Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

‘We can’t control how long the transfer takes once it leaves my bank. You know that,’ Stoney said. ‘Let’s say I do what you want. How do I get my brother back?’

‘We’ll drop off Ben and Claudia in a safe place after we’ve got the journal and the emerald,’ Danny said. ‘We’ll call you, let you know where they’re at.’

‘That’s not good enough,’ Stoney said.

‘Our beef’s not with them. It’s with you. We’re not into killing innocent people. And don’t call the police or the coast guard or the navy or anybody. We see choppers coming, we see boats coming looking for us, they’re dead in two seconds.’ Danny didn’t seem to notice the contradiction in his words, which made Claudia cold all over.

‘You fucker,’ Stoney said.

‘Yes, but I’m the fucker in charge,’ Danny said.

‘Okay. Okay. Please, I want to talk to my brother.’

‘Here he is. You got five seconds.’

‘Stoney?’ Ben said. He didn’t sound scared or hurt to Claudia, more mad.

‘Yeah.’

‘Do what they say.’

‘How did they get you? I don’t understand.’

‘Boarded us. Please, Sto-’

‘Five seconds up, no more talk,’ Danny said. ‘Start the money transfers. We’ll be checking on you. I’m calling you back in fifteen minutes.’

‘That’s not enough-’ Stoney started and then his voice was gone. Cut off.

‘Progress,’ said Redhead. ‘But I’ll just keep these scissors handy, okay, Ben?’

Claudia heard footfalls on the steps outside the master stateroom.

Oh, God, the porthole’s still open. She hadn’t shut it.

The stateroom door flew open, hard, slammed against the wall.

Gar, with the stocking off his head. A heavy round face, brown eyes, dirty-blond hair askew from the stocking, full mouth. He noticed her blindfold was off.

‘Goddamn it.’ He yanked the chamois cloth back over her eyes with angry roughness. ‘That better not come off again, you understand? We’ll play this little piggy if it does.’ He grabbed at her foot, twanged her broken toe. A bolt of fire shot up her leg.

She kept her voice steady. ‘I’m sorry. It slipped off while I was trying to get comfortable.’

‘Comfort’s not in your immediate future.’ He leaned down close to her, licked her ear with a pizza-greasy tongue. ‘I’m not like Danny Boy, who plays nice with you. I don’t believe in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think fate brought us together so we could have us a little fun.’

He picked Claudia up, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her out the door.

Stoney Vaughn sat in dismal shock in his home office overlooking St Leo Bay, staring at the banks and account numbers Danny had given him.

He lit a cigarette, fired up his computer, and tried to order his thoughts.

Danny had his idiot brother and that girlfriend of his, somehow. On his boat. And that lunatic wanted the journal that had led Stoney and Alex to the treasure, and the Devil’s Eye. And five million in pain money.

Fuck that.

He abandoned thinking how did this happen, because he quickly decided that was pointless. He started thinking of how the cards might play out.

Bad hand number one: He transferred the money, turned over the goods, got his brother back. Wouldn’t work. No way he could surrender the Eye – even the fake one in the storage unit – without Alex going nuclear. No way they could let Danny walk free. That went for Ben and his girlfriend, too, especially because she was a cop and God only knew what Danny had told her. Alex wouldn’t stand for it.

And if he even tried to cut a separate deal with Danny, Alex would kill him.

Bad hand number two: He transferred the money but didn’t turn over the journal or the Eye. Fool Danny, make him think they’d give up the goods and let Alex eliminate Danny during or after the drop. But then he was out five million bucks, and he didn’t have that much sitting around. He had maybe a million, and then he had clients who were generous but didn’t know it. He sometimes borrowed money and moved it back in when he got new clients. Most of his clients – carefully selected – were elderly, rich from birth, and patient regarding small losses. This creative accounting had bought him the boat and helped with the house, but he couldn’t swing five million, not all at once, moved overseas. No way to cover that up.

Bad hand number three: He picked up the phone and called the police, and Danny turned him in for murder. Hell. A murder he didn’t do but Danny didn’t know different. Too much death – the guy in New Orleans, the old couple in Port Leo. He wasn’t a killer but he was an accessory. Prison. No more golf, no more deals, no more treasure hunts, no more luscious coastal social climbers in his bed. Or Alex would kill him to keep him quiet.

Ben’s dead no matter what I do, he thought. If Danny doesn’t kill him, Alex will.

He got up, paced in front of the plate glass. They would be calling back in fifteen minutes, and he had a decision to make.

Danny thought Stoney had stolen the journal from him, killed his cousin in Louisiana. That meant he didn’t know about Alex. Didn’t know Alex existed. But Alex couldn’t do much about Danny while Danny sailed freely in the Gulf.

So he had to get Alex and Danny both there and let Alex solve it. But first he’d cover his ass.

Stoney accessed the Internet, opened up a connection to his network management software that monitored and controlled the investment counselors’ activities in his Corpus Christi office. He typed an administrator’s code, entered some commands, pressed OK. He’d had this as a time-buyer, a backup plan in case his clients – or the police – got too curious about his records.

Stoney dialed the phone; Alex answered on the first ring. ‘We have a problem.’

‘Yes, we sure do,’ Alex said.

‘I need you, um, at my house. Now?’

‘That would be my pleasure.’ Clicked off.

Stoney decided, a boulder in his throat, he didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Whit had called the Tran family from his cell phone – reluctantly acknowledging that Roy had a point about Thuy being a possible target more than Patch – and Dat, Thuy’s son, had suggested meeting him behind the family restaurant. The Tran family worked close to Old Leo Harbor, the older and smaller shrimping harbor. Whit waited on the dock, watching one shrimper hosing down his boat, a flock of hungry gulls swarming above the decks, inspecting it for morsels.

Cong Ly, the Trans’ restaurant, was only a hundred feet from the harbor and hustling from the back of the restaurant was Dat Tran, irritated and looking sick and puffing away on a cigarette as though it were his only solace.

‘You don’t mind if I smoke while we talk?’ Dat said, the cigarette merrily burning away.

‘Of course not,’ Whit said. ‘Again, I’m sorry for your loss.’ He had visited the Trans briefly the day after the bodies were found. Thuy’s two daughters and son knew nothing, they said. This was beyond imagining for them. The talk had been quiet, factual and brief. ‘I just came from Suzanne Gilbert’s house.’

Dat answered this with a stream of smoke.

‘You’re having to work today?’ Whit asked. Given the family tragedy, he thought the restaurant might be closed.

Dat licked his lower lip. ‘Tourist season. We can’t afford to close. Other families, they’re running it for us. I’m just here for the dinner rush.’

‘I wanted to ask you how your mother and Mr Gilbert met.’

‘Introduced by my nephew Sam.’

‘How?’

‘Sam was working on an oral history of the county, prepping for his senior thesis. He’s at Rice, double-majoring in history and economics. Wants an MBA. Never wants to see shrimp again.’ Dat blew out smoke. ‘You know what the kids are like these days. He interviewed Patch for this county history, said he was funny and charming. Invited him to Sunday lunch at the restaurant. Patch met Mother there. Called her, asked her out for coffee.’ He frowned, and Whit wondered if Dat was gripped by that insidious illness of grief, the if onlies. If only Sam hadn’t chosen that history topic… if only he hadn’t called Patch Gilbert… if only his mother had said no to coffee. It could drive you mad, Whit thought.