Black Jack Point (22 page)

The lunchtime heat wasn’t unbearable, the breeze a cool comfort. Whit met Dr Parker and a bookish, attractive woman on the
waterfront dock of a small restaurant near the Port Leo harbor for Saturday lunch. Dr Parker introduced the woman as Dr Iris
Dominguez with Texas A&M Corpus Christi. Pronounced her name the Spanish way,
Ee-res.

The bones from the dig are in Iris’s car trunk,’ Dr Parker said. ‘I can sign custody of them back over to you after lunch
if you like.’

Whit saw the waitress approaching for the drink order keep her smile frozen in place at the mention of bones.

‘He’s really not a maniac,’ Whit told her.

‘The day is young,’ Iris Dominguez said. She had a beautiful voice, soft but forceful, and a cool, unfussy elegance. Whit
liked her immediately. They ordered hamburgers and onion rings, Parker asking for a Salty Dog, Iris and Whit ordering beers.

‘So you want to know about the coins and you’re bribing us with lunch.’ Parker scooped a tortilla chip with salsa and popped
it into his mouth.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why not just ask the sheriff’s office?’

‘I could. But I’m not popular with law enforcement right now. I just insulted the FBI.’

Iris Dominguez raised an eyebrow.

Parker laughed. ‘And why did you think that was productive?’

‘I’ll see if it gets the results I want,’ Whit said. ‘Plus, I wanted to thank you and Dr Dominguez for your help.’
He smiled at Iris. ‘You identified the relics. That was extremely helpful to me.’

‘You’re welcome. You’ve made my weekend interesting.’

The waitress arrived with their drinks; Parker licked the salt from the glass rim, sucked down half the grapefruit juice and
vodka in a hard swallow.

Dr Dominguez waited until the waitress had departed. ‘Okay. What do you know about coins?’

‘They don’t stay in my pocket long enough,’ Whit said.

‘Let me give you a quick primer. These kinds of coins weren’t treated like how we treat quarters and pennies and dimes. They
were created to make it easy to move massive amounts of wealth from Mexico to Spain. They might be struck in Mexico, shipped,
and then immediately melted down in Europe.’ She sipped at her beer. ‘These are called milled bust coins, the last produced
Spanish colonial coins. The gold coins come in denominations of eight, four, two and one escudo. The silvers are reales. Obviously
the gold coins are worth more.’ She dug in her purse, pulled out a file of photos. ‘I took some pictures of the coins, nice
big blowups so I can show you why these coins are particularly unusual.’ She spread the photos out, one group to one side,
the other by Parker’s dwindling cocktail.

‘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. 1820. 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 US 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. ‘Oh my God, 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 bastards 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 asshole 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 conducting 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 shit 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.

Claudia thought a good police file on a major case should contain not only 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, a tough neighborhood. 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 sinking 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 an asshole?’

‘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?’

‘Don’t be this way.’

‘I really hope you’re not protecting Ben yourself, Claud. Know anything about your boyfriend’s brother you’re not sharing?
Places he might go, resources he might have?’

‘Absolutely not.’ She stood. ‘I told you, the FBI, everything Danny Laffite told me.’

‘And that’s being followed up on,’ David said. ‘Especially whatever grudge Danny had against Stoney Vaughn. Danny Laffite
did have a cousin murdered in New Orleans last month. He was telling you the truth. We’re determining if Stoney Vaughn was
in New Orleans those days.’

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.