by Jeff Abbott
‘Tell your daddy he should’ve listened to me about those overseas stock funds,’ Georgie said as Whit entered. ‘I’m making a killing. I could buy and sell Babe’s ass.’
‘He’s more conservative with his money,’ Whit said.
‘I would think anyone who imports firm young former Communist flesh into his bed would be receptive to new ideas.’ Georgie kissed his cheek – she smelled of lip balm and oranges – and steered him to his corner table where Patsy Duchamp and Tim O’Leary sat.
‘No coffee for Whit, Georgie, until he gives me a quote,’ Patsy Duchamp said as Whit sat down. Patsy was the editor of the Port Leo Mariner, a biweekly paper, and like Whit she had trudged home carting an English degree from a prestigious college. Patsy’s hair was as dark as a crow’s feathers; she had sharp, penetrating eyes; and she rationed her smiles.
‘No comment. Patsy,’ Whit said as Georgie sloshed steaming coffee into Whit’s cup.
‘Quote, please.’ Patsy’s breakfast had already arrived, and she stirred a pat of butter into her grits.
‘It looks like he died of a gunshot wound, but I’m not saying anything official until we get an autopsy report from Corpus.’
‘I heard it looked self-inflicted,’ Patsy said.
‘I for sure have no comment now.’
‘Then you’ll call me the moment you know what the ME says, anyway. Or you better,’ Patsy said. ‘Pretty please.’
‘When did you take a Pollyanna pill?’ Pete Hubble’s death might be the biggest story of the year, of the past five years, especially if it was murder, and Patsy lived for news to cover beyond city council and navigation district meetings, fishing tournaments, and high school football.
‘You talk to the senator yet?’ asked Tim O’Leary, the county attorney. Tim looked worn this morning.
‘No. Late night?’ Whit asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Too much merlot or too much Graham Greene last night?’ Whit asked. Tim only had two vices.
‘It was an Australian cabernet, and too much Greene is impossible,’ Tim said.
‘You two aren’t gonna start talking literature and ignore all this juicy news,’ Patsy said. ‘So let’s talk Pete Hubble.’
‘Actually, let’s not,’ Whit said. ‘Let’s talk about Corey Hubble.’
Patsy lowered her eggy fork. ‘Oh, I smell me an ongoing series of stories.’
‘Patsy, if I farted, would it be off the record?’ Whit asked.
Patsy looked stung. ‘Fine, we’re miles off the record.’
Whit glanced around. No one was seated close to their table, an orchestration of Georgie’s. ‘Tell me what you remember about Corey Hubble.’
‘Annoying,’ Tim said.
‘A rotten little punk,’ Patsy said.
‘Never got over his daddy’s death,’ Tim agreed.
‘Mad at the world,’ Patsy added.
‘Pissed at his own shadow,’ Tim said.
‘A pothead,’ Patsy said. ‘He hung around with dopers, you know.’
‘I always thought he was gay. He hated sports.’ Tim might relish his thick Tolstoys and full-bodied Syrahs, but he also worshiped football and fishing, preferences iron-cast in most male Coastal Bend genes.
‘Not gay,’ Patsy said. ‘Corey dated my cousin Marian. In a way that should have gotten them on Jerry Springer. They beat each other up a couple of times. If memory serves, Marian told me Corey would diddle her for exactly one minute with a look of incredible gratitude on his face and then slap her around.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I heard once he used to torture cats and Lucinda sent him to a therapist in Corpus, but that might have been political mudslinging. Cats are big with the retiree vote.’
‘Do you remember anything about when Corey vanished?’ Whit asked. His regular order of scrambled eggs, garlic cheese grits, bacon, and biscuits arrived, and Patsy and Tim waited until the waitress had refilled their coffee cups and retreated.
‘People said he’d run away to embarrass his mother.’ Tim gave a hangover frown to Whit’s food. ‘When he never came back, then I think everyone imagined he’d been murdered while hitchhiking or some other unpleasant end.’
Patsy nodded. ‘It was common knowledge Corey resented Lucinda’s career in politics. He’d already lost a father, and now here was his mother throwing herself into the most time-consuming career possible. Probably he got involved with the wrong people somewhere, South Padre or Galveston or Mexico, and ended up dead.’
