A Kiss Gone Bad (21 page)

Lying on the bunk in the thin morning light, Whit opened the file of clippings Patsy Duchamp had given him yesterday. He heard
Gooch clopping about on the deck. They had already scarfed a quick breakfast of yesterday’s doughnuts and were chugging back
to shore, where Whit would begin his great judicial charade and try not to get himself or anyone else killed.

A note from Patsy was stuck on the thick file of clips:
Whit, sorry if it’s overkill, but the lady who did this is a retired military librarian, and let’s just say she is a COMPLETIST.
Hope this is helpful. You owe me a pitcher of Shiner Bock. Patsy.

Completist was right. The woman had found practically every mention of Corey Hubble. Whit skipped the first clippings, looking
for the ones specifically related to Corey’s disappearance.

The first articles were entirely straightforward, except for the inherent lurid appeal of headlines like
SENATOR’S SON MISSING
or
HUBBLE SUSPECTED RUNAWAY,
and it was the same information Claudia had shared with him from the police report. The tone of the quotes – most of which
were from Delford and only a couple from Lucinda – went from fear of Corey being a victim of foul play to a seeming certainty
that he had run away. No indication Pete, or anyone else, was suspected of killing Corey. The story garnered fewer inches
as time passed. No new developments emerged.

He set the clippings from, during, and after Corey’s disappearance aside and went back through the rest. One was Lucinda’s
husband’s obituary, with Corey simply
listed as a survivor. Many were articles about Lucinda’s original campaign for the Texas Senate, picturing her stumping for
votes with her two sons. Pete beamed, happy and proud; Corey wore the smile his mother told him to.

In a photo showing his mother on election night, when she narrowly won, Corey smiled in stunned amazement, as though victory
was an unexpected pleasure. A few more clippings offered coverage of legislation Lucinda Hubble sponsored. He had stopped
to read one article, dated a month before Corey’s disappearance, about Lucinda’s fiery stand on nursing home reform when his
gaze drifted to a picture on the far side of the page.

It was a common photo for the
Port Leo Mariner:
proud fisherman hoisting aloft a sizable catch. The paper actively courted show-offs to promote Port Leo as an angler’s paradise.
Four goofily grinning teenagers held high a trio of big bullet-shaped fish. The caption read:
Tight Lines for Teens – Corey Hubble and friends caught a trio of beautiful red boogers, 22", 25", and 26", while out on
St Leo Bay on Nov 22. Not pictured are the many biggies that got away. The kids used dead shrimp. Pictured (l to r): Corey
Hubble and Marian Duchamp of Port Leo, Thomas Deloache Jr and Eddie Gardner of Houston.

Whit stared at the photo. He tucked the clippings back into the envelope. Then he went up on the deck to help Gooch dock at
the Golden Gulf Marina.

After Gooch gave him sound advice on how to avoid assassination throughout the day (‘watch your ass something constant and
scream fire if attacked’), Whit headed for his car. The T-head – and the docked boats – smelled of sharp diesel fuel, brewing
coffee, and the sugary-piss tang of spilled white Zinfandel. He watched terns arcing
over the gently rocking boats, scouring for generous breakfast scraps. His cell phone chirped. ‘Whit Mosley here.’

‘Hi. My name is Kevin McKinnon. You had sent me an E-mail about Pete Hubble?’ A low baritone, calm, an accountant’s voice.

Kevin, creator of the on-line Temple of Appreciation Web site, dedicated to Pete.

‘Yes, Kevin, hello, thank you for calling back.’

‘Yeah, well, what did you want?’

No point in hemming and hawing. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Pete has passed away.’

Silence. ‘You’re not funny.’

‘I’m afraid I’m quite serious. I’m the justice of the peace here in Port Leo, Texas, Pete’s hometown. He died Monday night.
I’m supervising the inquest into his death.’

More silence. ‘Oh, Jesus, oh, God.’ The pain in his voice, the raw loss, stopped Whit.

Whit waited a moment, letting the man regain composure. ‘I saw a posting on your site that you had talked with him this week.’

‘Yes. How did he die?’

Whit told him briefly, without mentioning the suicide note. Kevin’s low baritone became a breathy, agonized mewl. ‘If this
is a joke, it’s in really bad taste.’

Under other circumstances an amateur pornographer chiding him on taste might have been good for a laugh over drinks with Georgie
and Gooch. Deep grief colored Kevin’s voice, sounding as true as the grief of the Hubbles.

