Black Jack Point (13 page)

‘Whit?’

‘Yeah?’ he said in a thick voice, lying against the sheets while she took his measure.

‘How much is the estate? Do you know? If showing an
interest in the money doesn’t make David Power indict me automatically.’

‘I don’t know, Lucy.’

‘If it’s enough, I think I’ll shut down the Coastal Psychics Network,’ she said. ‘It’s been nothing but a headache.’

‘So what will you do?’

‘This all day.’ She straddled him and guided him into her. The second time was even better. They were less tense and they
rode the wave together.

‘Is that a job offer?’ he said when he had his breath back, laughing, liking the feel of her warm breath against his chest.

‘I’m so the boss of you already,’ she said. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you.’

‘I’m safe with you, aren’t I?’

‘Always, babe.’

Finally she slept. Whit stared at the ceiling, tired, spent, ashamed for the millisecond of doubt he’d allowed himself to
feel. He drifted off into heavy sleep and it seemed two seconds later the phone rang.

Whit grabbed it, trying not to shift and wake Lucy. The digital clock on the bedside gleamed: I:47.

‘Hello?’ Whit whispered.

‘Judge Mosley?’ David.

‘Yeah?’

‘We found Jimmy Bird. Dead.’

There are few things as powerful as treasure, once it fastens itself on the mind.

— Joseph Conrad

The raw smell arose near a thick growth of oaks. Whit stood upwind of the grove. It was two-thirty Friday morning. A couple
of summer-house kids, looking for a less crowded makeout spot, had found the battered winch truck nestled at the edge of the
live oaks, just beyond the western city limits of Port Leo, away from the busyness of the beaches and the harbor. Jimmy Bird’s
body lay curled on the seat, the bullet hole in his temple surrounded by a direct-contact, mottled bruise from the gun. The
gun – a .45-caliber – lay on the truck floor, below Jimmy’s dangling hand. The DPS crime-scene crew pulled the body from the
truck after their initial photographing and scene work. Whit filled out an authorization of autopsy form.

David finally came up to Whit to countersign the authorization.

‘I suppose this wraps things up, Judge.’ David scribbled his name across the sheet below Whit’s signature.

‘Yeah,’ Whit said.

‘Get the doubt out of your voice. There’s a note in Jimmy’s shirt pocket. Reads: “I’m sorry for what I did Monday.” Broken
shovel in the back of the pickup. And these were in his pants pocket.’ David pulled a plastic Baggie from a paper bag, laid
it flat on his palm, turned his flashlight onto his hand. A half dozen coins, roughly cut, clearly old, a shield capping one,
a man’s head crowned with laurels decorating another, one silver, the rest gold.

‘These look old,’ Whit said. ‘Holy shit. I was right.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Your Honor. Maybe
Patch had a coin collection – we don’t know. Jimmy might have stolen these from the house.’

‘Lucy never mentioned Patch collecting coins. Neither did he.’

‘Found cash and Patch’s credit cards in the glove compartment. He’s got to be the guy who did the break-in. This doesn’t have
to be complicated.’

Whit leaned in, examined the coins through the plastic. ‘There’s a date: 1818 – see? This one’s 1820. Good God.’

‘Yeah. And I know where you’re going, back to this buried-treasure horseshit.’

Whit lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘David. Look. Don’t think of this as buried treasure. See it from another angle. It’s
archaeology. If there were professors out on Black Jack Point doing a dig for artifacts, and they got killed and dumped there,
you’d have to consider people stealing those artifacts as a possible motive. Right?’

David nodded.

‘Well, maybe this was just a dig we didn’t know about. That no one knew about.’

David didn’t nod, just shook his head.

‘So, David, maybe Jimmy had accomplices. And if these coins are part of a treasure, where’s the rest of it?’

David spat into the grass.

‘Why are you resistant to this?’

