Authors: Jeff Abbott
‘You and Jesus,’ Whit said.
‘Absolutely,’ Jabez agreed, as though he and the Lord made an awesome tag team. ‘So, Whit. You’re a JP now. How very … rewarding
for you.’
‘I like it,’ Whit said.
‘I surely hope you’re reelected,’ Jabez said. ‘I mean, running that restaurant and that delivery service just didn’t seem
to be your calling.’ The comment was topped with such a dollop of theocratic sugar that it might not be an insult. Jabez smiled
in the light of his expensive muscles and his expensive compound and his expensive television crew.
‘Gosh, Jabez, thanks. And I pray on a near-constant basis that you get picked up by a TV station that actually serves a metropolitan
area.’
Jabez’s smile never dimmed, but one of the balloon-shaped muscles in his arm tensed. The preacher turned to Claudia. ‘I called
because I thought I might be able to help you with your inquiries.’
‘We understand you’d been to see Pete recently.’
‘Yes. I offered him spiritual counsel. He and I have known each other for a long time. He was going through
some difficult times.’ He paused and dropped his little bomb. ‘He wanted custody of his son.’
‘That we knew,’ Whit said.
Jabez crossed his bulky arms. Small gold crosses were tattooed on his knuckles. ‘Oh. Well, perhaps I’m not being helpful.
The Hubbles were, of course, opposed to him filing. Trying to settle with him. I guess you knew that as well.’
Whit and Claudia exchanged a quick glance. The Hubbles had consistently claimed no knowledge of Pete wanting custody. If Jabez
was being truthful, then they were lying.
‘What did he have on them that would have made them even negotiate with him? You only go out-of-court if you’re not sure you
can win, and Faith and Lucinda should have been as sure as saints,’ Whit said. ‘What leverage did Pete have?’
Jabez shook his head. ‘Don’t know … Your Honor. Pete kept that private.’ But there was a flicker of an amused smile behind
his solemnity, and Whit wondered.
‘I understand you and he fought. Argued,’ Whit said.
‘Ah. Velvet?’
‘Yes.’
‘She misunderstood. Pete wanted me to be a character witness for him. I was willing, because I do think everyone can change,
and Pete seemed sincere in wanting to improve his lot. But I told him he would need to accept God in his life, and he got
mad at me then. There were no other arguments.’
‘So did Pete discuss any other aspects of his life with you?’ Claudia asked.
A pained look crossed Jabez’s gladiator-handsome face. ‘When I was in wrestling … well, some of my colleagues were attracted
to women of dubious morality. Some of them worked in adult films, and I heard, through
them, about Pete. I actually saw him at a dinner party a few years ago, hosted by a wrestling promoter. He looked terrible.
He asked me not to tell anyone back here about his … career. I’ve kept my word. Gossip is the devil’s venom poured in an ear.
So do you suspect the Hubbles.?’
So much for the evils of gossip, Whit thought.
‘We have no suspects at the moment. We’re not even sure it’s a homicide,’ Claudia said. ‘Judge Mosley will be conducting the
inquest in the next couple of days.’
‘Would suicide surprise you?’ Whit asked.
‘I don’t quite understand why he would come home and work on getting close to his son, then kill himself.’
Whit changed topics. ‘Did he mention that he was working on a film?’
Jabez’s mouth gave a cautious twitch. ‘I prayed he would not resume his career.’
‘No. A documentary about his brother Corey. He says on a tape we found that you refused to cooperate with him.’
The mouth twitched again and a muscle flexed under the cross-laden T-shirt. ‘That’s not so. I just couldn’t be of much help
to him. He had called me … when he came back to town. That’s how we got to talking. He did ask me to tell him about the day
Corey vanished.’
‘And you said what?’ Claudia asked.
Jabez paled under the store-bought tan. ‘Well, I was one of the last to see Corey before he was reported missing. Pete asked
me to restate what I remembered. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to him.’ He stared out at the flat plane of the bay, stretching
away like green glass.
‘You and Corey strike me as unlikely friends,’ Whit said.
Jabez shrugged. ‘I wanted to help Corey. He was in trouble at school, at home, and sinking further. I thought I could help
him reshape his life.’
‘So he was like a project,’ Whit said. ‘You could get your Samaritan merit badge by turning him around.’
‘That’s a crude way to put it, but yes. If I didn’t think God could turn around lives, I would never bother with a ministry.’
