as soon as I hear anything.’

He thanked her, hung up the phone. His stomach felt a little unsettled. He’d tried to imagine disposing of a treasure – how exactly would you go about doing this? The coins could be melted down or sold in small batches to collectors. But the emerald, if it was as grand as he thought it must be… Colombian right-wingers. How many guns, bombs, bribes could the Devil’s Eye buy? That the case could move into international crime rings and violent politics made his throat go dry. He thought, I bet Triple A and Stoney are gone. They got that emerald and took off to Bogota and we’ll never get them.

He opened the newspaper to the letters to the editor. Suzanne Gilbert was a better painter than writer. But the letter still stung. The rant was adverb heavy. Accused Judge Mosley of malfeasance in ignoring the beneficiary of Patch Gilbert’s death and asked for an investigation into Judge Mosley’s inquest and finances, perhaps suggesting a bribe had been paid. He glanced at his phone: the message light blinked, no doubt the outraged voters of Encina County calling for his head. Maybe. He clicked the phone on: one hang-up, four messages from voters asking for an explanation about Suzanne’s letter, not angry, but now curious.

His cell phone beeped and he answered it, hoping it wasn’t another voter wanting a one-on-one explanation.

‘You’re not going to be happy with me,’ Gooch said.

‘I’m afraid to ask.’

‘Could you get me a legal definition of kidnapping? Because I don’t think I technically kidnapped Stoney Vaughn. I prefer to think of it as protective custody.’

Whit’s mouth opened, then closed. ‘You asshole.’

‘That other guy, Triple A – although since I shot at him, I’m thinking we’re on a first-name basis – this Alex guy, he drives a beige Chrysler van, by the way. I think he might have meant harm to poor Stoney here. I found Stoney at a fishing cottage in Laurel Point. We’ve moved on.’

‘How did you know Stoney was at this fishing cottage?’

‘That will upset you.’

‘Like I’m not already upset.’

‘I followed Lucy.’

‘I absolutely do not understand.’

‘I. Followed. Lucy.’

Whit’s stomach lurched. ‘Why, Gooch?’

‘I’ve never trusted her. Sorry.’

‘Where are you?’

‘If I tell, you’re in trouble with the law, and I think I should keep you free and clear.’

‘I’m already an accessory to kidnapping if I don’t report you.’

‘Stoney went with me willingly. He’s sure willing now. Aren’t you, Stoney? Hey, Stoney!’ Calling to him, loud, an echo in the room. ‘Yeah, he’s nodding big-time. He’s a happy guy.’

‘Gooch. Where are you?’

‘See, you can’t always take the direct approach, Judge. Stoney and I are going to have an extensive chat here shortly. We’re going to find out who exactly Alex is, what he knows, where he’s at, and then how Lucy’s involved in all this. Find out what he knows about poor Patch and Thuy. It’s gonna be fun and educational.’

‘Gooch, don’t-’

‘Then I’ll call you and fill you in. I won’t say it’s me. Then you do what you think best. Consider it an extended anonymous tip.’

‘Gooch, you asshole, don’t do this-’

‘Helen’s out boating with Duff and Trudy Smith, so she should be out of harm’s way. Take care of her, okay? She’s a good kid. She can stay on my boat long as she wants. ‘Bye, Whitman. Don’t turn your back on Lucy.’ He hung up.

Whit dialed Gooch’s cell phone. No answer. He called the marina where Gooch docked Don’t Ask. The marina master said yeah, Gooch’s boat was there, just fine – did he want to leave a message?

At least Gooch wasn’t out on the water, conducting a floating inquisition.

He cursed Gooch. He cursed Stoney Vaughn. No idea where they could be… but there had been that brief echo when Gooch called to Stoney. So a big space. Covered roof. A big space but private so Gooch could have his extended, perhaps violent chat with Stoney.

Now where might that be?

Could be the old high school gym, awaiting a teardown in a month or so. There was a soundstage at an old television studio, now empty and for sale, on the edge of town. Possibly. Or… there was a marina on the north edge of the county, past the Flats, abandoned since being the part of the docks burned a year ago – but the big metal covering and high roof of the old marina were still there. No one used it, and Gooch had talked about buying it from the uninterested, unmotivated owners in Houston.

Whit grabbed his car keys. He had to stop this, reason with Gooch. The thought was nearly alien.

The FBI had the Vaughn house, but the agents knew who Claudia was and let her in.

‘I’m getting the house ready for Ben to come home from the hospital,’ she said and the two agents nodded and went back to their phones and laptops.

