Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

Oh, don’t let this be true, she thought. It will kill Ben.

‘If your boyfriend’ – the term said like he had mud in his mouth – ‘knew anything about his brother committing a murder, he’s an accessory.’

‘You’re correct,’ she said quietly. ‘But if you start an unfounded witch-hunt against Ben, I’m going to have your badge for it. Promise you, David.’

‘Whoa. Passion. Haven’t seen that from you in a while.’

‘Don’t bait me. I won’t bite.’

He hesitated. ‘The last thing in the world I want is to see you hurt.’

‘Unless you can do the hurting.’

‘I’m going to tell you something no one knows. It’s not to make you mad or to try to win sympathy or to gain advantage.’ He crossed his arms. ‘I still love you.’

Claudia said nothing.

‘So I don’t want you hurt. By anyone, including me.’ He stood. ‘I get around you, my mouth starts running because I’m mad still. I’m trying my best not to be. Enjoy the brownies. I’ll call you if we hear anything about Vaughn or Danny Laffite.’

‘All right.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

She watched from the window as David went down the stairs, putting his Stetson back on, heading to his sheriff’s department cruiser. She watched him pull out of the parking lot. She picked up the phone, wanting to hear Ben’s voice, but knowing he needed his rest.

Instead, she went back to the bedroom and opened the file from New Orleans.

Phillip Villars, the wrong place, the wrong time. Single bullet in the middle of the forehead. Thuy Tran died in a similar way.

If Stoney had been involved, where was this journal now, the one Phillip Villars had been killed for? If Danny was right, Stoney had it. Or knew where it was.

She had access to the house, to Ben, that might help her. And she could do it to protect Ben.

Yes, do that. Find the evidence against his brother and Ben may hate you.

Her mother came back with the milk, and out of duty Claudia ate two brownies.

‘Nice of David to bring these,’ Tina said.

‘Yes,’ Claudia said. ‘He says he still loves me.’

Tina stopped a brownie halfway to her mouth.

‘He’s full of crap,’ Claudia said. She told her what David said.

‘David’s all angry and hopeful at the same time,’ Tina said. ‘Maybe he loves you. But he wants you to squirm a bit, sweetie, feel as torn as he does. And if he can get you to sabotage your relationship with Ben, better for him, he thinks.’

‘You’re not taking his side?’ This was a change.

‘Today I’m taking your side,’ Tina said, rolling her eyes. ‘Enjoy the moment.’

‘But David’s right,’ she said. ‘I could get to Ben faster than anyone else could, if he’s holding back.’

‘You cops. You can never let anything be.’ Tina ate her brownie.

Claudia kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I think I’ll go by the hospital, see Ben.’

But she didn’t. Instead, Claudia drove to Copano Flats, toward the big Vaughn house.

‘I don’t think Lucy’s very interesting as a suspect anymore,’ David said. He’d run into Whit at the Coke machine in the courthouse hallway, Whit in the office to use the faster Internet connection than what he had at home, David doing whatever he did on a Saturday he had duty.

‘You got a new mouse to play with?’ Whit could guess where this was going.

‘Jimmy Bird killed those old folks. No question. His tire tracks match the tracks found on the Gilbert land, same gun killed him as killed Mrs Tran. I just made your inquest real easy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now. What’s interesting to me is your theory about how maybe Stoney Vaughn had a connection to old Jimmy.’

Whit fed quarters into the machine, selected root beer, waited for the can to drop. ‘Or, wow, even better if Ben Vaughn did. Now wouldn’t that get your nipples hard?’

‘Be grateful for small mercies. I’m leaving your girlfriend alone.’ He handed Whit the Saturday edition of the Port Leo Mariner, the semiweekly local paper. ‘Nasty letter to the editor in there about you. You pissed off the other half of the Gilbert family. Bring that back when you’re done, would you? I got a new puppy I’m training.’

Whit didn’t open the paper, wouldn’t give David the satisfaction.

David got a Coke from the machine. ‘Given what’s in that paper, you might have a crowd at your inquest. With a recall petition.’

‘David, may I give you a friendly word of advice?’

‘What?’

‘You’re never getting her back,’ Whit said. ‘Ever. And I don’t think it’d make you happy anyway. So you might as well get over being mad at Claudia and all her friends you have to work with. You ever want to be sheriff? It’s never going to happen, as long as you keep pissing on people.’ He turned and walked off. ‘I’ll bring your paper back when I’m done.’

Whit took the paper back to his office, shut the door. He’d been searching for information on the Devil’s Eye emerald and Santa Barbara on the Internet, impatient to wait on what Iris Dominguez and her colleagues might find. He’d found one site devoted to famous lost jewels that included a description of the Devil’s Eye. There was no photo, of course, and the actual existence of the Eye was questioned by the article. The emerald’s supposed weight – estimated by modern standards to be just shy of two kilograms – was listed, its story told as part of the billions in mineral and gemological wealth mined from the New World and dispatched to fill the Spanish treasury. Estimated value of the Devil’s Eye – named by a disapproving priest of the viceroy who claimed the weak-willed stared at it, as though hypnotized – ranged from a million to four million US dollars. Having been lost for so long, its legend and value had grown.

His phone rang. ‘Whit Mosley.’

‘It’s Iris. Listen, I talked with the gemologists in Mexico. You asked how you might sell an emerald like the Devil’s Eye.’

‘Not in a pawnshop, right?’

‘Don’t joke. My friends say there is an underground market for emeralds, and it’s controlled by emerald traders in Colombia. You know Colombia suffers much violence and corruption. Prominent emerald traders there have been accused of sponsoring right-wing paramilitary groups. These are dangerous men.’

‘And these men would be the buyers for the Devil’s Eye?’

‘If one wished to get the maximum amount of profit, yes. For a stone like the Devil’s Eye, there’d be much competition.’

‘So our seller has to have the balls to deal with rich Colombian extremists. How reassuring.’

‘I thought you should know. I’ll let you know what else I learn, as soon as I hear anything.’

He thanked her, hung up the phone. His stomach felt a little unsettled. He’d tried to imagine disposing of a treasure – how exactly would you go about doing this? The coins could be melted down or sold in small batches to collectors. But the emerald, if it was as grand as he thought it must be… Colombian right-wingers. How many guns, bombs, bribes could the Devil’s Eye buy? That the case could move into international crime rings and violent politics made his throat go dry. He thought, I bet Triple A and Stoney are gone. They got that emerald and took off to Bogota and we’ll never get them.

He opened the newspaper to the letters to the editor. Suzanne Gilbert was a better painter than writer. But the letter still stung. The rant was adverb heavy. Accused Judge Mosley of malfeasance in ignoring the beneficiary of Patch Gilbert’s death and asked for an investigation into Judge Mosley’s inquest and finances, perhaps suggesting a bribe had been paid. He glanced at his phone: the message light blinked, no doubt the outraged voters of Encina County calling for his head. Maybe. He clicked the phone on: one hang-up, four messages from voters asking for an explanation about Suzanne’s letter, not angry, but now curious.