Jeff Abbott - A Kiss Gone Bad

‘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.’

‘I know it’s a tough time, Claud, and maybe I ought to let Gardner handle this one.’

‘There’s no need,’ Claudia said. ‘Really, Delford, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine and work is heaven for me right now.’

He coughed.

‘I can smell the advice baking,’ she said.

‘I’d treat this like a suicide.’

‘I don’t think Whit and the ME have talked cause of death yet.’

Delford ran a finger along a curve of his mustache. ‘Whit Mosley couldn’t find his ass in the dark with three flashlights. After the election he’ll probably be running a snow-cone stand.’

‘No. He’ll be a housepainter,’ Claudia said.

‘You ain’t one bit funny,’ Delford shot back. It was a Port Leo legend: fifteen years ago Whit and his five brothers had, in four masterful hours when Delford was away at a football game, painted Delford’s house pink. Violent, electric, Pepto-Bismol pink. Delford, unwilling to be the butt of a joke, had viewed the Mosley boys like crazed terrorists, even after they repainted his house back to its original white. The rest of the town hid its laughter behind their hands and shook their heads in mock scorn at those wild Mosleys.

‘You’re still not over that prank,’ Claudia said. ‘That’s why you don’t like any Mosley.’ She herself liked Whit Mosley fine. He’d palled around with her brother Jimmy as kids, fishing, gigging for frogs, swimming in the bay, and Whit never made her – the tagalong tomboy – feel unwelcome. He had kind eyes, gray as the bay when the clouds hung low. And he was easy to work with. The last JP, God rest her soul, puked at every single death scene and guilted Claudia into taking macrame and quilting classes with her. Whit kept his lunch and hobbies to himself.

‘I don’t like Mosley period. He’s running the bench like a beach attraction,’ Delford fretted. ‘I’m just saying Pete smells like suicide to me.’

‘Are you jumping or driving to that conclusion?’

‘When I told Lucinda that Pete was dead, she asked straightaway if he’d killed himself. She told me in detail about the mental problems he’s been suffering from over the past several years. It’s in her statement.’

‘She knew he was nuts but didn’t know he was doing porn?’ Claudia asked.

Delford frowned. ‘Well, maybe she did know. But I wouldn’t blame her for not mentioning it.’

‘His friend Velvet insists he would never commit suicide.’

‘Let’s talk about Pete’s friends. This boat he was staying on. Real Shame. It’s registered in Houston. It’s owned by a fellow named Tommy Deloache. In Houston, he’s known as Tommy the Roach. Suspected drug ties, suspected money launderer.’

‘And Pete hanging with criminals bolsters your suicide theory how?’

‘From what Houston PD says, if the Deloaches wanted Pete dead, he’d be in the Gulf, sixty feet down wired to blocks. They tidy up after themselves. They don’t leave bodies around to be autopsied.’

She stood. ‘I’ll keep you apprised of what I find.’

‘Claud, don’t get bent. I’m just asking you to be sensitive to a mother’s grief. Remember Lucinda’s got an election in less than a month, and this could derail it.’

‘The senator wouldn’t get more sympathy votes if he was murdered as opposed to suicide?’ Claudia asked bluntly. ‘Suicide sounds like maybe she was a bad mother.’

‘Damn it, Claudia, you’ve never handled a death this high-profile. And my gut, which is both bigger and older than yours, tells me Pete killed himself. If you chase the wrong path and embarrass yourself, not to mention Senator Hubble, with all this unrelated garbage about porn and Corey Hubble and what not, that’s going to be remembered.’

He shoved his chair hard against the table.

‘Well, hell, Delford, if you don’t have confidence in me, don’t give me the case.’

‘I’m just trying to help you. The case is yours. Just mind how you run it.’

She nodded, and he turned and left. Claudia stared at the door he slammed behind him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me Pete was back in town?’ Whit asked.

He heard the sharp rasp of Faith Hubble’s breath. ‘Oh, Whit. God, babe, I didn’t think it mattered. He said… he wasn’t going to stay long. A couple of weeks, no more.’

‘If I had an ex-wife, wouldn’t you have wanted to know if she showed up in Port Leo.?’ he asked.

‘We’re not… dating, Whit. We’re just… I mean… oh, God, I can’t have this conversation now. Sam’s out of his mind with grief, and Lucinda’s a zombie.’

Whit hated having to press, but he did. ‘Pete was writing a screenplay, Faith. I don’t think he was just waltzing in and out of Port Leo on a quick jaunt.’

‘Oh, God.’ She couldn’t hide the shock in her voice. ‘Movie.?’

‘Did you know he was in the movie business, Faith?’

‘I can’t… discuss this right now. Sam’s real upset. He needs me.’

‘Fine. But I need to talk to you all tomorrow.’

‘I want that. I want to see you.’

‘Fine, I’ll call you tomorrow. Please give my sympathies to the senator and Sam.’