‘I’m so terribly sorry. But it would be helpful if you could tell me what you talked about.’

‘I want some confirmation of this, mister. You fax me a death certificate.’

‘How about if you call me at my office at the Encina
County courthouse? I’ll give you the switchboard number, you can talk to the operator and know you’re really talking to a
judge.’

The offer disarmed him. ‘Oh, shit. This is real?’

‘You talked to him in the hours before he died. Did he sound suicidal?’

‘Hardly. He sounded elated. He’d gotten the funding for his movie. His regular movie.’

‘Did he mention where this money was coming from?’

‘No. I guess he couldn’t get the producers who regularly funded his porn work to back this movie. He said he needed a half
million and he’d gotten it.’

Whit kept his voice under control. ‘He had landed a half-million dollars?’

Kevin coughed. ‘Why would he kill himself if he had gotten the money? That makes no sense.’

‘He didn’t mention who his investor was?’

‘I’m sure. I can’t believe he’s gone.’

Whit wondered:
What was Pete to you, for God’s sakes, a picture on a computer? Or more?

‘Forgive me, Kevin, but can you tell me what your relationship was with Pete?’

‘Just a friend. Yeah, I dug his movies, I dug watching him, he was hotter than hell, man. But he was straight as an arrow.
There was nothing between us. He liked that I had done a Web site about him. He was cool, thought it helped sell more videos
for him, and it didn’t cost him a cent.’

‘Did he ever mention his brother Corey to you?’ Whit remembered that the one Internet search he’d done on Corey Hubble pointed
him toward Kevin’s site, oddly enough.

‘Yeah, he told me the whole sad story once. I posted a page about his brother on the site a few months ago, you know, thinking
to help. A picture of Corey, details about
when he vanished, a number you could call if you had information. Pete’s answering service.’

‘Did he ever mention any of these names to you: Junior Deloache? Or Eddie Gardner? Or Jabez Jones?’

‘No. Sorry,’ Kevin said. ‘Jesus, now I got to write an obituary. Where the hell do I start?’

‘Kevin, thanks. If there’s anything else you remember …’

‘Yeah, wait. The money. He joked about it. I figured his financier had just given him a check, but he joked about how heavy
the bag was. Maybe he got the money in cash.’

‘Thank you, Kevin. Thanks so much.’ Condolence seemed even more awkward now than it had with Faith, but he tried. ‘Please
know how sorry I am for you losing your friend.’

‘Thanks. Thanks. I got to go.’

Kevin hung up. Whit hurried to his car, made sure no mobsters hunked behind his tires, and fired up the engine. The car didn’t
explode. The day was off to a positive start.

Why would anyone give a no-talent porn hack a half million in cash to make a movie? Another hack, Whit thought. Junior Deloache.

His phone buzzed again.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Claudia demanded. ‘I need a search warrant and I need it fast.’

‘You aren’t going to get away with this,’ Mary Magdalene screamed. Claudia ignored her and watched two county deputies search
the back closet of Jabez’s master suite.

‘It would be helpful if you would just tell us where Jabez is,’ David said. His eyes shone brightly in excitement.

Mary Magdalene flinched. ‘He was called away on the Lord’s business.’

One of David’s fellow deputies came in the room, shook his head. ‘No sign of Jones on the grounds. Car’s gone.’

‘So where is he, Mary?’ Claudia asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re his right-hand woman and you don’t know.’ Claudia crossed her arms, suspecting that Jabez leaving Mary behind to feel
the heat was an increasingly tender subject. ‘So I guess he just figured you could take whatever rap was coming. That’s really
Christian of him. What a guy.’

Mary Magdalene trembled, but not from fear.

A deputy, a lanky young Vietnamese man, carried an old, worn maple box from the closet. Inside was a thick Bible. Inside the
Bible, in neatly hollowed-out trenches of Scripture, lay three vials of white powder. David daubed a bit on his tongue, tasted,
and nodded at Claudia. ‘The pause that refreshes. Co-caine, boys and girls.’

Claudia turned to Mary Magdalene. ‘Help us, Mary, or we can’t help you when the judge starts throwing books your way. Where
is Jabez?’

Mary Magdalene fell to one knee, her mouth twisting in silent prayer.

‘Start searching the other barracks,’ David ordered, ‘and let’s call the DEA in Corpus. And we need to get an APB out on Jones.’

