A Kiss Gone Bad wm-1

by Jeff Abbott

  ‘When did he invite you to his boat?’ Claudia asked.

  ‘He said he wanted to talk,’ Heather said. ‘He wasn’t sure why he would go on living.’

  ‘He barely knew you and yet he suggested to you he was suicidal?’ Claudia said.

  ‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk with a stranger than a friend.’

  ‘I suppose. What was this crushing sadness?’

  ‘Pete said his brother… was the source of all the sadness in his life. I gathered his brother died young. And he made mention of some preacher that had screwed his brother over. Somebody Jones.’ She glanced at Delford. ‘He made it sound like maybe this preacher was responsible for his brother’s death.’

  Delford cut in. ‘Pete tell you what proof he had?’

  ‘No. But Pete bitched that he couldn’t make a case stick.’ She looked up from her lap, her eyes wide, like a child watching a parent for approval.

  ‘You’ve got to be more specific,’ Claudia said. ‘What exactly did he say about this preacher and his brother?’

  Heather scrunched her face. ‘Christ, I didn’t take a goddamned transcript, and he didn’t make a ton of sense. I’ve told you what I know.’

  Claudia let silence fill the room and began to tap her pen against the notepad. ‘He ever suggest you come to his boat and take off your clothes for a movie?’

  Heather gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘No! I’m not some street whore. I haven’t had any problems with the police since I got here a month ago.’

  ‘How’d you get over to the marina?’

  ‘I hitched a ride into town from Little Mischief. I got to the marina a little after ten.’ She tore a long strip of Styrofoam away from her cup and shredded it into confetti. ‘So I go to his boat – he’d told me it’s the big one at the very end of the dock – and I went aboard. I called for him, but there was no answer. The door was open. I went downstairs.’ Her throat worked. ‘And there was no one in the kitchen and the living room, so I knocked on the bedroom door.’

  ‘It was closed?’ Claudia asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Heather dabbed at her lips with her tongue. ‘I yelled out for Pete and pushed hard on the door. I saw him on the bed, right away, and the blood spotting his face.’ She was quiet for a moment, a youngster staring at implacable death and realizing she would someday feel its grasp.

  ‘I think I screamed. I think I would. I got off that boat like it was on fire. I screamed running down the docks, and people came.’

  ‘See anyone suspicious around the boat? Or around the marina?’ This from Delford.

  ‘No.’ Heather tented her cocoa-daubed hands. Claudia yanked a tissue from a box and offered it to Heather. The girl wiped her hands carefully and repeatedly. ‘I was so worried about Pete, how depressed he was, I wouldn’t have noticed anyone.’

  Delford nodded solemnly.

  Claudia thought: You just don’t strike me as the Girl Scout type, sweetie.

  ‘Do you have your panties on?’ she asked Heather.

  Heather’s mouth twitched. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’d like to know if you have on a pair of panties.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just answer me, please.’

  ‘Yeah, I got on panties. You think I’m running around without underwear on?’

  ‘Show me, please. I need you to lower your pants enough where I can see you’ve got a pair on. Chief, would you step outside for a moment?’ Delford blinked at this turn of questioning.

  ‘He can stay. I don’t care.’ Heather stood and yanked down on her beltless jeans with a gentle tug. Claudia could see a slice of panties below the girl’s waist, plain white, grimy.

  ‘Thank you,’ Claudia said.

  Heather rearranged her jeans and sat. ‘Let me guess. You found panties on the boat and wanted to be sure they weren’t mine?’ She was smarter than she acted. ‘Those panties probably belonged to his lady friend.’

  ‘You knew he had a girlfriend?’ Delford asked.

  ‘He mentioned a lady that lived with him on the boat once. But I got the impression he’d had his fill of her. He said she’d made a lot of money off of him, and he was tired of her.’

  ‘We’ll need you to stay in town, Heather, until our investigation is done.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What, under house arrest?’

  ‘No, but don’t leave town.’

  Heather leaned back in her chair. ‘I think my statement is done, and I want one of them pro bono lawyers like on TV if you’re going to ask me any more questions.’

  ‘Two more simple questions,’ Claudia said. ‘Woman camping a lot, you carry a gun?’

