Black Jack Point (19 page)

Whit awoke early Saturday morning, Lucy shaking his shoulder. She still hadn’t been home when he returned from the hospital,
but he was exhausted. So he ate a sandwich, curled in under the sheets, felt her arrive next to him and spoon into him, felt
her kiss on the back of his neck, and fell back asleep.

‘Phone call,’ she whispered into his ear. He hadn’t even heard the phone ring. ‘Guy sounds like he’s squeezing coal into diamonds
using his ass.’

Whit picked up the phone, listened, said, ‘Uh-huh’ and ‘Okay’ a couple of times, hung up, rolled under the covers.

‘Who was that?’

‘The FBI.’

‘The FBI?’ Lucy’s voice rose an octave.

‘Hoover doesn’t run it anymore. You don’t have to be afraid.’ He wriggled his face deeper into the pillow. ‘They want to talk
to me about Stoney Vaughn. I guess I really was one of the last to see him before he vanished, or took off, or whatever.’
He told her a highly abbreviated – and edited – version of Claudia’s kidnapping. He sighed as she ran her hand along his back.

‘What do they think happened to this guy?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the kidnappers that took his brother went after him.’ He didn’t want to talk about Danny Laffite or Gooch’s
trip or any of the rest of it with her. Lucy couldn’t keep her mouth shut, he thought, and all of it might upset her needlessly.

‘So was this Stoney guy involved in Patch’s murder or what, Whit?’ She was whispering into his ear, running a
hand along the flat of his belly. ‘I thought it was Jimmy Bird.’

‘Stoney knew your uncle. That was the only reason I went to see him. His brother’s kidnapping, it may have nothing to do with
your uncle’s death.’

She ran fingernails along his ribs; he loved that. He wriggled and smiled. ‘No time, babe. I got to get showered for the Feds.’

‘Okay,’ she said.

He opened an eye, looked at her. ‘You okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Tired.’

‘Your errands took a long time.’

‘No, I got back and you were gone. So I ate a quick dinner and then went back over to my apartment, to get some fresh clothes.’

‘Okay.’ He got up from the bed, started up the shower.

‘Whit?’ Lucy stood in the doorway, in a T-shirt and thin little white panties.

‘Yeah, babe?’

‘You’re doing an inquest, what, next week?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘Why, if it was Jimmy Bird? He’s dead.’

‘It’s just a formality, I guess. And maybe by Tuesday we’ll know more. But I don’t think he acted alone. That might be where
David and I differ.’

‘David’s the cop, though, hon.’

‘That he is.’ Whit shucked his boxers, stepped into the hot spray. ‘An inquest is just a format for determining if one person
caused the death of the other. If I put it on Jimmy, it still doesn’t explain the why of what happened.’

She kept standing in the bathroom, watching him shower.

‘You find any insurance on those coins?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t had time to look,’ she said, and as he shampooed, he heard a brief flash of anger in her voice.
‘Maybe they weren’t Patch’s. I really don’t know. Could I look at the coins?’

‘I’ll see what I can arrange. I didn’t mean to piss you off.’

‘Conflict is bad for your aura, Whit. You’re basically a peaceable guy. I get a bad vibe from you as long as this investigation
is going on.’

Whit rinsed his hair.

‘You’re not saying anything smart back to me,’ Lucy said.

‘You said conflict was bad for me, baby.’

‘I know you don’t believe in my psychic powers. That’s okay. You’re scientific in nature and we don’t have the imaging technologies
to show auras like I wish we did. You could get it done like getting a CAT scan.’

‘Lucy, if you say you’re psychic, I believe you. Because I love you. End of story.’

She said nothing and he finished washing and when he turned off the water she was standing there, sobbing quietly.

‘Baby,’ he said.

‘I’m such a big fucking fake. I don’t see auras. I don’t see the future. I get hunches, like any other person, and that’s
it.’

‘Well, I never get a hunch, so you’re ahead of me.’

‘But I’m a fake. How can you love a fake? I don’t say it’s the Intuitive Hunch Hotline.’ She pulled toilet paper off the roll,
dabbed her eyes, blew her nose.

‘Lucy.’ Whit wrapped a towel around his waist. ‘You’re not a fake. You’re like, well, a counselor without a license. Like
I’m a judge without a law degree.’

‘You were elected. You don’t need one.’

‘People elect to call you, get a little tarot, get a little advice.’ He pulled her close, gave her a warm peck on the mouth.

‘I want to get out of the hotline business,’ she said. ‘I want to make you proud.’

‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘Love you just as you are.’

‘You’re not proud of me, Whit,’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘No.’

