motion.
“You okay?”
“In the car.”
They got in and the doors closed as the helicopter engine finally died. The silence was shocking, Jessup’s voice equally so. “What the hell’s going on, Abigail? You leave without telling me, take off with a man you barely know, a dangerous man, a goddamn gangster…”
But she had thoughts only for Julian, and waved him off angrily. “You’ve checked local motels? The friends we know of?”
“Of course.”
“The grounds?”
“All four thousand acres? No. Of course not.”
“He’s with Victorine Gautreaux-”
“We don’t know that.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Jessup. It’s the only explanation. That little bitch has got her claws in him. We need to search Caravel’s place.”
“Already done.”
“She allowed it?”
“For a five thousand dollar cash payment. We checked every inch. She sat on the porch the whole time, counting her money and laughing at us. Julian was not there. Victorine, either. By the time we left, the police were there.”
“Police?”
“Jacobsen and some other detective. I don’t know what they wanted.”
Abigail shook her head. “Ronnie Saints. George Nichols.” She felt herself staring. The windshield was a blur; outside was a blur.
“Don’t even go there, Abigail.”
“I’m frightened, Jessup.”
“There’s nothing here we can’t handle.”
Abigail scrubbed her face with both hands, then said, “I know who those dead men are. Ronnie Saints. George Nichols. Dear God, help me, I know who they are. But I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You don’t have to. Okay. Just take a breath. I’ll take care of this.”
“I don’t think you can.”
“Just start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”
She explained where she and Michael had gone and what they learned. “The list was at Ronnie Saints’s house. George Nichols’s name was on the list. So were Billy Walker and Chase Johnson.”
“That’s why you were at Iron House?”
“To talk to Andrew Flint. Michael thought he might know something.”
“But you didn’t see Flint?”
“No.” She bit the edge of a finger, thinking about the lake. “There’s a third body they’ve not yet identified, the second one out of the water, the one that was all bones.” The finger came away from her mouth. “What if it’s Billy Walker or Chase Johnson? It can’t be coincidence. Oh God, Jessup, what if there’s another body in that lake? What if they’re all dead? What is happening here?”
“Julian did not kill those men.” Jessup was firm. “You have to believe that. No matter what, he
“You really love him, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“But why, Jessup? Even the senator struggles and fails.”
“I love him because you do.”
Abigail touched his cheek. “Thank you for that, Jessup. Thank you so very much.” Jessup leaned into her touch and she said, “Does the name Salina Slaughter mean anything to you?”
He drew his face back. “Why would you ask that?”
“The name was on the list.”
Jessup shook his head. “No.”
“You’re certain.”
“Yes. But, look. I have a question of my own.”
“Okay.”
“How do you feel about Michael?”
“It’s complicated. Why?”
“The senator has been asking about him. He’s mentioned him to the cops. His men are digging for background. They want to know everything. Who he is. Where he’s from. Everything. They want to track him. They want to find his girlfriend. They’re building a file.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think your husband is looking for a scapegoat.”
She saw it, then, how it could play. “Someone to blame for the murders.”
“It’s how the senator thinks. Michael is an outsider.”
She sat up straighter. “You haven’t told my husband what we know, have you? You haven’t told him about Otto Kaitlin, about the things you found in Michael’s car-the cash, the photos, the gun? Jesus. You didn’t give him Michael’s gun.”
“Not yet, no.”
“Not yet. What are you saying?”
He shrugged, unmoved. “I’m saying it might not be a bad idea.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jimmy was waiting on the front porch when Stevan finally decided to show up. It was late, most of the men either racked out or playing cards. A subtle anger filled the house, a whiff of mutiny. There was no air-conditioning. The only television had a hole, dead center. But it was more than that. Every man inside was an earner. They didn’t have Stevan’s millions or Jimmy’s plans. They had their turf, their hard-won, blood-soaked piece of the American dream, and Stevan was screwing that up-and for what? They should have killed Michael days ago. They should have never let him out of the city. Now, they felt cut off and exposed.
Jimmy understood.
He didn’t care, but he understood. Every man needs a reason to feel proud, just like he needs a dollar in his pocket. None of that was a problem for Jimmy, of course. His wants had evolved beyond the simple matter of fear, respect and opportunity. They’d grown, yet become simpler. He wanted Michael dead, so people would know for certain who was best between them; and he wanted sixty-seven million dollars. It was a very specific number. He thought about it as he stood.
Headlights swept across the house as Stevan parked the car, and Jimmy touched the weapon in his belt. He met Stevan at the top step. “Where have you been?”
“Are you channeling the ghost of my father?”
“Your father would beat you first and ask questions second. He would never drag his people down here in the first place. He would have killed a traitor at the first sign of treason. He’d have never given his men reason to doubt.”
“Jesus, Jimmy. Nice to see you, too.”
“That was not a polite greeting. Cops are all over the estate. The men are pissed, and Michael is still alive. You’re fucking this up.”
“I’m too tired for this, Jimmy.”
