Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

‘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, God, 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 business people.’

‘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 business 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.’

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 the length of him, seeing if he might stir again.

‘Whit?’

‘Yeah?’ he said in a thick voice, lying against the sheets while she took his measure.

‘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: I: 47.

‘Hello?’ Whit whispered.

‘Judge Mosley?’ David.

‘Yeah?’

‘We found Jimmy Bird. Dead.’

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.