A Kiss Gone Bad wm-1

by Jeff Abbott

  It wasn’t a gavel and he amply liked her, too. They spent the next several hours in bed, half of the time sleeping, the other half making strenuous love. She was left gasping but energized, freeing some long-buried shadow of herself to face the world. She watched Whit nap and traced his lips with a fingernail while he softly snored. Since Pete had left her, the few men she’d allowed intimacy with her tended to be older and snagged in the intricate web of state politics. They talked of little else. Here was a man lying beside her who was younger with a flat stomach and long legs and probably not overly bright but he knew how to make her feel my-God shivery good. She brushed his light fuzz of whiskers grown in the course of the day, wondering how quickly he would bolt in the morning.

  He didn’t. He made love to her again, and she almost wept with pleasure and an odd relief. She didn’t want a romance, but she did want him, warm and kissing her throat and giving his halfway smile as he filled her. They began to see each other discreetly. She didn’t want Sam or Lucinda to know – he was the only private part of her life – and Whit didn’t argue.

  They saw each other perhaps twice a month. Faith and Whit learned about the constellation of small motels along the Coastal Bend, little way stations in Rockport and Aransas Pass and Laurel Point and Copano. They would meet, share a bottle of Shiner Bock while kissing and slowly unburdening each other of their clothes, soap their skin in the shower, make love on the bed, and then talk – about her work, about his struggle to learn enough law to be an effective JP, about books they’d both read. He was smarter than she thought. A love of reading was, other than sex, the only thing they had in common. All perfectly friendly.

  But now he had failed her, and the memory of the taste of his skin soured in her mouth. Faith backed her BMW out of the Hubble driveway and gunned the engine toward Whit’s house.

  Faith rocketed over to the Mosleys’, ready to carve Whit’s guts into ribbons of flesh, but instead the storm turned to shower. She cried as soon as she saw him.

  Babe and Irina were dining with friends in Rockport and would not be back for quite a while.

  Faith and Whit sat in the cramped living room in the guest house, the Corpus Christi news turned on but muted. Pete’s death – as the son of a prominent state senator, not as a porn star, which had not yet been mentioned by any news source – had been the second story, after the gunshot war that had slowed down the Nueces County coroner’s office.

  Faith’s hard, heavy weeping slowly eased. Whit handed her a wad of tissues to replace the ones she’d rendered sopping, and he poured them each a hefty glass of an inexpensive merlot. She gulped down a third of the glass in a long swallow.

  ‘You don’t think you can cry for someone you ceased to love a long while back.’ Faith sniffed, tamped her nostrils with the tissues. ‘I keep thinking of the boy I knew and married, not the sleaze he turned out to be… but he came home, and all I saw was the sleaze. Nothing more.’ She drank again. ‘This is good, Whit. Thanks. You know how he proposed to me? On Port Leo Beach, at midnight. The beach was closed, but we snuck in and sat on the sand and counted stars. He told me I had missed one, and then he dangled this beautiful diamond on a string before my eyes.’ She studied the red depths of the wineglass. ‘I loved him then – sure I did. But he married me only because his mother wanted it. I found out later she’d bought the ring for him and told him just how to propose. She knew what would light my fire.’ She set the wineglass down, folded her fingers together in her lap. ‘Whit, you’ve got to believe me… We didn’t have anything to do with Pete’s death. Nothing. And Lucinda, she shouldn’t have come across so hard-assed with you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Pete was back in town?’ Whit kept his voice gentle, quiet, and unaccusing.

  ‘Because… God, we didn’t want anyone to know he even existed anymore. But he cooperated with us. He kept a very low profile. I mean, I guess a couple of people commented to me he was back, but no production was made of it.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Did you want to waste away our motel time chatting about my ex?’

  ‘You didn’t want people – or me – to know he was back because he had starred in blue movies?’

  ‘Yes.’ She took another bolstering slug of wine and shuddered.

  ‘Not because he could derail Lucinda’s campaign. And your career. Not because he was going to sue you for custody of Sam.’

