by Jeff Abbott
‘I’m highlighting the appropriate tough guy phrases for you so you know what to say the next time you encounter an Anson type. You’re a little too Larry McMurtry for that crowd.’ Gooch glanced. ‘Although you acquitted yourself well against that slab of a kid.’
‘I feel like I broke every finger in my hands on his face.’
‘If you did, you couldn’t steer,’ Gooch said matter-of-factly. ‘Enough self-congratulations. What matters is that Junior thinks you’ve got his moolah.’ He shut the Spillane. ‘Moolah, there’s a word that needs a renaissance.’
‘Perhaps Pete hid the money somewhere before he died.’
‘For what purpose? Stealing from mobsters, even the IQ-challenged contingent that Junior represents, is an extremely bad idea.’ Gooch shrugged. ‘We may be crediting Pete with greater brains than he deserves. He may have only had one large working organ. I think that Junior-boy had Pete killed.’
‘So where is the money? I would think if Pete doesn’t have it. Velvet might.’
‘I’m sitting in slack-jawed amazement. You generally consider Velvet as some whore with the heart of gold, pardon the cliche.’
‘If she had the half million, wouldn’t she give it back to Junior, having seen what happened to Pete? And if she took it she’d be gone, and Junior and Anson would be off in hot pursuit.’
‘We don’t know Pete ever kept it on the boat, but they thought it was on the boat.’
‘Where else might he hide it?’
‘Gee, in a bank?’ Gooch asked. ‘Has anyone looked in the poor schmuck’s accounts?’
‘Yes. Claudia researched his bank accounts. It’s not there.’
‘So who could have taken it?’
‘Velvet. Anyone who came on the boat… me, Claudia, Delford, Gardner, the other cops. Heather Farrell. Sam Hubble.’
‘Who do you like?’
‘I don’t see either of the kids taking it. They were too rattled.’
‘Didn’t you say Delford Spires was blasting you and Claudia?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s probably threatened by Claudia in that she has twice the IQ,’ Gooch said. ‘Unless… maybe the Deloaches already had a different purpose attached to the money.’
‘As in?’
‘Drug money. Money that’s due to be freshly laundered and shouldn’t be given away. Or money to grease local palms, perhaps Delford’s.’
Whit considered. ‘Okay. Say Papa Deloache gives poor Junior an operation to run. Off the beaten track from main centers of illicit commerce, like Houston or Galveston. Port Leo would qualify. Not too far from Corpus Christi or San Antonio, only hours from major markets like Houston and Austin.’
‘And not too far from South Padre, where your seasonal business is. Junior would mix well with the college students, the old frat party guy with a thick wad of cash.’ Gooch stared out at the darkness, the outlines of the pines etched in black. ‘Of course, the frat boys and sorority girls would be laughing at Junior behind their hands.’
‘Are you ever going to tell me what happened back there in Beaumont?’
‘Jesus, quit bitching. Not a hair on their sainted little asses was hurt.’
‘You’ve got friends in the police department there?’
‘I’m not on the witness stand in your courtroom, am I?’ He fell silent; topic over. ‘So what do you hope to learn from this mystery woman Pete had called so often?’ Gooch asked.
‘She clearly expected money when she called Pete. She clearly didn’t know he was dead.’
Gooch cracked a window, and the thick, earthy smell of the pine forests, stirred with the odor of gasoline fumes, streamed into the Explorer. ‘You want me to drive for a while? You tired?’
Whit nodded. They pulled over and Gooch took the wheel. Whit moved to the passenger seat, feeling too revved to relax. But as the nighttime road unwound, he slept.
*
Whit and Gooch crashed at a cheap motel off the highway around two a.m., rose at seven, and arrived in Missatuck, a town three miles off the main highway with one bumpy major street and two stoplights, around nine Saturday morning. Missatuck was little enough that asking for a local address at the small grocery got results.
Kathy Breaux lived at 302 Cotton Creek Road. The house was a brick duplex in a very modest neighborhood, the only kind Missatuck offered. Ill-kept flowerbeds dominated the yard, and a motley crew of lawn gnomes congregated in one untilled bed.
