Black Jack Point (18 page)

‘Yeah.’

‘Room 133.’

She didn’t say anything, looked down at her fingers closed around the gun.

‘Well, now you know where he’s at, sweetheart,’ Stoney said. ‘The rest is up to you.’

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.

The elderly couple had lived near Encina Pass for nearly seventy years, close to the bay, in an old, small house made of heavy
cypress. When the knock came on the door both were nearly asleep, having dozed off during a particularly boring cable movie.
The old woman nearly jumped out of her skin with fright, touched the rollers in her hair in case one had worked loose. The
old man rose from his recliner and answered the door.

The young man standing on the front stoop was sopping wet, with a heavy bruise marring his nose and cheekbones, like he’d
been in a crash, smelling of the bay, shivering in the night heat, a broken pair of handcuffs dangling from his wrist. One
finger was purpled, clearly broken.

‘Could you – could you please call the police?’ the young man stammered. ‘My name is Ben Vaughn and I was kidnapped by some
crazy people. I think they killed my girlfriend.’

Alex Black returned to his motel room Friday night, tired, frazzled, in need of a shower. He stood in the shower’s hot spray
for nearly twenty minutes until the water began to cool. He scrubbed soap hard into his skin and scalp until his body tingled.
Then he toweled off with a vengeance, put on shorts and a T-shirt.

His cell phone rang. He picked it up, glanced at the readout. His father, calling from south Florida. At least it wasn’t that
dumb shit Stoney, him he couldn’t deal with any more tonight.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, son, how are you?’ Big Bert’s voice was dry with cancer, but optimistic, like always.

‘You chasing the ladies tonight? Taking a breather to call me?’ It was an old game between them, pretending an active romantic
life was barreling ahead at full steam. Suddenly Alex’s throat felt thick.

‘I chase ’em but they run faster’n me these days.’ A pause. ‘Sure would like to see you soon.’

‘Probably another few days,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there soon.’

‘Dig keeping you busy?’

‘Client’s a big pain, but it’s okay.’

A dry click in his father’s throat. ‘Find anything interesting?’

‘Well, not as interesting as gold,’ Alex said, trying to cheer the old man up.

‘What you getting?’ Big Bert asked.

‘Pottery shards, bones, arrowheads.’

‘Not much junk to keep you from your old man.’

Alex didn’t like his tone. Not telling something, skirting an issue. ‘You feeling okay?’

His father gave a soft burp and Alex figured one of Big Bert’s friends had sneaked him beer into the hospice again. ‘Don’t
you get thrown out of All Saints, having a party.’

‘That was from a Pepsi, thank you kindly.’

‘I’m glad you’re feeling okay,’ Alex said.

‘I never said I was.’

‘Well. Okay. I got to go, Dad. I got an early, early morning.’

‘Yeah. You got pottery shards calling your name.’

‘Okay then. I’m gonna be there soon. Promise.’

‘Don’t take too long.’

Christ, what did that mean?
‘Dad. Are you worse?’

‘I just want to see you soon. Good-bye, son. I love you.’

‘Yeah, back at you.’ He did not want to think of his father wasting away in a hospice bed, the cancer he’d ignored for too
long seeping through his body like rot. Big Bert belonged on a boat, diving for galleon treasure, hauling up lost Spanish
coins. But always just to have Florida bureaucrats snatch them out of his hands. Bureaucrats had ruined him slowly with promises
while breaking him on the rack of their antiquity laws.
Here, go get yourself an ice cream,
Big Bert would say to Alex as a little boy, handing him a piece of eight from 1690 or a doubloon from 1712.
Knock yourself out with a double scoop.
Funny, yes, but then the state government would take most of the gold, the IRS would sniff around Big Bert’s boat, squatters
would try to maneuver their boats over his dive spots, the treasure would be nibbled away by a thousand grasping hands more
clever than good-natured Big Bert’s.

His way was better, Alex knew, but he didn’t want to discuss it with Big Bert. Let his father think he still scrabbled through
the loam for pottery and beads and crap. He’d sell much of the treasure quick. He’d go to that hospice – such a nice crisp
word for a death place – grab Big Bert, fly off to Costa Rica. Let him die in blue splendor under a bright, forgiving sun.
Die happy.

Every day you waste with Stoney is a day you don’t have with your dad.
Tomorrow he’d get it sorted out. Find the Eye, eliminate Stoney. Screw Stoney’s threats of posthumous exposure. He was tired
of this game. He needed his money, he needed it now. He’d made new identities before, he could do it again. No one in Costa
Rica would give a crap about him. And he could stay there for ever.

Alex clicked on the television, waited for the ten o’clock news out of Corpus Christi. First story was a dramatic hostage
standoff at a church in Dallas, two
people killed. Then the news was all Port Leo: a boat wreck in St Leo Bay, a Port Leo police officer rescued from out in
the Gulf, Ben Vaughn’s face on the screen as a kidnapping victim. Then Stoney’s face, also described as possibly missing.
At the least the authorities wanted to ensure he was well, considering his brother had been kidnapped.

Shit.
Claudia Salazar was alive. But there were no other details offered, no mention of a connection to the deaths at Black Jack
Point. At the end of the newscast the pearl-toothed anchor broke in to say that Ben Vaughn had been found in Encina Pass,
alive and well, no details yet on his missing brother, financier Stoney Vaughn.

He picked up his cell phone, called Stoney at the fishing cottage.

‘Your brother’s alive,’ Alex said. ‘Congratulations.’

‘I just saw on the news.’ Stoney’s voice sounded a little funny. Like he was surprised to hear from him. ‘Where you at?’

He suddenly didn’t like the question. ‘Just around. Keeping a close eye on you.’

‘So how long do I need to lay low? I can’t stay holed up here for ever.’

‘I suppose that depends on what your brother says,’ Alex said. ‘He accuses you of anything, you’re fucked.’

‘Ben would never do that to me.’

‘You just fucked him over royally, Stoney. You might have lost that old brotherly love.’

‘Ben’s not like that.’

‘You mean he’s a better person than you,’ Alex said. ‘I think you want to stay there a couple more days, Stoney. Let them
get good and worried about you. Maybe we’ll make a fake ransom demand to your brother, just for show. Then you can crop up,
no worse for wear.’
Yeah, right, dream on.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Stay low.’

‘I will.’

Alex got up, packed his bag. He liked knowing where Stoney was but didn’t like Stoney knowing where he was. He checked out
of the Sandspot, drove across town to a smaller motel, the Surfside – did every coastal hotel have to have an S in the title?
– checked in, got settled.

On the way over Alex didn’t notice the little Chevy, gold and violet and amber crystals dangling from the rearview mirror,
following him.