Whit made a leap of faith that Patsy would stick to her word about being off the record. ‘Do you remember Corey and Jabez Jones being particular friends?’
Tim faked puking. ‘It annoys me no end that what Port Leo is going to be known for on television is an ex-wrestler who performs ab crunches while quoting Scripture.’
‘You know, if my memory’s not fading with age, Jabez was the last person to talk to Corey,’ Patsy said. ‘I covered it in the high school paper.’
‘Could you do me a huge favor and dig up the clippings from when Corey vanished?’ Whit asked.
‘Nothing more you can say?’ Patsy asked.
‘No. Can I still have the clippings?’
‘This is why God made little retired ladies bored enough to do schlepp work at the Mariner. Sure, but what will you do for me?’ Patsy asked.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I have prelim autopsy results,’ Whit promised.
Patsy smiled. Like the Aztec goddesses, blood placated her.
Claudia had just finished showering after four hours of fidgety sleep when the knock came at her door. She pulled on her robe, wrapped her heavy black hair in a towel, and peered through the door’s security hole.
David.
She had not seen him since he walked alongside her down the county courthouse hallway, saying quietly, Listen, I’m sorry you did this, Claud. You know I still love you. Her attorney had tucked a hand on her elbow and steered her away, past the flyers and the benches and the secretary puzzling over a soda choice at the Coke machine and out to the bright fall light, the morning haze burning to wisps over the bay. She had walked in married and walked out free and clear. She had gotten in her car, suddenly flustered and near weeping, and driven halfway across Port Leo toward the home they shared before she remembered she didn’t live there anymore.
But she did still live in Port Leo, and both she and David were peace officers. Why not grab the inevitable by the throat and give it a good shake? She opened the door.
‘Morning,’ David Power said. He’d gotten his auburn hair cropped shorter than usual. He wore his Encina County deputy’s uniform, and she noticed the creases were flattened. She had tended his uniform for him, since he’d burn his hand if he got within ten feet of an iron. Dark circles daubed the fleshiness beneath his eyes, and he’d missed a patch of reddish bristle on his jaw during his shave.
‘Good morning. What’s up?’ Keep it brief, keep it polite.
‘Just wanted to see if you were okay. I heard about the Hubble case.’
‘Short on sleep, but fine.’
David shifted his beige Stetson from one hand to the other. ‘You know, if y’all need help, the sheriff’s department, we’re glad to assist.’
‘Thanks. It’s under control.’ She didn’t say anything further, and he massaged the brim of his hat, drumming his fingertips against the band.
‘Everything okay in your new place?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, sure.’ She knew he wanted to be invited in, but she didn’t want him in the little space she had staked out for her own. She drew the robe a little tighter around her front in atypical modesty.
His voice lowered. ‘Jesus, Claud, I’ve seen your skin before. Remember Padre?’
They had honeymooned on South Padre, the mightiest and most beautiful of the long chain of Texas barrier islands, and unfortunately it had been the best time in the marriage, a week away from both their cloying families, a week away from car wrecks and burglaries and speeding tickets. David loved to invok
e Padre, as if teeth-chilling margaritas, orange-bright sunsets, and spine-rattling sex could serve as the basis for the rest of their lives.
‘David…’
His blue eyes narrowed and his fleshy mouth thinned. ‘You’re alone, right?’
‘I told you there’s no one.’
‘Right. I never hit you. Took wonderful care of you. Never cheated on you. You just don’t love me anymore. Same old, same old.’
‘Are you coming to check up on me, spy on me, or belittle me?’ She kept her voice neutral.
David Power’s jaw worked. ‘Check on you. Sorry. I crossed a line. It still hurts. It’s gonna hurt for… an indeterminate period of time. I don’t want to hurt you back, Claudia.’
‘I’m sorry for your hurt. I am. But we’ve had this discussion a hundred times before, and there’s no point in rehashing.’
Her phone rang and she said, ‘Look, I’ve got to get going…’ and he said, ‘I need to ask you about something else…’ so she shrugged and said, ‘Wait a sec…’ and hurried to the telephone.
