Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

‘Found his wallet and her purse.’ David sat in the one straight-back chair in Whit’s small office. It was shortly after one o’clock on Thursday afternoon. ‘Dumped in beneath the bodies. Cash and credit cards gone.’

‘So this was a robbery gone wrong?’

‘Burglary, Judge,’ David said. ‘You know the difference.’

Maybe it was a robbery turned burglary, or the other way around, but Whit decided to be rock-solid polite. Act like a judge for once. Let David be acid; acid was just asshole with a different final syllable. ‘A burglary, then?’

‘Yeah. Tran and Gilbert cut short their stay in Port A, head home two days earlier than expected, catch a perp breaking into the house. Perp kills them both, buries them on a remote stretch of the Point where they’re not likely to be found for a while.’

‘The killer laid Patch’s head open. There’s no sign of that attack having taken place in the house,’ Whit said.

‘Then it didn’t. Maybe they took the old folks from the house, hauled them down into the oaks, killed them there.’

‘They. Sounds like more than one person. And for all this effort they got a little cash and silver? They don’t bother with the electronics?’

‘Look, Your Honor. You spend a little more time in this business, you’ll see things usually aren’t too complicated. Criminals are dumb as stumps. If they were smart they could go be investment bankers. Or judges.’ A hint of amusement surfaced in his tone. ‘Killer or killers got surprised, they kill the old folks, they take off.’

‘Why bury the bodies? Why not just dump them in the bay?’

‘They’d float up faster.’

‘It’s quicker to tie weights to someone’s feet than to dig down deep enough to hit old graves,’ Whit said. He started to mention the anonymous tip from Gooch, but David raised a hand.

‘Listen, Judge. You pretty sure you gonna rule these deaths as homicides?’

‘Of course, yes.’

‘Then that’s all you need to worry about, Your Honor. Anything beyond that, you‘re stepping on my toes. And my toes, they’re real tender. They get hurt real easy. And my feet hurt, I’m in a bad mood. We’re clear?’

‘Yes,’ Whit said. ‘I’m going in to Corpus, to meet with the ME and with Parker and his people around four. They have to sign custody of the old bones back to me. You want to go?’ He’d mention the tip then, let David squirm the whole thirty miles into Corpus. Better than listening to talk radio.

‘Sure. That’s fine. I got a suspect to go question this afternoon.’

‘You do? Who?’

‘Pick me up around three. We’ll head into Corpus.’ David winked, put on his Stetson, stepped out of Whit’s office, said a hearty hey to Edith Gregory, Whit’s secretary, then headed out down the courthouse hallway with a strut. ‘I’ll tell you about my suspect then if the mood hits me.’

‘Oh, you’re gonna be in the mood,’ said Whit.

Alex Black closed the door to his room at the Sandspot Motel and flicked on the light. With its freeze-your-ass air conditioner and an ongoing next-door groan-a-thon from a couple he dubbed the Honeymooners, this temporary home held few charms. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go to the storage unit and run his hands over the coins, feel the heft of the Devil’s Eye, say a silent fuck you to every archaeologist and bureaucrat who had ever crossed his path. Instead he sat down and called his father on his cell phone.

‘Bert Exton’s room, please.’ He waited for the hospice receptionist to connect him, endured bad muzak for a few moments.

‘H’lo?’ Tired, weak-sounding.

‘Dad. How’s today been?’ Alex said.

‘Only about a three. Yesterday was a nine. Felt great. You shoulda called yesterday.’

‘Well, soon as I finish up this dig, Dad, I’m coming to Miami. See you for a spell.’ And get your poor ass out of that death trap, and we’ll go to Costa Rica. Let you die peaceful under a beautiful sky. Maybe near some ruins. just for old times’ sake, Alex thought. ‘How’s that sound?’

‘That’d be great.’ Weak cough. ‘You liking Michigan?’

‘Sure.’ What Dad didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Dad thought he was on an Ojibwa artifacts dig. ‘Good place to spend the summer.’

‘Bureaucrats giving you hell?’ A little rally in Bert’s voice.

‘No, sir. No one’s giving me hell.’

‘That’s good. Proud of you, boy.’

What Dad didn’t know. ‘So tomorrow’s gonna be, what, at least a six? You keeping a good attitude?’

‘Screw optimism. Yeah. We’ll aim for a six. You get here, maybe you sneak me in a six-pack, okay?’

‘Sure, Dad.’ He’d sneak in freaking Moet for the old guy. Alex said his good-byes, hung up. He had buyers lined up for the coins – dealing strictly in cash, no questions asked. And he could find a buyer – probably a Colombian trader – for the Devil’s Eye, but a big emerald like that he’d have to move carefully. Even getting it appraised would draw unwanted attention. He could be in Miami in a week, any loose ends wrapped up.

Stoney was the one remaining problem.

He lay back down on the bed and began to imagine various deaths for Stoney Vaughn. Quick ones. You didn’t want to spend any extra time with Stoney if you could help it.

In the clear sunshine of the Gulf of Mexico, the blood and gore painted sparkles across the green waves. Filmy scales glistened like jewel dust. Torn shrimp pinwheeled down from the surface, pink and brown and white, a kaleidoscope of flesh. Slivers of fish guts bobbed, the light shifting their colors from red to green to gray as they sank beneath the water.

‘Beautiful,’ Claudia said.

‘Gross,’ Ben Vaughn said. ‘But I mean that in a real manly way.’

Thursday morning Claudia stood at the open back of Jupiter, a forty-eight-foot luxury craft, fishing rod in hand. She usually preferred fishing on the open deck of a boat, but Jupiter offered the cool shade of the cabin, a cushioned wicker chair, a glass of grapefruit juice at her elbow. She watched a heavy Gulf shrimper chug away from them, its wake now colored with the pool of chum Ben had poured overboard.

Ben hoisted himself up the ladder from the swim platform. He washed his hands of brownish film at the sink. ‘You ready to fish the buffet?’

Claudia smiled. ‘Am I ever.’

‘Sort of glad my brother didn’t tag along.’ Ben sat down next to her, relaxed, grinning. ‘I’m not sure what a third wheel is on a boat.’

‘Sweet of him to let us use the boat.’

‘Stoney’s too busy to play with his toys. I’m glad I’m not. Summer vacation.’ Ben leaned over and kissed her, easy. ‘That’s for luck.’

She cast her line into the spreading heart of gore, nailing its center. He cast after her, his line hitting the edges of the chum smear.

‘You don’t need any coaching.’

‘I just need someone to vouch for my unbelievable fish stories if I end up not catching a thing,’ she said.

‘We each caught a whale, right?’ Ben sipped at his soda.

Claudia watched sleek figures dart and turn beneath the bloody cloud. Within seconds a thick-bodied yellow-fin hit her line. She jerked once, setting the hook, and then let the monofilament line spin out as the yellowfin raced away, revving along for a hundred and fifty feet. The tug and play went on for ten minutes, and soon the strength at the other end of the line faded. Claudia reeled her prize in and carefully held the bullet-shaped yellowfin aloft for inspection.

‘A real beauty. You’re gonna outfish me, aren’t you?’

‘The day is young.’ Claudia eased the heavy yellowfin into the customized live well in the salon’s corner and cast her line out again.