Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

‘I brought Helen back with me from New Orleans,’ Gooch said.

‘I see.’

‘We caught the first flight out this morning,’ Gooch said.

‘You must’ve,’ Whit said. ‘You didn’t tarry long in New Orleans.’

‘I felt we ought to be back here ASAP.’ He glanced at Helen. ‘Helen, I need to talk to His Honor private-like for a minute, if you don’t mind.’ He gave her some change. ‘There’s a Coke machine down the hallway – take a left. Get yourself something to drink and I’ll be there in just a minute.’

‘Nice to have met you, sir,’ she said to Whit.

‘You don’t have to call me sir.’

‘I know better than to mouth off at a judge.’ Helen gave Gooch a smile, went out of the courtroom.

Whit waited until the door shut after her. ‘Who is she, Gooch?’

‘She’s a whore,’ Gooch said, ‘but not a crack whore.’

‘That’s good,’ Whit said. ‘Why on earth did you bring this young woman back from New Orleans with you?’

‘Albert Exley. Ring any bells?’

It did sound familiar. ‘It sounds like Allen Eck.’ Whit told Gooch about the crazy treasure hunter described by Jason Salinger of the Laffite League and that Jimmy Bird was dead.

‘Albert Exley. Allen Eck. Alex,’ Gooch said. ‘His names seem to be shrinking.’

‘So who’s Albert Exley?’

‘The name used by the man who paid cash and stayed at the motel Jimmy Bird called and nearly killed that nice girl that just left.’ Gooch explained what Helen had told him. ‘If he’s the same guy that Stoney Vaughn took to Mexico, then Stoney knows Allen/Albert/Alex. Triple A…’

‘Triple A?’

‘I ain’t calling him by all his aliases,’ Gooch said. ‘Triple A was in touch with Jimmy. And Jimmy used to work for Patch. There’s your connection.’

‘But no proof. Nothing to give to David. Albert Exley and Allen Eck could be two entirely different people.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gooch said. ‘Names too similar. One guy. Triple A.’

‘So why was he in New Orleans?’

‘From that phone call Helen heard and got shoved through the glass for, I think he was there to kill someone. I’m gonna do some hunting today, get Helen to help me, see if who all in New Orleans went missing or turned up dead during the time he was there. She’s a quick learner.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘Don’t you be that way, Whitman.’

‘Shouldn’t you have stayed in New Orleans to do this?’

Gooch shook his head. ‘Triple A is here, man. Here. If he’s this guy that Jimmy was in contact with, and he’s the same treasure hunter Stoney knew, he’s either been here or he’s still here. Most of what I was going to look for is in newspaper archives. I can do all that via the Internet.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I sure as hell wasn’t leaving you alone here, sniffing around. This guy’s a freak.’

‘Why’d you bring Helen, Gooch?’

‘I could use some help, and let’s just say she’s motivated to find this Alex. He hurt her pretty badly. And second, well, she needs a vacation. Whores don’t get vacation time. Least not paid. And plus, she knows the guy. We don’t have a picture. I thought maybe she could find an artist in town, describe this guy, get a sketch for us.’

‘Like a police sketch? Artists don’t do that generally, Gooch. It’s very specialized work,’

‘Whatever,’ Gooch said. ‘The key is finding this guy, Whit. If the three different guys are all one and the same… you got your man, I’m telling you.’

‘Take her to see Jason Salinger,’ Whit said. ‘Let them compare notes. That should help us know if Triple A is one person or not. Maybe he has a photo from Mexico.’

‘Then, maybe later,’ Gooch said, ‘I might take her to a movie. If we’re not tracking down this fuck.’

‘Gooch, you aren’t sleeping with her, are you?’

‘Yeah, we slept together last night. Didn’t screw. Just slept.’

‘Just slept.’

‘Yeah. She snores a little. That doesn’t bother me.’

*

‘I think, in short, you’re screwed,’ Suzanne Gilbert said.

Whit had thought he was done with the juveniles, with teen court ended and Gooch gone, but Suzanne was waiting for him in his office, arms crossed, still wearing black shirt, black pants, despite the hazy heat that had broiled Port Leo. Pouting. Pissed as a spoiled teenager being told no.

‘Don’t you feel like a solar panel?’ Whit said.

‘Don’t fuck with me,’ she said. Her tone was still pleasant.

‘I’m not. What’s wrong?’ He pulled the robe off, over his head. He hated wearing black, even in the air-conditioned comfort of the courthouse.

She watched him smooth out his lime shirt and hang up the robe.

‘Shut the door. This conversation is private.’

He did, gave her an indulgent smile, thought, You have about five seconds to turn nice.

‘Lucy. She is apparently the sole heir of Patch’s estate.’

Legal news traveled fast. He wondered who told her. Maybe Lucy. Maybe the lawyers. Maybe David. ‘So I’ve heard. I haven’t seen a will, though.’

‘And her lover is in charge of the inquest.’

‘Lover. I don’t know if I’ve ever been called that before. Don’t most people say boyfriend?’ He sat behind his desk.

‘It’s going to make a nasty headline in the paper,’ Suzanne said. ‘You should recuse yourself from the case.’

‘Lucy is not officially under suspicion. And she’s not a blood relative of mine or a relative by marriage. I don’t have grounds to recuse myself.’

‘Of course she’s not a suspect. Not with you working hand in hand with the police.’

‘David Power is not exactly president of my fan club,’ Whit said. ‘They don’t listen to me as to who they suspect. They handle the evidence, they make the calls. Jimmy Bird is the guy they think did this, Suzanne, so why are you pitching a hissy fit?’

She was mad about all that land and money not coming to her, and whatever he said wasn’t going to placate her.

‘Jimmy Bird has a wife and family, and he just suddenly turns to burglary? I don’t buy it,’ Suzanne said. ‘Lucy, somewhere, has her hand in this. That will’s going to get a hard look, too. And for you abusing your position to protect her, I’ll go to the papers-’

‘You know, go and do what you please, Suzanne,’ Whit said quietly. ‘You’re mad because Patch cut you out. You’re a disgruntled relative. The papers will give you the tenth of an inch you deserve.’

‘Your career as a judge will be over.’

‘I’ve been threatened with that before,’ Whit said. ‘It’d work if I got found screwing a goat. And even then it’s only a maybe. I screw up, the judicial board’ll spank me and I’ll take it. You and the papers can try what you please.’ He smiled. And he meant it. Before being elected, he’d run an ice cream shop, taken pictures for the newspaper, run a messenger service. All were decidedly less stressful than sitting on the bench and taking crap from this no-talent whiner. ‘Bet I’m more popular in town than you are.’

‘Don’t make that bet, Whit.’ Her tone softened. ‘We can deal, can’t we? I won’t make a scene in the papers. I won’t take your career down, which you seem to think is invincible but isn’t. But we need to reach an agreement.’

‘On what?’

‘Lucy can afford to be… generous to me. Share a little.’

Whit stared. ‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘I’m very believable.’

‘You’ll make trouble and contest the will – unless you’re paid off?’ He shook his head. ‘Go paint your butt and roll yourself another bad mural.’

‘She’s not worth it, Whit. Not worth your career. She’s a phone psychic, for God’s sake. Do you think she’s, at heart, anything more than a con artist?’