Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

‘Conflict is bad for your aura, Whit. You’re basically a peaceable guy. I get a bad vibe from you as long as this investigation is going on.’

Whit rinsed his hair.

‘You’re not saying anything smart back to me,’ Lucy said.

‘You said conflict was bad for me, baby.’

‘I know you don’t believe in my psychic powers. That’s okay. You’re scientific in nature and we don’t have the imaging technologies to show auras like I wish we did. You could get it done like getting a CAT scan.’

‘Lucy, if you say you’re psychic, I believe you. Because I love you. End of story.’

She said nothing and he finished washing and when he turned off the water she was standing there, sobbing quietly.

‘Baby,’ he said.

‘I’m such a big fucking fake. I don’t see auras. I don’t see the future. I get hunches, like any other person, and that’s it.’

‘Well, I never get a hunch, so you’re ahead of me.’

‘But I’m a fake. How can you love a fake? I don’t say it’s the Intuitive Hunch Hotline.’ She pulled toilet paper off the roll, dabbed her eyes, blew her nose.

‘Lucy.’ Whit wrapped a towel around his waist. ‘You’re not a fake. You’re like, well, a counselor without a license. Like I’m a judge without a law degree.’

‘You were elected. You don’t need one.’

‘People elect to call you, get a little tarot, get a little advice.’ He pulled her close, gave her a warm peck on the mouth.

‘I want to get out of the hotline business,’ she said. ‘I want to make you proud.’

‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘Love you just as you are.’

‘You’re not proud of me, Whit,’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘No.’

‘Trust me, I am,’ he said, toweling off, rummaging in the little duffel bag he’d brought. He found boxers, stepped into them, found a shirt, electric-yellow with sashaying whore-red crabs dancing across it. Pulled on khakis and stepped into his sandals.

‘Don’t wear that to meet the FBI,’ she said. ‘Wear a suit.’

‘You’re putting me in a crabby mood,’ he said with a smile.

‘Whit. Don’t joke. I’m serious. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to you.’

‘Is this about Suzanne?’

‘No. Me.’

‘Whatever you want to do, I’ll support. You want to keep the psychic hotline? Great. You don’t want to do it anymore? Great. But you could never be an embarrassment to me.’ He waved the shirt in front of her, slipped it on, began to button it. ‘Way more likely I’ll embarrass you.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Lucy said quietly.

They kept him waiting twenty minutes, and as far as he could see – from the chair in Stoney Vaughn’s expansive living room – the two federal agents were just sitting and talking, drinking Stoney Vaughn’s coffee and not offering him a cup, making incessant short calls on their cell phones. He wondered – no, he knew. David had already talked to these men, painted an unkind picture of Whit, and that was why he was thumb-twiddling.

When one started a refill Whit got up and stood in the kitchen. ‘Excuse me. Saturday may be your day to suck down hazelnut, but I have work to do. Either y’all talk to me now or make an appointment with my office.’

They both looked at him like he had a big streak of piss down his pants but one smiled and the other one pulled out a chair at Stoney Vaughn’s kitchen table. Whit thought maybe Lucy was right that he should have worn the suit, and that made him even madder. But he sat.

They both had G names: Grimes and Gordell. Whit immediately dubbed them the G Men. Grimes was muscular and spare, all throat and shoulders and arm muscles with skin the color of teak. Gordell was chunkier, not fat, wide-set and blocky. Grimes had a Southern drawl; Gordell spoke with the nasal clip of New England. The G Men wore suits, nice, summer-weight blends, still far too hot for the Texas coast in July. Whit’s shirt seemed to irritate Agent Gordell like a thumbtack in his seat; he kept glancing at it in disbelief.

‘Judge Mosley,’ Grimes said in his slow, friendly cadence, ‘you visited Mr Vaughn yesterday?’

They always had to waste time asking what they already knew. ‘Yes. In conducting an inquest into a double homicide this past week I found that there was a slight connection between Stoney Vaughn and one of the victims. I wanted to ask Mr Vaughn about it, so I came out here yesterday morning about eight-thirty. Mr Vaughn looked like shit warmed over, like he’d slept in his clothes, and I could smell whiskey on him. His lip looked split.’

‘Like maybe he’d had a stressful evening?’

‘He certainly didn’t mention his brother and Claudia had been kidnapped. He knew, didn’t he?’

‘We’re not at liberty to discuss that. Judge.’ Grimes added the title with an embarrassed smile, like it was an afterthought. Like they even knew for sure.

‘Claudia Salazar’s an old friend of mine. We work homicides together. I wouldn’t take it well if Stoney knew she was in danger and didn’t help her.’

The G Men smiled politely. What he took well mattered not a bit.

‘But there had already been a suspect identified in this double homicide, right?’ Gordell said. ‘A suicide.’

‘As coroner, I haven’t officially ruled that death a suicide yet,’ Whit said.

‘And you just decided, what, the sheriff’s office was wrong and you’d keep pressing other angles?’ Gordell said. ‘A little presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?’

David must have poured on the charm. ‘I don’t believe I have to justify my actions to you, sir,’ Whit said politely.

‘Excuse me?’ Gordell said. Grimes glanced up from jotting on a legal pad, his face blank.

‘Excuse me… Your Honor,’ Whit corrected. He smiled.

‘Your Honor,’ Gordell amended. He didn’t look repentant for one second. ‘No offense meant.’

‘Meant. Taken. Whatever,’ Whit said. ‘If I feel additional information is warranted for an inquest, I go get that information.’

‘You’re not a lawyer, are you? I mean, you’re not one of those judges that’s required to be formally trained in the law,’ Gordell said with polite snideness.

‘No, I’m not a lawyer. I’m an elected official.’

An unpleasant light glinted in the back of Gordell’s eyes. ‘I’m sure the voters might take offense at you not cooperating with the FBI.’

‘How have I not cooperated?’

‘Cocky. You don’t see that much in politicians,’ Gordell said.

‘Jim,’ Grimes said, a little weary.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Whit said.

‘Let’s not get into a turf war, Judge Mosley. You’ll lose and lose badly. We ask the questions. You answer them.’

Whit counted to ten. ‘It’s good I came here yesterday, as I can tell you Stoney Vaughn was alive and well then. If he’s been kidnapped since then, or he’s run off, at least I’ve narrowed the time frame considerably for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Grimes said.

‘What I’d like to know is why,’ Whit said.

‘Why what?’ Gordell said.

‘Why were Ben and Claudia kidnapped?’

‘Mr Vaughn is a wealthy man.’

‘Mr Stoney Vaughn is. Mr Ben Vaughn isn’t.’

‘They thought Stoney was aboard.’

‘Why did they think that? They knew his schedule?’

‘We don’t know yet, Judge.’ Grimes cleared his throat. ‘Quite possible the perps had been watching the house, waiting for his boat to go out. Maybe they just assumed his boat’s out, he’s out on it.’

‘So. Stoney Vaughn has a vague connection to my murder case, and he gets smack-dab in the middle of a kidnapping. Now he’s gone. It just doesn’t seem coincidence to me.’