by Jeff Abbott
“Not a word”—Alex pulled his gun from the back of his pants, pressed the barrel beneath Stoney’s eye—“or I will kill you and whoever’s on the porch. You understand?”
“Not—not a word,” Stoney said in a broken voice.
Alex hurried to the front door, quietly. He peered through the peephole.
Some guy, blondish, tall, standing on the porch, looking around. His head a little rounder from the distortion of the glass. Wearing a bright orange tropical shirt.
Alex moved back from the peephole. The doorbell rang again, a knock followed.
Alex waited. He peeked through a living room window, barely edging back the closed curtain, and saw the guy in the driveway, talking on his cell phone. Then clicking off the phone.
A knock again on the door, doorbell ringing.
“Mr. Vaughn? Whit Mosley. I’m the JP here. I can tell you’re home. Would you please open up?”
Alex waited. A few more knocks. After about five minutes Whit Mosley climbed into a Ford Explorer and roared off. Stoney walked back into the foyer.
Alex put the gun on him. “A JP’s a judge, right? Why’s he here?”
“Probably to tell me my brother’s body has been found,” Stoney said. His voice sounded a lot more even.
“They’d call. And it wouldn’t be a judge.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Stoney said. “Put that gun down. I can’t talk to you with it in my face.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands. You’ve lied to me. We agreed we’d rebury the treasure on the land you bought out at the Point. Discover it together as Laffite’s treasure, make a mint, get famous,” Alex said.
“You don’t care about that, Alex,” Stoney said. “Not about the fame. You just want the treasure. But we can both get what we want. We need to work together. Between the murders and now Danny everything’s gone south. I’m making a drink and we can talk.”
He turned and went back into the kitchen. Alex lowered the gun and followed him.
“Where’s the courage coming from?” Alex asked. Stoney poured a thin film of bourbon into a glass, topped it off with ice water.
“From knowing I’m going to make a great deal with you.”
“So. Deal.” Alex never enjoyed killing but he thought he would really like killing Stoney, even if it was one bullet and quick, like snapping your fingers.
“First we have to find Danny. And find my brother.”
“This whole kidnapping shtick’s not a fake?”
“I swear, Alex, it isn’t. You can’t take the risk that it’s not.” He gulped at his drink. “Danny could screw us both over, end it for us easy. He’s nuts. He’s not going to behave like a normal human being.”
Alex took a deep breath. “So we sit and wait?”
“I don’t start calling around to Laffite Leaguers, showing an interest in him. They’d remember that later. So get patient. He’s going to call. No way he’s not going to see this through. We wait here, together. You can kill him when he shows up.”
“Me? Why not you? It’s your brother he took.”
“Because you’re good at offense. I’m better at defense.” Stoney put down his drink. “And here’s how we both stay happy. I’m willing to give you three-quarters of the gold and silver. You can melt it down or sell the coins on the market. I keep the rest and the Eye. That I rebury on the land, dig back up, have my glory.”
“As the only discoverer of actual buried pirate treasure in history.”
“We’re both happy and we don’t commit mutually assured destruction,” Stoney said.
Alex tented his cheek with his tongue. “What about your brother and this cop girlfriend?”
“They’ll have killed her. My brother, he can be reasoned with.”
“Your brother might talk,” Alex said.
“My brother will never have to work again if he doesn’t want to,” Stoney said. “You don’t worry about him. Now. You can play tough, try to rough me up some more, and completely screw yourself over. Or you can crash here with me and see if Danny shows up tonight, and then we’re home free. What’s it gonna be?”
Alex crossed his arms. “I don’t sleep on couches.”