  Heather picked at the table with a dirty fingernail. ‘No. I have some pepper spray, and I know how to kick a guy’s balls all the way up to his throat.’

  ‘You ever see this young woman around, maybe down at Little Mischief?’ Claudia pulled a flyer from her notebook and pushed it toward Heather. Delford watched without expression.

  ‘Marcy Ann Ballew,’ Heather read. She scrutinized the photo, as if looking for some vestige of herself in the printed face. ‘Sorry. Don’t know her.’

  ‘Where you staying tonight?’ Delford asked.

  Heather looked discomfited. ‘Back at the park, I guess.’

  ‘If you’re still shook up, spending the night alone out in the dark’s no fun.’ Claudia softened her tone. ‘You can crash here.’

  ‘Oh, great, a jail cell,’ Heather said. ‘Thanks but no.’

  ‘We’d leave the door open. You’re not locked up. It’s clean and warm.’ Claudia ventured a grin. ‘Real cute guy working the night shift.’

  The face of Marcy Ann Ballew smiled up at both of them.

  Heather shook her head. ‘I am not staying in any jail cell.’

  ‘Then let me call Social Services. They’ll find a place for you.’

  ‘You just want to keep a tab on me.’

  ‘A tab to be sure you’re okay,’ Claudia said.

  ‘I don’t need a tab.’ Heather stood. ‘We done? I got to go.’ As if she had errands to run, close to midnight.

  Claudia clicked off the tape. ‘I’ll get this typed up and you can sign it.’

  ‘Can I come back tomorrow and sign? I’m beat.’

  ‘Sure,’ Claudia said.

  ‘Thanks for answering our questions.’ Delford stood. ‘And like Detective Salazar said, don’t leave town, miss. There may be a death inquest and you may have to give testimony.’

  ‘I’ll stick like glue. Later.’ She gathered up her knapsack and left without a backward glance.

  Delford Spires shut the door. ‘And they say charm school don’t make a difference no more.’

  ‘She seems awfully sure, on the basis of little detail and thin acquaintance with the man, that he committed suicide. Would a man really kill himself over something that happened to his brother long ago?’

  ‘I worked the Corey Hubble case.’ Delford sat back down. ‘A heartbreaker. Here one day, gone the next, and never a sign of him again. I wonder what this connection is to a preacher. Corey sure wasn’t religious – he was a little hell-raiser.’

  Claudia told him about Pete’s tape and the mention of Jabez Jones.

  Delford clicked his tongue. ‘Jabez Jones was just a kid then, too, and sure to God was never a suspect. Shit, there was never a sign of foul play in that case, period. Corey just ran off and landed himself into real hot water and never resurfaced.’

  ‘Pete clearly thought otherwise,’ Claudia said. ‘I think I’ll talk to Jabez Jones.’ She watched Delford slump in his seat. She was fond of him, like one might be of an old-fashioned uncle.

  ‘How are the Hubbles?’ she asked.

  ‘Devastated. I think they felt they’d just gotten Pete back in their lives. He’s stayed his distance. Lucinda’s a real strong woman, but this might undo her. They gave me preliminary statements.’

  A twinge of irritation nipped at her. He’d assigned her the case yet taken statements from the immediate family.
Perhaps it had been best, she reasoned, giving him the benefit of a doubt, but she decided to explode the land mine.

  ‘So do they know Pete was a porn star?’ She explained the tapes.

  ‘Holy hell, no. At least she didn’t mention it to me. Why does a son hurt a mother so?’

  ‘Maybe she hurt him. Parents can be rotten.’

  Delford snorted. ‘Lucinda gave Pete the world. It ain’t her fault he didn’t want it.’ He sighed, a long, arduous wheeze, and stood. He regarded her with critical affection. ‘You up for this big a case?’

  ‘Of course.’ She labeled the tape of Heather’s statement and dropped it in an accordion folder.

  ‘You okay about David?’

  She closed the folder. ‘I’m fine, Delford, really.’

  ‘I noticed today that you weren’t wearing your ring no more.’

  Claudia’s thumb rubbed along the bare ring finger. A band where the skin, shielded by metal that supposedly meant forever, stayed pale. ‘Yeah, well, the divorce was final yesterday. I sent David back the ring.’

