A Kiss Gone Bad wm-1

by Jeff Abbott

  Lloyd said, ‘I was unable to serve process on Heather Farrell, Your Honor. I have not been able to locate her. I believe she may have left the jurisdiction. She’s a known transient, and she lied to the police regarding her whereabouts.’

  ‘Did you find any trace of her, Constable?’ He already knew the answer but wanted it in the record.

  ‘Yes, sir. We found she had bought two tickets on Greyhound. Her reservation on the bus was for three days from now.’

  ‘But she’s already gone?’

  ‘Apparently, Your Honor.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable. Next witness?’

  ‘Calling Detective Edward Gardner of the Port Leo Police Department.’

  Gardner came to the stand. Whit swore him in. Gardner gave a precise, rapid account of last Monday night’s events.

  ‘Did you find a suicide note?’ Whit asked.

  ‘No, Y’Honor. The deceased’s son brought one to our attention later.’

  ‘Who covered the deceased’s hands with protective bagging?’

  Gardner stared at him. ‘I did, Y’Honor.’

  ‘I was told by the Nueces County medical examiner’s office the hands were improperly bagged.’

  Gardner turned his gaze out to the crowd. ‘Yes, sir. I checked the chain of custody. At some point before delivery to the morgue the bag covering the right hand was damaged.’

  ‘The end result being the medical examiner’s office had difficulty getting an accurate gunpowder-residue reading on Mr Hubble’s hands. I suggest, Detective, before you investigate another crime scene that you refresh yourself on appropriate forensic procedures.’ Whit knew he sounded like a textbook, but he watched as the borrowed court reporter recorded every word.

  Gardner’s face soured with anger. ‘Yes, sir,’ was all he said, but he did not look at Whit; he stared out into the crowd, as though at attention. Whit dismissed him from the stand. Claudia looked ready to jump out of her seat, notes in hand, but Whit didn’t call her as a witness.

  Next Dr Elizabeth Contreras, deputy medical examiner for Nueces County, gave the same summation of autopsy findings she’d given to Whit, stressing that she could not make a definitive call as to whether the gunshot wound was self-inflicted. Whit asked her only a few questions and Liz kept her testimony concise.

  ‘Was there any other indication of violence to Mr Hubble?’ he asked. ‘Had he been drugged or assaulted in another way?’

  ‘He was intoxicated, and we’re awaiting toxicology results, but no, there were no other signs of violence on him.’

  Whit thanked Liz and she stepped down.

  ‘I’m introducing into the inquest record,’ Whit said, ‘a suicide note found at the scene by the deceased’s minor son.’ Whit held up the note, properly bagged. The audience was silent; tears coursed down Lucinda’s cheeks. ‘In fact, I would like to read the note into the transcript of this hearing.’

  Whit read the note aloud in a slow voice, the final pain of Pete Hubble and his confession for the death of his brother Corey. Lucinda sobbed, noisily, and Faith hugged her. Sam trembled, his eyes locked on Whit. Velvet made some protesting noise; the other attendees shushed her. She glared at Whit as he finished.

  Whit let the silence hang before he picked up his gavel. ‘This court rules that the deceased, Peter James Hubble, committed suicide by self-inflicted gunshot wound on last October 12. I am going to certify a copy of the inquest summary report for delivery to the district court. This court is adjourned.’ Whit rapped his gavel. It was over quick, and he saw the disappointment in faces that the hearing had been peculiar and short.

  Velvet didn’t disappoint. ‘Are you freaking kidding me? What is this crap? Do I even get a chance to talk?’

  ‘Court is adjourned, ma’am,’ Lloyd warned in an even tone. ‘You got a complaint, take it outside.’

  Velvet yelled, ‘If I can’t get justice here, I goddamn well will get it somewhere else. Fuck you, Mosley!’

  Whit ignored her, gathering his papers. A low chorus of boos erupted around Velvet, and she pulled away from one older woman who tried to console her. She stormed out of the courtroom.

  Whit whispered to Lloyd, ‘Follow that woman, please. I want to know what she does.’

