A Kiss Gone Bad (5 page)

The Blade watched his Darling and that goddamned good-for-nothing lecher of a judge embracing in the street. He tried to slow
his breathing. He had drawn close to Whit Mosley’s Explorer and retreated when his headlights, and the Explorer’s interior
lights, showed Velvet holding a cell phone. That wouldn’t do to have them announce they were being chased or to have a stranger
on a cellular connection overhear the Blade doing his best work. He followed them into Port Leo’s town square and slowly parked,
a block away in front of the black glass of the Gulfstream Bookstore, his headlights cut.

Watching them touch – watching Whit Mosley touch a woman that belonged to
him
– sickened the Blade. He cupped the knife against the round fleshiness of his palm, feeling the bite of its edge. He took
calming breaths and tried not to cry in frustration. Patience was beyond a virtue. It was the most basic rule of survival,
and to bend patience meant mistakes. Mistakes were not affordable. He had read, in the literature of his own kind, of the
most abominable errors: John Wayne Gacy inviting the police keeping him under surveillance to join him for breakfast right
when the odd smell floated from the crawlway; Dennis Nilsen showing the first policeman who knocked on his door the grisly
plastic bags in his London closet. The Blade decided long ago that he would not lie down and die. So he fell back, and he
watched, and he turned on the tape player, and the reedy Beach Boys tape that had been the player’s sole occupant for the
last three years sputtered into life and the Boys, volume turned
low, demanded he be true to his school. He prayed that his Darling would be true to him, singing along under his breath,
taking the harmony line.

Mosley and Velvet went into the police station, and the Blade waited. A few minutes later, Mosley sauntered across the street
to the courthouse.

You dirty little freak. You’re nothing, not worthy to touch her, know her tears. I’m not the nothing. You’re the nothing.

Mosley fiddled with the courthouse door and ducked inside the darkened building. A light flickered on a few minutes later
in a first-floor office behind lowered blinds.

Perhaps Judge Mosley didn’t lock up after himself.

He ran to the courthouse steps and tried the door: locked. Damn.

But no, he told himself. Not now. He shivered. One death by violence in Port Leo tonight was remarkable. Another the same
night would bring the police out in droves. He walked away from the courthouse. Let Whit Mosley continue to breathe – for
now – and let him rule that Pete Hubble died a suicide. He congratulated himself on his self-restraint.

The momentary pride evaporated when he saw the flyer hanging in the bookstore window. Only the dim shimmer from the streetlight
illuminated the girl’s face, printed on light blue paper taped to the inside of the window. The Blade blinked, his guts coiling
like a frightened snake.

The eyes of his last Darling watched him from the flyer. She was smiling broadly. He had not seen her smile, from the time
he had abducted her from a faraway parking lot to when he’d laid her in the shallow dirt behind his house.

HAVE YOU SEEN HER?
the flyer asked, with
MARCY ANN BALLEW
written below the question. It gave the young woman’s statistics of age, description, height, and
weight, and when she was last seen: leaving work at the Memorial Oaks Nursing Home in Deshay, Louisiana, September 30. Her
car had been recovered from a nearby Wal-Mart.

He read on, his throat feeling coated with sand. Her wallet had been found two miles outside Port Leo, along FM Road 1223,
a week ago. Anyone with information as to her whereabouts was requested to call the Encina County Sheriff’s Department or
the Port Leo police. A reward was mentioned.

The Blade mentally replayed his time with his most troublesome Darling. When could her wallet have gotten out on the road?
he wondered, and with a sick wrench he remembered. As he approached his enclave hidden away from the eyes of other men, she
roused from the stupor he’d forced on her with the Valiums and she kicked open a window. He’d veered off the road, whirled
to grab her, and belted her hard four times in the face, breaking her cheekbone and nose and knocking her unconscious. He
was furious, having to hurt her before his fun; and the broken bones meant he’d never gotten to see her smile. He traced her
smile on the paper with his finger: lovely. He missed her.

She must have thrown her wallet out the window before he punched her, trying to leave some clue of her passage. Now the police
in Louisiana – and here – must know that she had come through off-the-path Port Leo, Texas.

He swallowed the swell of panic. The police would no doubt be questioning everyone who lived along FM 1223, between here to
the county line. How hard would they look, and how hard would they look at him? Capture always lingered in the back of his
mind, an unwelcome companion but one as steady as his shadow. Now it loomed as a distinct possibility, and he had not claimed
his most precious Darling yet.