  ‘I know it’s a tough time, Claud, and maybe I ought to let Gardner handle this one.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Claudia said. ‘Really, Delford, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine and work is heaven for me right now.’

  He coughed.

  ‘I can smell the advice baking,’ she said.

  ‘I’d treat this like a suicide.’

  ‘I don’t think Whit and the ME have talked cause of death yet.’

  Delford ran a finger along a curve of his mustache. ‘Whit Mosley couldn’t find his ass in the dark with three flashlights. After the election he’ll probably be running a snow-cone stand.’

  ‘No. He’ll be a housepainter,’ Claudia said.

  ‘You ain’t one bit funny,’ Delford shot back. It was a Port Leo legend: fifteen years ago Whit and his five brothers had, in four masterful hours when Delford was away at a football game, painted Delford’s house pink. Violent, electric, Pepto-Bismol pink. Delford, unwilling to be the butt of a joke, had viewed the Mosley boys like crazed terrorists, even after they repainted his house back to its original white. The rest of the town hid its laughter behind their hands and shook their heads in mock scorn at those wild Mosleys.

  ‘You’re still not over that prank,’ Claudia said. ‘That’s why you don’t like any Mosley.’ She herself liked Whit Mosley fine. He’d palled around with her brother Jimmy as kids, fishing, gigging for frogs, swimming in the bay, and Whit never made her – the tagalong tomboy – feel unwelcome. He had kind eyes, gray as the bay when the clouds hung low. And he was easy to work with. The last JP, God rest her soul, puked at every single death scene and guilted Claudia into taking macrame and quilting classes with her. Whit kept his lunch and hobbies to himself.

  ‘I don’t like Mosley period. He’s running the bench like a beach attraction,’ Delford fretted. ‘I’m just saying Pete smells like suicide to me.’

  ‘Are you jumping or driving to that conclusion?’

  ‘When I told Lucinda that Pete was dead, she asked straightaway if he’d killed himself. She told me in detail about the mental problems he’s been suffering from over the past several years. It’s in her statement.’

  ‘She knew he was nuts but didn’t know he was doing porn?’ Claudia asked.

  Delford frowned. ‘Well, maybe she did know. But I wouldn’t blame her for not mentioning it.’

  ‘His friend Velvet insists he would never commit suicide.’

  ‘Let’s talk about Pete’s friends. This boat he was staying on. Real Shame. It’s registered in Houston. It’s owned by a fellow named Tommy Deloache. In Houston, he’s known as Tommy the Roach. Suspected drug ties, suspected money launderer.’

  ‘And Pete hanging with criminals bolsters your suicide theory how?’

  ‘From what Houston PD says, if the Deloaches wanted Pete dead, he’d be in the Gulf, sixty feet down wired to blocks. They tidy up after themselves. They don’t leave bodies around to be autopsied.’

  She stood. ‘I’ll keep you apprised of what I find.’

  ‘Claud, don’t get bent. I’m just asking you to be sensitive to a mother’s grief. Remember Lucinda’s got an election in less than a month, and this could derail it.’

  ‘The senator wouldn’t get more sympathy votes if he was murdered as opposed to suicide?’ Claudia asked bluntly. ‘Suicide sounds like maybe she was a bad mother.’

  ‘Damn it, Claudia, you’ve never handled a death this high-profile. And my gut, which is both bigger and older than yours, tells me Pete killed himself. If you chase the wrong path and embarrass yourself, not to mention Senator Hubble, with all this unrelated garbage about porn and Corey Hubble and what not, that’s going to be remembered.’

  He shoved his chair hard against the table.

  ‘Well, hell, Delford, if you don’t have confidence in me, don’t give me the case.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help you. The case is yours. Just mind how you run it.’

  She nodded, and he turned and left. Claudia stared at the door he slammed behind him.

  9

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Pete was back in town?’ Whit asked.

  He heard the sharp rasp of Faith Hubble’s breath. ‘Oh, Whit. God, babe, I didn’t think it mattered. He said… he wasn’t going to stay long. A couple of weeks, no more.’

  ‘If I had an ex-wife, wouldn’t you have wanted to know if she showed up in Port Leo.?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re not… dating, Whit. We’re just… I mean… oh, God, I can’t have this conversation now. Sam’s out of his mind with grief, and Lucinda’s a zombie.’