‘Let’s be careful,’ Gooch warned. ‘Anyone who collects lawn gnomes is not to be trifled with.’
Whit rang the bell. No answer. He rang again and knocked. No answer. The door to the other duplex creaked open, and a woman in purple jogging sweats, holding a purple mug of coffee, stepped out onto the concrete slab that served as a joint porch. She was tall and skinny, with raven-dark hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail and a bevy of unfortunate whiskers on her chin.
‘Awful early to be pounding on a door,’ the woman observed in a gravel-bruised voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ Whit said. ‘I’m Judge Whit Mosley. I’m a justice of the peace in Encina County, down on the coast, and this is my associate-’
‘Dr Guchinski,’ Gooch interjected and Whit kept his neutral smile in place. Doctor. God help us.
‘I’m looking for Kathy Breaux,’ Whit said.
The woman sipped her coffee. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘A man committed suicide in my jurisdiction, and he had called the phone number at this address repeatedly,’ Whit said. ‘We’re trying to establish the reason for the suicide, and we thought Ms Breaux might know his mental state.’
The woman blinked. ‘Who is this man?’
‘His name is Pete Hubble. Does that name ring a bell?’
‘Well, do you have some identification?’ she asked.
Whit produced a laminated card with his name and title issued by the Texas secretary of state. He didn’t offer her one of his regular business cards to keep because what he didn’t want was her phoning the Encina County authorities. Buddy Beere, if given half a chance, would make widespread hay about any wild-goose chases Whit pursued right before the election.
She studied the card, then handed it back to him. ‘Kathy’s at work, got a double shift. It’s about ten, fifteen minutes away. I can give you the address.’
‘Thanks,’ Whit said.
The woman returned with hastily scribbled instructions. Follow Highway 363 to the Louisiana border, where it becomes Louisiana FM 110, go straight until you get to Deshay, Memorial Oaks nursing home is on the left after the second light.
Deshay, Louisiana. A nursing home. A tremble rose along Whit’s spine.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘She’s not in no trouble, is she?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Whit lied.
‘ ’Cause she’s a pretty good renter,’ the woman added, as though this were a treasured commodity in Missatuck.
‘Promptness with rent is always to be admired,’ Gooch said. ‘Thanks again.’
The woman shut the door, and they went back to Whit’s Explorer.
‘A nursing home in Deshay,’ Whit said. ‘That’s where that Ballew girl vanished from, the one whose wallet they found outside of town. Her face has been all over those blue flyers, Claudia mentioned the case to me. It can’t be coincidence.’
They drove thirty miles over the speed limit, zooming into Louisiana.
Deshay was the kind of town repeated ten thousand times across America: an unhealthy selection of fast-food chains, a neon-lit doughnut shop, a pair of peeling strip centers, a furniture store with plastic-sheeted inventory overflowing into the parking lot, and five gas stations lining the main road. Memorial Oaks squatted on a corner. Bricks the color of creek dirt lined the concrete walkways and ill-clipped Japanese boxwoods stood beneath the windows. The home didn’t look dirty or unhealthy, just glum, a sad coda for lives in their final movements.
‘Despicable the way we treat the elderly in this coun
try,’ Gooch said. ‘When I hit sixty I’m moving my ass to China, where the old are revered.’
‘I hate nursing homes,’ Whit said under his breath. ‘They’re like parking garages for people.’
‘Would you rather die young? I could call Anson and see if he’ll hook up with us again.’
When they asked at the information counter for Kathy Breaux, the dour receptionist nodded toward a hall that fed off from the central hub.
‘She’s down in the television room, probably doing a little feeding,’ the woman said.
Gooch whispered to Whit as they walked: ‘A feeding. How evocative. Is there a trough?’
The room was large but fusty, its cornerstone a sparkling new TV that dangled the joys of the outside world. A trashy morning talk show blared from the set, mothers having their mouthy, punk- and Goth-dressing daughters made over into pink-angora debutantes. Several patients watched with blank stares fixated on the lives on the television instead of anything else in the depressing room, blankets covering their laps. An array of shiny black dominoes lay spread out on a table, awaiting players. No nurse loomed to greet them. One patient, in her early eighties, glanced up at them as they came in and gave them an intelligent smile. She was reading The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume 2, her bony, mottled finger stuck in the mammoth book, the other hand holding a magnifying glass.
