He opened the newspaper to the letters to the editor. Suzanne Gilbert was a better painter than writer. But the letter still stung. The rant was adverb heavy. Accused Judge Mosley of malfeasance in ignoring the beneficiary of Patch Gilbert’s death and asked for an investigation into Judge Mosley’s inquest and finances, perhaps suggesting a bribe had been paid. He glanced at his phone: the message light blinked, no doubt the outraged voters of Encina County calling for his head. Maybe. He clicked the phone on: one hang-up, four messages from voters asking for an explanation about Suzanne’s letter, not angry, but now curious.
His cell phone beeped and he answered it, hoping it wasn’t another voter wanting a one-on-one explanation.
‘You’re not going to be happy with me,’ Gooch said.
‘I’m afraid to ask.’
‘Could you get me a legal definition of kidnapping? Because I don’t think I technically kidnapped Stoney Vaughn. I prefer to think of it as protective custody.’
Whit’s mouth opened, then closed. ‘You asshole.’
‘That other guy, Triple A – although since I shot at him, I’m thinking we’re on a first-name basis – this Alex guy, he drives a beige Chrysler van, by the way. I think he might have meant harm to poor Stoney here. I found Stoney at a fishing cottage in Laurel Point. We’ve moved on.’
‘How did you know Stoney was at this fishing cottage?’
‘That will upset you.’
‘Like I’m not already upset.’
‘I followed Lucy.’
‘I absolutely do not understand.’
‘I. Followed. Lucy.’
Whit’s stomach lurched. ‘Why, Gooch?’
‘I’ve never trusted her. Sorry.’
‘Where are you?’
‘If I tell, you’re in trouble with the law, and I think I should keep you free and clear.’
‘I’m already an accessory to kidnapping if I don’t report you.’
‘Stoney went with me willingly. He’s sure willing now. Aren’t you, Stoney? Hey, Stoney!’ Calling to him, loud, an echo in the room. ‘Yeah, he’s nodding big-time. He’s a happy guy.’
‘Gooch. Where are you?’
‘See, you can’t always take the direct approach, Judge. Stoney and I are going to have an extensive chat here shortly. We’re going to find out who exactly Alex is, what he knows, where he’s at, and then how Lucy’s involved in all this. Find out what he knows about poor Patch and Thuy. It’s gonna be fun and educational.’
‘Gooch, don’t-’
‘Then I’ll call you and fill you in. I won’t say it’s me. Then you do what you think best. Consider it an extended anonymous tip.’
‘Gooch, you asshole, don’t do this-’
‘Helen’s out boating with Duff and Trudy Smith, so she should be out of harm’s way. Take care of her, okay? She’s a good kid. She can stay on my boat long as she wants. ‘Bye, Whitman. Don’t turn your back on Lucy.’ He hung up.
Whit dialed Gooch’s cell phone. No answer. He called the marina where Gooch docked Don’t Ask. The marina master said yeah, Gooch’s boat was there, just fine – did he want to leave a message?
At least Gooch wasn’t out on the water, conducting a floating inquisition.
He cursed Gooch. He cursed Stoney Vaughn. No idea where they could be… but there had been that brief echo when Gooch called to Stoney. So a big space. Covered roof. A big space but private so Gooch could have his extended, perhaps violent chat with Stoney.
Now where might that be?
Could be the old high school gym, awaiting a teardown in a month or so. There was a soundstage at an old television studio, now empty and for sale, on the edge of town. Possibly. Or… there was a marina on the north edge of the county, past the Flats, abandoned since being the part of the docks burned a year ago – but the big metal covering and high roof of the old marina were still there. No one used it, and Gooch had talked about buying it from the uninterested, unmotivated owners in Houston.
Whit grabbed his car keys. He had to stop this, reason with Gooch. The thought was nearly alien.
The FBI had the Vaughn house, but the agents knew who Claudia was and let her in.
‘I’m getting the house ready for Ben to come home from the hospital,’ she said and the two agents nodded and went back to their phones and laptops.
She searched carefully and as inconspicuously as she could, ignoring the nagging feeling that said she had no right to do this. First Stoney’s bedroom. She found nothing of interest except a wad of a thousand dollars in cash, tucked in the back of the underwear drawer. She left the cash alone. The bathroom produced nothing but a daunting cache of toilet paper, fourteen different scents of high-dollar cologne, a nearly empty box of condoms, and expired cold medications.
She went to the top of the staircase and glanced downstairs; she could hear the drift of the agents’ voices from the kitchen, talking on their phones, discussing the coordinated search for Stoney Vaughn. There had been a sighting in San Antonio, a couple of hours away, of a man who looked like Stoney. The most promising lead thus far.
She went to the study at the end of the hallway. Books lined the shelves. Stoney had not struck her as a book person, and many of the books looked too pristine to have been read – lots of recent hardcover bestsellers, crime fiction, investing, and finance. Biographies of business leaders. But one whole wall on the history of piracy, on archaeology and nautical salvage, on Jean Laffite and Texas history.
She browsed through them but decided as a hiding place it was too obvious. He wouldn’t hide the journal here. Maybe a safe-deposit box – see if the FBI had access to that. Or Ben, if he could be convinced.
There was a PC on Stoney’s desk, shoved to one side. The desk was in disarray – she suspected the FBI had sat down and copied the hard disk to see if there were any clues as to who had Stoney or where he might have gone. Easier than going through the rigmarole of getting actual custody of the hard drive.
Claudia sat down, powered up the PC, and opened Stoney’s e-mail application.
‘What are you doing?’ Ben said from the doorway.
‘What are you doing out of the hospital?’ she said.
‘I couldn’t stay there. Not with my brother missing. I checked myself out. I’m okay." He leaned against the doorway. ‘What are you doing on Stoney’s computer?’
She took her hands off the keyboard.
‘Sending an e-mail,’ she said coolly, with a smile. ‘Is that okay?’ She had wanted to see if there had been an e-mail from Danny Laffite, or other Laffite Leaguers, or Patch Gilbert or anyone connected to the case. Maybe Stoney made on-line reservations to go somewhere, maybe his browser had a history suggesting travel sites he’d visited.
‘Sending an e-mail from here?’
‘I just remembered something from when I was on Danny’s boat,’ she said. ‘It’s better to get it down in writing than give a statement.’ She stood, turning off the system as if sending the e-mail was no big deal.
‘Claudia. You were spying.’
‘No. It’s not my case. I don’t have a warrant. I really was just logging on.’ Okay, the first lie to him. How does it taste in your mouth?
He turned and walked away. She followed him to his bedroom, watched him lie down on the bed, put his arm over his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Ben.’
‘It’s in your nature to pry.’
‘ Pry is an ugly word. I’m trying to help you and I’m trying to find your brother.’
‘Please don’t get involved in this.’
‘You know where he’s at.’
‘Not with certainty,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You think they’ve bugged my room?’
‘Of course not, Ben.’
‘So I’m supposed to tell you and betray my brother?’
‘He betrayed you.’
‘Innocent till proven guilty.’
‘The authorities find that Stoney’s involved in any crime, and they think you’re protecting him, they’re going to come after you whole-hog. Your life could be ruined, babe.’