  Lloyd navigated through the throng leaving the courtroom. Claudia pushed past and caught Whit’s arm.

  ‘I’d like a word with you, Your Honor. In private,’ she said. Her voice was low, but her tone was white with rage.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About why you didn’t call me to testify in this hearing.’

  Whit shrugged. ‘I really didn’t see the need.’ He stepped down from the bench.

  Claudia stared at him, incredulous. ‘The need? Jesus, Whit! You ignored Pete’s connection to Jabez, his dealings with Deloache, the bad blood with the Hubbles, the custody battle that was brewing. Christ, what didn’t you ignore?’

  He walked out of the courtroom by the back entrance, and she followed him down the hallway. The departing crowd buzzed like angry bees. Whit imagined Senator Hubble holding tearful court before the television reporters.

  Claudia shut the door behind them.

  ‘I really don’t want to tell you what I think of you right now,’ she said.

  ‘You can. I don’t break easy.’

  ‘You had acres of room for doubt, Whit. The fact he consorted with known criminals. The fact that everything about this movie project seems to have vanished. The fact he was taking on his mother and wife for custody of his son. The fact that he had a young woman actively digging dirt on Jabez Jones and finding it.’

  ‘The fact that evidence was improperly handled by your department. Maybe you should just trust me on this, Claudia.’

  ‘Trust you? Trust you when you won’t tell me why you’ve suddenly dropped a hundred IQ points? Christ, Whit, you have a responsibility! Or is your responsibility to make Faith Hubble happy?’

  ‘Now the police don’t have to continue the investigation.’ He didn’t look at her, doffing his robe and sliding it onto a hanger.

  ‘I guess not. Delford’ll have hard nipples over this.’

  ‘Thanks for the image,’ he said. ‘You know, if additional information came forward at a later date, I could reopen the inquest.’

  ‘I suppose so. But will big Faithie let you?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ he snapped in a hard voice. ‘You might consider keeping your venom to yourself until you know the whole story.’

  She ground her teeth together. ‘Fine, Your Honor.’ She made the title slightly mocking in tone. ‘So tell me.’

  ‘I certainly left enough room in the inquest record for more information to be brought forward,’ Whit said slowly. ‘I didn’t call Sam Hubble as a witness, didn’t have Heather Farrell testify to what she found, didn’t mention the connections between Jabez and Pete, between Deloache and Pete, and I emphasized the sloppy job that Gardner did. Like you said, acres of doubt.’

  Claudia stared at him. ‘What the hell are you cooking up, Honorable?’

  ‘I’m going to leave town for a few days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the smart thing for me to do.’

  She was silent for several seconds. ‘Jesus Christ, Whit. Have you been threatened?’

  She surprised him. He liked Claudia, but she had struck him as the plodding sort of investigator who was dogged and determined but not particularly given to flights of imagination. She seemed more given to flights of impatience, irritability, and stubbornness.

  He kept his face very still. ‘Of course not.’

  Delford Spires opened Whit’s door, knocking at the same time, and bestowed a thin smile – the kind used at funerals when you see someone you haven’t visited with in a while and you’re glad to see them but sick over the reason.

  ‘Whit. Claudia.’ Delford nodded. ‘You kept justice swift, Whit. I know this has been hard on everyone.’

  ‘Another cleared case,’ Claudia said.

  Delford shook
his head. ‘You’re taking this the wrong way, Claudia. I’ve known Lucinda a real long time and I knew Pete. Just like him to come home and mess this up for his mama. She gave her kids the world and look what it got her.’ He brushed his mustache with a nervous flicker of his fingers. ‘Now I want you to focus on helping poor Mrs Ballew in finding her girl.’

  ‘How about finding Heather Farrell?’ Whit said.

  Delford shrugged. ‘She’s a runaway.’

  ‘Who bought two tickets on the bus, didn’t use them, and now has vanished,’ Whit reminded him. ‘I wonder who that other ticket was for.’

  Heather being gone was unexpected to him. She might have seen something and been silenced by the same people who had threatened him. A sharp, hot shame crawled through his body. Yeah, Heather might be sitting under a railroad crossing right now, picnicking on fried fish, or she might be facedown in the bluestems, two bullets in her head.

