Black Jack Point

by Jeff Abbott

  “These all have a typical reverse side,” she said. “See the pillars and shield? Typical of many Spanish colonial coins. And these have double rosettes under the pillars. Very unusual.” She pulled the other section of photos into the center of the table. “The obverse sides of the coins often have either a monarch’s shield—like British paper money having the queen on it—or a design of the emperor’s head, which you can see these have. Most of these are Ferdinand VII. Don’t you think he had a weak chin?” She pointed with a pencil tip.

  “Yes,” Whit said.

  Iris flipped the picture back over to the pillars, to the letters encircling the design. “You see the Mo? That means Monteblanco. Next, that’s the denomination—this is an eight escudo; and next are the initials of the assayer. Here that’s ET, Esteban Torres, the official of the Monteblanco mint. The other side has a date… Here, this coin was minted in 1819. Monteblanco was at that time the newest Mexican mint. Just opened. Freshly minted, you could say.”

  “Iris doesn’t get out enough,” Parker said. “Does it show?”

  “I think you’re brilliant,” Whit said.

  She smiled and Parker said, “Hey.”

  Just friends, Whit thought, right.

  Iris tapped the photos with her fingernail. “So I dove into the historical archives, called a professor friend of mine in Mexico City to run some local checks down there for me. A large cache of the original silver and gold coins minted at Monteblanco—with this unusual double-rosette design—was being shipped to Spain right after being minted, aboard a schooner called Santa Barbara. But according to the records, Santa Barbara was lost at sea in March of 1820, somewhere south of Cuba.”

  “I see,” Whit said again. Eighteen twenty. Jean Laffite’s time. His heart neared his throat. This would make Jason Salinger’s day.

  “But the records of the time indicate that the weather was fair throughout that time in the Caribbean. So Santa Barbara probably didn’t fall victim to a Gulf storm.”

  Whit cleared his throat. “I will embarrass myself a little now. But what if the coins were buried, as part of a treasure?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t tell Iris that part,” Parker said. “I didn’t want to influence her data.”

  “You couldn’t have,” Iris said dryly. “You’re talking about the locks. The latches I identified. They’re from the same period as the coins. You think the coins were originally buried with those relics and skeletons?”

  Whit lowered his voice, leaned forward. “Yes, I do. I think Jean Laffite took Santa Barbara as his last prize, and he had no time to take and bank it under a false name in New Orleans. He was forced out of Galveston in the spring of 1820. Navies from Britain, Spain, and the U.S. would have been hunting him in the Gulf. He had no base to hide, nowhere to run.”

  “So you think he buried the Santa Barbara stash, hoping to reestablish later,” Iris said.

  “He just never got reestablished,” Whit said. “Is this too big of a jump?”

  Iris Dominguez sipped at her beer. “The coins have to have been somewhere for the past one hundred eighty years. They’re worn but not from human handling.”

  He thought of Lucy, her claim the coins were Patch’s. “You don’t think they’ve been in a collection all these years?”

  “No, Judge, considering what else you’ve discovered, I don’t think so.” She closed her eyes. “The historical significance. Enormous. An actual buried pirate treasure.”

  Whit’s throat felt dry. “More valuable than the monetary significance?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see if I can locate a copy of the manifest from Santa Barbara from the archives. See how much gold and silver it carried—but even manifests didn’t always represent an accurate count. There was a lot of corruption, theft in the financial system then. Sometimes up to forty percent of the treasure on a ship wouldn’t even be on the manifest, to minimize taxes. And the Monteblanco mint was destroyed in a peasant uprising in 1822. Coins from Monteblanco are exceedingly rare.”

  “It could be quite large, then.”

  “It could be millions, Whit. The accounts of Santa Barbara I found also mentioned that the ship carried a noted Colombian emerald. No emeralds in Mexico—it’s not a gem-rich geography—but lots of incredible emeralds out of Colombia. This one was particularly noteworthy. The Catholic priests nicknamed it the Devil’s Eye.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Whit said. He thought of Claudia’s story of Danny Laffite’s demands. “The archives in Mexico. Do they have any information on this emerald they could send to me?”

