Jeff Abbott - A Kiss Gone Bad

‘Charmed,’ Gooch said.

Whit kept his eyes on the hefty guy. ‘I understand you’re acquainted with Pete Hubble.’

‘Why do you ask or care?’ the younger man challenged.

‘Junior,’ the older man said with a bored note of caution.

Ah, young Mr Deloache, ‘I’ll take that as a yes. I’m conducting the inquest into Pete’s death and I’d like to talk to you about him.’

‘We have nothing to say,’ Junior said in a petulant voice. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come in for a minute,’ the old man invited, as though he’d not heard Junior’s pronouncement. His voice, scratchy, reminded Whit of a dusty, worn record. ‘Junior, do me a favor. We’re out of cereal and I’m not facing the morning without my raisin bran. Run down to the store.’ He pivoted the wheelchair sharply and zoomed for the condo’s lobby.

‘Anson, we got cereal,’ Junior called to the old man’s back.

‘Not the kind I like,’ Anson said, not giving Junior another glance. ‘Go.’

Junior, abandoned, stood slack-jawed and then loped to his Porsche and roared off. Whit and Gooch followed Anson into the condo’s lobby. Wood shavings, tattered wallpaper, and a half-dismantled reception desk, cluttered with a forest of empty soda cans, decorated the half-done vestibule. A couple of construction workers, begrimed with sawdust but getting excellent overtime, inspected unfurled blueprints with lukewarm interest.

‘Late night to be working construction,’ Gooch said.

‘Late night to be bothering people,’ Anson said.

They followed Anson into a cramped, rackety elevator. Anson punched eight, the top button.

‘So you own this building?’ Whit asked.

‘No.’ Anson declined further explanation. Anson Todd looked to be edging seventy. He wore a black turtleneck, gray sweatpants covering withered legs, and wire-rimmed glasses over cat-green eyes. An ugly, welted scar scored his temple, and his overlong gray hair was combed over to hide the mark.

‘Let me guess. You work for Mr Deloache, Senior,’ Whit said.

The elevator stopped, and Whit held the door for Anson to wheel himself out. Anson motored out of the elevator into a garishly appointed suite. It looked to Whit like an animal lover’s apartment from hell: zebra prints on the wall, a leopard sofa, a tiger skin on the floor. The monotony of hides was broken by the neon-kissed furniture that had likely been purchased at the House of Lime. A thick-necked youth glanced up from the television; his overinflated physique made him look like he had been gulping steroids with his mother’s milk.

‘Hey,’ the young man greeted Anson, a wary glance going to Gooch and Whit.

‘Go watch TV in the master bedroom,’ Anson ordered. ‘Come if I call you.’

‘Sure,’ the monosyllabic hulk agreed. He lurched up from the couch and stomped into another room, slamming the door behind him.

Anson Todd said, ‘I love chaperoning the mentally deficient. Have a seat, Judge. Mr Guchinski.’ He gestured toward an expansive leather sofa the color of a frozen margarita. Instead Whit wandered to the wall of windows that showed a panoramic view of St Leo Bay and the Gulf. To the north, the huge piers jutting out into the bay dazzled with light, and house lights along Santa Margarita Island glittered like a broken bracelet of diamonds.

‘I see why you stay here instead of aboard Real Shame,’ Whit said.

‘Actually, the Shame’s not wheelchair-friendly. I stay off except for an infrequent fishing trip. Coffee? Beer?’

Gooch leaned against the window, thick arms linked behind his back. Whit eased onto the plush leather couch.

‘No, thank you,’ Whit said. ‘We won’t take up much of your time.’

‘You won’t need much, Judge. We don’t know a thing about Pete’s death. Yes, Mr Deloache Senior owns Real Shame and has for five years. But Pete was an acquaintance of Junior’s. Mr Deloache never met him.’

‘The gun that was found in Mr Hubble’s hand wasn’t registered.’

‘If there was an unregistered gun aboard, then Mr Hubble or his lady friend brought it. Not ours.’

‘She denies that.’

Anson smiled. ‘Once she’s over her grief, maybe her memory improves.’

Whit wondered if memory enhancements came in the form of fists or threats. ‘I’ve spoken with witnesses who say Junior visited Pete pretty regularly at the marina. Argued with him about money. Behaved badly yesterday.’

‘Define badly.’

‘Tried to rough up Pete.’

‘Junior? He’s a teddy bear. He couldn’t bruise fruit. Look, from where I sit, you got hearsay. You got anyone who’s positively ID’d Junior as being there?’

‘Don’t,’ Whit said. ‘His father owns the boat.’

‘Okay, yeah, but you got anyone who will ID Junior as being the argumentative type you’re looking for?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? ’Cause Junior wasn’t here yesterday. Neither was I. We been in Houston the past few days, we just drove in this morning. Got a whole bunch of people who will confirm that.’

‘Why are y’all down here? Because someone died on your property?’

‘Junior’s in charge of getting this resort project completed for his dad. You could call him a project manager. You should. He loves it.’

Whit raised an eyebrow. ‘Let me guess. Junior manages the project and you manage Junior.’

Anson grinned. His teeth were yellowed from cigarette smoke.

‘How well did you know Pete?’ Whit asked.

‘I met him just once. Let me tell you. Judge, I find porn boring. I find porn stars even more boring. Especially when they’re male. Pete had all the brains of dandruff.’

‘What about this money Pete and Junior supposedly bickered over?’

Anson cleared his throat. His voice took on a soft volume that had no softness in the tone. ‘Look, Judge, I agreed to tell you what we know, not undergo interrogation. We knew the guy, we didn’t have anything to do with his death, and Mr Deloache is gonna want his boat back pronto.’

‘Mr Deloache is going to have to wait for the investigation to be over,’ Whit answered pleasantly. ‘Mr Deloache, both the senior and the junior, need to answer questions.’

‘Let me ask you one. How many times was Pete shot?’

‘Once.’

‘Where?’

‘The head.’

Anson crinkled his nose. ‘Gee. Once in the head. Can I have suicide for four hundred dollars, Alex?’

‘Or maybe it was an execution,’ Whit said. ‘Gangland style.’

‘Gangland? Christ, I haven’t heard that term since cable showed the James Cagney movie marathon.’ Anson leaned back in his chair. ‘Look, Judge, you want to explore slander, keep talking. We got a whole flock of lawyers up in Houston that wouldn’t consider your ass a light hors d’oeuvre.’

‘Yes, but my ass is planted up on the court bench, and from that vantage point I can call you and Junior as witnesses at the inquest. Mr Deloache, too.’

‘I’ve told you we know nothing. And I got nothing to give you. Judge, except the pleasure of my company and a good cup of coffee.’ He smiled. ‘I bet you know the good fishing spots in St Leo Bay. We ought to get our lines tight some time.’

Whit imagined more of Anson’s boating expeditions involved concrete mixes and pleas for mercy rather than suntan lotion and cheap bait. ‘Thanks for your time. I’ll see you in court.’ He headed for the elevator, Gooch silently following, and pressed the button.

The fishing bonhomie vanished. ‘It’s not a good idea to waste Mr Deloache’s time.’

‘It’s not a good idea to waste mine, either,’ Whit said. The doors slid open, and Whit and Gooch stepped on the elevator. Anson Todd stared at them until the doors slid shut.

‘You’re such a bad ass,’ Gooch said. ‘I released a vast flood of urine into my pants, out of sheer terror.’