‘I think a lot of her, too,’ Whit said, and it didn’t quite come out right and Ben glanced up toward him. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’
‘What did you want to talk about?’
Whit sat on the edge of the room’s institutional recliner. ‘Your brother. I saw him.’
‘So I heard.’ Ben sat up. ‘The FBI told me.’
‘Where’s he at, Ben?’
‘I think the same gang that was after us took him. He was the initial target.’
‘So Danny Laffite kidnapped your brother and sank his own boat?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe Stoney hid so this same gang couldn’t find him.’
‘Maybe.’ Ben sounded less sure.
‘But he… what, leaves you and Claudia to die? Not very brotherly.’
Ben said nothing. The bruise on his cheek had gotten nastier with the passing hours, turning black and lemon-yellow. ‘I told Claudia he wouldn’t abandon us.’
‘He just didn’t want to tell the police.’
‘He didn’t want to endanger our lives.’
Whit sat next to him. ‘I have five older brothers. Two of them I’m extremely close to. Two I’m not so close to but I love them very much. One I practically hate but I still love him at the same time. He’s a prime-grade asshole but he’s still, and always will be, my brother. He matters to me.’
Ben said nothing.
‘You’re not helping him, Ben. If you know where he might be, tell us. We all need some answers from him.’
‘Listen, Stoney was in a panic. For all the swagger, he’s not good with situations he’s not firmly in control of or can’t get control of.’
‘All his brokerage firm’s computer systems were down.’
‘Well, see…’
‘But Stoney took them down, Ben. He sabotaged his own network from his home PC. I just saw the computer forensics report; the Corpus police sent copies to the sheriff’s office here. He broke the systems so he couldn’t transfer the ransom funds.’
Ben stared at his bare feet. ‘That still doesn’t mean he hasn’t been kidnapped.’
‘Your brother financed treasure dives in Florida. I’d like to know more about those.’
‘And you’re here exactly in what capacity?’ Ben said.
‘Tuesday I’m conducting a formal inquest – a hearing – into the murders of Patch Gilbert and Thuy Tran. You heard about that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The guy who’s the number one suspect and who apparently killed himself had some rather rare and valuable gold coins in his pocket. They’ve been identified as being from the same time period as Jean Laffite’s pirating.’ Ben’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t think Danny Laffite sounds quite so crazy now, do you?’
‘Listen, Danny Laffite was a nutcase. Ask any of Stoney’s friends who are in this Laffite League. Stoney was the big fish in that pond, lot of money, well-known, popular. He was the leader and that’s who a loser like Danny gloms on to. I think, if there’s any truth to this, Danny Laffite had some delusion about Stoney knowing where this treasure was and thinking Stoney wouldn’t tell him.’ He stood, a little shaky. Whit steadied him.
‘I’m fine.’ Ben flinched slightly at Whit’s touch on his elbow.
‘Sorry. I know you’ve been through an ordeal. I-’
‘I know my brother a lot better than you do, Judge. You’re Claudia’s friend, and I know you both mean well. But you’re wrong. My brother wouldn’t risk my life like you say.’ He walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face.
‘Did you ever hear Danny or Gar or Zack mention a guy named Alex?’
‘No.’
‘How about Albert Exley?’
‘No.’
‘Allen Eck?’
‘No.’ Ben dried his face. ‘I think, y’all find out who the other two kidnappers are, you’re not going to find they got any kind of treasure or archaeological connection. They didn’t give a shit about what Danny raved about. They used him, thought he was nuts. He had the boat and he’d given them a good target in my brother. They just wanted cash, pure and simple, and they thought they had a low-risk way to get it.’ He paused. ‘Maybe Danny Laffite killed those people on the Point, with the dead guy you mentioned. What a freak.’
‘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