  “I’ll ask,” Dr. Dominguez said.

  “Judge, what is it? What’s wrong?” Dr. Parker asked.

  “You don’t happen to know the value of the emerald, do you?”

  “I should imagine it to be worth a few million. And of course, if it’s become Laffite’s treasure, and it’s provable, then the value probably triples,” Dr. Dominguez said.

  “Iris,” Whit said, “can you help me find out how someone might try to sell this Devil’s Eye? Or these coins?”

  “Sure.” She shook her head in pleased amazement. “Actual pirate treasure.”

  “Actual pirates,” Parker said. “Can I keep those bones for a while? They just got way more interesting to me. They must have been the unlucky guys who helped Laffite bury the treasure, then got killed for their trouble. Dead men tell no tales and so on.”

  “So you’re the famous Whit.” Ben Vaughn sat on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed in loose khakis and a T-shirt.

  “I didn’t know I was famous.”

  “To Claudia and the FBI. Claudia thinks the world of you.” He didn’t say what the FBI thought.

  “I think a lot of her, too,” Whit said, and it didn’t quite come out right and Ben glanced up toward him. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  Whit sat on the edge of the room’s institutional recliner. “Your brother. I saw him.”

  “So I heard.” Ben sat up. “The FBI told me.”

  “Where’s he at, Ben?”

  “I think the same gang that was after us took him. He was the initial target.”

  “So Danny Laffite kidnapped your brother and sank his own boat?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe Stoney hid so this same gang couldn’t find him.”

  “Maybe.” Ben sounded less sure.

  “But he… what, leaves you and Claudia to die? Not very brotherly.”

  Ben said nothing. The bruise on his cheek had gotten nastier with the passing hours, turning black and lemon-yellow. “I told Claudia he wouldn’t abandon us.”

  “He just didn’t want to tell the police.”

  “He didn’t want to endanger our lives.”

  Whit sat next to him. “I have five older brothers. Two of them I’m extremely close to. Two I’m not so close to but I love them very much. One I practically hate but I still love him at the same time. He’s a prime-grade jerk but he’s still, and always will be, my brother. He matters to me.”

  Ben said nothing.

  “You’re not helping him, Ben. If you know where he might be, tell us. We all need some answers from him.”

  “Listen, Stoney was in a panic. For all the swagger, he’s not good with situations he’s not firmly in control of or can’t get control of.”

  “All his brokerage firm’s computer systems were down.”

  “Well, see…”

  “But Stoney took them down, Ben. He sabotaged his own network from his home PC. I just saw the computer forensics report; the Corpus police sent copies to the sheriff’s office here. He broke the systems so he couldn’t transfer the ransom funds.”

  Ben stared at his bare feet. “That still doesn’t mean he hasn’t been kidnapped.”

  “Your brother financed treasure dives in Florida. I’d like to know more about those.”

  “And you’re here exactly in what capacity?” Ben said.

  “Tuesday I’m con
ducting a formal inquest—a hearing—into the murders of Patch Gilbert and Thuy Tran. You heard about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The guy who’s the number-one suspect and who apparently killed himself had some rather rare and valuable gold coins in his pocket. They’ve been identified as being from the same time period as Jean Laffite’s pirating.” Ben’s eyes widened. “I don’t think Danny Laffite sounds quite so crazy now, do you?”

  “Listen, Danny Laffite was a nutcase. Ask any of Stoney’s friends who are in this Laffite League. Stoney was the big fish in that pond, lot of money, well-known, popular. He was the leader and that’s who a loser like Danny gloms on to. I think, if there’s any truth to this, Danny Laffite had some delusion about Stoney knowing where this treasure was and thinking Stoney wouldn’t tell him.” He stood, a little shaky. Whit steadied him.

  “I’m fine.” Ben flinched slightly at Whit’s touch on his elbow.