‘Hello, ma’am,’ Whit said. ‘How are you today?’
‘Lovely. How are y’all doing?’
‘We’re fine, ma’am,’ Gooch said. ‘We’re looking for Kathy Breaux.’
The old woman puckered in distaste. ‘Kathy is no doubt outside, sucking a cigarette down to the filter, as I would if she gave me half the chance. She ought to be back in a minute.’
‘Which way, ma’am?’ Whit asked.
The old woman nodded toward a door that opened into a hallway. Whit thanked her and moved toward the hallway.
‘I’ll stay here,’ Gooch said, ‘in case she comes back.’ He leaned down toward the woman to see what she was reading. She flopped open her book for him.
‘Robert Browning?’ Whit heard Gooch say good-naturedly. ‘You’re not wasting your time on him, are you? He’s a psychobabble bore.’
‘Nonsense,’ the old woman said. ‘Now, when I taught Browning…’
At the end of the hall Whit found a bay of large windows that opened out onto a grove of mossy oaks. In the foyer formed by the windows, a bathrobe-clad crone hunched in a wheelchair while a spare, trim woman, dressed in the bright magenta scrubs of the nursing staff, mopped up around the chair.
‘Bad bad girl,’ the woman chirped in a singsong voice reminiscent of a preschooler ditty. ‘You keep your hands off your diapy-diap now so I don’t have to clean up after you again.’
A half grunt, half wail was her answer from the poor old woman in the chair.
‘Excuse me,’ Whit said. ‘Are you Kathy Breaux?’
She gave him a bright smile he suspected was reserved only for visitors. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to talk to you about Pete Hubble.’
The smile barely dimmed. ‘Who?’
‘The man who placed several phone calls to your house over the past week.’
The grin stayed as fixed as stone. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Judge Whit Mosley. I was a friend of Pete’s. He’s dead.’
Her grip whitened against the handle of the mop.
‘I’m conducting the inquest into Pete’s death and I’d like to talk to you about why Pete was calling you,’ Whit said.
‘You know, I would love to help you with whatever this is, but I can’t talk now. I’m working.’ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with a coy little flick of the wrist.
‘Considering this is an investigation into a possible homicide, I’m sure the home’s administrators would be glad to provide us with a private office and time alone.’ Whit kept his tone friendly. He’d heard enough voice to know she was the woman who had called on the boat. ‘He was shot. In the mouth.’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me get her cleaned up and then I’ll talk with you.’ She turned and wheeled the woman around in the foyer, then said, ‘Oh, why don’t you just come with me while I get her settled and then we can talk?’ A tenseness framed her face. ‘Just come right along with me.’
Whit got the distinct feeling she didn’t want him out of her sight. ‘Actually I need to borrow a rest room.’ He had noticed a men’s room right off the foyer. He didn’t wait for her permission, he turned and ducked into the bathroom. He washed his hands while counting to one hundred, and then came out. Kathy and her incontinent charge were gone. He hurried back to the main room; Gooch was still there, arguing the merits of Victorian poetry with his new friend. No Kathy. Whit wandered back down the hallway, peeking into the rooms. One room was tidy with its lack of occupants. Another held an ancient black woman, napping and snoring loudly.
The third room was occupied. Whit peered into the dimness. An emaciated figure lay in a bed, a rope of drool uncoiling from his slack mouth, his eyes at half-mast. His dark hair was cut in a crisp burr, and an ugly scar split the hairline. His skin was sun-starved, his cheeks sunken, but Whit could see the man was young. Too young.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ Whit said.
It was Corey Hubble.
38
Velvet was awake when he returned. Wriggling carefully, she had worked the blindfold back into place. She kept her head turned to the side to hide any lopsided silk.
‘Did you miss me?’ Corey asked.
‘Why do you hate me so,’ she said, ‘to do this to me?’
