by Jeff Abbott
“I don’t believe they were killed because they were dating.”
“I can. Why not? Most people are blind-stupid. No other reason yet. You give us another reason and I’ll listen to it.” His faith in humanity seemed badly shaken, another by-product of violent death.
“Did your mom ever mention Patch needing money, Dat?” Whit asked. “A large amount of money, raised quietly?”
Dat looked surprised. “No. Never. My mother was a very discreet woman, Judge. If Patch needed money and told her, she never would have betrayed his confidence. Was he in some sort of trouble?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“He wasn’t good enough for her.” Dat’s voice trailed off and for an instant the mask of polite calm fell and Whit saw the man’s grief, naked and cruel in its intensity. “Sorry. I know you like the Gilberts. But that family. Their charms escape me. My mother made a poor choice.”
There was nothing to say to that, but Whit tried. “We’re all so sorry for your loss. I know Lucy and Suzanne grieve for your mother, too.”
Dat thumbed his second cigarette into the water. “That’s just so enormously comforting to me.” He stared at Whit. “Why does a woman nearly seventy need to date, huh? Why couldn’t she just stay home and watch TV like other old ladies?”
“I suppose, having survived so much hardship,” Whit said carefully, “she valued life. Each day of it.”
“Yeah, well, look where that got her. People said we were lucky to have survived the fall of Saigon, survived the boats, gotten to Texas. Lucky. Lucky. That’s us.” He turned away from Whit, heading back to the restaurant, his luck all gone.
“This is the plan,” Whit said. “Can you go to New Orleans, find this Alex that Jimmy Bird was calling?”
“I can leave tonight. Be back tomorrow or the next day,” Gooch said. He and Whit stood in the shade of the courthouse, Whit waiting for David to come out so they could go to Corpus Christi.
“I tried the number,” Whit said. “It’s a motel. Bayou Mee. I also gave the number to the sheriff’s office. Hollis or David will probably call the motel but they’re not going to send someone to check it out.”
“Ooh, let me,” Gooch said. He stretched, popped his knuckles. “It’s been a boring summer.”
“Because David is targeting Lucy, and I want to find out where Jimmy Bird is. He’s a disgruntled employee of Patch’s.”
“So this is actually more about protecting Lucy than about justice.”
“Don’t go if you don’t want,” Whit said.
“No need to snap,” Gooch said.
“Sorry, Gooch. Be careful.”
“I almost hope Jimmy Boy’s hiding out there,” Gooch said. “The flip side of hiding is that someone might find you and keep you where you’re at.”
“You don’t hurt him, Gooch.”
“I can’t arrest him. Can’t bring him home. I just dispense justice as I see fit?”
That was a scary thought. “No. You make another anonymous tip,” Whit said. “No vigilante stuff, Gooch.”
“How’m I ever supposed to have interesting memoirs someday, you keep cramping my style?”
Gooch turned and left and a moment later David emerged from the courthouse. He straightened his Stetson, watched Gooch’s retreating back.
“Your friend always looks guilty of something,” David said.
“So do you,” Whit said. They walked along the grass of the courthouse yard. Two news vans, from Corpus Christi affiliates, sat like squat little vultures on the opposite side of the square. Whit hardly gave them a glance, grateful that his ever-casual attire made him look more like a latecomer paying an overdue fine than the county’s JP/coroner. David slowed, as though wanting to stop and linger and talk to them. Already baking in the heat were two competing journalists, electrifying their audiences with overwrought prose: Port Leo remains rocked by the brutal double homicide… A tragic end for elderly lovers… leaves unanswered questions. Horror neatly filed into worn phrases to boost ratings. Those reporters had never heard Patch’s booming laugh, watched Thuy’s delicate hands move while she told a story, smelled the soft jasmine of her perfume.
“Big story,” David said as he started the engine. “What we do is going to be watched. Carefully.”
“You should bone up on your preening,” Whit said.
