Free Black Jack Point by Jeff Abbott Page B

perfection of her face created a sense of emptiness – like a house with no curtains in the windows. ‘Roy’s what
     to you, social engineering?’
    ‘Radio Lucy strikes again.’ She shrugged. ‘It was a minor drug conviction, ten years ago. He’s clean.’ She exhaled a cool
     little stream of smoke. ‘He was here all Monday and Tuesday with me, okay? Working. He’s an artist, too. His studio’s across
     the hall. Sculptures in metal. Gulls, lighthouses, coastal art for the gift shop crowd. He’s not an artist at my level but
     he has potential.’
    Whit glanced at the body prints on the paper on the floor and thought he saw Roy’s rather limited potential at work.
    ‘It’s a lot of land at stake. With Patch gone.’
    She frowned, as though he had dragged a dirty finger across one of her artworks. ‘Well, the Gilberts have owned most of Black
     Jack Point since before Texas was Texas. It totals about three hundred acres. Fifty acres is mine. Fifty is Lucy’s. Uncle
     Patch owns another two hundred.’ She shrugged again. ‘I’ve no idea of the details of Uncle Patch’s will. I would suppose Lucy
     and I inherit. But we never discussed it.’
    ‘But if you needed ten thousand dollars, why not sell some of your land?’
    ‘We’ve always had an unspoken agreement not to sell, except as a group. Patch wanted to hold on to the familyland, even when solid offers came in. Lucy and I always deferred to him.’
    ‘Have you gotten many offers on the land?’ Considering the value of waterfront property in parts of Texas, Whit wondered if
     the land provided a hard motive.
    ‘One, oh, a month ago. I got a phone call from a real estate investor in Corpus. I wasn’t interested, but I did refer him
     to Patch because he was so persistent.’
    ‘Who was that?’
    ‘Stoney Vaughn. He’s got a big-ass house up on Copano Flats. Tedious type. I met him once at a Port Leo Art Center function.
     And another offer, about a year ago, from a company in Houston. We just say no. We don’t want to sell. I don’t know if that
     will change now, with Patch gone.’
    The bottle of Glenfiddich had been from a Stoney. Maybe interesting, maybe not.
    He thought of the skeletons. ‘Patch ever mention any archaeological value to the land?’
    Suzanne didn’t answer for a second and he wondered if she knew about the bones. David and the DPS team had kept it out of
     the papers thus far. But a freakish detail like that was hard to muzzle with so many people now involved. She stubbed out
     her cigarette, glanced up at him through the trail of smoke. ‘An archaeologist wouldn’t find anything except old dead Gilberts
     and their junk.’
    ‘No earlier settlement on the land?’
    ‘Indians must have passed through or hunted there, I guess. Black Jack Point’s always been wild country, though. I don’t think
     anyone else ever built there but us crazy Gilberts.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Speaking of crazy Gilberts, what do you see
     in Lucy? Do you mind me asking? Yes, she’s very pretty but she’s very contrary and a bit too high-maintenance.’
    ‘She drives me nuts. She makes me laugh. She makes me think. For me that’s pretty good.’
    ‘Laughing is good. Sexy.’ Her voice went a little lower.
    ‘I bet Roy’s a real giggle factory.’
    ‘He can be very sweet,’ she said, letting her smile grow. ‘But I do bore easily.’
    ‘I’m allergic to paint,’ he said. ‘I’d like to talk to Roy now.’
    Her smile – more carefully crafted than her paintings – went flat. ‘Sure.’
    They returned to the den. Roy lay sprawled on the couch, drinking a fresh bottle of Dos Equis, watching
Jeopardy!
He didn’t look up at Whit.
    ‘Roy, Whit needs to talk to you,’ Suzanne said.
    ‘I barely knew Patch. What is the Tower of Pisa?’ he said to the television, playing Architecture for $200. He was right.
    ‘It took a lot of strength to beat a man like Patch to death,’ Whit said.
    Roy Krantz didn’t take his eyes