18
GOOCH THOUGHT THE Bayou Mee was appropriately named, as the two girls near its parking lot might say, Buy. You. Me. The Tulane Avenue open-court motel was grimy, the dive more residence than family fun stopover. It was a few blocks from the New Orleans Criminal Courts Building and nearby were several bail bond businesses, and Gooch wondered if maybe the Bayou Mee catered to those recently released from jail. He’d seen two women go from the darkened parking lot to rooms with new friends and return in a half hour, but they weren’t shimmying hot-panted rears on the street corner; rather, the two looked more like regular girls, T-shirts and denim shorts, just hanging out in the motel lot, gossiping, and maybe if you knew the password, you’d get a date. Gooch spotted one police cruiser go by, not even tap on its brakes. Late Thursday night, the girls not too busy yet.
He’d paid for his room and said, “I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
“What’s her name?”
“Alex.”
“Don’t know an Alex.”
“You know a man named Alex?” Gooch laid a fifty on the desk. “You know any Alex at all?”
“What’s he look like?” The clerk was a bony kid, dirty-blond hair, sullen, his nose pierced with a thin hoop of gold. He scooped the bill into his jeans pocket.
“Alex was here about a month ago.”
“But what’s he look like? Names don’t matter much here.”
“He might have had some phone calls back to Texas on his bill. Does that ring a bell?”
“You a cop?”
“Do cops give money for answering questions?”
“Sure, sometimes.”
“I’m not a cop. Or a PI.”
“Alex don’t ring a bell. Most of the guys here have classier names than Alex, like Bubba or Hoss. Or John.” He laughed.
“Thanks,” Gooch said. “Think about it.”
He went back to his room, started watching the girls. A truck pulled in, the taller girl leaned down, chatted, laughed. The shorter girl walked over to a plastic crate two doors down from Gooch, sat, lit a cigarette.
Gooch opened the door, walked past her. She glanced at him, made a little frown. He fed coins into a decrepit Coke machine.
“It’s broke,” she called to him. His coins rattled in the machine.
“Works good enough to take money,” he said. “My friend told me this was a real nice place to stay, and here you can’t even get a sody pop.” He glanced at her, grinned.
She grinned back. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.
“You know Alex?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” She flicked ash off her cigarette.
“How about a guy named Jimmy Bird?”
“Nope. You sure have a lot of friends,” she said.
“Don’t you?”
“I’ve always been popular because I see the best in people.”
He stood near her. She glanced at his face, which wasn’t ever going to make a girl smile. She looked at his worn jeans, his gray T-shirt, scuffed boots, trying to make if he was a cop.
“The Alex I’m looking for might be in Texas now.”
“Better than here.” She was looking down at the ashes at her feet, stubbing at them with her sandal.
“Any Alexes ever work here?”
“No,” she said.
“Alex might have stayed here a month ago, for at least two days, maybe more.”
“I said I don’t know an Al—” But her voice broke off and she looked back up at him with fear and a bit of confusion, as though she’d just understood a joke. She stood.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I got to go.”
“Alex isn’t a friend.” He’d seen fear in her face now. “But I want to find him. Or her.”
&n
bsp; “Baby, I love chatting, but any more of my time, you pay.”
“How much for an hour of your time?”
“Seventy-five.”
“I just want to talk to you,” Gooch said.
“Costs the same.”
He nodded.
“We should go to my room. I got some Comfort there. I could use a drink.”
Her room was on the opposite side of the court, the window missing, plywood up in its place. She said her name was Helen and she made them both drinks, Sprite and Southern Comfort, in little plastic cups. She didn’t have ice cubes and the Sprite was a little warm.
“You’re quite the hostess,” Gooch said. He gave her the seventy-five bucks, all of it. She counted it and sat down.
“I said something that scared you,” he said.
“Alex I don’t know. But I know an Albert Exley. That was the name he used here. I called him Al ’cause I don’t like Albert as a name. That’s close to Alex, isn’t it? He’s here about a month ago.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Wiry. Way stronger than he looks. Wears glasses. Brown hair, about six one. I saw him come in here, I figured, all I need, another social worker trying to get me in a hair net at a chicken shack. Or a Jesus freak.” Helen sipped from her cup. Gooch thought she couldn’t be more than twenty-five, already faded, her skin pale and her hair a dark lank. “Yeah. He’s a social worker like Hitler was.”