  ‘Look, as far as I’m concerned, Whit, this custody crap is a complete fiction Velvet dreamed up in her screwed-stupid little mind.’

  ‘You asked me to help y’all get through this, to not make a big production of the inquest. But I’m not doing you any such favors until I know what’s going on here.’

  ‘I clearly don’t mean diddly squat to you, do I?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with us. Faith. But I don’t believe a man who wants to get his child back just kills himself.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you the source of his depression was he knew he’d never, ever get Sam.’

  ‘Yes, it occurred to me. It also occurred to me to wonder exactly why he’d even think he had a chance in court. Did he have something on you. Faith?’

  ‘There’s nothing that could trump porn!’ she barked at him. ‘For God’s sakes!’

  ‘There are worse crimes than dirty movies.’

  ‘Not to a family court.’ She stood. ‘I came over here to talk, not to be grilled by you.’

  ‘You came over to presume on our relationship,’ Whit said. ‘You’re asking me to not make a public spectacle of the inquest for Sam’s sake. But I’m asking you for an explanation of what was going on with Pete. This cuts both ways, sweetie.’

  ‘I told you what I know.’ She sat again.

  ‘Perhaps I should excuse myself from the case.’

  ‘No. Don’t.’ Panic flashed in her eyes. ‘You do that, you’ll have to explain why, and I don’t want Sam to know about us.’

  ‘Don’t lock Sam in a glass bubble forever.’

  ‘Look, it hasn’t been easy for him… no father… his grandmother and I so busy. And now, with Pete dead, I can’t rub salt in his wounds, please, Whit. Not now.’ She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘The boat Pete was staying on. It’s owned by a family suspected of heavy drug activity up the coast.’

  ‘Lucinda mentioned that.’ She leaned back against the thick pillows of the couch and dropped her hands. ‘Good God, he chose well, didn’t he? One little explosive charge after another to sink his mother’s ship.’

  ‘He’s the one who’s dead, not Lucinda.’ He sat next to her. ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Am I not supposed to be insulted at the question?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Faith.’

  ‘I was at home last night, with Sam. I haven’t spent enough time with him lately. We had dinner, watched TV, went to sleep early. It’s all in my bland little police statement.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

  She took his hand. ‘I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I’m sure he killed himself, okay? All these other diversions – this Corey movie, this custody idea, him staying on a drug hound’s boat – I’m begging, Whit. Keep it all out of the inquest, can’t you? It has no place. If you don’t you’re letting a nobody like Pete win. Over me. Over us.’

  ‘I can’t promise that, Faith. I can’t.’

  She rose, her face contorting as though slapped. ‘The problem with you, Whit, is that everyone has low expectations of you and you never fucking disappoint.’

  A rap sounded at the door. Faith fell silent. Whit stood, wondering if she might go hide in the bathroom or closet, but she stayed put and he went to his door.

  It was Claudia. ‘Hi,’ she said, and she glanced past his shoulder to see Faith Hubble standing by the couch, the empty wineglass on the coffee table, the half full one next to it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize you had company.’

  ‘Come in,’ Whit said. ‘Mrs Hubble and I were
just discussing her ex-husband. You want something to drink?’

  ‘I’d love a Coke.’ Claudia sat down while Whit busied himself dumping ice cubes in a glass and cracking open a liter bottle of cola. He brought Claudia her soda. The silence between the two women hung thick as fog on a cool winter morning.

  Claudia broke the quiet. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Mrs Hubble. I just confirmed with Anders Sorenson that he was hired to represent Pete in suing for custody of your son. I thought you might be able to help us understand why.’

  ‘As I was just telling the judge,’ Faith said slowly, ‘Pete’s legal concerns were his own matter. He’d ignored Sam for most of fifteen years, and he was no parent. He had zero grounds for a serious bid for custody.’

  ‘So why hire Sorenson?’ Whit asked. Anders Sorenson was from an old Port Leo family, one of the best-regarded attorneys in the area, almost seventy, a scrappy, dapper little man feared in the courtroom.