‘I don’t hate you. Not at all. I love you.’
She wanted to scream. This isn’t love, you freaking nut bastard. Even as screwed up as I am I know this isn’t love. Instead she said, ‘Are you doing this because you’ve seen my movies?’
A soft laugh. ‘I’ve seen your movies. Am I better than Pete?’
She didn’t answer.
He touched her cheek. Gently. ‘Tell me.’
‘Of course you are,’ she lied. She heard shoes easing off feet and hitting the wooden floor, the soft rustle of clothing sliding down legs, a jingling of keys tossed to the floor.
‘Don’t,’ Velvet said. ‘Please don’t.’
Silence again.
‘Why not?’ Corey finally said, sounding amused. ‘Since I’m so much better.’
‘Because,’ she said, her voice calmed with a mighty effort, ‘you don’t have to. Not this way.’
‘I need to.’
‘Corey?’
Silence again, longer this time. She heard the even rasp of his breathing, near her ear.
‘What?’ he finally said.
‘Corey. Please don’t.’ She put even more fear into her voice than she felt.
‘No talking now.’ He climbed upon her and forced himself on her again. She gritted her teeth, tried to summon memories from faraway sweetness. The tang of lemonade on a summer day, the soft pine-cologne smell of her father’s camel-hair jacket, cinnamon and butter pooling on hot toast. Sitting in the quiet dark of her daddy’s church on a Saturday afternoon, leaning back in a wooden pew while he practiced his sermon, pretending to snore if the sermon got a little dull, him never getting mad. Pete, bedecking her with roses on her birthday. But all the good failed her and she screamed and cried, muscles aching, body sore. She told herself. It will be over soon, over soon, over soon.
It was. He lay atop her when he was done, his skin sweaty and smelling of burgers, her skin clammy. His face was buried in her hair, and she felt him breathing in its scent. Lingering on her, like they were lovers. She so wanted her gun. She would fire a thousand bullets into his guts and brain and what odd lump passed for a heart.
‘Why did you kill Pete?’ she asked.
‘Who says I did?’ His voice was muffled in her hair.
‘Did you kill him to get at me?’
No answer. His seed trickled out of her and
she wanted to vomit.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.’
‘Liar.’ She couldn’t hide her contempt.
He sat up, going on his knees, straddling her, and slapped her hard. Once, twice, three times. Her ears rang. Blood leaked from her nose. He stopped; she felt his erection return, pressed into her breasts.
‘I thought I was your darling,’ she managed.
He made a guttural sound. She could feel his legs shivering against hers.
Velvet wet her lips, tasted her own blood. Pete loved you, Corey. He only wanted to help you.’
Another low laugh.
‘Do you want me to love you, Corey? Maybe I could.’ She heard him laugh but not move. ‘I can’t love you if I don’t know you, though,’ she said.
‘You love Whit Mosley.’ His voice grew distant. ‘I saw you hug him.’
‘I sure as hell don’t love him. I hate his guts.’
‘Don’t hate his guts. I might bring them to you.’
Velvet’s tongue felt stuck. She expected him to rape her again, but instead he clambered off the bed. She heard him gathering his clothes and then the door shutting behind him. In a minute or so the soft hiss of a shower began to run.
He was gone. And he had not shoved the gag back in her mouth. With its tiny lock. Its edged metal lock.
In the end, of course, she called David.
Claudia awoke early Saturday morning and lay on the futon for an hour, her body stiff against the flowered sheets. She had no job. She had rent, she had food to buy, she had a car payment, she would have no health insurance, she had less than two thousand dollars in her checking account and less in a savings account, she owed six hundred on a Visa card with seventeen percent interest. Twice she reached for the phone to call her mother, but even before she dialed her mother’s voice rang in her ear like discordant chimes: Whats wrong with you? You give up a wonderful husband, now you lose your job? What, you want to shrimp with your father? There’s a future. Why did we bother sending you to school? She wasn’t up for her mother’s blunderbuss catechism. Heather Farrell’s face swam before her, dream-edged, and twice Claudia stumbled to the bathroom, surrendering to dry heaves of sick and shock.
