Jeff Abbott - A Kiss Gone Bad

‘Why didn’t you tell me Pete was back in town?’ Whit kept his voice gentle, quiet, and unaccusing.

‘Because… God, we didn’t want anyone to know he even existed anymore. But he cooperated with us. He kept a very low profile. I mean, I guess a couple of people commented to me he was back, but no production was made of it.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Did you want to waste away our motel time chatting about my ex?’

‘You didn’t want people – or me – to know he was back because he had starred in blue movies?’

‘Yes.’ She took another bolstering slug of wine and shuddered.

‘Not because he could derail Lucinda’s campaign. And your career. Not because he was going to sue you for custody of Sam.’

‘Look, as far as I’m concerned, Whit, this custody crap is a complete fiction Velvet dreamed up in her screwed-stupid little mind.’

‘You asked me to help y’all get through this, to not make a big production of the inquest. But I’m not doing you any such favors until I know what’s going on here.’

‘I clearly don’t mean diddly squat to you, do I?’

‘This has nothing to do with us. Faith. But I don’t believe a man who wants to get his child back just kills himself.’

‘I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you the source of his depression was he knew he’d never, ever get Sam.’

‘Yes, it occurred to me. It also occurred to me to wonder exactly why he’d even think he had a chance in court. Did he have something on you. Faith?’

‘There’s nothing that could trump porn!’ she barked at him. ‘For God’s sakes!’

‘There are worse crimes than dirty movies.’

‘Not to a family court.’ She stood. ‘I came over here to talk, not to be grilled by you.’

‘You came over to presume on our relationship,’ Whit said. ‘You’re asking me to not make a public spectacle of the inquest for Sam’s sake. But I’m asking you for an explanation of what was going on with Pete. This cuts both ways, sweetie.’

‘I told you what I know.’ She sat again.

‘Perhaps I should excuse myself from the case.’

‘No. Don’t.’ Panic flashed in her eyes. ‘You do that, you’ll have to explain why, and I don’t want Sam to know about us.’

‘Don’t lock Sam in a glass bubble forever.’

‘Look, it hasn’t been easy for him… no father… his grandmother and I so busy. And now, with Pete dead, I can’t rub salt in his wounds, please, Whit. Not now.’ She covered her face with her hands.

‘The boat Pete was staying on. It’s owned by a family suspected of heavy drug activity up the coast.’

‘Lucinda mentioned that.’ She leaned back against the thick pillows of the couch and dropped her hands. ‘Good God, he chose well, didn’t he? One little explosive charge after another to sink his mother’s ship.’

‘He’s the one who’s dead, not Lucinda.’ He sat next to her. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘Am I not supposed to be insulted at the question?’

‘That’s up to you, Faith.’

‘I was at home last night, with Sam. I haven’t spent enough time with him lately. We had dinner, watched TV, went to sleep early. It’s all in my bland little police statement.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

She took his hand. ‘I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I’m sure he killed himself, okay? All these other diversions – this Corey movie, this custody idea, him staying on a drug hound’s boat – I’m begging, Whit. Keep it all out of the inquest, can’t you? It has no place. If you don’t you’re letting a nobody like Pete win. Over me. Over us.’

‘I can’t promise that, Faith. I can’t.’

She rose, her face contorting as though slapped. ‘The problem with you, Whit, is that everyone has low expectations of you and you never fucking disappoint.’

A rap sounded at the door. Faith fell silent. Whit stood, wondering if she might go hide in the bathroom or closet, but she stayed put and he went to his door.

It was Claudia. ‘Hi,’ she said, and she glanced past his shoulder to see Faith Hubble standing by the couch, the empty wineglass on the coffee table, the half full one next to it.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize you had company.’

‘Come in,’ Whit said. ‘Mrs Hubble and I were just discussing her ex-husband. You want something to drink?’

‘I’d love a Coke.’ Claudia sat down while Whit busied himself dumping ice cubes in a glass and cracking open a liter bottle of cola. He brought Claudia her soda. The silence between the two women hung thick as fog on a cool winter morning.

Claudia broke the quiet. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Mrs Hubble. I just confirmed with Anders Sorenson that he was hired to represent Pete in suing for custody of your son. I thought you might be able to help us understand why.’

‘As I was just telling the judge,’ Faith said slowly, ‘Pete’s legal concerns were his own matter. He’d ignored Sam for most of fifteen years, and he was no parent. He had zero grounds for a serious bid for custody.’

‘So why hire Sorenson?’ Whit asked. Anders Sorenson was from an old Port Leo family, one of the best-regarded attorneys in the area, almost seventy, a scrappy, dapper little man feared in the courtroom.

‘Because Sorenson’s a big-money Republican who’d love to see Lucinda lose?’ Faith flared. ‘Shit, I don’t know what Pete was doing. I can’t repeat that too many more times without thinking the two of you are brain-damaged.’

Neither Whit nor Claudia spoke.

‘I have to go, unless you have further questions,’ Faith said. ‘Sam is expecting me for dinner.’

‘I would like to speak with Sam,’ Whit said. ‘Briefly.’

‘Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.’ She picked up her purse and didn’t give Claudia another glance as she walked out the door. Whit followed her out of the guest house, past the pool. She didn’t break stride and she didn’t look back, and he didn’t call out to her. He went back to the guest house.

Claudia stared at him. ‘I heard her yelling at you before I knocked on the door.’

‘I’ve known her for a while. She’s upset.’

‘And?’

‘Her kid’s the most important thing in the world to her,’ Whit said. ‘But she’s right. Pete wouldn’t have a prayer in family court.’

‘Unless she’s done something far worse than adult films,’ Claudia said.

Whit sipped his wine.

‘I thought you and I could talk to Jabez Jones together tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Your clerk said it’d work with your schedule.’

‘That’s fine,’ he said.

She touched his arm. ‘Anything else you want to tell me. Honorable?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing else at all.’

Velvet eased the magazine out of her Sig Sauer 9mm automatic pistol. She tucked the Sig far down into her purse. Then she yanked it out of concealment, past tissues and car keys and compact. Four seconds. Too long, but stacking the gun atop her billfold and cosmetics made her nervous; she had no concealed weapons permit. She supposed she could always just fire through the thin leather of the purse.

Finding the gun had been easier than she imagined. She’d hired a cab to take her to Corpus Christi, rented a Chevy Caprice at the airport, and driven to a ragtag collection of pawnshops. She found that cash and a quick but ardent display of her professional skills spoke volumes to one particular dealer. She’d never seen a registration form.

She’d picked up a small tape recorder as well, the kind used by reporters. Voice-activated in case someone said something interesting she wanted to keep. This she stuck down in the depths of her purse.