‘And Corey was willing to be preached at?’
‘You have an admirable ability for oversimplification, Whit,’ Jabez said. ‘It must serve you well in traffic court. No, he
wasn’t willing to be preached at. But he was willing to have a friend he could talk to, who didn’t smoke dope, who didn’t
want to drag him down. I was a refuge.’
‘You were a goody-goody. He was a punk. I’m frankly surprised Corey Hubble would give you the time of day,’ Whit said.
‘You just never know about people, do you?’ Jabez said.
‘So what happened the day Corey vanished?’ Claudia interrupted.
‘Corey had planned to spend the night with me. We were going to watch movies at my house. I’d gotten a tape of
Godspell,
thought he might like the music and it’d give me a way to witness to him. He called and canceled at the last minute, saying
he was sick. I never heard from or saw him again.’
‘Did Pete share any theories about Corey with you?’ Claudia asked. ‘Any information he had found about his brother?’
Jabez Jones considered for a moment, and the pause reminded Whit of a talented preacher waiting for the congregation to lean
forward, eager for the next word. ‘It makes no sense to me. Pete mentioned a possibility that Corey was still alive. And in
some kind of trouble.’
‘You know that motto, What Would Jesus Do? I look at Jabez and wonder. What Would Jesus Think?’ Claudia said.
‘He’s lying,’ Whit said.
‘Prove it.’
‘Oh, Christ, proof. My gut tells me. He’s a publicity hound. If he can link himself to a high-profile death, he will.’
‘Listen, Honorable, you can’t prove he’s lying any more than you could prove Faith Hubble has lied. Or anyone else,’ she added
quickly.
‘You think Faith’s lying?’
‘Faith Hubble is running scared.’
‘Don’t pull a punch here.’
‘She threatened my family, Whit. Very subtly. She implied my father might lose his shrimping license.’
‘You must have misunderstood.’
‘You don’t misunderstand a threat to your father’s livelihood. I felt like belting her in the face.’ Claudia turned onto Highway
35 that threaded back to Port Leo. ‘I sensed a weird vibe between you and Faith Hubble last night.’
‘No. I’ve just known her for a long while. She’s worried about her kid.’
‘Don’t let your friendship warp your judgment.’
‘I’m going to get tired, very quickly, of you and Delford telling me how to do my job.’
‘Don’t get all huffy.’
Whit was silent for a moment. ‘So say what you think, Claudia.’
‘You have a political future at stake, Whit. I know you want to win the election, even if you act like campaigning is pimping.
And I don’t relish examining bodies with that grease-wad Buddy Beere. So all I’m saying is, you show the Hubbles a hint of
favoritism, you’re gonna get cooked. I don’t believe for one second they can contain Velvet from leaking news of Pete’s career.
The news is going to hit big, and you better handle the inquest with every i dotted and t crossed.’
‘As opposed to gunning for them. Like you,’ Whit said dryly.
They passed the
WELCOME TO PORT LEO – SWEET SPOT OF THE GULF
sign, surrounded by smaller signs from city churches, the Chamber of Commerce, the Kiwanis and Rotary Club. ‘As long as they
don’t gun for me. She guns for me, my family, I don’t tolerate that.’
‘I still think you’re mistaken about Faith,’ Whit said.
‘I’m not getting into a fight with you. Honorable.’ Claudia turned into the town square, parking in front of the police station.
‘But why did Heather Farrell say Pete blamed Jabez for Corey’s death? Jabez sure isn’t going to tell us. How would Heather
even know about a connection between Jabez and Pete?’
‘Maybe she’s got a different connection to Jabez. Other than Pete.’
Claudia shrugged. ‘I’ll track Ms Farrell down and ask her.’
Whit turned to her. ‘Let’s say Jabez is telling the truth. Pete thought Corey was alive … so where’s Corey been all these
years?’
Claudia’s office was cramped. Delford sat in the creaky wooden chair next to her desk, eyes bleary red. Even his wax-perked
mustache drooped, its tapered corners sagging.
Whit slumped in the chair at Eddie Gardner’s desk, his feet propped on a stack of papers.
Whit watched as Delford and Claudia brainstormed.
‘The most obvious answer is usually the right one,’ Delford said. ‘Suicide.’
