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killed them there.’
    ‘They. Sounds like more than one person. And for all this effort they got a little cash and silver? They don’t bother with
     the electronics?’
    ‘Look, Your Honor. You spend a little more time in this business, you’ll see things usually aren’t too complicated. Criminals
     are dumb as stumps. If they were smart they could go be investment bankers. Or judges.’ A hint of amusement surfaced in his
     tone. ‘Killer or killers got surprised, they kill the old folks, they take off.’
    ‘Why bury the bodies? Why not just dump them in the bay?’
    ‘They’d float up faster.’
    ‘It’s quicker to tie weights to someone’s feet than to dig down deep enough to hit old graves,’ Whit said. He started to mention
     the anonymous tip from Gooch, but David raised a hand.
    ‘Listen, Judge. You pretty sure you gonna rule these deaths as homicides?’
    ‘Of course, yes.’
    ‘Then that’s all you need to worry about, Your Honor. Anything beyond that, you‘re stepping on my toes. And my toes, they’re
     real tender. They get hurt real easy. And my feet hurt, I’m in a bad mood. We’re clear?’
    ‘Yes,’ Whit said. ‘I’m going in to Corpus, to meet with the ME and with Parker and his people around four. They have to sign
     custody of the old bones back to me.You want to go?’ He’d mention the tip then, let David squirm the whole thirty miles into Corpus. Better than listening to
     talk radio.
    ‘Sure. That’s fine. I got a suspect to go question this afternoon.’
    ‘You do? Who?’
    ‘Pick me up around three. We’ll head into Corpus.’ David winked, put on his Stetson, stepped out of Whit’s office, said a
     hearty hey to Edith Gregory, Whit’s secretary, then headed out down the courthouse hallway with a strut. ‘I’ll tell you about
     my suspect then if the mood hits me.’
    ‘Oh, you’re gonna be in the mood,’ said Whit.
    Alex Black closed the door to his room at the Sandspot Motel and flicked on the light. With its freeze-your-ass air conditioner
     and an ongoing next-door groan-a-thon from a couple he dubbed the Honeymooners, this temporary home held few charms. He wanted
     to leave. He wanted to go to the storage unit and run his hands over the coins, feel the heft of the Devil’s Eye, say a silent
fuck you
to every archaeologist and bureaucrat who had ever crossed his path. Instead he sat down and called his father on his cell
     phone.
    ‘Bert Exton’s room, please.’ He waited for the hospice receptionist to connect him, endured bad muzak for a few moments.
    ‘H’lo?’ Tired, weak-sounding.
    ‘Dad. How’s today been?’ Alex said.
    ‘Only about a three. Yesterday was a nine. Felt great. You shoulda called yesterday.’
    ‘Well, soon as I finish up this dig, Dad, I’m coming to Miami. See you for a spell.’
And get your poor ass out of that death trap, and we’ll go to Costa Rica. Let you die peaceful under a beautiful sky. Maybe
     near some ruins.just for old times’ sake,
Alex thought. ‘How’s that sound?’
    ‘That’d be great.’ Weak cough. ‘You liking Michigan?’
    ‘Sure.’ What Dad didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Dad thought he was on an Ojibwa artifacts dig. ‘Good place to spend the summer.’
    ‘Bureaucrats giving you hell?’ A little rally in Bert’s voice.
    ‘No, sir. No one’s giving me hell.’
    ‘That’s good. Proud of you, boy.’
    What Dad didn’t know.
‘So tomorrow’s gonna be, what, at least a six? You keeping a good attitude?’
    ‘Screw optimism. Yeah. We’ll aim for a six. You get here, maybe you sneak me in a six-pack, okay?’
    ‘Sure, Dad.’ He’d sneak in freaking Moet for the old guy. Alex said his good-byes, hung up. He had buyers lined up for the
     coins – dealing strictly in cash, no questions asked. And he could find a buyer – probably a Colombian trader – for the Devil’s
     Eye, but a big emerald like that he’d have to move carefully. Even getting it appraised would draw unwanted