A Kiss Gone Bad (13 page)

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.

The Porsche parked next to a flooring company’s van, and the driver unfolded himself from the car. Big, with terminally moussed
hair and pimp-bright clothes: a crimson tropical shirt adorned with purple parrots, bright yellow golfing pants, snow-white
high-top sneakers. He straightened his britches with a decisive yank as he ambled toward the building.

Whit drove past, U-turned, and circled back. The man still stood in the yard, talking to an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair.

‘Stop and talk to them or go on?’ Gooch asked.

‘Carpe diem and all that crap,’ Whit said. ‘Let’s stop.’

The old man watched them park and raised a hand to silence the young man. Whit was suddenly conscious of the
KEEP JUDGE MOSLEY
megasize magnetic sign on the
side of his Explorer. He and Gooch walked toward them. The steely scowl on the old man’s face deepened.

‘Hello,’ Whit said. ‘I’m Whit Mosley and I’m the justice of the peace here in Encina County.’

‘I see.’ The old man nodded toward the garishly patriotic vote-mobile, bright under the streetlights. ‘I’m Anson Todd.’

Whit recognized the name from the marina manager; Todd was the man who’d made the docking arrangements for
Real Shame.
‘This is Leonard Guchinski,’ Whit said.

‘Charmed,’ Gooch said.

Whit kept his eyes on the hefty guy. ‘I understand you’re acquainted with Pete Hubble.’

‘Why do you ask or care?’ the younger man challenged.

‘Junior,’ the older man said with a bored note of caution.

Ah, young Mr Deloache,
‘I’ll take that as a yes. I’m conducting the inquest into Pete’s death and I’d like to talk to you about him.’

‘We have nothing to say,’ Junior said in a petulant voice. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come in for a minute,’ the old man invited, as though he’d not heard Junior’s pronouncement. His voice, scratchy, reminded
Whit of a dusty, worn record. ‘Junior, do me a favor. We’re out of cereal and I’m not facing the morning without my raisin
bran. Run down to the store.’ He pivoted the wheelchair sharply and zoomed for the condo’s lobby.

‘Anson, we got cereal,’ Junior called to the old man’s back.

‘Not the kind I like,’ Anson said, not giving Junior another glance. ‘Go.’

Junior, abandoned, stood slack-jawed and then loped to his Porsche and roared off. Whit and Gooch followed
Anson into the condo’s lobby. Wood shavings, tattered wallpaper, and a half-dismantled reception desk, cluttered with a forest
of empty soda cans, decorated the half-done vestibule. A couple of construction workers, begrimed with sawdust but getting
excellent overtime, inspected unfurled blueprints with lukewarm interest.

‘Late night to be working construction,’ Gooch said.

‘Late night to be bothering people,’ Anson said.

They followed Anson into a cramped, rackety elevator. Anson punched eight, the top button.

‘So you own this building?’ Whit asked.

‘No.’ Anson declined further explanation. Anson Todd looked to be edging seventy. He wore a black turtleneck, gray sweatpants
covering withered legs, and wire-rimmed glasses over cat-green eyes. An ugly, welted scar scored his temple, and his overlong
gray hair was combed over to hide the mark.

‘Let me guess. You work for Mr Deloache, Senior,’ Whit said.

The elevator stopped, and Whit held the door for Anson to wheel himself out. Anson motored out of the elevator into a garishly
appointed suite. It looked to Whit like an animal lover’s apartment from hell: zebra prints on the wall, a leopard sofa, a
tiger skin on the floor. The monotony of hides was broken by the neon-kissed furniture that had likely been purchased at the
House of Lime. A thick-necked youth glanced up from the television; his overinflated physique made him look like he had been
gulping steroids with his mother’s milk.

‘Hey,’ the young man greeted Anson, a wary glance going to Gooch and Whit.

‘Go watch TV in the master bedroom,’ Anson ordered. ‘Come if I call you.’

‘Sure,’ the monosyllabic hulk agreed. He lurched up
from the couch and stomped into another room, slamming the door behind him.

Anson Todd said, ‘I love chaperoning the mentally deficient. Have a seat, Judge. Mr Guchinski.’ He gestured toward an expansive
leather sofa the color of a frozen margarita. Instead Whit wandered to the wall of windows that showed a panoramic view of
St Leo Bay and the Gulf. To the north, the huge piers jutting out into the bay dazzled with light, and house lights along
Santa Margarita Island glittered like a broken bracelet of diamonds.

‘I see why you stay here instead of aboard
Real Shame,’
Whit said.

‘Actually, the
Shame’s
not wheelchair-friendly. I stay off except for an infrequent fishing trip. Coffee? Beer?’

Gooch leaned against the window, thick arms linked behind his back. Whit eased onto the plush leather couch.

‘No, thank you,’ Whit said. ‘We won’t take up much of your time.’

‘You won’t need much, Judge. We don’t know a thing about Pete’s death. Yes, Mr Deloache Senior owns
Real Shame
and has for five years. But Pete was an acquaintance of Junior’s. Mr Deloache never met him.’

‘The gun that was found in Mr Hubble’s hand wasn’t registered.’

‘If there was an unregistered gun aboard, then Mr Hubble or his lady friend brought it. Not ours.’

‘She denies that.’

Anson smiled. ‘Once she’s over her grief, maybe her memory improves.’

Whit wondered if memory enhancements came in the form of fists or threats. ‘I’ve spoken with witnesses who say Junior visited
Pete pretty regularly at the marina. Argued with him about money. Behaved badly yesterday.’

‘Define badly.’

‘Tried to rough up Pete.’

‘Junior? He’s a teddy bear. He couldn’t bruise fruit. Look, from where I sit, you got hearsay. You got anyone who’s positively
ID’d Junior as being there?’

‘Don’t,’ Whit said. ‘His father owns the boat.’

‘Okay, yeah, but you got anyone who will ID Junior as being the argumentative type you’re looking for?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? ’Cause Junior wasn’t here yesterday. Neither was I. We been in Houston the past few days, we just drove in this morning.
Got a whole bunch of people who will confirm that.’

‘Why are y’all down here? Because someone died on your property?’

‘Junior’s in charge of getting this resort project completed for his dad. You could call him a project manager. You should.
He loves it.’

Whit raised an eyebrow. ‘Let me guess. Junior manages the project and you manage Junior.’

Anson grinned. His teeth were yellowed from cigarette smoke.