Claudia shook her head. ‘Pete lived on a boat owned by established criminals. He wanted his wife’s kid. He could derail his
mother’s political campaign. He was digging into a brother’s disappearance that could have been murder and made accusations
against a wannabe television star. Are you and I looking at the same picture?’
‘Yeah, well you can look at inkblots and come up with different interpretations, Claud,’ Delford said. ‘He was a pervert and
he didn’t have squat of a future. We’ve had more than one person say, and folks that knew him better than you and I, that
he was depressed and maybe suicidal.’
‘Your stubbornness,’ Claudia groaned, ‘is about to make me suicidal.’
‘He tried to kill himself a few years ago. Faith Hubble got the police report from Van Nuys. He downed a bunch of pills and
vodka.’ Delford clicked his tongue. ‘I’d have thought, Claud, you would have unearthed that little nugget.’
A slow creep of color bloomed along Claudia’s cheeks. ‘I’d like to see that report, if you don’t mind.’
‘Suicide once doesn’t mean suicide again,’ Whit said.
Delford growled low in his throat. ‘No. Let’s never grab hold of the obvious, shall we?’
Claudia turned referee. ‘Let me tell you what else I’ve found before you two start debating. Pete’s been arrested twice out
in California: once for public intox, once for disturbing the peace and public nudity. Apparently while filming one of his
little epics in the great outdoors. He
didn’t serve time. Both were over five years ago.’ She flipped a page. ‘Velvet has no record. She told me in her statement
that Pete rented that laptop on a monthly basis from Baywater Computers. I called the store owner, and Pete hadn’t returned
the system. We still haven’t located it. I’m going to get a diver down into the marina to look for it. Maybe it went overboard.’
Delford said nothing.
‘Phone records I’ve got Fox checking out. Mostly calls back to California, although he has several calls to Missa-tuck, Texas,
over the past week. Up in deep East Texas. Know it?’
‘Never heard of it,’ Delford said. ‘So let’s say it’s murder, just to indulge you, Claudia. Who do you like?’
‘Faith Hubble,’ Claudia said instantly.
‘Right. A respected leader and mother,’ Delford said. ‘Same for you, Whit?’
Whit felt like he was walking on quicksand in leaded boots. ‘I don’t know. Certainly Pete was a threat to the campaign. And
Pete was serious about fighting for custody, although no one believes he had a prayer.’
‘Given what we know,’ Claudia interrupted. ‘But it works if Faith’s closet was dirtier than his.’
Delford snorted. ‘That’s hard to imagine.’
‘Junior Deloache or someone working for him would be my guess,’ Whit said. ‘If you have a crime, look for criminals.’
‘You’re deep,’ Delford said.
‘Since you think I ignore the obvious, don’t ignore the Deloaches,’ Whit said carefully. ‘I’ve got to go. Court and duty call.’
He left.
Delford waited until Whit shut the door. ‘Sloppy work, Claudia. Not learning about that suicide attempt. Doesn’t make us look
good.’ His voice, usually a cajoling drawl, rang hard and steely.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll call the Van Nuys police right now and confirm.’
‘See that you do,’ Delford said. ‘I got a meeting with the mayor. Let me know what you find out. And don’t screw up again,
Claud.’ He slammed the door behind him.
Who the hell are you turning into, Delford?
she wondered. She reached for the phone and asked Nelda to get her the Van Nuys, California, police department.
At lunchtime, Whit grabbed a booth in the back of Café Caspian, surveying the small crowd in his new stepmother’s restaurant.
Babe had cautioned Irina that the Coastal Bend population included many military retirees who might blanch at patronizing
a Russian café. Whit privately thought most of the retired military males would rush (in well-organized step) to slurp Irina’s
coffee once they spotted her in her black miniskirt and white T-shirt.
Café Caspian was perhaps a quarter full, mostly retirees with a smattering of realtors, secretaries, and artists gossiping
over Russian specialties like
piroshki
(meat-filled dumplings),
golubtsi
(cabbage rolls),
borscht
topped with sour cream, honey breads, and
blinis.
Whit wished he had invested in sour cream futures before Irina opened the café; he would have made a killing. She also served
more mainstream foods, such as thick ham sandwiches; fish, shrimp, and oysters fresh from the bay; and what she called
bitokes à la Russe
– hamburgers dolled up with sour cream (of course), onion, and nutmeg. These had been an unexpected hit.
