Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl

“Let’s blow this joint before somebody gets killed,” Sam whispers.

As we depart, Caitlin leans toward me. “I can’t wait to hear the story behind that.”

Perfect.

ELEVEN (#ulink_00b926ad-53c8-59c7-a8f5-735c7e19c0a0)

Sam Jacobs drives a royal blue Hummer, the civilian version of the military Humvee. He claims it’s the only way to travel in the oil fields. I cling to the window frame as the huge vehicle rumbles like a tank down State Street.

“Talk about a babe magnet!” he says, trying to hold his drink steady with his left hand. “More women come on to me in this thing than when I had my Mercedes.”

I nod absently. Maude Marston has popped the cork on a dark vintage of memory.

“Did you give Caitlin Masters a tour of the garden?” Sam asks, giving me a bemused smile. “You two had that couple look when you came in.”

“Did you hear what Maude said before she threw the drink in my face?”

“About ruining her daughter’s life?”

“Yes. She had to be talking about Olivia, right?”

“Had to be.”

“When did Livy’s life get ruined? Isn’t she still married to that sports lawyer in Atlanta?”

“Definitely fartin’ through silk, on the money side.”

I laugh, wondering whether the Jewish crowd in Manhattan would believe the Southern accent coming from Sam Jacobs’s mouth.

“However,” Sam adds, cutting his eyes at me. “My wife’s sister was in Atlanta last month for some kind of Tri-Delt alumni ball, and Livy showed up without her husband.”

“So?”

“The gossip of the party was trouble in paradise.”

“Not exactly a reliable source. Do they have any kids?”

“Don’t think so.” He glances at me again. “It would be pretty strange, the two of you being available at the same time. It’s like fate. Maybe history’s reversing itself.”

Not wanting to continue in this line, I stick my head out of the window as the Hummer roars up the bypass toward my parents’ neighborhood. The wind is warm and wet in my hair. The downtown bars and riverboat casino will still be going great guns, but this part of town looks like Mayberry, R.F.D.

“Have you seen anybody?” Sam asks. “You know … since Sarah died?”

I pull my head back inside and look him in the eye. “Lunch with Caitlin Masters tomorrow is my first date since the funeral. If you call that a date.”

“Shit. I know it’s tough, Penn. I joke about fooling around, but if I ever lost Jenny, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

I take his cup from his hand and gulp a sweat-inducing shot of Laphroaig.

“That’s the ticket,” he says, slapping me on the knee.

The Hummer jerks as Sam hits the brakes, then lets off slowly. “Would you fucking look at this?”

“What?”

“A cop. Looks like a sheriff’s deputy.”

I turn slowly. A sheriff’s department cruiser just like the one that tailed me from Shad Johnson’s headquarters has settled in twenty yards behind the Hummer. The sight throws me back to the shooting, glass exploding inches from my face.

“Sam, what do you know about Ray Presley?”

“Ray Presley? He’s sick, I heard. Bad sick.”

“What’s he been up to the last few years?”

“Same thing he was always up to. Being a sleazy coonass who’ll do anything for money.”

“Presley’s no coonass. He’s from Smith County. Who did he work for?”

“Old Natchez people, mostly.” Sam’s eyes keep flicking to the rearview mirror. “He did some things for a driller I know. Strong-arm stuff. I think Marston kept him on his payroll as a security consultant, if you believe that.” Sam accelerates, as if daring the deputy to pull him over. “You know what? I’ll bet the BASF deal is what set Maude off on you.”

“What does Maude Marston care about a chemical plant? She has more money than God.”

“But does she have enough? That chemical plant means more to the Marstons than anybody. Short term, anyway.”

“Why?”

“The industrial park isn’t big enough for the projected facility. You want to guess who owns the land contiguous to the park site?”

“Leo?”

“Yep. He’ll squeeze blood out of BASF for every square foot of land, or kill them on usage and access fees.”

“But that’s got nothing to do with Livy.”

Sam nods, then turns and looks hard at me. “Caitlin Masters’s article said Ray Presley worked the Payton murder when he was a cop. Is that what this is about?”

“It’s nothing to do with that.”

Sam slams his hand against the Hummer’s steering wheel. “Look at this asshole! I hate it when they follow you like that.” He cranes his neck around and looks through the back windscreen. “You gonna stop me or what!”

“I don’t think he is. I think it’s the same guy who followed me from Shad Johnson’s headquarters earlier tonight.”

“Shad Johnson’s headquarters?” Sam shakes his head. “I’m riding with a crazy man.”

“Ten seconds after he passed me, somebody shot up my car with a rifle.”

“What?”