  Whit hated having to press, but he did. ‘Pete was writing a screenplay, Faith. I don’t think he was just waltzing in and out of Port Leo on a quick jaunt.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She couldn’t hide the shock in her voice. ‘Movie.?’

  ‘Did you know he was in the movie business, Faith?’

  ‘I can’t… discuss this right now. Sam’s real upset. He needs me.’

  ‘Fine. But I need to talk to you all tomorrow.’

  ‘I want that. I want to see you.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll call you tomorrow. Please give my sympathies to the senator and Sam.’

  ‘I will. And thank you, in advance, Whit, for your help. We appreciate it.’

  They said their good-byes and hung up. Whit wondered exactly what kind of help he was supposed to provide, unasked.

  Whit transferred his field notes to an inquest report and assigned the death a case number. He had called the ME’s office in Corpus Christi as soon as he got into his office to report Pete’s death and the body’s expected arrival at their facility. The on-call ME had phoned back and Whit gave her a brief summation of the case. He asked her to be sure and check the corpse for any signs of foul play, although from the body’s condition suicide was indicated. He hung up and watched the clouds begin to pour a thin, steady rain on the sleeping town.

  He gathered up a notebook from the JP Training Center that offered details on conducting a formal death inquest, locked up his office, and headed down the darkened hallways of the courthouse.

  Grief, in whatever variety, reminded Whit of his mother. When he was two, she had packed up and walked away from her husband and six sons and vanished into the great blue of the world, and in odd moments he ached for her touch as he might ache for a missing limb. For the first time in weeks he wondered where his mother was, if she were dead or alive. He imagined her buried under an assumed name, or her unmourned bones bleached by the sun, a victim of terrible evil. But not always. He also imagined her munching a peanut butter sandwich, licking stray dabs of plum jelly from her fingers, watching The Tonight Show, curled on a bed with green sheets. Green had been her favorite color, she often wore a thin green ribbon in her blond hair, at least in pictures. He could not remember if he ever played with the ribbon.

  He wondered if she ever thought of him. Perhaps five sons had seemed manageable and six
was just one son too many.

  His mother. Corey Hubble. Both gone into the maw of the world.

  The difference between Whit and Pete, Whit mused, was that Pete acted. Or at least attempted to peel back the layers of years toward truth and document what had happened to Corey.

  Whit admired his guts.

  So what had Pete found?

  The police station’s night dispatcher, a she-grizzly named Nelda, buzzed him into the building. Whit free-loaded a cup of high-voltage, road-tar coffee from her and collapsed on a rough old bench. Velvet was giving a statement to Claudia Salazar, he was told, and Nelda peered at him strangely when he said he’d wait.

  Being a shoulder for Velvet was fine. A moron’s level of political astuteness demanded that he do nothing more. But he knew she was alone, and he knew the shock of sudden, paralyzing loss. No harm in being friendly. Bitter pills were harder to swallow alone.

  Delford Spires ambled toward him while he sipped his coffee.

  ‘Hello, partner,’ Delford said. ‘You’re not usually such a dedicated public servant.’

  ‘Just waiting for Claudia to finish up with Velvet.’

  ‘Claud can give the lady a ride to her hotel. Maybe you and I can chat for a second.’

  Whit followed Delford to the station’s back entrance, where the smokers were exiled under a metal canopy. The rain fell steadily and lightning webbed the sky over the Gulf.

  Delford dug in his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and waited until he had one lit and two puffs down before he spoke. ‘So you were gonna wait on Velvet?’

  ‘I told her I’d give her a ride and talk to her about Pete.’

  ‘A ride. I’ll bet.’ Delford blew out a calculated plume of smoke, edging Whit’s face.

  ‘I’m just being a nice guy.’

  ‘You know what nice gets you with a loose woman?’ Delford rubbed the smooth dome of his balding head. ‘A burning need for penicillin.’

  Whit waited for the next nugget of wisdom to fall from Delford’s lips.

  Delford exhaled another stream of smoke. ‘This is a hell of a mess, Whit. Hell of a mess.’

  ‘Yes. I feel bad for Lucinda Hubble.’ Whit tossed out a verbal card to see if Delford would trump.