He got up, paced in front of the plate glass. They would be calling back in fifteen minutes, and he had a decision to make.
Danny thought Stoney had stolen the journal from him, killed his cousin in Louisiana. That meant he didn’t know about Alex. Didn’t know Alex existed. But Alex couldn’t do much about Danny while Danny sailed freely in the Gulf.
So he had to get Alex and Danny both there and let Alex solve it. But first he’d cover his ass.
Stoney accessed the Internet, opened up a connection to his network management software that monitored and controlled the investment counselors’ activities in his Corpus Christi office. He typed an administrator’s code, entered some commands, pressed OK. He’d had this as a time-buyer, a backup plan in case his clients – or the police – got too curious about his records.
Stoney dialed the phone; Alex answered on the first ring. ‘We have a problem.’
‘Yes, we sure do,’ Alex said.
‘I need you, um, at my house. Now?’
‘That would be my pleasure.’ Clicked off.
Stoney decided, a boulder in his throat, he didn’t like the sound of that at all.
12
Whit had called the Tran family from his cell phone – reluctantly acknowledging that Roy had a point about Thuy being a possible target more than Patch – and Dat, Thuy’s son, had suggested meeting him behind the family restaurant. The Tran family worked close to Old Leo Harbor, the older and smaller shrimping harbor. Whit waited on the dock, watching one shrimper hosing down his boat, a flock of hungry gulls swarming above the decks, inspecting it for morsels.
Cong Ly, the Trans’ restaurant, was only a hundred feet from the harbor and hustling from the back of the restaurant was Dat Tran, irritated and looking sick and puffing away on a cigarette as though it were his only solace.
‘You don’t mind if I smoke while we talk?’ Dat said, the cigarette merrily burning away.
‘Of course not,’ Whit said. ‘Again, I’m sorry for your loss.’ He had visited the Trans briefly the day after the bodies were found. Thuy’s two daughters and son knew nothing, they said. This was beyond imagining for them. The talk had been quiet, factual and brief. ‘I just came from Suzanne Gilbert’s house.’
Dat answered this with a stream of smoke.
‘You’re having to work today?’ Whit asked. Given the family tragedy, he thought the restaurant might be closed.
Dat licked his lower lip. ‘Tourist season. We can’t afford to close. Other families, they’re running it for us. I’m just here for the dinner rush.’
‘I wanted to ask you how your mother and Mr Gilbert met.’
‘Introduced by my nephew Sam.’
‘How?’
‘Sam was working on an oral history of the county, prepping for his senior thesis. He’s at Rice, double-majoring in history and economics. Wants an MBA. Never wants to see shrimp again.’ Dat blew out smoke. ‘You know what the kids are like these days. He interviewed Patch for this county history, said he was funny and charming. Invited him to Sunday lunch at the restaurant. Patch met Mother there. Called her, asked her out for coffee.’ He frowned, and Whit wondered if Dat was gripped by that insidious illness of grief, the if onlies. If only Sam hadn’t chosen that history topic… if only he hadn’t called Patch Gilbert… if only his mother had said no to coffee. It could drive you mad, Whit thought.
‘Did you approve of them dating?’ he asked.
‘Usually it’s the other way around,’ Dat said, his voice tense. ‘The Anglo disapproves of the Vietnamese.’
‘I’m not asking from a racial standpoint,’ Whit said. ‘I’m just asking what you thought of them seeing each other.’
Dat flicked his cigarette into the harbor. It fizzed for a moment, was gone. ‘Patch was a nice man. But not a serious man. Everything a joke, everything a party. My mother was a teacher, very serious about life. She took his interest seriously. I expected her to be hurt by him.’ He lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. ‘You’re dating his niece, right? So I heard.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe Patch’s family didn’t like him dating a Vietnamese.’
‘They’ve said nothing but fond and respectful words about your mother.’
Dat glared at him through the veil of smoke. ‘Of course. She’s dead now. Being nice costs nothing.’ He stared out for a moment over the flat of the harbor. ‘That investigator, Mr Power, he said maybe it was a racial killing.’
Whit chewed his lip. Of course David would like the racial angle. He was politically minded, hungry for the sheriff’s office, and solving a racially motivated crime would stick him firmly on the white steed of morals and justice. But there was no reason yet to think that race played a role, and he felt annoyed with David, perhaps needlessly putting the Trans through this subtle mental torture. Their mother dead was horrible enough. Their mother dead simply because of the color of her skin and the shape of her eyes seemed far worse.
‘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 shit, Gooch.’
‘How’m I ever supposed to have interesting memoirs someday, you keep cramping my style?’