‘I’m not about to go in front of the press, or let Sheriff Hollis go in front of the press, and say those people got murdered
over buried treasure,’ David said. ‘Christ. If that wasn’t the case, we’d be fucking laughed out of town. No way are we going
public with this. Let’s just be real quiet about it right now, see what else we learn.’

It was as much as Whit could hope for. ‘But we’ll find out how much these coins are worth, right?’

‘Yes, obviously.’

‘I suspect they may be worth quite a bit,’ Whit said.
‘Jimmy couldn’t have been depressed over being broke. Maybe Dr Parker’s colleague, the one who identified the other relics
– her name was Dominguez, right? She might know about coins.’

‘You let me worry about that. I want to confirm if Bird’s tire tracks match the tracks we found on the Gilbert property, and
I want to see if there’s any extra fingerprints on that truck or gun. Let’s go wake the widow, Judge.’ He shook his head.
‘Much as I don’t like Linda Bird, I don’t want to tell her that her husband’s dead.’

When he got back to Patch’s, Lucy was awake, curled on the couch in a robe, watching the bargains unfold on the Home Shopping
Network. He told her what had happened.

‘But I don’t think Jimmy Bird killed them,’ he said at the end.

She sat up. ‘Christ, Whit. David Power’s been breathing down my neck. He finds the killer, and now you’re going to debate
him? What the hell is it between you two?’

He told her about the coins in Jimmy’s pocket. ‘They look old, very rare. Gold and silver. Why would he have those?’

Lucy folded her hands in her lap and said after a moment, ‘Patch had some old coins.’

‘You never mentioned that.’

‘Well, we don’t usually discuss my uncle’s heirlooms.’

‘I didn’t know he was a coin collector.’

‘He wasn’t. He got them from his dad, I think. I don’t really remember. He said once they were valuable. He didn’t keep them
out in the change plate, Whit. He had them in a drawer in his study.’

‘How would Jimmy know where they were?’

‘I have no idea. Maybe he made Patch tell him where they were. Maybe he knew from when he worked here before. I don’t know.’
Her voice rose, got an edge.

‘Okay, Lucy, okay. Did he have them insured?’

She stared. ‘I don’t fucking believe this, Whitman. You don’t believe me.’

‘I do.’

‘I don’t know if he had them insured. Jesus. That Jimmy. Goddamn him. Uncle Patch never should have hired him in the first
place.’ She got up, went into the kitchen. Whit followed her, watched her pour a glass of water, pick at a cookie from the
many comfort plates on the kitchen table. ‘He killed them, then I’m glad he’s dead.’

‘There’s nothing more to be done tonight. Let’s go back to bed.’

‘Fine. Okay.’ She gulped down her water.

In bed, he spooned next to her, his arm over her, listening to her breathe. He could hear she wasn’t falling asleep.

‘Whit?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m sorry I snapped at you. This has all been upsetting.’

‘I’m sorry, too.’

‘I thought finding out who did this to them would make me feel better.’

‘Probably not right away, hon.’

‘I just need you to not be trying to one-up David Power.’

‘It’s not about a competition. I’m trying to help you.’

‘Do you think David sucks as an investigator?’

‘No. I really don’t. But I think he abuses his power. I think he’s hurt about his life, he’s mad at the world, and he’s a
spoiler. He knows how to push my buttons.’

‘Only works if you allow them to be pushed.’ She rose up on one elbow. ‘You’ve got a confession from a dead guy with a motive.
Please stop pushing. Please? I can’t take it anymore. I want this over and done.’

‘Okay.’

‘I can tell when you’re not sincere, and it has nothing to do with vibes. I’m serious, Whit. I want you to stop.’

‘Okay.’

She settled back into his arms, he didn’t give an answer, and finally he heard her sleep. Only then did he close his eyes
and let himself drift away, and in his sleep his breathing matched hers.

Lucy decided to put in a day at work and Whit, not due at court for two hours, followed her into Port Leo. Early Friday morning
was not phone-jamming rush hour at Coastal Psychics Network. The little office was squeezed in between a grimy doughnut shop
and a grimier liquor store in an old strip shopping center that had never seen better days. Two bored college students sat
on duty at the phones, a black woman reading a physics textbook, chewing on the end of her highlighter, and a white woman
watching
Today.