“You might want to get a white shirt and tie,” David said. He pulled the car past the reporters, giving them a friendly little wave. Whit saw him wince as he powered up the window, favoring the shoulder that had been shot months ago, as he always did. Whit wondered if the shoulder still troubled him or if David used it as a merit badge.
“You’re not going to ask me about how my questioning of your girlfriend went?” David asked as they headed out of Port Leo, along Highway 35.
“No,” Whit said. “I’m not worried.”
“Did you know she inherits the whole shebang?” David changed lanes, whipped around a slow-moving pickup. He said it as easily as asking if Whit wanted the radio on.
Whit was silent a moment too long.
“All of Patch’s money, land, all of it. He cut out his other niece. I just talked with his attorney in Corpus. Patch made the changes less than a month ago.”
“I don’t think Lucy knows. She told me they’d each get half.”
“So she said. She looked like she pissed her pants when I told her,” David said. “Man, I love driving. Even in this traffic. Wish I had a BMW, something sweet to point down the road. Lucy can afford one now. That estate, with the land, it’s gonna be many pretty pennies.” He glanced over at Whit. “Maybe she can spring for that shirt and tie, Your Honor.”
13
ALL RIGHT, HERE’S the skinny on your bones.” Dr. Parker sat across from David and Whit in a borrowed office at the morgue, where the forensic anthropology team had set up temporary shop. “When I’m looking at bones I can only tell you so much. I don’t have a way, from visual inspection, to tell you this man died in 1800 or 1900 or what have you unless maybe it was in the past three years. And these boys been dead way longer than three years. You want more specific, you call UT and get in the long line for carbon-14 dating, but that’s real expensive and you don’t need it.”
He cleared his throat, moved aside a stack of photos from the dig. “You got three skeletons at the site. Three skulls, three partial rib cages, six tibia, and an odd number of finger bones and teeth. All died of bullet wounds. Sam got shot between the eyes, Tom and Uriah got shot in the back of the head. The fracture patterns…”
“You name them?” David asked.
“Sure, I name ’em,” Parker said. “Helps me to remember they were once breathing people, happy, sad, hauling all the same baggage we carry around right now. Rotate through the alphabet like hurricanes. Up to S now. Let’s see.” He shuffled papers. “Now I can look at the skeletal remains and tell quite a bit. But because the disarticulation was so severe, we’re making some guesses here. Sam was male, five six, European ancestry, about twenty-two at his death, right-handed. Tom was male, five five, European ancestry, about twenty-eight at his death, left-handed. Uriah was male, five eight, European ancestry, about thirty at his death, right-handed. I could be off, in that we might have matched the wrong long bones to the wrong skulls. But you got to start somewhere.”
“So they weren’t Karankawas or Comanches,” Whit said. His own voice sounded too quiet, still processing what David had told him about Lucy.
“No.” Parker opened another file. “Now these other relics: the nails, iron latches, and locks. I sent those to my friend Iris Dominguez over at A&M-Corpus. She has books to help identify historical implements. Lots of latches were distinctive, being handmade back then, used to mark the work of a craftsman. Dr. Dominguez says two of the latches come from a Spanish furniture-builder, Olivarez in Barcelona, active from 1770 until the late 1820s. The latches date from a design made around 1818. Another latch comes from a New Orleans furniture-making concern, LaBorde, active fr
om 1800 until the American Civil War. The nails and the locks don’t offer so much, less room for distinction.”
“This Olivarez and LaBorde, they made coffins?” Whit said.
“Not to our knowledge. They made chests, containers, furniture.”
Chests, Whit thought.
“So some point after 1818 is a reasonable guess? If our three boys have been dead so long, no one should have known about them being there,” David said.
“Maybe not. We even found a smaller bone chip in the grass near the surface. The bones therefore have to have been dug up first, then dumped back into the hole, covered some, then your murder victims were dumped on top. It really is strange.”
“What if… Sam and Tom and Uriah had been buried with something else?” Whit said slowly. The latches. The locks, he thought.
Dr. Parker was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You said these latches and locks could have come from chests. What do buried chests suggest to you?”
