A Kiss Gone Bad (9 page)

Velvet came awake suddenly, in the bright haze from the motel windows. She rubbed her eyes and thought:
So now starts the rest of your life, babe. What are you going to do?

Sleep remained impossible after that priss-assed cop dropped her off at the motel. She lay awake, listening to the hum of
the air conditioner as it chilled the room, and the gentle bump of her heart as she hugged a goose-feather pillow close to
her body.

Pete dead. And only yesterday he’d said to her:
I’m not gonna do another flick with you until all this with my brother is settled, understand? You can help me or you can
fly your ass back to California, but I’m not leaving now.

She’d pouted, furious.
Well, if you loved me you would.

He’d set his lips tight and turned away from her.
I guess I don’t love you, then, Velvet.

And now, even though she was sure Pete hadn’t meant it – the words could not be undone, loved away, erased, made into meaningless
wisps.

Velvet thought about Lucinda Hubble and Faith Hubble, and a hot cinder formed in her heart. Hatred was too polite a word for
what she felt. She thought of young Sam Hubble and her throat tightened, for Sam and Pete and what could never be. If God
were merciful, Pete strutted in heaven now, and her own mother might be meeting him at the pearly gates, smiling at him with
all the love she’d once lavished on Velvet, taking him by the hand, introducing him to the other souls flitting from cloud
to cloud.

That image made her cry.
Like you believe in that shit anymore, girl.
Pete was probably frying in hell and scooting over in the bubbling oil to make room for her.

The cry did her good. Velvet dried her tears on the pillowcase. Enough weepiness, it was time for action. She needed a Plan
B. The Hubbles clearly wielded influence here. The local powers-that-be, she suspected, would treat her as Pete’s embarrassing
girlfriend if it was suicide and a possible suspect if it was murder.

And she had zero intention of sitting like a lump and letting her ass be moved around the political chessboard.

She decided Claudia Salazar would be useless, but Whit Mosley wouldn’t. She reviewed the mental picture she’d formed of him:
nicely tall, trim, full blondish hair, tan but not from idling on a beach, face a little too boyish for his years, kindness
in the smile. Smart but not snotty, a beach bum grown up, perhaps only recently. Average teeth, firm legs and butt, terrific
hands – the checklist of how she typically evaluated the rookie male talent for her movies on initial meeting, before the
pants dropped. She liked a man with strong hands. The hands were seen more in the movies than you would think – cupping breasts,
running fingers through hair, holding faces for a kiss. And Whit might be putty to a woman with her talent and charms and
persuasive skills.

At nine in the morning she called her production company’s lawyers in Van Nuys and a few friends, ignoring the time difference
between the Texas coast and California, breaking the sad news about Pete. She left a voice mail for the lawyers to find her
some legal representation in Corpus Christi, a big-city attorney hardened enough to deal with pissing-mad senators and provincial
police.

Then she took a bath, relaxing herself in the soapy hot water, and only when a stray thought crossed her mind did she sit
upright in a panic.

What if whoever killed Pete thought she knew what Pete knew?

She didn’t. He’d kept his research about Corey tight to his chest, just telling her all was going well. He had discussed none
of the screenplay with her.

The killer might not believe that. She dried off, combed her hair, and sat naked as she leafed through the Coastal Bend yellow
pages, researching pawnshops and gun dealers.

The images played across the television, the screen the only light in the cabin, and the Blade sat and watched as Big Pete
Majors took Velvet Mojo from behind, both of them grunting like animals, she tilting her head to keep her wraparound sunglasses
on during the pounding encounter. They moaned so much it sounded like they had intestinal disorders. Pete did not offer a
range of theatrical nuance. He just knelt behind her, ramming with his hips while Velvet pleaded with him to go stronger and
faster, more like a testy coach than a lover. Pete’s face was as blank as the boys the Blade remembered from the mental home.
He watched the tape twice before he finally fell asleep in his recliner.