‘Hi, y’all. Slow night?’ Lucy asked as they walked in.

‘Yeah.’ The first woman looked up from her textbook. ‘People just don’t have problems like they used to.’ She slipped a tarot
card into her textbook, shut the book.

‘It’ll pick up,’ the other psychic said. ‘We’re moving into the Bored Housewives hours.’ There was an embarrassed silence.
‘We’re sorry about your uncle, Lucy.’

‘Thanks, Amanda.’

‘You don’t want to talk,’ Amanda said. ‘It’s okay. I sensed that in your aura. Let me know if you want a reading later.’ She
glanced at Whit. ‘Oh, dear, isn’t someone’s aura a little thin today.’

The two phone psychics looked at him, looked at each other, then back at Whit. ‘You’re the disbelieving boyfriend,’ Amanda
said.

‘In more ways than one,’ Lucy said, but not sounding mad anymore.

‘Man, ditch your negativity,’ the black woman said. ‘It’s an anchor on your soul.’

‘I think I like being weighed down,’ Whit said.

‘It’s not insurmountable negativity,’ Amanda said. ‘You have a beautiful spirit. You just need a cleansing influence. Some
healing crystal treatments should clear you up.’

People pay a buck twenty-nine a minute to hear this crap?
he thought. But he smiled and gave the peace sign. The two psychics frowned.

‘C’mon back to my office, Whit,’ Lucy said. She hustled to the back, to a small office. She had a foil mobile hanging from
the ceiling, an assortment of thick multicolored crystals and sculptures on a shelf above the desk, books on ESP, the tarot,
and guerrilla marketing on a table. She shut the door. ‘Baby, after everything else, I don’t need you upsetting the employees.’

‘They started it.’

‘They did not. They read you like a book. These are very sensitive, sweet girls and there you stand, thinking how stupid all
this is. They can tell, you know.’

‘You didn’t read my mind.’

‘I know you think this is bullshit, but it isn’t to me, to Amanda and Lachelle, to our customers. Okay?’ She was being loud
and for a minute he wondered if it was for the women’s benefit.

‘Okay.’ He took her in his arms. ‘I love you. Does my aura show that?’

‘Yes, actually it does.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I love you, too. Tons. Beyond tons.’ She hugged him hard. ‘This’ll all be
over soon, won’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we go away then? For a week, just us? Maybe Mexico. Hawaii. Disney World. I don’t care.’

‘Sure, Lucy. You pick.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You pick, and then I’ll read it in the cards. I’ll prove this works.’

‘Deal,’ he said. He left, letting her think he was headed to court.

Jason Salinger, at first glance, reminded Whit of a lawn gnome. He was short, bearded, with apple cheeks and fat pink lips
surrounded by a thick beard. He wore a T-shirt that read
FOOTNOTE FETISH.

Jason said, ‘Don’t knock over any of my books.’

Easier said than done. Whit followed Jason into a dingy living room converted into a library. Books tottered against a computer
desk. More books covered the sofa and lay scattered across the floor.

‘You’re a big reader, then?’ Whit stepped over a smaller stack of books and took a seat on the corner of Jason’s sofa.

Jason looked at Whit as though he were mentally damaged. ‘Why, yes, I am.’

Any books on social skills?
Whit nearly asked but instead he smiled.

‘Excuse him. He’s a bear in the morning,’ Jason’s wife said. Cute and plump, dressed in faded jeans and a blue T-shirt, she
was as sweet as he was dour. ‘Aren’t you, sugar pop?’

Jason made a strangled noise of agreement.

‘Would you like some coffee, Judge Mosley?’

‘No, ma’am, thank you. I’ve already filled the tank for the day,’ Whit said.

‘I’ll have a cup, please,’ Jason said.