  ‘Because Sorenson’s a big-money Republican who’d love to see Lucinda lose?’ Faith flared. ‘Shit, I don’t know what Pete was doing. I can’t repeat that too many more times without thinking the two of you are brain-damaged.’

  Neither Whit nor Claudia spoke.

  ‘I have to go, unless you have further questions,’ Faith said. ‘Sam is expecting me for dinner.’

  ‘I would like to speak with Sam,’ Whit said. ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.’ She picked up her purse and didn’t give Claudia another glance as she walked out the door. Whit followed her out of the guest house, past the pool. She didn’t break stride and she didn’t look back, and he didn’t call out to her. He went back to the guest house.

  Claudia stared at him. ‘I heard her yelling at you before I knocked on the door.’

  ‘I’ve known her for a while. She’s upset.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Her kid’s the most important thing in the world to her,’ Whit said. ‘But she’s right. Pete wouldn’t have a prayer in family court.’

  ‘Unless she’s done something far worse than adult films,’ Claudia said.

  Whit sipped his wine.

  ‘I thought you and I could talk to Jabez Jones together tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Your clerk said it’d work with your schedule.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said.

  She touched his arm. ‘Anything else you want to tell me. Honorable?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing else at all.’

  18

  Velvet eased the magazine out of her Sig Sauer 9mm automatic pistol. She tucked the Sig far down into her purse. Then she yanked it out of concealment, past tissues and car keys and compact. Four seconds. Too long, but stacking the gun atop her billfold and cosmetics made her nervous; she had no concealed weapons permit. She supposed she could always just fire through the thin leather of the purse.

  Finding the gun had been easier than she imagined. She’d hired a cab to take her to Corpus Christi, rented a Chevy Caprice at the airport, and driven to a ragtag collection of pawnshops. She found that cash and a quick but ardent display of her professional skills spoke volumes to one particular dealer. She’d never seen a registration form.

  She’d picked up a small tape recorder as well, the kind used by reporters. Voice-activated in case someone said something interesting she wanted to keep. This she stuck down in the depths of her purse.

  Velvet practiced pulling the automatic from her purse for ten more minutes until the motion felt fluid and natural and the gun didn’t feel so alien in her grip. If Junior Deloache became a problem, she thought, she’d have to fire without flinching. She imagined shooting him in the stomach – clearly the biggest target on him – and tried not to think about how much blood might explode from his guts.

  Him or you. Just think of it as him or you if it comes to that. Junior was, she thought, most likely full of bluff, and he might even be useful to her.

  Her fantasies shifted from gunning down a hot-breathed Junior Deloache to placing the cool barrel of the Sig against Faith Hubble’s head and forcing that snide bitch to sing the truth. Yes, I killed him, I killed him, please don’t hurt me…

  A gentle knock rapped on the door. She went and peered through the peephole. Faith Hubble stared back at her through the security hole, arms crossed, frowning like she wanted to bite the world in half.

  ‘Velvet? You there?’ Faith called. She knocked again.

  Velvet hurried back to her purse. She clicked on the recorder and found the ammunition in the bottom of the bag.

  ‘You’re stupider than I thought,’ Gooch said.

  Whit nursed his beer. He and Gooch sat in a deserted corner at Georgie’s bar at the Shell Inn. Being a Tuesday night, the bar was mostly empty, only a few figures quaffing down liquid forgetfulness in the shallow light. The tarpons on the wall, mounted over draped netting, caught the glow of the television along their preserved curves. Georgie sat at the bar, smoking a cigarette and working the New York Times crossword puzzle with a bloodred pen.

  He had just confessed to Gooch about his affair with Faith and was now receiving a quota of due lashings.

  ‘What do you think Buddy Beere might make of this, Whitman?’ Gooch rattled the ice in his near-empty glass of bourbon. ‘He’ll fry you into political hash.’

  ‘Buddy doesn’t have to know. And Pete’s her longtime ex. I don’t think there’s a professional conflict in me handling the case.’