He awoke in a sour mood because he had dreamed not of Velvet but of Whit Mosley, laughing at him.
You? She’s gonna pick you over me? What reality does that happen in, fat ass?
The Blade had watched Whit in public and women smiled at him, whereas women suddenly recalled other appointments and hurried
on their way when the Blade tried long conversations. Hating Whit was easy. The Blade imagined Whit dead, hollowed out, and
himself stepping into Whit’s skin, pulling the pallid skulllness face over his own like a mask, fitting his fingers into Whit’s
fingers like gory gloves.

Why not kill Mosley as well as take Velvet? He considered.
Dismemberment held a certain appeal, as did evisceration, although they certainly cut short the fun. He considered decapitation
overrated; heads seemed mocking without bodies attached. The Blade had learned that truth the hard way.

He’d never wanted to kill a man particularly before, but it promised an interesting difference – like fries after a solid
week of potato chips. He daydreamed about Whit dying from a slow, careful series of cuts, and a slow whisper filtered into
his ears. He stared at the ceiling and its whirring fan. The fan, spinning, resembled a dark eye. Mama’s eyes. He stared,
barely breathing, only hearing Mama’s voice telling him what he must do.

He awoke and knew he had slipped to that inky world that Mama had shaped. She used to say, with her sure smile, right before
she warmed the wrench on the stove or clicked the clothespin shut on his little flick of a penis:
We’re together forever, honeybunch, and don’t you ever forget it.

Thank God, he would think, that he had managed to become the hero of his own story. Mama had not won. He had. He would still.

His phone rang; he picked up and chatted through morning niceties, then listened.

‘This young woman who found Pete’s body,’ the familiar voice murmured into his ear. ‘Do me a favor. Give her some money. Get
her out of town.’

‘Sure,’ said the Blade. ‘I can do that for you.’

‘Santa Fe is lovely this time of year, and I bet there’s a nice, affordable youth hostel. Or perhaps Florida, if she’s still
set on a beach.’ He listened to detailed instructions and hung up the phone.

His thumb began to itch for the keen sharpness of his knife. If Heather Farrell needed to leave town … well, many were the
avenues. A hefty bribe paled compared to
other options. He’d gotten away with this every time. (Well, except that one time, so very long ago.) Why not again? He was
already in the mood.

He considered how best to approach the problem and how to avoid any messy ramifications. A lure, simple, would do. Nothing
could interfere, after all, with his plan for Velvet. He ducked under the sagging bed he slept on and reached for his bowie
knife. It was lovely, stout, and sharp enough to cut hopes and dreams. He rummaged in a box with
MAMA’S STUFF
written on the side in thick Magic Marker and found a worn sharpening stone. The Blade dragged the knife back and forth across
the stone, a rhythmic caress that whispered:
Heath-er, Heath-er, Heath-er.

The Blade flicked on his stereo. The Beach Boys sang in perfect harmony about their 409, and the knife moved to the beat.

Claudia wrote a terse report on the investigation’s status and left it on Delford’s empty desk. She grabbed a cup of thin
coffee from the kitchen. When she got back to her desk, the dispatcher was buzzing her. She had a visitor in the lobby, Faith
Hubble.

‘I get the feeling,’ the dispatcher whispered, ‘she don’t like waiting.’

The lobby was barely ten feet by ten feet, cramped with a chair, a side table of old magazines, and a rack of flyers on safety
and community policing. The woman sat in the chair, pulling a loose string from the tattered upholstery and snapping it with
her fingernail.

‘Mrs Hubble? I’m Claudia Salazar.’

Faith stood and offered a hand. They shook hands quickly, and Faith followed Claudia back to her office.

From their phone conversation, Claudia had pictured a different woman. She’d imagined one of those no-nonsense Austin politicos,
health-club firm and sorority-girl petite, blond-helmet hair, with a crisp suit and jump-when-I-say demeanor. Faith Hubble
was a big-boned woman, approaching six feet tall, generously chested and thighed, with a creamy complexion and thick brown
hair arranged in a hurried French braid. Pretty but loosely put together. Her Italian suit was tailored, black with a white
silk blouse, but the jacket was already rumpled and a smear of jam soiled the cuff. Claudia imagined Faith more at home on
a honky-tonk bar stool than a campaign trail.