He could not take her now. The police would be watching her. But in a few days, especially if Pete was judged a suicide …
then she would be ripe, a plum oozing with juice, to be plucked from the tree. Tonight was Monday. He could take her, he believed,
by the end of the week. Friday or Saturday.

They could have a deliciously lost weekend together: movies if she were good, dinner, death. Then back to work on Monday.

The Blade began the somewhat arduous process of hatching a plan. What had he overheard Velvet call such contingencies in the
grocery store? He remembered and smiled: Plan B.

The interview room at the Port Leo Police Department resembled a supply closet more than an interrogation facility. In one
corner tottered a stack of old computer monitors. The department had upgraded their seven-year-old systems recently and no
one wanted the old standbys. A box of shredded documents, ready to be recycled, was shoved against the wall. Two plastic containers
of office supplies filled another corner. An old wooden table occupied the center of the room, marred with circles from water
cups and soda cans.

Heather Farrell, the young woman who’d found Pete’s body, watched Claudia Salazar with mulish eyes. Police Chief Delford Spires
sat next to Heather, quiet, letting Claudia take the lead in getting the statement. Claudia noticed, with affection, that
there was a crumb of cake caught in his mustache, but she didn’t want to point that out with the tape rolling. He had just
returned from telling the senator her son was dead. She turned to the witness.

‘Okay, Heather, this won’t take long,’ Claudia said. ‘For the record, do you have some identification?’

Heather Farrell dug in her dirty jeans and produced a tattered driver’s license, one that had expired. The birth date indicated
that she was two weeks past eighteen. The address on the card indicated she was from Lubbock, in west Texas, far more than
spitting distance from Port Leo. Claudia read the information off the driver’s license into the tape, then handed the laminated
card back to Heather, who proceeded to tidy her nails with the edge of the plastic.

‘Your family still in Lubbock, Heather?’ Claudia asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why did you leave Lubbock?’

‘Dirt sucks,’ Heather said.

‘That’s a good reason,’ Claudia said pleasantly. ‘Any others?’

‘I’m an artist. Lots of artists here.’ Heather shrugged. ‘I thought for sure those galleries would want to give me a big-ass
fancy show. Strange it hasn’t happened yet.’

‘You haven’t updated your driver’s license,’ Spires said.

‘Don’t drive much these days.’ Heather gave Delford a caustic look. ‘Gunk’s in your mustache, mister.’

Delford groomed out the offending morsel. ‘Thank you, Heather.’

‘Where are you living now, Heather?’ Claudia asked.

The girl shrugged with a lazy roll of shoulders. A willfulness – either born of stupidity or of hard use – tugged her face
into a constant, wary frown.

‘Here and there. I camp out at the park down by Little Mischief Beach sometimes.’

‘Do you have a permit to camp?’ Claudia already suspected the answer.

Heather shifted in her seat. ‘Darn, I lost it yesterday. I haven’t found a friendly ranger to give me a new one.’

Claudia nodded toward the backpack in the corner. ‘Those pretty much all your belongings?’

‘Yep. Travel light. I don’t believe in U-Hauls.’

‘So you brought everything you had in the world along with you to meet this guy on the boat.’

‘I guess,’ Heather said with no energy in her voice.

‘You moving in with him?’

‘No. I just don’t like leaving my stuff lying around.’

‘Did he tell you his name?’

‘Yeah. Pete Majors.’ Heather took a swig of the tepid
cocoa Officer Fox had fetched for her. ‘He said he was from Los Angeles.’

Majors, not Hubble. Big Pete Majors was his
nom de cinema,
gleaned from the videotapes on the boat. Claudia saw a thin sheen of sweat on Delford’s brow, despite the cool of the room.

‘Did Mr Majors tell you why he was in Port Leo?’ Claudia asked.

‘He was writing a movie about his brother’s death. But he was awful depressed about it. I think that’s why he killed himself.’

‘Where did you meet Mr Majors?’ Claudia asked.

‘At Little Mischief Beach,’ Heather answered. Claudia jotted a note on the pad in front of her. Little Mischief was an aptly
named, scrabbly beach north of Port Leo, a few miles from the Golden Gulf Marina, known as a kids’ hangout, with a small park
attached, dense with live oaks and red bays. A good necking spot, but there were better around the county.

Heather brushed fingers through her hair. ‘The light’s good at Little Mischief. I like to sketch the birds, the waves, the
old folks walking on the shore.’

‘Dopers love Little Mischief,’ Delford interjected. ‘Am I gonna find some weed in your knapsack, young lady?’

‘No,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘I don’t do drugs.’

Claudia steered them back on track. ‘What was Pete doing down at Little Mischief?’