‘She knows where he is,’ Claudia insisted, pointing at the prayerful Mary. ‘She knows and she’s—’

Mary Magdalene exploded from the floor and pile-drove into Claudia, sending them both sprawling out into the small hallway.
Thick fingers with sharp nails, like pikes, dug into Claudia’s windpipe, and a fist slammed against her left eye. Claudia
rammed upward
with her knee, finding the softness between Mary’s legs, and she grabbed Mary’s thumb and bent back hard. A scream, and then
the hands were yanked away, the other officers pinning Mary on her stomach, cuffing her in an instant.

Claudia climbed to her feet, David helping her. Her shoulder ached and the skin around her eye was numbed. Mary screamed imprecations,
not the sweet language of theology but the salty poetry from her days on the street.

‘I’m fine,’ Claudia said before David could start fawning over her hurts. She knelt by Mary. ‘You just complicated your life
about a hundred times. I’m starting to think you’re not particularly bright. Here’s a chance to get smart, Mary. Where is
Jabez?’

‘ “His enemies shall lick the dust,” ’ she hollered, her face purpling in rage. ‘You’ll die just like the trash does!’

‘Y’all the ones licking dust. Or snorting it,’ David said.

‘Die like the trash does?’ Claudia asked. ‘Or die like the trash did?’

Delford Spires shook his head. ‘I hope everything’s nice and clean about how y’all got that warrant and did that search.’
He pointed at Claudia’s eye. ‘That’s gonna go shiner.’

‘It’s not like I was having my photo done soon for employee of the month.’

Stiff silence.

‘So that leaves us, Delford, with an awful interesting situation,’ Claudia said. ‘Pete Hubble placed this girl in Jabez’s
camp. I can’t imagine he would go to all that trouble, then blithely kill himself.’

Delford sipped a cold coffee. ‘I can’t explain away a suicide note, Claudia. Especially one that has just Pete’s and Sam’s
prints on it.’ His tone was final, dismissive, and he fixed her with a glower designed to make her
crumple. She fired a salvo back, tired and achy and sick of being railroaded.

‘I assume you’ve spoken with Judge Mosley about the coroner’s findings and the problems with the bagging of the hands.’

‘Yes, I have,’ Delford said.

Eddie Gardner reddened. ‘Claudia, you saw the body with me,’ Gardner said. ‘I didn’t screw up the bagging.’

‘I didn’t say you did,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m just telling you what the ME and Judge Mosley said.’

Delford tweezed a mustache end into sharp perfection. ‘Eddie, review the chain of custody for the body. Make sure we can account
for the bag damage. Probably the goddamned mortuary crew tore ’em.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Gardner said. ‘One other thing on Hubble. Since we have a time of death, we can locate the boats that came in
and out of Golden Gulf during the period, since
Real Shame
was at the end of the T-head. Claudia and I already have accounted for five of the six boats that departed and all the boats
that arrived. No one saw anything helpful.’

‘And this last boat?‘

‘A cruiser called
Miss Folly.
Owner lives up near New Orleans and treks all over the Gulf coast. He didn’t file a float plan.’ A float plan was the maritime
equivalent of a flight plan, required of commercial vessels, optional for personal craft.

‘Let’s get that boat found,’ Delford said to Eddie. ‘I don’t want the press suggesting we’re not being thorough. Claudia,
let’s talk.’

After Gardner had shut the door behind him, Delford folded his hands on his desk. ‘I noticed you checked out the Corey Hubble
file. Find anything interesting?’

‘No, not really.’

‘You’re still pissed about being pulled as the lead.’

‘No, it’s your decision.’

‘Claud, come on. I know you too well. You’re madder than a wet bee. But listen, I want Gardner handling this.’

‘Like he did the bags?’

‘I did bruise your ego. Well, now.’ A crinkle – a near smile – crossed his face. ‘Point taken. Hubble’s just about over, soon
as Whit gets off his ass and issues a damned ruling. Focus on the Ballew case.’

‘It’s really the sheriff’s case, not ours,’ Claudia said. ‘Unless you’re scheming with mine and David’s parents to stick us
back together.’

Delford laughed, the low tremble that she knew, and she felt a sudden warmth again toward him, this contrary, whim-ridden
old fart who could either advance you fast in the department or mire you down forever. ‘Your mama scares me, Claudia, and
I would be reluctant to cross her. I just want you to provide the sheriff’s office with support. Consider yourself loaned
to them.’

And therefore out of your hair,
Claudia thought.