“What did he do?”
“You a cop?”
“No. I’m a concerned citizen.”
“Someone needs to concern Albert Exley off the street.” She pointed at the plywood. “He put me through that window.” She raised her arm and he could see a web of healing scar threaded along her skin. “Tore up my arms, my back, bad. And I’m practically his girlfriend.”
“Explain.”
“He’s here for four or five days. I can’t figure him out, why a guy looks like a professor is here. He hires me a couple of times a day, like he’s passing the time.” She shrugged. “I kept feeling he wasn’t just hanging out here, he was in New Orleans on important business of some sort. But I know better than to ask. Just keep my mouth shut. Well, open, but you know what I mean.” She laughed.
Gooch wanted to give her a Greyhound ticket, say, Just go somewhere else and start over and don’t do this anymore. She’d look at him like he was one of the Jesus freaks.
“We’re getting along fine. One day he’s gone most of the day, most of the night. Comes back in a bad mood. I think, he’s been nice, I’ll see if I can relax him. This was his room then, not mine, so I treat him how he likes and he gets in the shower. He says I can watch TV if I want, ’cause there’s not a TV in my room, and he knows I’m not gonna bother his wallet. His cell phone rings when he shuts off the shower, and so I click it on, thinking I’ll just hand it to Al, be cute, and a guy calling starts yelling, all panicked. I’m telling the guy to calm down and suddenly Albert yanks the phone out of my hand, listens, then throws me through the window. I’m lying there, naked, bleeding like nobody’s business. He grabs his stuff, jumps in his car, he’s gone.” She shook her head. “Cops looked for him, but I guess not too hard. I don’t pay taxes so I don’t pay their salaries. Jerry, the owner, he makes me move in this room, says it was my fault the window got busted. Cheap bastard won’t put in a new window yet, and it’s too hot.” Helen looked ready to cry.
“I’ll speak with Jerry. You’ll have a new window,” Gooch said.
She stared up at him.
“The caller. What was he upset about?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure. I had trouble remembering real clear after I went through the window. I lost too much blood. But when I think about it, I think he was saying something like, ‘You idiot, you got the wrong guy.’ ” She finished her drink. “You don’t want to mess with Albert. He’s nuts. He’d kill a person over answering the phone.”
“When I find him,” Gooch said, “I’ll put him through a window for you.”
“That’s sweet. But you better grab him from behind,” Helen said, and despite the sticky heat she gave a shiver. “Don’t let that man see you coming. You don’t get no second chance with him.”
Whit left Copano Flats, driving through the soft, scrubby land, turning back onto the main highway as night took real hold, heading south again toward Black Jack Point. Stoney Vaughn was either shy or rude; Whit was sure someone was at home, the lights on in the house, the Porsche and the beige van in the driveway, just the sense he’d gotten of an eye behind the door. Maybe there’d been a girlfriend over. He’d try again in the morning.
He’d tried Gooch again while waiting to see if someone came to the door—no answer. All problems for tomorrow, he decided, too tired and jumpy to think. Go to Lucy, have an honest talk about David’s claims, go to sleep.
When he walked into Patch’s house, Lucy was sitting in a fat armchair, her knees pulled up to her chin. Suzanne Gilbert sat across from her, an empty wineglass at her elbow. Roy Krantz lounged on the couch.
“Hi,” Suzanne said.
“Hi, Judge,” Roy said. No warmth, not surprising.
“You took a while,” Lucy said.
“I’m sorry. I had court business… what’s wrong?”
“What isn’t?” Lucy mopped at her face with her sleeve. “Suzanne and I are discussing the land. Selling it. I think it’s a bit too early for that—Patch isn’t even buried yet.”
Oh, wow, he thought. Lucy hasn’t told them Patch cut out Suzanne.
“Offers’re gonna come in,” Roy said. “We already got a call from a Houston developer.”