‘Have a seat, Mrs Hubble.’

‘Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, hon. I
assume we’re both pressed for time, so I won’t dilly-dally with you – what’s the status of the investigation?’ Faith kept
her eyes – bright hazel beauties – firmly fixed on Claudia’s face, like a drill sergeant surveying a sweating recruit.

‘Mostly we’re waiting for lab reports.’ Claudia was uneasy with the idea of snapping to and giving this woman a complete rundown,
but she suspected Delford would provide the Hubbles all the information. There was little point in being evasive.

‘And when will the lab geeks deliver?’

‘Tomorrow. Or the next day.’

‘Any way to rush them?’ Faith asked. ‘Obviously the family wants to know what happened as soon as possible.’ Her voice was
low and throaty, as though corroded by cigarettes or whiskey.

‘Science can’t be rushed. Certain tests take a certain amount of time.’ Claudia paused. ‘I’m sure you and the senator wouldn’t
want the tests to be inaccurate.’

‘Honey, I’m dealing with a devastated mother and a heartbroken son. They need some sort of closure.’

No grief of your own?
Claudia thought. Faith Hubble carried herself more like a woman inconvenienced than bereaved.
How would you feel now if David died, though?
A sense of loss would be inescapable. David had not been a bad husband, just not the right one for her. Their life had not
been all misery. She hoped her heart would be big enough to mourn his passing.

Faith straightened her sleeve, noticed the jam, and muttered in anger. Her fingernails were painted cranberry red, and she
clicked them together impatiently.

‘I’m also dealing with a press corps with a decided lack of scandal or news in this campaign, and they’re gonna be on Pete’s
death like dogs on ribs. They got deadlines and imaginations, hon, and they’re gonna write. I’d like to be
sure your department doesn’t feed them newsy tidbits that are inappropriate.’

‘We’ve told the press nothing but the bare essentials. That a man was found dead on a boat at the marina and we’re investigating.’

‘Pete’s death was all over the radio this morning, Detective. They knew his name, that he was Lucinda’s son.’

‘I’m sure the press spoke to people at the marina. People could see which boat we swarmed over, I guess they knew his name.
I’m afraid we can’t stifle the public. Or Pete’s friend Velvet.’

Faith rubbed her forehead. ‘Do you know what it’s like to have your life be tabloid fodder? It’s like showering in a glass
bathroom.’ She shook her head. ‘I know … that y’all know what Pete did for a living. Delford told us. And I can’t let Aaron
Crawford use this to defeat Lucinda. He could use Pete’s suicide as an unfair disparagement on Lucinda’s abilities as a mother.’

He was your husband. Father of your child. Do you even care one bit about him?
Claudia wondered. ‘Such a tactic might backfire. Voters might see it as a rotten attempt to gain from Mrs Hubble’s personal
loss.’

‘Never overestimate the voters,’ Faith said.

‘No confidential information will leak from this department. I’ll be sure all press inquiries are routed to me or Delford.’

‘I’m thinking of my son. Not the political damage to Lucinda,’ Faith said. ‘Sam … doesn’t know. You understand.’

‘Sure.’

‘And I would like to review any announcements that your department makes on the investigation.’

Claudia stiffened. ‘That’s not going to be possible.’

Faith set her chin in her palm and kept her tone
relaxed. ‘Let me clarify, hon. I said review. Not approve or edit or block. If you’re going to release damaging information
about Pete, I’d like the opportunity to prepare a statement on the senator’s behalf. Surely that’s reasonable.’

Claudia suddenly felt dumb in the face of this woman’s impenetrable confidence. ‘We’ll try not to blindside you.’

‘Thank you, Detective. I sure do appreciate it.’ Faith stood to go.

‘I need you to answer a few questions first,’ Claudia said pleasantly.