‘You know what the doctor said about you and caffeine.’ She patted Jason’s shoulder, gave Whit a maternal wink, although he
guessed she was six or seven years younger than he was. ‘I’ll let you boys talk.’

Then Whit noticed the headless pirate in the corner.
Not headless. But an old tailor’s mannequin, just the body’s form, with a fancy blue coat, a red sash under the jacket, grayish
pants. A sword and a revolver – they looked genuine – hung off the mannequin.

Jason swiveled a chair away from his computer desk and sat facing Whit. The Salingers’ house was in an older, slightly untidy
section of Port Leo. The lawn looked untended, the furniture in the house fresh from the consignment store. But the books
in Jason’s work area were fat, expensive hardbacks, lots of them, and his computer system was a top-of-the-line model.

‘What can I help you with, Judge?’

‘I understand you’ve done a lot of research on Jean Laffite.’

‘I do freelance magazine writing, substitute teaching, some book editing for a couple of very small presses.’

‘But Laffite’s your own particular interest.’

‘Sure. Gonna go to grad school in another year or so, write the definitive book on Laffite one day. Probably get a doctorate
with a focus on Gulf history. Be able to teach anywhere from Texas to Florida that way. I don’t do cold winters well.’

‘I’m interested in the Laffite League.’

‘This has something to do with Patch Gilbert, right?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, he came to the last chapter meeting in Corpus in May. I figured he was interested in joining. Sorry to hear about him
getting killed.’

‘You knew Patch?’

‘No. I just met him that one time at the meeting. He was a friendly guy, introduced himself to everyone. You don’t forget
a name like Patch.’

‘Let’s talk about the League first. What exactly is it?’

‘I can slice the Laffite League into three groups for you. The vast majority are people with a strong interest in
history, perfectly nice and respectable. Then there are those who are interested in the legends of buried treasure, although
there’s never been anything other than old rumor to say Laffite buried his gold instead of spending it. But those folks have
seen the movies, like
The Buccaneer,
and they think Laffite is Yul Brynner as a romance-novel swashbuckler.’ He swiveled on his chair. ‘Then there are the very
small but fascinating subset of wackos. A few have claimed to be Laffite descendants, and have forged journals and documents
to sell to the gullible or to try to live off the name.’

‘Dangerous wacko or amusing wacko?’

‘Amusing. There’s a guy who calls himself Danny Laffite – it’s not his real name. Nutcase in Louisiana, says he’s Laffite’s
great-great-great-great-grand whatever. But harmless. He tricked some guy in Houston into paying ten thousand for letters
supposedly written by Laffite to Andrew Jackson. Fakes, obviously. He ended up giving the money back and avoided prosecution.’

‘He’s in the Laffite League?’

‘Was. They revoked his membership. Forgers don’t make for trustworthy historians.’

‘What about all these legends of buried treasure?’ Whit asked.

Jason shrugged. ‘There’s no evidence Laffite buried an ounce of gold along the coast, but the rumors persist. Treasure means
glamour. Adventure. Instant wealth attained in an interesting way, as opposed to the boredom of work.’

‘Romantic money.’

‘Sure. We all read or saw
Treasure Island
as kids. We all want to be Jim Hawkins, outwitting Long John Silver and finding the gold,’ Jason said. ‘Long John Silver.
The only fictional murderer I can think of with a fast-food chain named after him.’

‘The truth is less romantic than the fiction,’ Whit said.

Jason jerked his head toward the mannequin. ‘Every year I dress up in that costume, pretend to be Laffite, go to the schools,
and tell them the stories. The kids want to hear about Laffite being a movie-style pirate: storming ships, cutlass in hand,
saving fair damsels on blood-soaked decks. That’s all crap. Laffite dodged taxes, sent out other captains to capture ships,
dealt more in slaves and cotton than in gold. Was careful not to attack American shipping because that meant trouble. So he
preyed on everyone else. More administrator than swash-buckler. And cold-blooded. A few months before he left Galveston a
hurricane devastated the island. Not enough food for the thousand people living there. Laffite’s solution was simple: round
up every black on Galveston, slave and free, and sell them in the underground Louisiana slave market. Even the free black
women who were married to Laffite’s men. All hauled onto ships, the wives screaming for their husbands to save them. Laffite
shot anyone who resisted. Fewer people to feed, fresh money in the coffers to rebuild after the storm. Simple and brutal.’