“Who are these vultures?” Lucy said. “I hope they call me. I got a whistle right by the phone. They’ll be deaf when they hang up.”
“They’re not vultures,” Suzanne said. “They’re businesspeople.”
“Me, too, but I don’t trade before funerals,” Lucy said. “It’s tacky.”
“Tacky like exaggerating private loan amounts,” Suzanne said.
Lucy ran a palm along the chair arm and didn’t look at Suzanne.
“I love you, Lucy, and this pains me,” Suzanne said.
“I love you, too,” Lucy said. “But your vibe is all bent.”
“We better go,” Roy said. “Lucy, nobody meant to upset you.” He stood. “C’mon, Suzanne.”
Whit walked them out to their car.
“I forgive her,” Suzanne said. “The innuendo. She wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Sure,” Whit said.
“There’s not going to be any more silly accusations, right?” Roy said. “We’ve got it straight now.”
“That’s between you and Lucy,” Whit said to Suzanne, ignoring Roy.
They left.
He went back inside, sat on the arm of Lucy’s chair, slid his arm behind her thin shoulders. She leaned into him, turned her face up for a kiss. One. Then another.
“The glue is gone,” she said. “With Patch gone Suzy Q and I are not quite so sweet to each other.”
“Did you argue with them?”
“No,” she said. “But Suzanne feels betrayed. She doesn’t understand why I mentioned her money troubles. But she didn’t yell at me. I wish she would’ve thrown a vase at me.”
“This will get better with time, Lucy.” He sat on the ottoman at her feet, took both her hands in his. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“I’m not up for another firing squad tonight,” Lucy said.
“I rode in to Corpus with David. For the autopsy reports.”
“Oh.” Her voice went small.
“He and I had a talk about you. Do you want to tell me anything?” Whit asked again, his voice soft.
“No. I’m too embarrassed.”
“About your debt? Or the lawsuits? Lucy, I’m not mad but I sure wish you had told me.”
She didn’t move. “Do you bring your hearings home, Whit?”
“Not unless they’re funny.”
“Well, I keep my b
usiness separate from our time together, too. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned Suzanne’s gambling. This is just bad karma piling up on me.”
“How bad is your debt, Lucy?”
“I’m okay. Business picked up last month.”
“How bad?”
“Fifty, sixty thousand. I can get a bridge loan. Phone entertainment is a growth industry.”
“Have you really been sued?”
“David Power needs a doughnut in that mouth,” she said. “Yes. A woman whose old mother called all the time. She was nutty, but she had a nice aura and so the girls helped her. No one was trying to take advantage of her, but I had to settle out of court. It’s fine.” She stared at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but, Whit, you’re a politician.”
“Barely.”
“You’re still an elected official. I didn’t want you to be embarrassed, dump me.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said. He kept her hands in his. “David says you inherit everything.”
“That’s what he says.” She shook her head.
“You don’t know?”
“There’s a message in there to call Patch’s lawyer… but there’s a ton of calls. I haven’t called them back yet.”
“Apparently Suzanne gets nothing.”
“No. That can’t be right.”
“Patch probably didn’t want his money gambled away. And he loved you, Lucy.”
She made a noise in her throat, covered her face with her hands. “That makes me look worse, though, to the police.”
“David’s blowing smoke right now. You ever hear of a guy named Stoney Vaughn?”
She blinked. “The rich guy with the big house up the bay. I don’t know him, just heard of him.”
“Patch ever mention him?”
She blinked again. “I don’t think so. Whit?”
“What?”
“You believe me, don’t you? I didn’t know about the will. Patch never said.”
“I believe you, Lucy.”
She leaned into his arm and they stayed that way, silent, for several minutes, the ticking of the den clock and the soft hum of Lucy’s breathing the only sounds. “Could you make love to me?” she said in a quiet whisper. “I’m a wreck and you’re all that makes me feel good right now. If you don’t mind making love to wrecks.”