‘Delford took our statements. Surely you’ve taken the time to review them.’

‘It’s best if I can hear it from you. Please.’ Claudia gestured at the chair. Faith sat, folding her small Italian purse in
her lap. It too was black.
All the trappings of widowhood without the teary inconvenience of grief.

‘Were you in regular contact with him?’ Claudia asked.

‘Not until he returned to Port Leo. Before that – perhaps a couple of times a year. Sam’s birthday, if he remembered, and
at Christmas. I imagine Christmas is his slow season.’

‘With so little contact, you can’t make a reasonable judgment as to whether he was suicidal, I suppose,’ Claudia ventured.
Faith had already mentioned suicide twice, as though it were a given.

Faith frowned. ‘I think someone in porn has serious self-esteem issues. Don’t you?’

‘Perhaps. He didn’t send you child support?’

Nails clicked. ‘Why is that relevant, pray tell?’

‘I’m trying to determine if his son was part of the reason to come home.’

‘Making me and his mama squirm was the reason. We occupied seats of honor on his shit list, Detective. When Pete announced
his intention to leave me and our infant
son and go to California for this folly of being in movies, I knew he’d fail. He had lofty goals but no real talent and the
self-discipline of a drug addict. When I found out he’d ended up doing … adult films, I wanted to be sure he could never hurt
Sam. Or Lucinda.’ She rubbed her tired eyes. ‘I’ll give him a smidge of credit that he did send support for Sam every now
and then, but he sent it to his mother. She would then turn the money over to me. I in turn would donate it to charity. Starving
children in Ethiopia, monsoon relief in Bangladesh. Always a good cause far removed from us.’

‘Why give away the money if it was intended for your son?’

‘That money was earned on Pete’s back. Or other body parts,’ she said dismissively. ‘I didn’t want Pete’s smut translating
into food in my son’s stomach.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to Pete?’

Faith shifted in her seat. ‘Yesterday morning. He phoned the house, wanting to talk to Sam.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘Depressed. Unhappy. If you had ended up like him – utterly failed, utterly cheapened – wouldn’t you be depressed? He’d seen
the lives that Sam and I have built. Sam and I have a good life. I think Pete regretted the choices he’d made. If our lives
are the candy store, he definitely had his face pressed against the glass.’

‘Do you know if he’d sought professional help?’

‘Pete on a shrink’s couch? Never. He thought couches were good for one thing and one thing only.’

‘You didn’t like the way he made his money or lived his life, but you didn’t object to him seeing your son?’

Faith tented her fingers beneath her chin. Her hands were like ivory. ‘No, I didn’t like it. But Sam’s like the rest of the
Hubbles, he has a mind of his own. He wanted to see his father when his father came back, so I permitted
limited visits. Better that than Sam sneaking around to see Pete.’

‘How would you characterize their relationship?’

‘Relationship my ass.’ Real anger tinged her voice. ‘Sam spent most of his childhood wondering what was so wrong with him
that his father shunned him – as though the child were the damaged goods, not the man. But when he got to know his father,
Sam finally realized Pete counts as little more than a sperm donor.’

‘You mentioned Pete was depressed when he called you. Can you be more specific?’

Faith fingered a wrinkle in her tailored slacks. ‘He asked if he could speak to Sam. I told him Sam had already left for school.
He begged me to let Sam know he’d called and I agreed. We said good-bye and hung up. That was the last time I spoke to him.’

‘Do you know if Sam returned his father’s call?’

‘I gave him the message, but Sam didn’t seem particularly interested in phoning his father back.’

‘Let me get this straight, ma’am. He didn’t mention to you, after y’all found out Pete was dead, whether or not he’d talked
to his father that day?’

Faith shifted in her seat again. ‘Sam probably talked to him, yes. I don’t remember. It was a very long, upsetting evening.’

‘How badly will it hurt his mother’s campaign if voters learn Pete was a porn star?’ Claudia asked.

Her throat worked. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Surely when he showed up, you had to calculate what the possible damage might be.’