‘Hello?’
‘Claudia Salazar?’ A throaty woman’s voice but brisk as a Marine.
‘Yes, who’s callling?’
‘Hold please,’ ordered Captain Brisk. Instead of Muzak there was a recorded, sleek baritone, with soft strains of ‘America the Beautiful’ playing in the background. The voice intoned: ‘Proven leadership for the Texas Coastal Bend… Senator Lucinda Hubble. Democrat. Moderate. Protecting our children. Protecting our elderly. Protecting our precious coastal ecology and protecting our health care while protecting our economy.’ Lots of protection. Claudia wondered if the faithful automatically wore condoms during rallies. ‘A former nurse. Senator Hubble especially understands the needs and concerns of our retiree population. Vote November seventh to reelect Senator Lucinda Hub-’
The verbal pabulum broke off. ‘Ms Salazar?’ Not Miss Brisk, but instead a confident, bright voice.
‘Yes, this is Detective Salazar.’ Claudia had a sudden feeling she was going to need the title. She turned and saw David had stepped inside the apartment, shutting the door behind him, and he blanched as she used her maiden name. She had been Claudia Power for the twenty-two months of the marriage, but no more, and David in particular seemed to take her revived surname as a hard slap.
The voice on the phone honeyed slightly. ‘Detective. Good morning. This is Faith Hubble. I’m Senator Hubble’s chief of staff.’
‘I’m sorry about your ex-husband, Ms Hubble.’
‘Thank you. It’s a terrible tragedy. My mother-in-law and my son are having a difficult time with Pete’s death.’
And you’re not? Claudia wondered. ‘That’s understandable.’
‘I’d like to meet with you and find out where we are in the investigation.’
We, Claudia noticed, as though Faith Hubble were busily lifting prints and completing paperwork into the wee hours. ‘We’ve collected a certain amount of evidence, but we don’t as yet have autopsy results. I would like to talk with you and your family as soon as possible.’
‘Talking with Lucinda – is that absolutely necessary? She’s absolutely grief-stricken. And we already gave our statements to Delford Spires.’
‘Yes, ma’am, and I’m sure this is a difficult time for you all but, yes, I do need to speak with her, as will Judge Mosley.’
‘Perhaps you and I could meet first. To discuss how to deal with the media.’
Claudia watched David inspecting her bare apartment, his face emotionless. ‘We already have policies in place, ma’am.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do, but this is far more high-profile than a drunken tourist drowning, and there’s already been serious news leaks,’ Faith said. ‘Let’s meet in an hour, shall we, at your office?’
‘Fine.’ Let them meet to discuss the press, but Claudia would seize the opportunity for a frank discussion with the dead man’s former wife.
‘See you in an hour.’ Faith Hubble hung up.
Claudia clicked off the phone. David stood at the apartment’s large window, looking at the parking lot. ‘You should have gotten a bay view, Claudia.’
‘I’ve seen the bay every day of my life,’ she said. She didn’t want to mention she couldn’t afford a bay view on her single-woman salary. ‘Thanks for stopping by, but duty calls.’
‘Speaking of duty… Poppy’s birthday is this coming weekend, and I was hoping you could go to his party with me.’ Poppy was David’s grandfather, Patrick Power, closing in on ninety, now relegated to the care of a Port Leo nursing home but still the patriarch of the old-coast Irish clan. ‘If you’re not there. Poppy will wonder why.’
‘Oh, David, that’s not a good idea.’
‘Um, well’ – he gave her a half-apologetic smile – ‘Poppy doesn’t know about the divorce, Claud. He doesn’t believe in divorce and we haven’t wanted to upset him. His heart’s weak, you know.’
Claudia believed Poppy’s heart could serve as a rich source of granite. ‘Tell him, David. I’m not going to play along in a charade.’
‘Thanks a bunch, Claudia. Jesus. One favor. You know how Poppy loves you.’
‘Yes, he’s never missed a chance to pat my fanny.’
‘You want to hurt me, fine, whatever. Just don’t hurt my family.’