‘He’d come down there with a notebook computer, to write or just chill out and throw pebbles in the surf.’ She wiped a hand
across her lips. ‘Quiet but nice. He gave me money for food.’

Claudia made a note. ‘This money he gave you. Any strings attached?’

A flash of resentment crossed Heather’s face. ‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’

More to the point was what Pete Hubble had taken Heather for. Claudia remained silent for a full thirty seconds, and Heather
began to fidget. ‘I’m not a whore, okay? He was just being nice.’ She paused. ‘Maybe he didn’t need the money, since he was
gonna kill himself.’

‘So he gave you a loan. What happened next between you?’ Claudia asked.

Heather Farrell finished her cocoa and began to tear the rim of the foam cup into strips. Specks of wet, powdery chocolate
smeared onto her fingertips, but she didn’t notice. ‘Nothing happened. He seemed real sad. Lonely. Like he’d gotten bad news.’

‘When did he invite you to his boat?’ Claudia asked.

‘He said he wanted to talk,’ Heather said. ‘He wasn’t sure why he would go on living.’

‘He barely knew you and yet he suggested to you he was suicidal?’ Claudia said.

‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk with a stranger than a friend.’

‘I suppose. What was this crushing sadness?’

‘Pete said his brother … was the source of all the sadness in his life. I gathered his brother died young. And he made mention
of some preacher that had screwed his brother over. Somebody Jones.’ She glanced at Delford. ‘He made it sound like maybe
this preacher was responsible for his brother’s death.’

Delford cut in. ‘Pete tell you what proof he had?’

‘No. But Pete bitched that he couldn’t make a case stick.’ She looked up from her lap, her eyes wide, like a child watching
a parent for approval.

‘You’ve got to be more specific,’ Claudia said. ‘What exactly did he say about this preacher and his brother?’

Heather scrunched her face. ‘Christ, I didn’t take a goddamned transcript, and he didn’t make a ton of sense. I’ve told you
what I know.’

Claudia let silence fill the room and began to tap her pen against the notepad. ‘He ever suggest you come to his boat and
take off your clothes for a movie?’

Heather gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘No! I’m not some street whore. I haven’t had any problems with the police since I
got here a month ago.’

‘How’d you get over to the marina?’

‘I hitched a ride into town from Little Mischief. I got to the marina a little after ten.’ She tore a long strip of Styrofoam
away from her cup and shredded it into confetti. ‘So I go to his boat – he’d told me it’s the big one at the very end of the
dock – and I went aboard. I called for him, but there was no answer. The door was open. I went downstairs.’ Her throat worked.
‘And there was no one in the kitchen and the living room, so I knocked on the bedroom door.’

‘It was closed?’ Claudia asked.

‘Yeah.’ Heather dabbed at her lips with her tongue. ‘I yelled out for Pete and pushed hard on the door. I saw him on the bed,
right away, and the blood spotting his face.’ She was quiet for a moment, a youngster staring at implacable death and realizing
she would someday feel its grasp.

‘I think I screamed. I think I would. I got off that boat like it was on fire. I screamed running down the docks, and people
came.’

‘See anyone suspicious around the boat? Or around the marina?’ This from Delford.

‘No.’ Heather tented her cocoa-daubed hands. Claudia yanked a tissue from a box and offered it to Heather. The girl wiped
her hands carefully and repeatedly. ‘I was so worried about Pete, how depressed he was, I wouldn’t have noticed anyone.’

Delford nodded solemnly.

Claudia thought:
You just don’t strike me as the Girl Scout type, sweetie.

‘Do you have your panties on?’ she asked Heather.

Heather’s mouth twitched. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I’d like to know if you have on a pair of panties.’

‘Why?’

‘Just answer me, please.’

‘Yeah, I got on panties. You think I’m running around without underwear on?’

‘Show me, please. I need you to lower your pants enough where I can see you’ve got a pair on. Chief, would you step outside
for a moment?’ Delford blinked at this turn of questioning.

‘He can stay. I don’t care.’ Heather stood and yanked down on her beltless jeans with a gentle tug. Claudia could see a slice
of panties below the girl’s waist, plain white, grimy.

‘Thank you,’ Claudia said.

Heather rearranged her jeans and sat. ‘Let me guess. You found panties on the boat and wanted to be sure they weren’t mine?’
She was smarter than she acted. ‘Those panties probably belonged to his lady friend.’

‘You knew he had a girlfriend?’ Delford asked.

‘He mentioned a lady that lived with him on the boat once. But I got the impression he’d had his fill of her. He said she’d
made a lot of money off of him, and he was tired of her.’

