On the way over Alex didn’t notice the little Chevy, gold and violet and amber crystals dangling from the rearview mirror, following him.
28
Whit awoke early Saturday morning, Lucy shaking his shoulder. She still hadn’t been home when he returned from the hospital, but he was exhausted. So he ate a sandwich, curled in under the sheets, felt her arrive next to him and spoon into him, felt her kiss on the back of his neck, and fell back asleep.
‘Phone call,’ she whispered into his ear. He hadn’t even heard the phone ring. ‘Guy sounds like he’s squeezing coal into diamonds using his ass.’
Whit picked up the phone, listened, said, ‘Uh-huh’ and ‘Okay’ a couple of times, hung up, rolled under the covers.
‘Who was that?’
‘The FBI.’
‘The FBI?’ Lucy’s voice rose an octave.
‘Hoover doesn’t run it anymore. You don’t have to be afraid.’ He wriggled his face deeper into the pillow. ‘They want to talk to me about Stoney Vaughn. I guess I really was one of the last to see him before he vanished, or took off, or whatever.’ He told her a highly abbreviated – and edited – version of Claudia’s kidnapping. He sighed as she ran her hand along his back.
‘What do they think happened to this guy?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe the kidnappers that took his brother went after him.’ He didn’t want to talk about Danny Laffite or Gooch’s trip or any of the rest of it with her. Lucy couldn’t keep her mouth shut, he thought, and all of it might upset her needlessly.
‘So was this Stoney guy involved in Patch’s murder or what, Whit?’ She was whispering into his ear, running a hand along the flat of his belly. ‘I thought it was Jimmy Bird.’
‘Stoney knew your uncle. That was the only reason I went to see him. His brother’s kidnapping, it may have nothing to do with your uncle’s death.’
She ran fingernails along his ribs; he loved that. He wriggled and smiled. ‘No time, babe. I got to get showered for the Feds.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
He opened an eye, looked at her. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Tired.’
‘Your errands took a long time.’
‘No, I got back and you were gone. So I ate a quick dinner and then went back over to my apartment, to get some fresh clothes.’
‘Okay.’ He got up from the bed, started up the shower.
‘Whit?’ Lucy stood in the doorway, in a T-shirt and thin little white panties.
‘Yeah, babe?’
‘You’re doing an inquest, what, next week?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Why, if it was Jimmy Bird? He’s dead.’
‘It’s just a formality, I guess. And maybe by Tuesday we’ll know more. But I don’t think he acted alone. That might be where David and I differ.’
‘David’s the cop, though, hon.’
‘That he is.’ Whit shucked his boxers, stepped into the hot spray. ‘An inquest is just a format for determining if one person caused the death of the other. If I put it on Jimmy, it still doesn’t explain the why of what happened.’
She kept standing in the bathroom, watching him shower.
‘You find any insurance on those coins?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t had time to look,’ she said, and as he shampooed, he heard a brief flash of anger in her voice. ‘Maybe they weren’t Patch’s. I really don’t know. Could I look at the coins?’
‘I’ll see what I can arrange. I didn’t mean to piss you off.’
‘Conflict is bad for your aura, Whit. You’re basically a peaceable guy. I get a bad vibe from you as long as this investigation is going on.’
Whit rinsed his hair.
‘You’re not saying anything smart back to me,’ Lucy said.
‘You said conflict was bad for me, baby.’
‘I know you don’t believe in my psychic powers. That’s okay. You’re scientific in nature and we don’t have the imaging technologies to show auras like I wish we did. You could get it done like getting a CAT scan.’
‘Lucy, if you say you’re psychic, I believe you. Because I love you. End of story.’
She said nothing and he finished washing and when he turned off the water she was standing there, sobbing quietly.
‘Baby,’ he said.
‘I’m such a big fucking fake. I don’t see auras. I don’t see the future. I get hunches, like any other person, and that’s it.’
‘Well, I never get a hunch, so you’re ahead of me.’
‘But I’m a fake. How can you love a fake? I don’t say it’s the Intuitive Hunch Hotline.’ She pulled toilet paper off the roll, dabbed her eyes, blew her nose.
‘Lucy.’ Whit wrapped a towel around his waist. ‘You’re not a fake. You’re like, well, a counselor without a license. Like I’m a judge without a law degree.’
‘You were elected. You don’t need one.’
‘People elect to call you, get a little tarot, get a little advice.’ He pulled her close, gave her a warm peck on the mouth.
‘I want to get out of the hotline business,’ she said. ‘I want to make you proud.’
‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘Love you just as you are.’
‘You’re not proud of me, Whit,’ she said.
‘I am.’
‘No.’
‘Trust me, I am,’ he said, toweling off, rummaging in the little duffel bag he’d brought. He found boxers, stepped into them, found a shirt, electric-yellow with sashaying whore-red crabs dancing across it. Pulled on khakis and stepped into his sandals.
‘Don’t wear that to meet the FBI,’ she said. ‘Wear a suit.’
‘You’re putting me in a crabby mood,’ he said with a smile.
‘Whit. Don’t joke. I’m serious. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to you.’
‘Is this about Suzanne?’
‘No. Me.’
‘Whatever you want to do, I’ll support. You want to keep the psychic hotline? Great. You don’t want to do it anymore? Great. But you could never be an embarrassment to me.’ He waved the shirt in front of her, slipped it on, began to button it. ‘Way more likely I’ll embarrass you.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Lucy said quietly.
They kept him waiting twenty minutes, and as far as he could see – from the chair in Stoney Vaughn’s expansive living room – the two federal agents were just sitting and talking, drinking Stoney Vaughn’s coffee and not offering him a cup, making incessant short calls on their cell phones. He wondered – no, he knew. David had already talked to these men, painted an unkind picture of Whit, and that was why he was thumb-twiddling.
When one started a refill Whit got up and stood in the kitchen. ‘Excuse me. Saturday may be your day to suck down hazelnut, but I have work to do. Either y’all talk to me now or make an appointment with my office.’
They both looked at him like he had a big streak of piss down his pants but one smiled and the other one pulled out a chair at Stoney Vaughn’s kitchen table. Whit thought maybe Lucy was right that he should have worn the suit, and that made him even madder. But he sat.
They both had G names: Grimes and Gordell. Whit immediately dubbed them the G Men. Grimes was muscular and spare, all throat and shoulders and arm muscles with skin the color of teak. Gordell was chunkier, not fat, wide-set and blocky. Grimes had a Southern drawl; Gordell spoke with the nasal clip of New England. The G Men wore suits, nice, summer-weight blends, still far too hot for the Texas coast in July. Whit’s shirt seemed to irritate Agent Gordell like a thumbtack in his seat; he kept glancing at it in disbelief.
‘Judge Mosley,’ Grimes said in his slow, friendly cadence, ‘you visited Mr Vaughn yesterday?’
They always had to waste time asking what they already knew. ‘Yes. In conducting an inquest into a double homicide this past week I found that there was a slight connection between Stoney Vaughn and one of the victims. I wanted to ask Mr Vaughn about it, so I came out here yesterday morning about eight-thirty. Mr Vaughn looked like shit warmed over, like he’d slept in his clothes, and I could smell whiskey on him. His lip looked split.’
‘Like maybe he’d had a stressful evening?’
‘He certainly didn’t mention his brother and Claudia had been kidnapped. He knew, didn’t he?’