‘I don’t want to hurt anybody! I just want to have my own life!’ Now she was yelling, doing exactly what she had promised herself not to do.
‘This life is what you want?’ David gestured at the drab apartment. She had hardly unpacked any belongings in the month she had been here. A few Salazar family pictures stood on a dusty coffee table, dishes stacked in the sink, a futon unfolded in the den and sloppy with sheets. She’d let David keep most of the furniture just to spare herself the whining. ‘You don’t seem to be relishing your singleness.’
‘I’m busy with work,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you?’ Anything to change the topic.
‘Yeah. I’m working this missing-person case. Girl from Louisiana they think ended up here.’
‘Marcy Ballew? You got that one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I briefly met the girl’s mother when she stopped by the station,’ Claudia said. ‘Terrible, not knowing what happened.’
David, that master of the wounded glance and gesture, took full advantage. ‘Yeah. Not knowing what went wrong. I know exactly how the lady feels.’
12
Six berths down from Real Shame, where Pete Hubble breathed his last, was a fifty-three-foot workhorse Hatteras sports fishing boat christened Don’t Ask. This was a craft used to take serious fishermen out into the deeper bowl of the Gulf, where the marlin and shark (hopefully) provided thrills at an exorbitant hourly rate. Don’t Ask belonged to an oddball friend of Whit’s, a man known to most people simply as Gooch. Gooch did not socialize overmuch. He was unfailingly polite and ethical in his dealings with other guides, the marina, and his clients, and admired for making small loans to guides who frequently needed a cash boost at the end of the month. Most of Port Leo was happy to give him his privacy, because Gooch was ugly and big and had a hard, no-tolerance light in his glare that explained his boat’s name. Whit had only found him to be generous, loyal, and slightly east of sane.
For twenty minutes Whit had been mired in quicksand conversation with the marina manager, who could tell him nothing new about Pete and Velvet. The manager, who smelled slightly of soured baby formula and had an unnoticed glob of infant burp on his shoulder, explained that Real Shame had begun docking at Golden Gulf only five weeks ago and its bills were paid by check mailed from a company in Houston, TDD Holdings. The arrangement had been handled by an elderly man in a wheelchair who apparently worked for TDD, name of Anson Todd, and the manager had not seen Mr Todd again since the Shame docked. As for Pete and Velvet, they had not mingled much with the other marina residents, nor had they caused any trouble. Whit left the office, spotted Gooch on his boat, and headed down the T-head.
‘An honest man would
be at work by now,’ Whit said as he came aboard.
‘I chose to use this day for reflection and self-improvement.’ Gooch grinned, showing slightly uneven teeth. ‘I gave myself the day off. I figured you’d be back down here soon enough. You still holding the cops’ dicks for them so they can pee straight?’
Kindness demanded one say Gooch was simply not handsome. His face was too gaunt for his body and married a too-prominent, bumpy nose with small, muddy brown eyes. He kept his sun-streaked hair cut short in a military burr. But he was powerfully built, stone-carved arms and legs, the kind of physique that encouraged burly bar patrons to keep observations about Gooch’s unfortunate face private.
‘Coffee, Y’Honor?’ Gooch asked.
‘Please, with milk and sugar.’
Gooch pointed toward the galley.
‘You’re the embodiment of the service economy, Gooch.’ Whit fixed his own cup and went back up to the deck, where Gooch gobbled his way through a leviathan bowl of Cap’n Crunch.
‘You want some?’ he asked through a milk-dripping mouth.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Screw your stepmom yet?’
‘My father and Irina are very happy, thanks for asking.’
‘And you’re very miserable,’ Gooch said.
‘You’ve got to make some more room on this wall for your diplomacy awards,’ Whit said. ‘I didn’t see you docked here last night when duty called.’
‘I spent the evening over in Port Aransas playing poker. I didn’t sail home until this morning.’
‘Were the gossips awake?’ No hen yard could compare to marina liveaboards for rapid-fire rumormongering.
‘All I’ve heard is that the guy on Real Shame shot himself in the mouth. Now it’d be a real shame indeed if that hot little number living with him on the boat really did it and got herself sent to girly prison, where she could never experience the joys of Gooch.’
