Jeff Abbott - A Kiss Gone Bad

‘I will. And thank you, in advance, Whit, for your help. We appreciate it.’

They said their good-byes and hung up. Whit wondered exactly what kind of help he was supposed to provide, unasked.

Whit transferred his field notes to an inquest report and assigned the death a case number. He had called the ME’s office in Corpus Christi as soon as he got into his office to report Pete’s death and the body’s expected arrival at their facility. The on-call ME had phoned back and Whit gave her a brief summation of the case. He asked her to be sure and check the corpse for any signs of foul play, although from the body’s condition suicide was indicated. He hung up and watched the clouds begin to pour a thin, steady rain on the sleeping town.

He gathered up a notebook from the JP Training Center that offered details on conducting a formal death inquest, locked up his office, and headed down the darkened hallways of the courthouse.

Grief, in whatever variety, reminded Whit of his mother. When he was two, she had packed up and walked away from her husband and six sons and vanished into the great blue of the world, and in odd moments he ached for her touch as he might ache for a missing limb. For the first time in weeks he wondered where his mother was, if she were dead or alive. He imagined her buried under an assumed name, or her unmourned bones bleached by the sun, a victim of terrible evil. But not always. He also imagined her munching a peanut butter sandwich, licking stray dabs of plum jelly from her fingers, watching The Tonight Show, curled on a bed with green sheets. Green had been her favorite color, she often wore a thin green ribbon in her blond hair, at least in pictures. He could not remember if he ever played with the ribbon.

He wondered if she ever thought of him. Perhaps five sons had seemed manageable and six was just one son too many.

His mother. Corey Hubble. Both gone into the maw of the world.

The difference between Whit and Pete, Whit mused, was that Pete acted. Or at least attempted to peel back the layers of years toward truth and document what had happened to Corey.

Whit admired his guts.

So what had Pete found?

The police station’s night dispatcher, a she-grizzly named Nelda, buzzed him into the building. Whit free-loaded a cup of high-voltage, road-tar coffee from her and collapsed on a rough old bench. Velvet was giving a statement to Claudia Salazar, he was told, and Nelda peered at him strangely when he said he’d wait.

Being a shoulder for Velvet was fine. A moron’s level of political astuteness demanded that he do nothing more. But he knew she was alone, and he knew the shock of sudden, paralyzing loss. No harm in being friendly. Bitter pills were harder to swallow alone.

Delford Spires ambled toward him while he sipped his coffee.

‘Hello, partner,’ Delford said. ‘You’re not usually such a dedicated public servant.’

‘Just waiting for Claudia to finish up with Velvet.’

‘Claud can give the lady a ride to her hotel. Maybe you and I can chat for a second.’

Whit followed Delford to the station’s back entrance, where the smokers were exiled under a metal canopy. The rain fell steadily and lightning webbed the sky over the Gulf.

Delford dug in his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and waited until he had one lit and two puffs down before he spoke. ‘So you were gonna wait on Velvet?’

‘I told her I’d give her a ride and talk to her about Pete.’

‘A ride. I’ll bet.’ Delford blew out a calculated plume of smoke, edging Whit’s face.

‘I’m just being a nice guy.’

‘You know what nice gets you with a loose woman?’ Delford rubbed the smooth dome of his balding head. ‘A burning need for penicillin.’

Whit waited for the next nugget of wisdom to fall from Delford’s lips.

Delford exhaled another stream of smoke. ‘This is a hell of a mess, Whit. Hell of a mess.’

‘Yes. I feel bad for Lucinda Hubble.’ Whit tossed out a verbal card to see if Delford would trump.

Delford did. ‘Oh, Lord, yes. I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but she had to know. Suicide is so goddamned selfish. And this so close to the election.’

Whit sipped his coffee, letting Delford believe silence signaled agreement, then said, ‘We don’t know that it’s suicide, Delford.’

To their right, a blue-light bug zapper sounded a long, fuzzy trill as it dispatched some flying insect to creeper heaven. ‘Of course not. But I been in law enforcement thirty years, partner, and you’re wet behind both ears and balls. Pete Hubble clearly looks like a suicide to me. No sign of struggle, big old boy like him. He put that gun in his own mouth.’

Whit shrugged. ‘I think I’ll wait for the autopsy to make a ruling. But I sure don’t see why he’d come home after all these years just to kill himself. Especially after he was starting a new film project.’

‘I get it. You’re just interested in the media circus, get your name in the paper for the voters to see. I think you owe some common sense and courtesy to Lucinda Hubble that this be handled quickly and quietly.’

‘Since Dear Abby’s not available,’ Whit said, ‘how does ramming a ruling through quickly get classified as common sense and courtesy?’

Delford stubbed out his smoke. ‘It’s called decency. Try to add it to your vocabulary, partner. Lucinda’s done more for this county than most people have, and she’s suffered a lot of tragedy in her life. So show her some compassion.’

The woman has lost her son. I don’t plan on being anything but compassionate. Especially if it turns out her son’s been murdered.’

‘And you wouldn’t change your mind because she’s a Democrat and you’re a Republican?’ Whit had had to make a party affiliation to get the appointment from the Republican-controlled county commissioners, but he felt lukewarm about allegiance to any political party.

‘Party lines bore me, Delford.’

‘I imagine. The only party line you’re interested in is the one leading to the keg.’

Whit patted his pockets. ‘I like that one. I better write it down and note the time and date you actually attempted a joke.’

‘Listen, Whit.’ Delford lowered his voice but kept his amiable smile firmly fixed. ‘We all know you’re sort of learning as you go, but you sure don’t want the voters to realize that you’re, shall we say, still climbing the learning curve.’

‘For all your preaching about compassion,’ Whit said, ‘I haven’t heard you show one bit of sympathy for Pete Hubble.’

‘Lucinda doesn’t deserve for that good-for-nothing son of hers to muddy her name from the grave. You’re gonna be out there alone, Whit, looking like a fool when the police and the family – who know the truth – all say it’s suicide and you’re chasing shadows.’

‘What is this, a good-old-boy plea to stay in step?’ Whit said.

Delford shook his head. ‘You must’ve sniffed some of that pink paint, son. I’m not pressuring you to do diddly. My judgment is based on years of police experience. This is your first big death case, Whit. You screw it up and it’s real public, and it’s right before the election.’ He laughed and crushed his cigarette under his boot heel. ‘And just a tip: voters don’t vote for candidates who consort with porno queens.’

Delford went back into the police station. Whit watched the rain and finished his coffee. When he went back inside, Nelda told him Claudia and Velvet had left not three minutes before. He drove home, devoured a ham sandwich and a bag of corn chips while watching a Monty Python rerun on cable, and went to bed with his JP training materials. He read every detail on death inquest procedures.

He wondered how the voters would react if he and his brothers painted Delford’s house again.