‘But you admire him.’

‘I admire his decisiveness,’ Jason Salinger said. ‘We’re a much less decisive world now. We analyze. We agonize. We second-guess.
Laffite never had that luxury. Maybe one day I’ll write a book for business managers:
Business by Laffite.
You know, you find different avenues to make your money these days as an academic. Got to go mainstream.’

‘So where did Laffite keep all his money? There were no banks in Galveston then, and presumably a legitimate bank wouldn’t
touch him.’

‘He probably laundered money and gold back into the banks in New Orleans. He had the best lawyers in New
Orleans working for him. And he and his brother, Pierre, filed bankruptcy, saying they had very little. But of course mobsters
today have hidden under that same cloak.’

‘But any accounts would have always been in danger from the US government? If they suspected an account was Laffite’s, they’d’ve
seized it, right?’

Jason frowned but nodded.

A large map of the Texas coast was pinned above the computer. Whit stood and studied it. ‘Indulge me. Let’s just say, over
the years, Laffite amasses a tidy fortune in gold. At least enough to get him started over if he abandons Galveston or his
New Orleans accounts get seized. Or maybe he makes a few big captures right before he’s forced out of Galveston. He can’t
go into port in New Orleans – he’ll be arrested as a pirate if he steps on US soil, right?’

‘Yes,’ Jason said. ‘He’d have been arrested if he set foot in America. His forces had already annoyed the navy by attacking
an American merchant ship, although he’d executed the captain responsible. What finally empowered the American government
to kick him out of Galveston was the capture of one of his ships,
Le Brave,
during an attack on a Spanish ship.
Le Brave’s
captain had papers that outlined the division of booty, written in Laffite’s hand, with his signature. It was the smoking
gun the navy needed.’

‘So Laffite’s on the run. He’s got no place to go. If he’s transporting gold he stands to lose it if he’s stopped or attacked,
right?’

‘He was given a document guaranteeing safe passage by the US Navy to leave the Gulf. They wouldn’t have bothered him.’

‘But that wouldn’t protect him from the Spanish, right, or any other country whose ships he attacked?’

Jason frowned. ‘No, it wouldn’t. But pirates really
didn’t bury treasure very often. That’s way more
Treasure Island
than common practice. I mean, it’s accepted that Captain Kidd buried a treasure up in New England. But it’s never been found.’

‘But maybe Laffite’s got a better chance for long-term survival burying this treasure – just for a few weeks or months – than
hauling it around a gulf sailed by navies who are pissed at him and risk losing everything. He’s a man without a country.
Put yourself in his shoes. Where would you bury it?’

Jason stared at him, as though wanting to ask a question, but didn’t. He ran a finger along the curve of the coast on his
wall map. ‘Not Galveston or Bolivar. Far too risky to be caught by an American patrol making sure he didn’t return to the
area to set up shop again. Maybe further south or north.’ His finger moved south along the map. ‘Laffite had camps up and
down the coast. For sure in Matagorda Bay and on St Joseph Island.’

‘Did he have a camp on St Leo Bay?’

Jason glanced at him, then back at the map. ‘Legend says that he did, but no trace has ever been found.’

‘Maybe he wanted to erase the trace of himself here,’ Whit said. ‘If I had buried gold I wouldn’t have my name right over
it in big letters.’

‘His camps weren’t fancy. Just shelters if he or his men needed to get ashore, say in a storm, or to hide from other ships.
Just four walls and a spare cannon, maybe.’

‘And one assumes if he buried the treasure he would mark it or come back for it quickly, if he could.’

