empty. Against the wall to my left sits another couple who look like tourists, though not the same ones I saw two days ago. At the back of the room sits a tanned blond college student wearing tennis shorts. He’s facing away from me, so I’m spared the ordeal of trying to figure out whether I should know him or his parents. I choose one of the two-chair tables and eat the muffin while waiting for my coffee to cool. As I chew, I feel anger building at Jet’s little earring trap. She’s not normally into games, at least in my experience.
I take a sip of coffee, and the caffeine hits me immediately. I welcome the relief. I’m feeling jumpy, and paradoxically, caffeine sometimes settles me down. Relief from withdrawal, probably.
Before I take my second sip, my iPhone rings. As I take it out, I find myself wishing it had been my burner phone. But Jet hasn’t called. No surprise, really. The family’s bound to be consumed with preparing for Sally’s funeral. And yet—the name on my iPhone screen reads Max Matheson.
“Shit.” I answer and put the phone to my cheek. “What do you want, Max?”
“I heard you’ve found Sally’s data cache.”
“That’s bullshit.” But then it hits me. “You’ve been talking to your poker buddies.”
“You rattled ’em, Goose.”
“I don’t have the cache, Max. I have a few files some anonymous person emailed to me, that’s all. The address is untraceable. That person might have Sally’s cache, but I have no way to find out who they are. I already tried.”
“You told Russo you’re planning to print this stuff?”
“No. But I might have said more than I should have. Beau Holland pissed me off.”
“You let that prissy asshole get to you?”
“Yeah. I need to go, Max.”
“You bury those files, Goose. Hear me? If you print them, I’ll have to show Paul your little amateur skin flick.”
“I’ll try to bury them,” I tell him, stalling for time. “But it won’t be easy.”
“Find a way. Because Paul may not be your biggest problem. If he kills you, at least it’ll be quick. But you’ve got Russo worried now. And Tommy’s the creative type.”
“Where are you?”
“At my office at the sawmill. Why? You need to see me?”
I asked because I’m thinking about going to talk to Tallulah Williams, the Matheson maid. “Where’s Paul?”
“What’s with the twenty questions?”
“Jesus, Max.”
“Okay, hell. Paul’s at the wood treatment plant. I hope you’re not trying to see Jet again. I told you last night, you’ve hit that pussy for the last time. If I find out you’re disregarding my advice—”
“I’m not looking for Jet. I’m trying to find your damn cache.”
The tourist couple is staring at me.
“Good survival strategy, Goose. Keep me posted.”
I click off and take another long swallow of coffee.
Before I can even reflect on my conversation with Max, my iPhone rings again. I figure it’s Max calling back, but the screen says bienville southern bank. That bank belongs to the most senior member of the Bienville Poker Club.
“Hello?”
“Mr. McEwan?” says a perky female voice.
“Yes.”
“I have Claude Buckman for you. Please hold.”
Two seconds later, a hoarse, elderly voice says, “Mr. McEwan, this is Claude Buckman. We met on the roof of the Aurora two nights ago.”
“I remember. What can I do for you?”
“You’ve got that backwards, son. I want to do something for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d prefer to tell you in person. Could you come by my bank in half an hour?”
This request is so unexpected that my initial instinct is to stall. “What for?”
“Merely a conversation.”
“On the record?”
“I’m afraid not. But you’ll be glad you came.”
Now I get it. “Is this about a bribe?”
Buckman chuckles. “Not in the sense you’re thinking of. This is about making the world a better place.”
Those are the last words I could have imagined coming from Claude Buckman’s mouth. “Can you be more specific?”
“Only to say that you’ll be perfectly safe, and several of my associates will be present. You know most of them, I believe.”
So this is to be a meeting of the Poker Club. “I just spoke to Max Matheson, and he didn’t say anything about a meeting at your bank.”
“Max doesn’t know about it. Half an hour, Mr. McEwan. I’ll be expecting you.”
He hangs up.
“Unbelievable,” I murmur.
Like Max, Claude Buckman must believe that I’m in possession of Sally Matheson’s cache. What princely sum will the banker offer me to bury it? The most interesting thing Buckman said was that Max doesn’t know about the meeting. That tells me there