Jeff Abbott - A Kiss Gone Bad

‘A couple of days ago. I wanted him to come to dinner alone, but he wouldn’t come without Velvet. He declined the invitation, told me he’d talk to me soon.’

‘I’m curious. How had you and Faith explained Pete’s absence to Sam?’

Lucinda smiled thinly. ‘We told him Pete worked in industrial films – you know, training tapes, corporate tapes for business conventions. Sam accepted it. Pete never told him any different – it was part of the agreement for him to see Sam.’

‘Did Pete ever talk about a change in the custodial arrangement?’ Whit watched Lucinda’s face turn pale.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Pete was contemplating suing for custody of Sam.’

The silence filled the study until Lucinda leaned forward and her chair squeaked. ‘Judge, have you lost your mind? Be realistic. How on earth would Pete stand a chance in a custody hearing?’

‘I don’t know,’ Whit said. ‘You tell me.’

‘He couldn’t have been serious. No family court would give Sam to Pete.’

‘Did he ever ask about joint custody, now that he was back?’

‘That would be an issue between him and Faith,’ she said sternly, and Whit thought, Yeah, right, like you wouldn’t be all in the middle of that.

‘Last point,’ Whit said. ‘The boat Pete was staying on, it’s owned by a family suspected of being involved in a drug ring. Y’all know anything about them?’

He could almost hear a political future boiling away in the room.

‘Most certainly not,’ Lucinda managed to say. ‘Pete’s friends were his friends, and his associates have nothing to do with us. I would expect you would not leak that news to the press as well.’ A vein throbbed in the hollow of her throat.

‘So you didn’t try to find out who was giving him room and board when he came back?’

‘I don’t like what you’re implying, Judge.’ For the first time he saw anger storm in her eyes, her jaw set, her mouth narrow.

‘Sorry, but I find it hard to believe you just let him waltz back in the middle of an election and didn’t research his friends, his benefactors, his purpose in being here.’

‘I can’t control what you believe. But I would be very careful as to what you imply to the world.’ He saw her scrutinize him with new eyes. He was not being, he supposed, the easygoing Whit Mosley who liked to wander the beach and never put two shakes into a job.

‘I’d like to speak to Sam.’

Her shoulders stiffened. ‘Of course. Assuming that his mother or I am present. He is a minor, after all.’

‘Of course. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘But’ – she raised a finger – ‘I ask that you not discuss this custody idiocy with Sam.’

‘I can’t promise that. I’m sorry. I need to talk to him about any subject relevant to his father’s death.’

‘I won’t have you subjecting him to Velvet’s foolish notions. I’m assuming she’s the one claiming Pete wanted custody?’

‘Yes.’

‘A pathetic attempt to hurt us and I won’t permit it.’

Whit kept his voice mild, out of respect for her loss. ‘This is how it works. I interview him, and you or Faith can be there, and if there’s nothing he can add, fine. Or I can call him as a witness at the inquest. Put him on the stand.’

Her fingertips worked along her palms, awkwardly kneading the flesh. ‘Why don’t you let me discuss it with his mother?’

‘That would be fine.’ Whit stood and offered his hand. She shook it, but the cozy neighborliness had evaporated.

He saw himself to the door, but before he left the Bach CD suddenly roared in the study, the icy cleanness of the notes as loud as hammers.

In the late afternoon the teenagers – aimless, tans not faded from summer gold – were out in meager force. Two girls sat cross-legged on an arc of crushed shells at one end of the beach. A boy waded in the gentle surf, black jeans neatly rolled up past thick calves, dragging a bamboo stick in the water, watching it cut a wake through the waves.

Claudia parked in the small, sand-smeared asphalt lot that fed off the old Bay Highway. From the lot she could see the whole, nearly straight line of the beach that terminated on the south with several acres of wind-bent oaks, and the private fishing pier on the north for Port Leo’s nursing home. The pier, she remembered, didn’t get much use, but two healthy-looking old ladies, their faces shadowed by big, neon-colored sun hats (one magenta, one turquoise), stood on the pier, trolling simple rigs with slack lines.

The elderly women reminded her of David, begging her to attend his Poppy’s party. David was looping a hook back into her flesh, securing it into her jaw, making sure she could not dash from whatever shadow he might cast across the water of her life.

She saw Heather Farrell easing herself down the mangy slope of grass to the flat of the hard-packed beach, a notebook under her arm, a sandwich in her hand, the girl chewing and tossing a scrap of crust to a hovering gull. Other gulls swooped near, pleading with cries, waiting for the generosity to be extended. Heather popped another two morsels upwards and then ran, leaving the gulls to sort out the buffet. She sat, kicked off her shoes and ate, keeping her feet just beyond the encroaching tide.

Claudia sat down next to her.

‘You wolfed that down,’ Claudia said. ‘You hungry? I’ll buy you dinner.’

Heather dusted the crumbs from her fingers with a quick slap. She tucked a fleck of mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth onto her thumb, then wiped her thumb on her jeans. ‘Do you always criticize other people’s table manners?’

‘We’re not at a table.’

‘Slap me. You really are a detective.’ Heather watched the Gulf inch toward her feet, then retreat. She kept the notebook close to her, on the other side from Claudia.

‘Brought this for you to sign.’ Claudia produced a statement. ‘Read it first and make sure it’s correct.’

Heather scanned the document and signed her name at the bottom. ‘There. Perfect. Satisfied?’

‘You sleep okay last night?’

‘Sure.’

‘Amazingly unrattled by finding a dead body.’

Heather dragged a hand through her hair. ‘What am I gonna do, run home to Lubbock?’

‘I can help you find a real place to stay.’

‘Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction, officer?’ Heather asked. No insolence laced her voice. ‘Little Mischief’s not in Port Leo proper.’

‘The sheriff’s department might consider you a vagrant. Heather. Camping out here.’ She could call David, ask him to check on this beach later this evening.

Heather shrugged. ‘I moved.’

‘Where to?’

‘A friend’s house.’ She wiggled toes at the froth of the surf as it kissed her heels. ‘Since you’re gonna ask me for all the details, her name’s Judy Cameron. She lives on the west side of Port Leo. I’m crashing there. So you don’t need to follow me around. I’m perfectly safe.’

‘Judy have a phone number?’

‘She didn’t pay the bill and got disconnected, but her address is still in the phone book. 414 Paris Street. Beige brick house with a motorcycle out front.’

‘Why don’t I give you a ride back there now?’

‘Why don’t you quit hassling me?’ Heather asked. ‘Look, I’m all warm and gooey inside from your concern, but I’m fine. I’m a grown woman.’

‘If there’s anything you haven’t told us about Pete’s death, you’re going to be hip-deep in trouble. I won’t be able to protect you then.’

‘Shouldn’t you have another cop here to play bad, if you’re good?’ Heather laughed. ‘You ought to watch more TV and get your shtick down.’

‘Why’d you buy Greyhound tickets this week? Two of them?’ Claudia asked.