David gave a short little laugh. “What, buried treasure? That’s ridiculous.”
“Dr. Parker?” Whit asked. “Is it?”
Parker gave a thin smile under his Yankees cap. “I don’t know if there’s a historical basis for it. I’m an anthropologist, not an archaeologist.”
“Your Honor,” David said, with great patience in his tone. “Don’t go off on a wild-goose—”
“I’m just saying. How do you explain these relics? David, you grew up on the coast, too. You’ve heard the legends. Sunken treasures off the coasts from Spanish ships caught in storms. Or Jean Laffite. He pirated in the Gulf. Patch used to tell stories about him and buried treasure. That crazy old hermit, Black Jack, that lived out on the Point and claimed to be one of Laffite’s men.” He thought then of the book Patch had borrowed from the library: Jean Laffite, Pirate King.
“But they’re just stories,” David said. “Nothing more. Maybe these guys got buried with their belongings. That seems far more reasonable to me.”
“They weren’t pharaohs,” Whit said. “If they were killed and robbed, the robbers would have taken the chests with them.”
David rubbed his face. “These men could have been buried in the chests themselves. We didn’t find anything that suggested buried treasure at the site. I mean, honestly, do you hear yourself?”
“I’ll send you a complete report when I’m done,” Dr. Parker said. He seemed eager to be away from this argument. “What do you want done with the boys when I’m finished?”
“The county will bury them properly,” Whit said. “You can send them all back to my office.”
David stood, shook hands with Parker. Parker clapped a hand on Whit’s shoulder.
“Buried treasure,” Parker said. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Wouldn’t it, though?” Whit said.
“I’ve got your autopsies.” Dr. Elizabeth Contreras gestured them to seats across from her metal-topped desk. She looked tired as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Thanks for the fast turnaround,” Whit said.
“Their times of death were between midnight and four a.m. on Tuesday morning. Mr. Gilbert’s wound patterns are consistent with your typical garden-use shovel.”
“I thought as much,” David said.
“His nose, both cheekbones, and his jaw had multiple breaks, his collarbone and skull badly fractured. He would have died quickly. There are a number of postmortem injuries to the body, including four broken ribs and a hard, shovel-point blow to the forehead. The killer kept whaling on him after he was dead.”
“Did he suffer?” Whit asked.
“I think not. Did you know him?”
“Yes. He was a family friend. A good one.”
“I’m so sorry, Judge.”
“Thanks. Anything else of note with Mr. Gilbert?”
“No—just that it was a very brutal attack. Mrs. Tran was shot to death, a .45-caliber. I think they shot her because the shovel broke, so she probably died after Mr. Gilbert. She has defensive wounds on her hands and arms. Splinters from the handle. DPS can probably identify the handle manufacturer from the wood traces, the resins.” She cleared her throat. “DPS also did fingernail swipes on them both—you may bear fruit with Mrs. Tran. More likely that she scratched or grabbed at the killers during the assault.”
“Killers? Plural?”
Liz Contreras steepled her fingers. “It just seems more likely. Let’s say Gilbert gets attacked first and it’s a surprise. Whoever killed him either didn’t have the gun or didn’t have time to draw before deciding to attack Mr. Gilbert. Mrs. Tran’s got bruising on her upper arms. Maybe one attacker held her while another attacker killed Mr. Gilbert. Then, with the shovel broken and their composure regained, they shot her.”
“So they were digging, one might assume”—Whit gave David a stare—“and Patch and Thuy surprised them?”
“Maybe the killers were camping?” Liz said. “Camping illegally. Campers sometimes carry shovels.”
“No signs of a campsite, but there were heavy truck tracks,” Whit said. “So let’s say there’s noise from the truck, and they don’t hear Patch and Thuy approach until it’s too late. The two of them were supposed to be over in Port Aransas.”
“But they weren’t. So maybe the killers knew their plans, expected them to be gone,” Liz said.
