by Jeff Abbott
He kissed her, slow, and she kissed him back, tentative at first, then harder, surer. They went up to the guest bedroom. Lucy stripped him first, opening his shirt, sliding off his pants, kissing his mouth, neck, shoulders, chest, pausing just long enough for him to ease her out of her T-shirt and shorts, her bra and little red panties. They slid onto the cool of the sheets and when he entered her she clung to him, fingers and mouth and nails and toes, with a fierceness that made his skin sing.
They rested in each other’s arms for a while. Then she kissed him deeply, her fingertips exploring him, seeing if he might stir again.
“Whit?”
“Yeah?” he said in a thick voice, lying against the sheets.
“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: 1:47.
“Hello?” Whit whispered.
“Judge Mosley?” David.
“Yeah?”
“We found Jimmy Bird. Dead.”
PART TWO
HERE THERE BE DRAGONS
There are few things as powerful as treasure, once it fastens itself on the mind.
—JOSEPH CONRAD
19
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. “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. Wow.”
“Yeah. And I know where you’re going, back to this buried-treasure silliness.”
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. “If that wasn’t the case, we’d be 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. “You’re unbelievable, Whit. David Power’s been breathing down my neck. He finds the killer, and now you’re going to debate him? What 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 believe this, Whitman. You don’t believe me.”
“I do.”
“I don’t know if he had them insured. That Jimmy. I hate 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 sor
ry 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 woman reading a physics textbook, chewing on the end of her highlighter, and another 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 first 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? 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 hokum, 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.
20
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 sw
iveled on his chair. “Then there are the very small but fascinating subset of wackos. A few have claimed to be Laffite descendants, 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 pretend. 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 swashbuckler. 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.”