‘Lucinda has been an outstanding senator for the past sixteen years. She’s easily won reelection and her approval ratings
are high. There’s no reason to think she wouldn’t have the voters’ support.’

‘You sound like a press release given breath,’ Claudia
said, and Faith stiffened. ‘No one in her office was eager to advertise about Pete, were you?’

‘I have no intention of being harangued by you.’

Claudia suspected the damage, from Faith and Lucinda’s viewpoint, would be considered catastrophic. Nuclear. Career-ending.

‘Do you know if he kept a gun?’ Claudia asked.

‘I have no idea.’

‘Do you know if he was having financial problems of any sort?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know if he was involved with drugs, anything illicit?’

Faith’s mouth tightened, as though a stench had drifted into the cramped room. ‘If I’d suspected for a moment he was a drug
user, I wouldn’t let Sam within a mile of him.’

‘Do you know if he was still involved in porn?’

‘He told me he wanted to leave that business.’ Faith rubbed her lip. Perhaps it was more politic, Claudia considered, for
Faith to paint Pete as on the road to reforming. A bad guy who’d come home to Senator Mommy and seen the error of his ways
before his unfortunate demise. ‘If there is anything suspicious about Pete’s death – if it’s not suicide – then I suggest
you take a long, hard look at that Velvet woman. She’s entirely unstable.’

‘How so?’

‘How mentally stable could she be, sleeping with hundreds of men? It would warp a soul. Warp a heart.’

‘Do you know she’s done that? I thought she directed, not acted.’

‘As if that matters.’ Faith dismissed the difference with a flutter of fingers. ‘You’re a woman who works in a male-dominated
profession, right, Detective?’

‘Yes.’

‘So do I. And a woman like Velvet is a traitor to all women. We fight and bust our butts to be considered equals, and she
traps women as carnal playthings. Made-up dolls that exist only to pleasure men.’ Faith leaned closer. ‘She was obsessed with
Pete. She didn’t want him to come back to Texas, but she followed him. Pete might have been making the best effort to shed
that world, and here she is, blocking his every move.’ She leaned back. ‘I think Pete probably killed himself. But if your
tests argue otherwise, I think she killed him.’

‘Funny. She says the same thing about you. At least that’s what she told Judge Mosley.’

Faith’s smile tensed, then relaxed. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Detective. I’ll sue the bitch for slander.’

Claudia had waited to see if Faith would broach the subject of custody. ‘Speaking of legal proceedings … I understand Pete
was considering fighting for custody of Sam.’

Faith blinked, then laughed. ‘Surely you jest. He wouldn’t have a prayer in family court.’

‘He never mentioned a desire for custody of Sam?’

‘No. Never. Not once. Who says so?’

‘Velvet.’

‘Consider the rather polluted source.’

Claudia shifted focus. ‘Do you know anyone named Deloache?’

‘No.’

‘Did Pete ever talk about his brother Corey to you?’

A surprised blink. ‘Corey? God, no. He’s a forbidden subject.’

‘With Pete? Or with the senator?’

‘With Pete. It was too painful for him. They were real close.’

‘He didn’t tell you he was making a film about Corey?’

‘No. He didn’t – but Judge Mosley told me last night.
Pete never mentioned a movie to any of us. You can imagine how awful it would be for the senator, ripping open terrible old
wounds.’ She raised her palms up in mock surrender. ‘Another perfect example of how unthinking Pete could be.’

‘Pete had a laptop computer that’s missing. Do you know where this laptop or a copy of his notes or script might be?’

‘Good God, no,’ Faith said. Claudia saw the faintest tremble of the woman’s bottom lip. ‘I assume … on the boat.’

‘Did you ever visit him on the boat?’

‘Yes. Once, when I went there with Sam. I wanted to be sure Pete was creating a suitable environment for visits. That whore
Velvet wasn’t around. That helped.’

‘If you were on the boat, then I’ll need to get your prints,’ Claudia said sweetly. ‘We want to identify everyone who’s been
aboard and see if there are prints not accounted for.’