‘We’ll need you to stay in town, Heather, until our investigation is done.’

Her eyes widened. ‘What, under house arrest?’

‘No, but don’t leave town.’

Heather leaned back in her chair. ‘I think my statement is done, and I want one of them pro bono lawyers like on TV if you’re
going to ask me any more questions.’

‘Two more simple questions,’ Claudia said. ‘Woman camping a lot, you carry a gun?’

Heather picked at the table with a dirty fingernail. ‘No. I have some pepper spray, and I know how to kick a guy’s balls all
the way up to his throat.’

‘You ever see this young woman around, maybe down at Little Mischief?’ Claudia pulled a flyer from her notebook and pushed
it toward Heather. Delford watched without expression.

‘Marcy Ann Ballew,’ Heather read. She scrutinized the photo, as if looking for some vestige of herself in the printed face.
‘Sorry. Don’t know her.’

‘Where you staying tonight?’ Delford asked.

Heather looked discomfited. ‘Back at the park, I guess.’

‘If you’re still shook up, spending the night alone out in the dark’s no fun.’ Claudia softened her tone. ‘You can crash here.’

‘Oh, great, a jail cell,’ Heather said. ‘Thanks but no.’

‘We’d leave the door open. You’re not locked up. It’s clean and warm.’ Claudia ventured a grin. ‘Real cute guy working the
night shift.’

The face of Marcy Ann Ballew smiled up at both of them.

Heather shook her head. ‘I am not staying in any jail cell.’

‘Then let me call Social Services. They’ll find a place for you.’

‘You just want to keep a tab on me.’

‘A tab to be sure you’re okay,’ Claudia said.

‘I don’t need a tab.’ Heather stood. ‘We done? I got to go.’ As if she had errands to run, close to midnight.

Claudia clicked off the tape. ‘I’ll get this typed up and you can sign it.’

‘Can I come back tomorrow and sign? I’m beat.’

‘Sure,’ Claudia said.

‘Thanks for answering our questions.’ Delford stood. ‘And like Detective Salazar said, don’t leave town, miss. There may be
a death inquest and you may have to give testimony.’

‘I’ll stick like glue. Later.’ She gathered up her knapsack and left without a backward glance.

Delford Spires shut the door. ‘And they say charm school don’t make a difference no more.’

‘She seems awfully sure, on the basis of little detail and thin acquaintance with the man, that he committed suicide. Would
a man really kill himself over something that happened to his brother long ago?’

‘I worked the Corey Hubble case.’ Delford sat back down. ‘A heartbreaker. Here one day, gone the next, and never a sign of
him again. I wonder what this connection is to a preacher. Corey sure wasn’t religious – he was a little hell-raiser.’

Claudia told him about Pete’s tape and the mention of Jabez Jones.

Delford clicked his tongue. ‘Jabez Jones was just a kid then, too, and sure to God was never a suspect. Shit, there was never
a sign of foul play in that case, period. Corey just ran off and landed himself into real hot water and never resurfaced.’

‘Pete clearly thought otherwise,’ Claudia said. ‘I think I’ll talk to Jabez Jones.’ She watched Delford slump in his seat.
She was fond of him, like one might be of an old-fashioned uncle.

‘How are the Hubbles?’ she asked.

‘Devastated. I think they felt they’d just gotten Pete back in their lives. He’s stayed his distance. Lucinda’s a real strong
woman, but this might undo her. They gave me preliminary statements.’

A twinge of irritation nipped at her. He’d assigned her
the case yet taken statements from the immediate family. Perhaps it had been best, she reasoned, giving him the benefit of
a doubt, but she decided to explode the land mine.

‘So do they know Pete was a porn star?’ She explained the tapes.

‘Holy hell, no. At least she didn’t mention it to me. Why does a son hurt a mother so?’

‘Maybe she hurt him. Parents can be rotten.’

Delford snorted. ‘Lucinda gave Pete the world. It ain’t her fault he didn’t want it.’ He sighed, a long, arduous wheeze, and
stood. He regarded her with critical affection. ‘You up for this big a case?’

‘Of course.’ She labeled the tape of Heather’s statement and dropped it in an accordion folder.

‘You okay about David?’

She closed the folder. ‘I’m fine, Delford, really.’

‘I noticed today that you weren’t wearing your ring no more.’

Claudia’s thumb rubbed along the bare ring finger. A band where the skin, shielded by metal that supposedly meant forever,
stayed pale. ‘Yeah, well, the divorce was final yesterday. I sent David back the ring.’