Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

Clippers.

She turned her back to the drawer, easing around, and carefully leaned backward, her fingers wiggling, trying to close around the little plastic case of the clippers. Her fingertips brushed the dimes, the foil of the gum pack. Her fingernails tapped the plastic… and she leaned back too far, her exhausted muscles in her back and arms cramping. She fell off the bed, the drawer smacking hard against her neck and shoulder. She hit the thin carpet hard, teeth jarring together, one of her fingers jamming and she cried out in pain.

She raised her feet, shut the drawer, her back straining, her muscles begging for mercy.

The door opened. He stood there, watching her, the Sig in hand and she wondered, Who’s steering this boat? He gently put her back on the bed, pulled the sheets over her like he was tucking her in for sleep.

‘What were you doing?’

‘Trying to stretch a little. I’m cramping everywhere. Please untie me.’

‘I just spoke with Stoney. He’s agreed to the trade. He asked to speak to his brother but I said no. He thinks I got Ben.’ He grinned. ‘So this will be over soon.’

And he shut the door behind him.

Her hand hurt like the devil; her head felt like it was full of sand. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She blinked them back.

Not much time. She rolled back toward the drawer.

Whit was going to be late for Friday morning juvenile court, but that hearing was his least favorite chore, lecturing kids who ought to know better while their impatient or embarrassed parents, arms crossed, stood there as the county doled out the discipline.

He pressed Stoney Vaughn’s doorbell. The same cars – a Porsche and a beat-up van – were still parked in the oversize curve of the driveway.

He waited. No answer. He tried the doorbell again.

Still no answer. Whit walked around the front of the house, around a corner, across a lawn so manicured golf could have been played on it, and down to the sprawling home’s back. A metal fence enclosed the back, fancy wrought-iron curlicues at the posts’ tips, but the gate was unlocked. The back wasn’t a yard so much as a multitiered deck. He climbed up wooden stairs. At the top he could see two more platforms below him, a nice long private dock with no boat in residence, lights still on like they’d been left on all night. A pool, set into the deck. Expensive patio furniture, a restaurant-style grill built into the brick.

The French doors opened behind him. A man – Whit knew he was Stoney Vaughn, recognized him from the pictures in the articles on the Internet – stepped outside. The guy looked like hell, rumpled clothes, unshaven, like he’d slept on the street. Lip split and puffy.

‘Excuse me,’ Stoney said. ‘This is private property.’

‘I know,’ Whit said. ‘But you didn’t answer your door.’

‘Yeah, I sure didn’t, did I?’

‘I’m Judge Whit Mosley. I’m the JP and county coroner. I’d like to talk to you about two recent homicides.’

‘Call my office. Make an appointment.’ Stoney shut his mouth, as though reconsidering this as an initial reaction.

‘I’m here now. You don’t appear to be busy.’

‘I had a late night working,’ Stoney said. ‘Sorry to be gruff.’ He shut the door behind him, came out onto the deck in full light, glancing toward the stretch of the bay. ‘And I’m afraid I have a business appointment in Corpus that I need to get ready for. I don’t know how I can help you.’

‘You knew Patch Gilbert, though, didn’t you?’

‘The name’s vaguely familiar…’

‘You sent him a bottle of Glenfiddich after talking to him at a Laffite League meeting,’ Whit said.

Stoney shut his mouth, smiled, wiped his eyes. ‘Oh. Yeah. I do remember him. Charming guy.’

‘Was. You probably heard he got killed Monday night. Along with his girlfriend.’

Stoney’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding me. Mr Gilbert’s dead?’

‘You don’t watch the news?’

A pause. ‘Not lately. And I’m deep in putting together a new business deal, so I’ve been working twenty-four seven.’

‘More financing for treasure hunts?’ Whit gave a look of angelic purity.

Stoney stared again. ‘Um, no, but you sure seem to know a lot about me, Mr Mosley.’

‘Judge, please. I prefer the formal title.’ Whit folded his arms across today’s shirt, lime-green with waltzing, bug-eyed pineapples.

‘Uh, sorry, Judge. I’m out of the treasure-hunt game. Too expensive a hobby. May I ask how you know about me?’

‘I’m conducting the inquest into Mr Gilbert’s death. I’m trying to get a picture of his life in the months before he died.’

‘Well, I met him the one time. We chatted.’ A pause. ‘I was interested in his land, asked him about selling. He said no.’

‘And the other Gilbert family members – you approached them?’

‘Am I suspected of something here? Do I need a lawyer?’

‘I don’t know, do you?’

‘Do you have some ID? Because you sure don’t look like a judge.’

Whit handed him a laminated card, showed his driver’s license. ‘I don’t have a lot of time either, Mr Vaughn. But your name cropped up more than once and I wanted to know your connection to Mr Gilbert.’

‘Vague at best, Judge.’ Now Stoney smiled. ‘Yes, I think I met another Gilbert – Suzanne, right? – and asked her about her land. She also declined to sell.’

‘Not everyone wants every inch of the coast developed.’

‘True enough,’ Stoney said. ‘Is there anything else? I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help-’

‘Yes. Where were you Monday night?’

Stoney’s smile faded, came back on. ‘Um, I was here at my house.’

‘Anyone with you?’

‘My brother, Ben, lives here with me.’

‘I’d like to talk to him, if I may.’

‘He’s not in at the moment.’

‘When do you expect him back?’ Whit asked.

‘You know, he’s taken my boat out for some fishing and R and R, and I’m not sure when he’s going to be back.’ The smile again. ‘I don’t even have time to play with the toys, but my brother does.’

‘Okay.’ Whit glanced toward the French doors. He thought he’d seen someone behind the glass, but with the glare from the sun, maybe he was wrong. ‘Please ask him to give me a call.’

‘Is this really necessary, sir? Honestly, am I in some sort of trouble? I mean, the police haven’t questioned me or contacted me.’

‘Thanks for your time,’ Whit said. ‘Oh. Since you’re a treasure buff, maybe you can help me.’

‘Uh, sure.’

‘You got any books on old coins?’

The cutting was going slowly… too slowly.

On Claudia’s second try for the clippers, she’d managed to slide open the large file. She found after experimentation that she could hold the file in her right hand and saw at the knots binding her hands together. But the file was too dull, jabbing her wrist every third stroke, and the rope unyielding. Her hands and forearms cramped. She lay on her side, keeping the tedious cutting motion going, the ropes death-grip tight, no progress.

She stared at the ceiling, thirsty, hungry, trying to think straight.

Stoney hadn’t – since yesterday – called the coast guard. Otherwise helicopters screaming out of Corpus Christi would have spotted Miss Catherine from the air, radioed her position and heading to cutters who would have intercepted Danny Laffite. She’d be off the boat by now, Danny in custody, wheeled in front of eager psychologists who could mine a dozen papers out of his obsessions.

Does a man like Stoney Vaughn – self-made, into millions – let a guy like Danny Laffite order him around? Did he tell Gar that you’re a cop?