  “Sorry. I know you’ve been through an ordeal. I—”

  “I know my brother a lot better than you do, Judge. You’re Claudia’s friend, and I know you both mean well. But you’re wrong. My brother wouldn’t risk my life like you say.” He walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face.

  “Did you ever hear Danny or Gar or Zack mention a guy named Alex?”

  “No.”

  “How about Albert Exley?”

  “No.”

  “Allen Eck?”

  “No.” Ben dried his face. “I think, y’all find out who the other two kidnappers are, you’re not going to find they got any kind of treasure or archaeological connection. They didn’t give a lick about what Danny raved about. They used him, thought he was nuts. He had the boat and he’d given them a good target in my brother. They just wanted cash, pure and simple, and they thought they had a low-risk way to get it.” He paused. “Maybe Danny Laffite killed those people on the Point, with the dead guy you mentioned. What a freak.”

  “Your brother’s lucky. Having a defender like you.”

  Whit wondered just what Ben knew, how far he would go to protect his brother.

  Ben tilted his head. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll let you rest,” Whit said.

  “Judge?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You and Claudia. Was there ever anything there?”

  The question surprised Whit. “No. We’re just friends.”

  “Good,” Ben said.

  32

  CLAUDIA THOUGHT A good police file on a major case should not only contain the pertinent data, but read like a well-crafted short story or novel. The motivations, the fears, the human failings should all be subtly suggested between the lines of forensic data and witness statements. David thought her attitude nuts when they were married, told her if she wanted that from a file she needed to take a creative writing course.

  The New Orleans police made a guess that the redhead called Zack was one Zachary James Simard, so the investigators thoughtfully sent his record along. The photo was indeed Zack, sallow face, pouty lips, calculating glare. Degree in finance from LSU, from a family from Lake Charles. Suspected of handling money and accounts for a drug-and-prostitution-fueled crime ring based in New Orleans that stretched eastward to Pensacola and over to Beaumont. Five years ago he’d done two years in a state pen in Louisiana on a marijuana-possession charge. He’d stayed clean since, or at least clean enough to avoid charges thus far and therefore avoid the pressure to testify, to make a deal with the Feds. He had dropped out of sight two weeks ago.

  Gar Johnson, aka Gary Paul Jackson, born Gerald Paul Jones. Suspected of being a hired gun; suspected in a slaying in Biloxi and a double homicide in New Orleans. The victims were all drug dealers who, the police suspected, skimmed profits. The pair in New Orleans had been a young married couple, both mediocre jazz pianists tapping a living out of the second-tier club scene, dealing coke to the well-heeled on the side. Every finger on the couple’s hands had been broken before they were shot; both the man and the woman had been raped and then their bodies dumped in a ditch in Algiers. Claudia’s stomach roiled.

  Gar had served two stretches, one for armed robbery, and he’d been at Angola prison during Zack Simard’s time there. They had been released within a month of each other and both headed for New Orleans. Maybe they’d been sweeties in prison.

  She turned the page.

  Daniel Villars Mouton. From an old-money family, he was the last of the Moutons, living in a grand house in the Garden District. But Danny had a record. Petty theft, shoplifting history books from a bookstore. Then the charge of forgery she knew about that had been dropped. A brief stint in a pricey mental clinic in Metairie, apparently checked in and then checked out by his only cousin. The Villars middle name was real, a family name handed down with pride, and Danny’s reading about the great love of Laffite’s life apparently fueled the delusion he was descended from the pirate. One diagnosis of schizophrenia, another diagnosis of bipolar disorder. A charge of marijuana possession that had been plea-bargained into nothing. Maybe the drug connection was how he’d met Gar and Zack.

