Black Jack Point by Jeff Abbott

Author:Jeff Abbott [Abbott, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Mystery, Thriller
ISBN: 1455546224
Google: NR7VAAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00ECEA3BQ
Barnesnoble: B00ECEA3BQ
Goodreads: 484250
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2002-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

22

WHIT WAS GOING to be late for Friday morning juvenile court, but that hearing was his least favorite chore, lecturing kids who ought to know better while their impatient or embarrassed parents, arms crossed, stood there as the county doled out the discipline.

He pressed Stoney Vaughn’s doorbell. The same cars—a Porsche and a beat-up van—were still parked in the oversize curve of the driveway.

He waited. No answer. He tried the doorbell again.

Still no answer. Whit walked around the front of the house, around a corner, across a lawn so manicured golf could have been played on it, and down to the sprawling home’s back. A metal fence enclosed the back, fancy wrought-iron curlicues at the posts’ tips, but the gate was unlocked. The back wasn’t a yard so much as a multitiered deck. He climbed up wooden stairs. At the top he could see two more platforms below him, a nice long private dock with no boat in residence, lights still on like they’d been left on all night. A pool, set into the deck. Expensive patio furniture, a restaurant-style grill built into the brick.

The French doors opened behind him. A man—Whit knew he was Stoney Vaughn, recognized him from the pictures in the articles on the Internet—stepped outside. The guy looked like hell, rumpled clothes, unshaven, like he’d slept on the street. Lip split and puffy.

“Excuse me,” Stoney said. “This is private property.”

“I know,” Whit said. “But you didn’t answer your door.”

“Yeah, I sure didn’t, did I?”

“I’m Judge Whit Mosley. I’m the JP and county coroner. I’d like to talk to you about two recent homicides.”

“Call my office. Make an appointment.” Stoney shut his mouth, as though reconsidering this as an initial reaction.

“I’m here now. You don’t appear to be busy.”

“I had a late night working,” Stoney said. “Sorry to be gruff.” He shut the door behind him, came out onto the deck in full light, glancing toward the stretch of the bay. “And I’m afraid I have a business appointment in Corpus that I need to get ready for. I don’t know how I can help you.”

“You knew Patch Gilbert, though, didn’t you?”

“The name’s vaguely familiar…”

“You sent him a bottle of Glenfiddich after talking to him at a Laffite League meeting,” Whit said.

Stoney shut his mouth, smiled, wiped his eyes. “Oh. Yeah. I do remember him. Charming guy.”

“Was. You probably heard he got killed Monday night. Along with his girlfriend.”

Stoney’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. Mr. Gilbert’s dead?”

“You don’t watch the news?”

A pause. “Not lately. And I’m deep in putting together a new business deal, so I’ve been working 24/7.”

“More financing for treasure hunts?” Whit gave a look of angelic purity.

Stoney stared again. “Um, no, but you sure seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Mosley.”

“Judge, please. I prefer the formal title.” Whit folded his arms across today’s shirt, lime-green with waltzing, bug-eyed pineapples.

“Uh, sorry, Judge. I’m out of the treasure-hunt game. Too expensive a hobby. May I ask how you know about me?”

“I’m conducting the inquest into Mr.

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