‘Trust me, I am,’ he said, toweling off, rummaging in the little duffel bag he’d brought. He found boxers, stepped into them,
found a shirt, electric-yellow with sashaying whore-red crabs dancing across it. Pulled on khakis and stepped into his sandals.

‘Don’t wear that to meet the FBI,’ she said. ‘Wear a suit.’

‘You’re putting me in a crabby mood,’ he said with a smile.

‘Whit. Don’t joke. I’m serious. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to you.’

‘Is this about Suzanne?’

‘No. Me.’

‘Whatever you want to do, I’ll support. You want to keep the psychic hotline? Great. You don’t want to do it anymore? Great.
But you could never be an embarrassment to me.’ He waved the shirt in front of her, slipped it on, began to button it. ‘Way
more likely I’ll embarrass you.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Lucy said quietly.

They kept him waiting twenty minutes, and as far as he could see – from the chair in Stoney Vaughn’s expansive living room
– the two federal agents were just sitting and talking, drinking Stoney Vaughn’s coffee and not offering him a cup, making
incessant short calls on their cell phones. He wondered – no, he knew. David had already talked to these men, painted an unkind
picture of Whit, and that was why he was thumb-twiddling.

When one started a refill Whit got up and stood in the kitchen. ‘Excuse me. Saturday may be your day to suck down hazelnut,
but I have work to do. Either y’all talk to me now or make an appointment with my office.’

They both looked at him like he had a big streak of piss down his pants but one smiled and the other one pulled out a chair
at Stoney Vaughn’s kitchen table. Whit thought maybe Lucy was right that he should have worn the suit, and that made him even
madder. But he sat.

They both had G names: Grimes and Gordell. Whit immediately dubbed them the G Men. Grimes was muscular and spare, all throat
and shoulders and arm muscles with skin the color of teak. Gordell was chunkier, not fat, wide-set and blocky. Grimes had
a Southern drawl; Gordell spoke with the nasal clip of New England. The G Men wore suits, nice, summer-weight blends, still
far too hot for the Texas coast in July. Whit’s shirt seemed to irritate Agent Gordell like a thumbtack in his seat; he kept
glancing at it in disbelief.

‘Judge Mosley,’ Grimes said in his slow, friendly cadence, ‘you visited Mr Vaughn yesterday?’

They always had to waste time asking what they already knew. ‘Yes. In conducting an inquest into a double homicide this past
week I found that there was a slight connection between Stoney Vaughn and one of the victims. I wanted to ask Mr Vaughn about
it, so I came out here yesterday morning about eight-thirty. Mr Vaughn looked like shit warmed over, like he’d slept in his
clothes, and I could smell whiskey on him. His lip looked split.’

‘Like maybe he’d had a stressful evening?’

‘He certainly didn’t mention his brother and Claudia had been kidnapped. He knew, didn’t he?’

‘We’re not at liberty to discuss that. Judge.’ Grimes added the title with an embarrassed smile, like it was an afterthought.
Like they even knew for sure.

‘Claudia Salazar’s an old friend of mine. We work homicides together. I wouldn’t take it well if Stoney knew she was in danger
and didn’t help her.’

The G Men smiled politely. What he took well mattered not a bit.

‘But there had already been a suspect identified in this double homicide, right?’ Gordell said. ‘A suicide.’

‘As coroner, I haven’t officially ruled that death a suicide yet,’ Whit said.

‘And you just decided, what, the sheriff’s office was wrong and you’d keep pressing other angles?’ Gordell said. ‘A little
presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?’

David must have poured on the charm. ‘I don’t believe I have to justify my actions to you, sir,’ Whit said politely.

‘Excuse me?’ Gordell said. Grimes glanced up from jotting on a legal pad, his face blank.

‘Excuse me … Your Honor,’ Whit corrected. He smiled.

‘Your Honor,’ Gordell amended. He didn’t look repentant for one second. ‘No offense meant.’

‘Meant. Taken. Whatever,’ Whit said. ‘If I feel additional information is warranted for an inquest, I go get that information.’

‘You’re not a lawyer, are you? I mean, you’re not one of those judges that’s required to be formally trained in the law,’
Gordell said with polite snideness.

‘No, I’m not a lawyer. I’m an elected official.’

An unpleasant light glinted in the back of Gordell’s eyes. ‘I’m sure the voters might take offense at you not cooperating
with the FBI.’

‘How have I not cooperated?’

‘Cocky. You don’t see that much in politicians,’ Gordell said.

‘Jim,’ Grimes said, a little weary.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Whit said.

