‘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 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.’