  If so, he decided, they would not get away with it. Fuck the election. ‘I would certainly feel better if y’all would find Heather.’

  ‘Fine,’ Delford said. ‘We’ll put a notice out on the wires for the nearby counties. Claudia, would you excuse the judge and me for a moment?’

  Claudia stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her with a final stabbing glance at Whit.

  ‘You think you’re big shit,’ Delford said. ‘Let me give you every assurance you’re not.’

  ‘Get out of my office.’

  ‘I don’t like you dressing down Gardner in open court. You talk to me and only me about problems with my officers. You made our whole department look bad.’

  Whit opened his mouth, full of sharp responses. He remembered the bullet whizzing past his ear, Irina, Babe, his brothers, their wives, his beautiful nieces, his wriggly nephews. Not yet, he thought, not yet but oh, if you threatened my family I’m so going to fry you. He said: ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  Delford put his Stetson back on his head, as carefully as hanging a picture. ‘See that you do. At least while you get to wear that robe.’ He smiled and left, shutting the door behind him.

  Whit sat down at his desk and waited. Lloyd returned in a minute, face flushed from exertion.

  ‘What happened? Did she leave?’ Whit asked.

  ‘Yeah. With that guy in the Astros cap.’

  Junior. Velvet had left with Junior, of all people. If I can’t get justice here, I goddamn well will get it somewhere else. He wondered what sort of justice Junior might offer.

  ‘Did it look like he forced her to leave with him?’

  ‘No. They talked outside for a few minutes. She was all in a tizzy and he calmed her down. Then they walked to his Porsche, talked some more, and she followed him in her car.’

  ‘Thank you, Lloyd.’ Lloyd left, and Whit stopped at Edith’s desk.

  ‘I’m taking some time off, Edith. Please clear my docket and reschedule my hearings. If Judge Ramirez can take them, that’s fine with me. If not reschedule for late next week.’

  Edith frowned at him. ‘Well, that’s damn short notice.’

  ‘Sorry. I have to go.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be campaigning?’

  Whit shrugged. ‘In an odd way, I am.’

  He gave her the inquest papers, had her make a copy for him, and then had the originals prepared for filing with the district court. He ran a quick errand to the police station, then drove toward Golden Gulf Marina, Velvet’s key to Real Shame in his pocket.

  33

  Claudia returned to her office; Gardner was talking low on the phone, serious and somber, just saying yes or no. She felt a mix of worry and anger toward Whit. He was in some kind of trouble, she was sure, but he wasn’t about to let her help him. Men. Thought they could do everything themselves. Truth be told, he was probably bedding Faith Hubble and that ruling was just a pure favor to her, cleanly sweeping a doubt-riddled case under the rug.

  Do you really think so little of him?

  Gardner finished his conversation and left without a word. He had barely spoken to her after their exchange. A pink message slip lay on her desk, David pestering her about the party for his grandfather. Perhaps a party would do her good, even if it was full of David’s relatives, who seemed to regard her as clinically insane for leaving their darling boy and even being held at a nursing home, the kind of place that inevitably depressed her.

  She opened the Ballew file, desperate to take her mind off Whit and Eddie and Pete Hubble. Maybe a reread would prompt her mind to look at the Ballew problem in a new way.

  Wait a second. Speaking of nursing homes, Marcy had worked at one. The Encina County deputies had called the home in Louisiana and garnered nothing useful from the staff regarding Marcy’s disappearance. Inspiration struck. She and David had concentrated on the flimsy connections between Marcy’s wrestling interest and Port Leo, but what if there was a professional connection? She phoned the director of Port Leo’s home, Placid Harbor, a snip-voiced woman named Roselle Cross.

  ‘Ms Cross, have you ever heard of a nursing home in Deshay, Louisiana, called Memorial Oaks?’

  ‘No.’

  Claudia drummed a pencil. ‘Y’all ever have much contact with the staff at other nursing homes?’