Knew their plans. So who knew about them going to Port Aransas? Patch might have told any of a thousand people in town what his plans were. Not a shy man. Or maybe not. Assume not. So Whit knew. Lucy. Suzanne and therefore Roy. Thuy’s family. “If you’re right, the killers wouldn’t have been worried about making noise.”
“Noise?” Liz said. “I mean, you’re saying noise above and beyond a regular truck, right?”
“Maybe the truck was doing more than revving its engines. Maybe it was loading something,” Whit said.
“Loading what? Out in the middle of nowhere?” Liz asked.
“Judge,” David said.
Liz glanced at the two of them, gauging the tension. Whit stayed quiet. “I won’t ask. You’ve got my report. The families can have the bodies back tomorrow.”
They walked into the parking lot, got into David’s police cruiser. David started the engine but didn’t shift into drive. “The treasure idea. It’s interesting, but until I see something more it’s not relevant.”
“You can’t ignore those relics.”
“I’m more interested in modern-day motives.”
“The killers had shovels and trucks, David. Do you think they were digging for oil?”
“I’m not jumping to a whacked-out conclusion, Judge. The skeletons could be old Gilbert family members. That seems far more likely than buried treasure in my mind. Surely you see that.” David eased out into Corpus Christi traffic, headed for the Harbor Bridge. “I mean, I understand this treasure idea’s interesting to you because it takes Lucy out of the equation. She’s got the prime motive for the murder. She benefits the most.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“Lucy had nothing to do with this. She didn’t even know about the will.”
“You one hundred percent sure she didn’t?”
“I am.”
“Certainty’s a nice thing. You don’t see it often. You want to grab dinner?” The unexpected olive branch made Whit suspicious.
“Why?”
“That’s nice. We work together. I’m making an effort here.”
“Make the effort by not accusing Lucy.”
“We’ll talk about it. You eat barbecue?”
There was a nasty calculation, Whit thought, in the smile, and he wanted to know what was behind it. “Sure I do. Let’s go.”
14
GAR CARRIED CLAUDIA out onto Jupiter’s deck. She was still blindfolded, and the heat of the sun touched her face and legs. He lurched and for a freezing moment she thought he was throwing her overboard. But then he settled her feet on deck, held her by her shoulders, and sh
e realized he’d crossed the railing to the Miss Catherine. We haven’t really moved, Claudia realized. She wondered how cold a watery grave would feel, the sky forever denied, your flesh drifting off your bones over the weeks, your leg bones and hipbones and ribs settling into the ooze, like artifacts, for the slow dissolve into muck itself.
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Please.” She balled her hands into fists, but she knew with a sick sinking feeling he was much stronger than she was. She needed a weapon to even the odds.
“He’s not going to hurt you.” Danny’s voice came from behind her. “I just want to talk to you a minute.”
So this wasn’t about rape, at least for the next five minutes.
Gar steered her—walking made her broken toe throb even worse—into a galley that reeked of burned pizza, with a thin odor of rum and sweat souring the air. He steered Claudia into a vinyl booth and pushed her into the seat.
“Now, Claudia,” Danny said. “We can talk for a few minutes. While we wait to be sure Stoney’s cooperating.”
Breath tickled Claudia’s ear. “If this deal sours,” Gar whispered, “I’m gonna have fun with you. Pour some cooking oil between your legs and have us a little marathon.”
Her heart struck her ribs like a hammer hitting piano wire.
“Let her be,” Danny said. “Go back to the other boat.”
“Behave,” Gar said, presumably to her. Claudia heard a door close, the smell of the rum moved closer, vinyl crackled as Danny slid into the booth’s other side. She put her hands—still bound in front of her—on the table. The linoleum was sticky.
“Don’t be afraid,” Danny said.
“Yeah, right.” Gar’s threat wriggled in her ear like a worm.
“I don’t think he’ll rape you. He’s all talk. Those two boys, well, they slept in the same stateroom last night and I heard groaning. Don’t think they had upset stomachs.” The barest hint of moral outrage colored his voice.
“He broke my toe because he didn’t like what I said. And frankly, you’re not in control of him or what he does.”