‘Let’s not get into a turf war, Judge Mosley. You’ll lose and lose badly. We ask the questions. You answer them.’

Whit counted to ten. ‘It’s good I came here yesterday, as I can tell you Stoney Vaughn was alive and well then. If he’s been
kidnapped since then, or he’s run off, at least I’ve narrowed the time frame considerably for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Grimes said.

‘What I’d like to know is why,’ Whit said.

‘Why what?’ Gordell said.

‘Why were Ben and Claudia kidnapped?’

‘Mr Vaughn is a wealthy man.’

‘Mr Stoney Vaughn is. Mr Ben Vaughn isn’t.’

‘They thought Stoney was aboard.’

‘Why did they think that? They knew his schedule?’

‘We don’t know yet, Judge.’ Grimes cleared his throat. ‘Quite possible the perps had been watching the house, waiting for
his boat to go out. Maybe they just assumed his boat’s out, he’s out on it.’

‘So. Stoney Vaughn has a vague connection to my murder case, and he gets smack-dab in the middle of a kidnapping. Now he’s
gone. It just doesn’t seem coincidence to me.’

‘You’re the one on this buried treasure kick, right?’ Gordell said.

‘I prefer to think of it as archaeological relics,’ Whit said. ‘This whacked-out supposed treasure hunter, Albert Exley or
Allen Eck or Alex, I want y’all to find out who this guy is.’

Grimes’s lips tightened. ‘We’re appreciative of the information you gave Officer Salazar and to the other local authorities.
But please understand, these various threads that may tie to a case, those are for us to sort out and prioritize, Your Honor.’

‘Let me tell you why this matters. This Alex, this
certifiable nutcase, was in New Orleans when Danny Laffite’s cousin got murdered. He put a poor woman through a window because
she might have heard someone telling him he “got” the wrong guy. I think Danny Laffite had been in touch with Stoney Vaughn
in the weeks before, trying to cut a deal to finance a dig for this treasure. But Stoney got greedy and sent Alex to steal
Danny’s evidence about the treasure and kill him. Only Alex killed the wrong person at Danny’s house. Danny must have phoned
Stoney after the New Orleans break-in, and Stoney freaked at the thought Danny was still alive.’ He stopped, looked at the
two agents. ‘So if I were you, I’d be looking really hard at Stoney Vaughn’s phone records. See if he called the Bayou Mee
Motel in New Orleans. See if he had incoming calls from New Orleans or from South Carolina, where Danny Laffite was when his
cousin got killed.’

‘We’ve heard this is your style,’ Gordell said. ‘Not sticking to your judicial duties.’ But Grimes was looking at him, head
tilted slightly, with interest.

‘You shouldn’t listen to rumors,’ Whit said. ‘Has there been a ransom demand made for Stoney?’

‘Thank you for coming by, Judge Mosley.’ Gordell stood, didn’t offer a hand to shake.

‘I’m thinking Stoney didn’t want to pay five million. Did he not have it? Maybe y’all are checking his finances, finding some
holes … I could see him taking off.’

‘Judge—’ Grimes blinked at him, like he couldn’t believe the words.

‘I wouldn’t buy a single share of a penny stock from that guy. And he had someone in the house here with him, I’m pretty sure.’

‘Did you see someone?’ Gordell asked.

‘No. But I felt watched. Stoney didn’t want me in the house. I asked him to lend me a book and he said no, he
didn’t have one, looked back three times at the windows in a twenty-second period.’

‘But you didn’t see anyone.’

‘No, I didn’t. But there was a beige van here that’s not here anymore. A Chrysler, I think. I didn’t notice the license plates.’
And that made him feel stupid, that if he’d been so suspicious he should have made a note of it. ‘I don’t think Stoney Vaughn
has acted alone in this, and I think this Alex guy may be helping him. We have a description of him. We want people to be
looking for him, too.’

‘That’s fine,’ Grimes said. ‘Give us the info, we’ll see if there’s anything to it.’

‘Thank you, Judge,’ Gordell said. ‘We’ll call you if—’

‘Since I’ve answered your questions while you’ve looked at me like I was a urine sample,’ Whit said, ‘maybe you’ll defrost
slightly and help me. I’d like to speak with Ben Vaughn, and I’m guessing he’s under your protection at the moment.’

‘Speak with him why?’

‘For the inquest into the Gilbert/Tran murders.’

‘He’s recuperating. Probably not up to questioning,’ Gordell said. He stood, signaling the interview was complete. ‘And we
have certainly not treated you like a urine sample, sir.’ He gave Grimes a glance:
This is a judge?