  ‘Buddy will. And no secret in this county gets kept forever,’ Gooch said. ‘There’s too many big mouths and prying eyes and booze.’ He finished his drink with a toss and signaled to the vapid barkeep for a refill. She didn’t see him, giggling with Eddie Gardner at the bar. Whit watched Gardner, who had pointedly ignored him. If Claudia was slaving over the Hubble case tonight, Gardner wasn’t.

  ‘I’ve discovered the silver lining. You blow the election, you can work for me,’ Gooch mused. ‘I’m thinking of buying a much bigger boat, you know, a serious party barge. If I do it, you can wriggle out from under Babe’s wing and grab a real life.’

  ‘Yeah. Scrubbing decks, gutting fish, keeping drunks from going overboard. And best of all, taking orders from you. My life’s dream.’

  ‘You ain’t got room for snooty.’ Gooch finally got the bartender’s attention when she turned from laughing at a joke of Gardner’s. She nodded and brought Gooch his drink. Whit watched the young woman hurry back to Gardner, intent on not leaving him shifted in neutral too long.

  ‘Why do cute girls like a greaseball like Gardner?’ Whit wondered.

  Gooch shrugged. ‘You ask this while diddling Faith Hubble.’

  Whit considered. ‘She’s fun.’

  ‘And willing. Is that all you require?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What else? Breathing?’ Gooch put a hand over his heart in mock horror. ‘God help us, you’re not in love with her, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Whit said.

  ‘So she’s just someone you sleep with?’

  ‘She’s…’ Whit stopped. Lover implied more emotional depth than either he or Faith had yet brought to the bed. One-night stand was logistically incorrect. Sexual release carried all the warmth of freezer burn. He just liked her; he still liked her. ‘We’re in a shadowy area.’

  His map of Faith’s heart consisted of the roughest sketch. He knew Sam was her north star, her everything, with perhaps Lucinda and her political career a near second. But when they were together – from the first time – she had shown an openness toward him that he suspected few others saw. He didn’t believe her capable of sticking a gun in a man’s mouth and pulling the trigger.

  He was pretty sure. Fairly sure.

  He finished his beer. Crap. Not sure at all, even though he’d tasted her skin, felt the broad warmth of her back pressed up against his chest, explored the shape of her mouth, smelled chamomile in her hair, knew which ribs produced ticklish laughter. He didn’t know the shape and size of her heart.

 
; And Claudia. She’d greeted Faith with all the friendliness of a mongoose eyeing a swaying cobra. Claudia sure hadn’t believed it was a simple interview. Miss By-the-Book would blow a mighty shrill whistle on him in two seconds flat if she smelled a conflict of interest. And he couldn’t blame her.

  Just then Whit noticed a chunky blond man lumber up from a darkened corner of the bar, wearing a gaudy-awful tropical shirt, and head out the door. He bumped into an older man entering the bar and said, ‘Watch it, old fart.’ The old man, already drunk, ignored him.

  Whit said, ‘Come on,’ to Gooch, tossed dollars on the bar to settle the tab, and followed.

  As they went out, the man clambered into a red Porsche. Grit and bird-guano splatters dusted the car. The Porsche jerked out of its slot and revved onto Main Street.

  Whit ran to his Explorer, Gooch following.

  ‘Explaining soon?’ Gooch said.

  ‘Heavy. Blond. Loud. He looks like the dirtbag Ernesto described. And he’s driving a messy Porsche, just like Ernesto said.’

  Whit tailed the filthy Porsche down Main Street, past the shopping district where seasonally challenged store owners had already hung Christmas decorations and dangled sprays of light in the palm and red bay trees. On his left was the bay, with rental condo developments lining the shore. Most had been built in the 1970s during a last-gasp oil boom and retained the unfortunate, granola-esque architecture of the time – boxy, with diagonally layered strips of wood for siding and balconies ringed with thick oak beams.

  They drove past the Port Leo city limits for a half mile and the Porsche wheeled into a condo resort called Sea Haven. Its name was written in cursive rope for that authentic nautical air. Missing windows and sawhorses suggested renovations were under way.