  ‘Well, the administrators do, if there’s a transfer. Buddy Beere usually handles that.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘Sure. He’s usually around.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Claudia gathered her notes and the Ballew file and headed for the door.

  The boat still smelled of death.

  Whit closed the door behind him. Real Shame had not had its windows opened to the air since Pete had been found, and the atmosphere felt as oppressive as a wool blanket in summer. The Deloaches would soon take back possession of their boat and scrub away all traces of unpleasantness. He suspected that Real Shame would sail within days, away from police scrutiny in Port Leo.

  He went down to Pete’s stateroom. The air still smelled, slightly, of human waste and blood. The mattress still lay bare. The closets were empty. The diver Claudia recruited had found no trace of Pete’s laptop and no sign of discarded diskettes or papers.

  Whit figured Pete had not destroyed his research as a sad pre-suicide gesture. He had either shipped it off to someone else for safekeeping or the killer had taken it or destroyed it. Unless Pete had hidden it – and the boat still seemed the most likely place. And where had the supposed half million in cash gone? If Whit had either of those, he might have enough information to protect himself and his family. Or enough to get them all killed.

  He rooted around the boat for an hour, finding nothing. No more tapes of Pete exploring scenes for his Corey movie, no computer diskettes squirreled away in couch cushions, no notes outlining the past. He was pawing through the small cabinets in the head when a phone rang. Not his cell phone in his pocket.

  Whit followed the ringing to a bedside table. In a drawer was another cell phone. Its readout announced CALLER ID BLOCKED. He clicked the phone on.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘Hello? Pete?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Whit said, simultaneously thinking, What the hell are you doing, dumbass?

  ‘Why aren’t you answering your other phone?’

  ‘Lost it,’ Whit improvised.

  ‘Look, some cop in Port Leo’s been calling here and leaving messages. I had to fucking disconnect my number. I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Nothing.’ He made his voice tired, indistinct.

  ‘I’m still waiting on my money, sweetness.’

  ‘Your money… okay,’ Whit said. ‘Let’s get that to you.’

  Silence hung like a blade in the air. ‘Who is this? Where’s Pete?’

  ‘He can’t come to the phone right now…’ Whit tried lamely. ‘Who am I speaking with?’

  She hung up.

  Whit clicked through the menu options on the cell phone. There were no unheard or archived messages, no numbers listed for speed dialin
g, no numbers listed in his phone book, no numbers listed in his call log. Pete had covered his tracks. Whit cursed.

  But it had sounded long-distance, and the woman’s voice was a soft, throaty drawl, definitely Southern, not one of Pete’s California starlets. And she was expecting money. He pulled out his own phone and called the police station. Claudia was out and he had no intention of talking to Gardner or Delford. But he got Nelda, the dispatcher, to go look in the Hubble file and tell him that the phone number in Missatuck, Texas, the one that Claudia had been unable to get an answer from, was registered to a Kathy Breaux. He tried the number: disconnected, and no new number given in its place. He could force the phone company to give him the number. But chatting on the phone would accomplish nothing.

  It was gambling time.

  Whit pocketed Pete’s phone and left the boat, hurrying to his car. He headed home, a loose plan he’d formed earlier taking solid shape. He called Velvet’s hotel room, got no answer, left a message for her to call him on his cell phone. He left a vague note for Babe and Irina, packed a bag, tossed it in the back of his Explorer, and headed out of town. He didn’t notice the flooring company van following him from the marina, idling on the other end of Evangeline while he stopped at home, and he didn’t notice the van and another car staying a good distance behind him when he roared north onto State Highway 35, aiming toward Houston and the East Texas piney woods beyond.

  Claudia hated nursing homes because she suspected she’d slobber her last in one someday. Probably a well-meaning niece or nephew would shuttle her ass into a Medicare bed, tsk-tsking the whole time about poor old Aunt Claudia.

  Placid Harbor wasn’t bad as nursing home facilities went. The word placid suggested residents in a drug-induced fog. But the view across St Leo Bay and Little Mischief Park was postcard pretty, and many of the residents were mobile and articulate, and management kept it clean. Not so bad for an iceberg to die on.