  Beneath these papers were notes and reports compiled from the investigation into the murder of Danny’s cousin. Less than a month ago the man had died in a burglary gone wrong. A back window had been forced. Phillip Villars, age fifty and a widowed antiques dealer in the French Quarter, staying at his cousin Daniel’s house during the remodeling of his own home, had apparently surprised an intruder and been killed with a single gunshot to the forehead. Left dead in a downstairs hallway. His cousin, Daniel Villars Mouton, found the body later that evening after returning from a trip and phoned police. Danny was questioned extensively, given his background, but he had an ironclad alibi—visiting friends in Charleston, South Carolina, for the past week, every hour accounted for—and neighbors and friends said for all his eccentricities Danny got along well with his cousin, the last two members of a faded family. Note on the file that the New Orleans police had no further leads. Just a report that Danny Mouton quickly dropped out of sight after his cousin’s funeral.

  He’d gone into hiding, she thought. Running and hiding from Stoney, maybe.

  Not everything Danny had said was a lie. She covered her face, thought of his odd mix of earnestness, gallantry—he had saved her life when he could have let Gar rape and murder her—and absolute craziness. There might have been a decent person in there, someone who wanted to accomplish much, derailed by psychosis and drugs. A wasted life. She closed the folder.

  Fingers tapped at the bedroom door; Claudia’s mother stuck her head in. “David’s here,” she said. “Brought brownies. Your favorite.” Tina retained a great fondness for David.

  “Thanks.” Claudia followed her mother into her little living room. David stood there, in full-dress uniform, sweaty patches under his arms, his Stetson in his big freckled hands. Tina Salazar disappeared into the kitchen with the brownies, where she could still hear but pretend not to.

  “I just wanted to see if you were okay,” David said.

  “You phoned this morning, David. I’m still the same.”

  “But still. You had such a horrible ordeal, hon.”

  Hon. Like they were still married, still tethered to each other. He hadn’t wanted the divorce. At times she had wondered if parting was the right thing, if perhaps she had sold him short. Maddening one minute, sweet the next, and she finally tired of the inconsistencies.

  “They’re still searching the bay for Danny Laffite’s body,” David said. “Assuming he’s dead in the first place or that he drowned when his boat sank. But nothing.”

  “Have they raised Danny’s boat yet?”

  “Probably tomorrow. Where do you think he is?”

  “I don’t think Danny would give up,” she said. “It’s entirely possible he killed Stoney Vaughn. He might have killed him, dumped the body somewhere. But he thinks this jewel and gold are in Port Leo, he won’t be leaving.” She turned back to David. “I absolutely don’t see him sinki
ng his boat for any reason, though. I guess I think he’s dead.” She wondered for a moment, And if he’s not, you think maybe he might try to find you? “Maybe he grabbed Stoney, the boat wrecked, and their bodies are in the bay.”

  “Maybe,” David said, glancing at Tina.

  “I’m going for a walk,” Tina Salazar announced. “Just down to the store for some milk to go with the brownies.” She kissed Claudia’s cheek, patted David’s shoulder, scurried out of the apartment.

  “She wants us to be alone,” David said.

  “I think you might be overanalyzing,” she said, although she knew he was right.

  “Can I ask you how long you’ve been seeing Ben Vaughn?”

  She owed him no answers but since he was involved in the case there was no point in arguing. She wished, though, he’d sent another investigator to talk to her. Of course, he wouldn’t. “Not long. A couple of weeks. Very casually.”

  “Is he nice to you?”

  “Very nice and pleasant. Did you expect he would be a loser?”

  “His brother sounds like a prime one.”

  “I only met Stoney once,” she said, “except for maybe back in high school.”

  “I think Stoney Vaughn got scared and he ran to protect his money, and now he can’t surface. I also think your boyfriend’s protecting him. If he blocks this investigation in any way, he’s going to be in serious trouble.”

  “Wouldn’t that just be perfect? How disappointing for you it wouldn’t be your case.”

  “Stoney Vaughn’s house is in county jurisdiction. Just might be mine.” He sat down in the reading chair next to the sofa.

  “So what does that mean, David? You’re going to make trouble for Ben?”

  “You could help us, Claudia. Find the brother. Get Ben to talk.”

  She said nothing.

  “Oh, gee, would that ruin your shiny new relationship if you helped us out?”