She searched carefully and as inconspicuously as she could, ignoring the nagging feeling that said she had no right to do this. First Stoney’s bedroom. She found nothing of interest except a wad of a thousand dollars in cash, tucked in the back of the underwear drawer. She left the cash alone. The bathroom produced nothing but a daunting cache of toilet paper, fourteen different scents of high-dollar cologne, a nearly empty box of condoms, and expired cold medications.

She went to the top of the staircase and glanced downstairs; she could hear the drift of the agents’ voices from the kitchen, talking on their phones, discussing the coordinated search for Stoney Vaughn. There had been a sighting in San Antonio, a couple of hours away, of a man who looked like Stoney. The most promising lead thus far.

She went to the study at the end of the hallway. Books lined the shelves. Stoney had not struck her as a book person, and many of the books looked too pristine to have been read – lots of recent hardcover bestsellers, crime fiction, investing, and finance. Biographies of business leaders. But one whole wall on the history of piracy, on archaeology and nautical salvage, on Jean Laffite and Texas history.

She browsed through them but decided as a hiding place it was too obvious. He wouldn’t hide the journal here. Maybe a safe-deposit box – see if the FBI had access to that. Or Ben, if he could be convinced.

There was a PC on Stoney’s desk, shoved to one side. The desk was in disarray – she suspected the FBI had sat down and copied the hard disk to see if there were any clues as to who had Stoney or where he might have gone. Easier than going through the rigmarole of getting actual custody of the hard drive.

Claudia sat down, powered up the PC, and opened Stoney’s e-mail application.

‘What are you doing?’ Ben said from the doorway.

‘What are you doing out of the hospital?’ she said.

‘I couldn’t stay there. Not with my brother missing. I checked myself out. I’m okay." He leaned against the doorway. ‘What are you doing on Stoney’s computer?’

She took her hands off the keyboard.

‘Sending an e-mail,’ she said coolly, with a smile. ‘Is that okay?’ She had wanted to see if there had been an e-mail from Danny Laffite, or other Laffite Leaguers, or Patch Gilbert or anyone connected to the case. Maybe Stoney made on-line reservations to go somewhere, maybe his browser had a history suggesting travel sites he’d visited.

‘Sending an e-mail from here?’

‘I just remembered something from when I was on Danny’s boat,’ she said. ‘It’s better to get it down in writing than give a statement.’ She stood, turning off the system as if sending the e-mail was no big deal.

‘Claudia. You were spying.’

‘No. It’s not my case. I don’t have a warrant. I really was just logging on.’ Okay, the first lie to him. How does it taste in your mouth?

He turned and walked away. She followed him to his bedroom, watched him lie down on the bed, put his arm over his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Ben.’

‘It’s in your nature to pry.’

‘ Pry is an ugly word. I’m trying to help you and I’m trying to find your brother.’

‘Please don’t get involved in this.’

‘You know where he’s at.’

‘Not with certainty,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You think they’ve bugged my room?’

‘Of course not, Ben.’

‘So I’m supposed to tell you and betray my brother?’

‘He betrayed you.’

‘Innocent till proven guilty.’

‘The authorities find that Stoney’s involved in any crime, and they think you’re protecting him, they’re going to come after you whole-hog. Your life could be ruined, babe.’

He closed his eyes, opened them. ‘If I think I know where he’s at

… and I tell you, you’ll tell them.’

She made the decision. ‘No. I won’t.’

‘Right, Claudia. You’re a cop. You have to.’

‘Why’s he hiding?’

‘I think he’s ashamed of not paying. Maybe he doesn’t have the five million to pay. So he’s humiliated and he ran.’

‘Then he didn’t commit a crime. So this is a private matter between the two of you. I’ll take you to him, Ben, if you know where he’s at. You can work it out. Then he can come forward.’

‘Would you let a guy who wouldn’t pay his brother’s ransom handle your finances, Claudia? That’s what he’s afraid of. The public response. His clients will dump him. He’ll be ruined. He’ll lose this house, everything.’

‘It’s not the public’s business.’

‘He sabotaged his own computer systems to keep his money safe,’ Ben said. ‘It’ll get out. He’ll be ruined because he panicked.’

‘Ben, finding him is the only way to help him. He can’t hide for ever. Where do you think he is?’

‘Let me sleep on it,’ he said. ‘I’ll give him another day.’

‘So you’ve given up this he-was-kidnapped thing.’

‘We would have heard a ransom demand by now,’ Ben said. ‘Don’t you think?’