‘Sure.’

‘So what happened to Laffite after he left Galveston?’

‘No one knows. There were a variety of reports. He might have died, might have gone to Cuba or to Mexico. Recently it’s been
theorized he died in South America, as a freedom fighter.’ He smiled. ‘People are always trying
to redeem pirates. We like them too much to remember they’re murdering thieves.’

‘So – possibly – he could have been kept from retrieving a treasure. Killed. Or imprisoned.’

‘Possibly. Sure. We don’t know with complete certainty what happened to him.’

‘Do the legends get specific about where this St Leo Bay camp might be?’ Whit asked.

‘Some say Copano Flats, some say Black Jack Point. Obviously old Black Jack believed Laffite had been there.’

‘You know about him?’

‘Just that he was a crazy old hermit, lived out on the Point from the Civil War until about 1890. I don’t know if he was black
or his name was Jack. I think the Point must’ve gotten its name from the blackjack oaks that grow there. And maybe the name
stuck to him, too. He claimed he’d sailed with Laffite as a boy and Laffite was coming back to the Point, gonna kill everyone
in Port Leo because they’d taken his gold. Loony. He sure thought there was a treasure – he dug up enough of the Point. I
guess the Gilbert family – they’ve had that land for ever – tolerated him. Sad, though. A whole life dedicated to greed.’

‘Wouldn’t you say that was Laffite’s life as well?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Except for saving New Orleans, which was pretty cool.’ Jason raised an eyebrow again. ‘You going to tell
me about why you’re asking all these semiloaded questions?’

‘I’m trying to get a feel for Patch’s life in his final weeks. Everything we discuss, Jason, remains confidential. I’m conducting
an official death inquest.’

‘Man, you’re covering your ass.’

Whit shook his head. ‘We have no indication that Patch had found any antiquities or relics of any sort.’ That was true – Patch
hadn’t. Maybe others had. ‘I would
hate for a bunch of rumors to get started. Have people stampeding around on that land like a bunch of Black Jacks when the
Gilbert and Tran families are grieving.’

‘Of course not,’ Jason said. ‘I don’t get off on rumors. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But if there’s a story …’

‘There’s not. I asked about treasure pretty much out of curiosity. It’s what people first think of with Laffite and I knew
Patch had this new interest in him. Nothing more.’ Jason didn’t look convinced so Whit shifted gears again. ‘You know Stoney
Vaughn?’

‘Sure. He’s the president of the Corpus chapter of the Laffite League.’

‘Friend of yours?’

‘No. Cat litter has more brains than Stoney. He’s all into the treasure hunter mystique. He’s financed treasure dives in the
Florida Keys, where a lot of the Spanish galleons wrecked over the years. Tried to finance a partnership to dive on galleon
wrecks down off Padre, but the state blocked him. The Texas Historical Commission, they hate treasure hunters. Any treasure
in state waters or buried on public land is theirs by law, and they make sure you don’t dive without their approval.’

‘He finances treasure hunts?’ Whit kept his voice flat.

‘Yeah, well, in Florida. Lot more wrecks there, in the shallows along the Keys. I think he might have been in the group that
financed Barry Clifford diving on
Whydah,
up off Cape Cod. That’s the only sunken pirate ship ever recovered. They got a shitload of gold, silver, and jewels off it.
At least Stoney likes to talk big about it. He paid for a trip for about a dozen of the Leaguers last year to go to Yucatán,
see the town where Laffite’s brother died.’

‘Were Stoney and Patch buddies?’

‘Don’t think they knew each other, but they probably met at the meeting,’ Jason said. ‘Okay, now you got me
hooked. You ask about Laffite’s treasure and then you ask about a guy who does treasure hunts.’

‘If there’s anything to say … I’ll give you the exclusive story. But don’t hold your breath. And if you say a thing too early,
no story.’

Jason raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay.’

‘Are there any other … treasure-hunter types around here, or in the Laffite League?’