Cemetery Road. Greg Iles
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belongs to the casino and reads SUN KING RESORT in gold letters. A larger tent reads AZURE DRAGON PAPER, which is the parent company of the mill that will be built here. The mill will operate under the name PulpCore, Inc., but Azure Dragon will own it. Off to the right, Claude Buckman’s Bienville Southern Bank has two tents set up side by side, but the grandest tent of all reads PRIME SHOT PREMIUM HUNTING GEAR. These logos tell me that the men who truly run this city are out in force today. And why not? All their years of machinations have brought them to this moment. The town took a serious hit in the ’90s, and another after 2008, but unlike the other river towns, Bienville has come through the recession strong enough to not only maintain its population, but also to expand its tax base. The twelve members of the Bienville Poker Club stand on the threshold of a billion-dollar payoff. Bigger, really, when you add in the ancillary elements of the deal. A new interstate highway that will run from El Paso, Texas, to Augusta, Georgia, passing over the new Bienville bridge as it carries Azure Dragon paper pulp to market. Weighed against all this, one archaeologist’s life wouldn’t have counted for much.
“Marshall McEwan!” cries a male voice as I get out of the Flex.
I turn to find New Jersey émigré Tommy Russo hurrying along the road in a close-fitting tailored suit. The owner of the Sun King Casino is walking in the direction of the tents. I figured Russo would have been here an hour ago, working the governor and the secretary of commerce. The only non-native-born member of the Poker Club, Tommy Russo plans to bring in a second casino as soon as I-14 becomes a reality. Bienville has a long gambling history, dating back to the Lower’ville saloons and a nineteenth-century horse track on the river. But Tommy has updated the old riverboat gambler stereotype and brought The Sopranos to Bienville. He’s quick to smile, but you sense menace just behind his eyes. He’s like a friendly snake with his fangs folded out of sight.
“I guess the Chinks are really going to make us rich after all,” he says, as I fall into step beside him. “Off the record, of course.”
“I take it a day at a time, Tommy.”
“Come on, brah. None of that pessimism. A billion dollars is like the second coming. That’s real money, even to me. Hey, did you hear about Buck Ferris?”
I show no reaction. “What about him?”
“They found him in the river this morning. I figured you’d be all over that.”
“I’ll wait and see what the police tell me.”
Russo’s predatory eyes read every line and shadow on my face. “Yeah? Good. That’s good. Last thing we need around here is more bullshit stories to upset the Chinamen. This town’s on the right track, while everybody else is starving.”
“Looks that way. I’ll catch you later, Tommy.”
Just as I start to break away, another member of the Poker Club emerges from the parked cars and calls, “Tommy Flash! What you doin’ fraternizing with the enemy?”
Beau Holland is a real estate developer, and he likes to tell people that his family can trace itself back eight generations in Bienville. If you let him talk, Beau will swear he’s descended from French royalty. A few years shy of fifty, Holland is the second-youngest member of the Poker Club. He owns property all over south Mississippi, and he developed both white-flight subdivisions on the eastern edge of the county that have attracted affluent young professionals from Jackson. Word is he’s speculated heavily in all sorts of ventures since finding out that Azure Dragon would be building its newest mill at Bienville.
“Marshall’s not the enemy,” Russo says as Holland catches up to us, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. “He’s just doin’ his job.”
“Could’ve fooled me with that story on Buck Ferris.”
Beau Holland always sounds like an irritated spinster to me. He reminds me of some Mississippi Delta boys I met when I went to Boys’ State as a junior in high school. They weren’t gay, but they spoke with a soft lisp and a passive-aggressive sarcasm that fit the old stereotype. What they were was mama’s boys.
“At least we won’t have to worry about Buck anymore,” Beau adds, finding it impossible to suppress his bile.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” I mutter.
“What?” he asks sharply, reaching out to stop me.
I keep walking, and Tommy stays apace.
“I’m talking to you, McEwan!” Holland snaps.
“Keep talking,” I call over my shoulder. “Maybe somebody will come by who gives a shit.”
Tommy Russo snickers under his breath.
As we come to the tents, I say, “Catch you later, Tommy,” then break away and push into the edge of the crowd, trying to avoid eye contact where possible. I don’t want to suffer through fishing expeditions by people wanting information about Buck’s death.
Moving into the crowd’s center, I see Max Matheson holding court beneath the Prime Shot tent. Max radiates the same vitality he always did as a younger man, his lean build, deep tan, and hard blue eyes making it easy to visualize him in a sergeant’s uniform in a Vietnam rice paddy. As I focus on his gray-blond head, I see his son standing to his left and, beside Paul, several attractive young women wearing Prime Shot polo shirts. Something tells me they’re here to keep the Chinese officials entertained. As I hover between two tents, a dark-skinned, black-haired beauty behind the Prime Shot girls draws my gaze. She’s wearing an indigo sundress that exposes perfect shoulders. She’s older than the Prime Shot girls, but even behind large sunglasses, she’s clearly out of their league. As I shield my eyes against the glare of the sun, I curse out loud.
The unknown beauty is Jet Matheson. And she’s looking right at me. Glancing at her husband’s back, Jet points to her right, where a refreshments bar has been set up. Without nodding, I head in that direction, my heart rate increasing with each step. What is Jet doing here? She’s supposed to be taking a deposition in Jackson. I get into the queue at the refreshments bar and force myself to focus on a stack of soft drinks and bottled water.
I can’t believe I was looking right at Jet without recognizing her. Especially since she’s one of the most unusual-looking women I’ve ever seen. Buck Ferris once described her as an Arabic Emmylou Harris. Jet’s father was Jordanian, her mother American. That’s one reason she always stands out in Mississippi crowds. I suppose the Jackie O sunglasses and the crowd of Prime Shot hostesses obscured enough of her to confuse me, and my belief that she was sixty miles away did the rest.
“I heard about Buck’s death before I went into the deposition,” Jet whispers from behind me in the line. “I canceled it and headed straight back. I had Josh with me, so I didn’t text you.”
Josh Germany is her paralegal.
“Are you all right?” she goes on. “I know what he meant to you.”
I nod but say nothing.
“Do you know who killed him?”
Almost imperceptibly, I shake my head.
“Betsy Peters!” Jet says effusively. “My God, it’s been an age. What a pretty day, isn’t it? What a crowd.”
“It’s awesome,” says a woman with a heavy Southern accent. “Good times are finally coming. I’m so ready for that party tonight.”
“Me, too,” Jet gushes, as though she has all day to shoot the breeze. “I was actually thinking of quitting early today. By three, probably.”
My heart thumps. Jet’s last statement was code, telling me that she wants to meet me in private. Today—at three P.M. Our default meeting place is my home.
“Did you hear about old Buck Ferris?” Betsy Peters asks in a softer voice. “They found him dead in the river.”
“I did,” Jet replies.
“I