Tributes to both Irina’s motherland and her adopted land decorated the walls: a beautiful color photograph of the Statue of
Liberty; a portrait of Peter the Great. Reproductions of elegant Faberg é eggs and peasant Russian dolls lined a shelf; on
another was a framed collection of miniature American and Texan flags. In the window hung several
KEEP WHIT MOSLEY JUSTICE OF THE PEACE
signs. Irina, the Soviet-born fiend for democracy.
Irina slid into the seat across from him, holding a steaming cup of tea and pushing her chestnut-brown hair back over her
ears. Her face was elfin; he had always pictured Russian women as either kerchief-headed grannies, sun-and-nutrient-starved
model waifs, or steroid-gulping swimmers. But Irina looked fresh and healthy, not tall but not frail, eyes of watery blue,
and a generous mouth.
‘Go campaign today.’ She took her stepmother role seriously. ‘Buddy Beere has a van covered with campaign signs patrolling
Main Street.’
‘He offered to debate me.’
‘Of course you accepted.’
‘No. I’m too busy doing the actual job. But I need two favors.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I need to borrow your computer.’
‘Sure. You need the computer now?’ she asked.
‘I’d prefer to use it after hours, if you don’t mind.’ ‘No problem.’
Why does a Russian accent nail you right in the crotch?
Perhaps he had fixated on Natasha on the old
Bullwinkle
cartoons in a freaky erotic manner.
She jangled a set of keys from her pocket, pried a silver key off the ring, and slid it across the table. ‘Extra key. Lock
up when you’re done. Second favor is?’
‘I want you to befriend someone but you cannot gossip about it.’
‘Who?’
‘Her name is Velvet.’
‘That sounds like a horse’s name.’
‘She’s not. She’s a friend of the man who died. She’s a little unconventional, but she could use a friendly face. She’s meeting
me here for lunch. I’ll introduce you.’
‘You always find the strays that need help, yes?’
‘Don’t tell Dad. He’ll just say that I’m not being focused on the campaign.’
Irina made a dismissive noise. ‘Forget him. You know, I think I am the only one who knows the real you sometimes. Isn’t that
silly?’ She leaned over and gave him an irreproachable peck on the cheek. ‘You are a thoughtful boy, Whit.’
A boy, and he was older than she.
Velvet stepped inside the café. Whit waved her over, introduced Irina to her.
‘You’re Judge Mosley’s stepmother?’ Velvet, dressed modestly in tourist-trap Bermuda shorts and a pale yellow T-shirt, shook
hands and sat, not taking her eyes off Irina. ‘Maybe I should go recruit in Russia. I do training films. Corporate stuff.’
Irina smiled politely and excused herself. She returned with tall glasses of iced tea, took their order for salads and
bitokes,
and scurried to the kitchen.
‘So now you’re making training films?’ Whit said.
‘I cut a little deal with Faith Hubble. Mouth zippered shut for now. For Sam’s sake. Pete wouldn’t have wanted him hurt by,
well, by the truth.’
‘So you and Faith are bosom buddies?’
‘I loathe that bitch with all my heart. But Sam’s a good kid. I don’t want him hurt. But I don’t want them to just sweep Pete
under a rug, either.’
‘So how are you doing?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m cried out. When do you have autopsy results?’
‘Probably today. At the latest tomorrow.’ He stirred his tea. ‘Pete tried to kill himself once before. You neglected to mention
that to us.’
‘Oh, that. He took the wrong pills.’
‘A dozen of them?’
‘He took the pills because I didn’t cast him in a quickie
movie I was making. We had a fight the week before, and I was fed up with him. Pete could be a prima donna. So he downed
some tranqs and called me on his cell phone to drive him to the hospital. I didn’t believe him, and by the time I got to his
place he was tanked out. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered with the hospital. I just would have made him puke. I’ve jammed
fingers down throats before.’
‘A lot of suicide among your co-workers, isn’t there?’
Velvet shrugged. ‘Shrinks kill themselves more than any other group. So don’t be thinking my colleagues are all mental cases.
We’re not.’
‘No, like me, you’re all well-adjusted models of society.’ He meant it lightly, as a joke on them both, but he’d punched a
well-pummeled bruise.
‘Yeah. Just like the well-adjusted models of society that buy all our movies.’
Their salads arrived, blanketed with blue-cheese dressing. Velvet waited until the server left before speaking.
‘You probably don’t know the names I’ve been called by your well-adjusted types when I’ve bothered to go on radio shows or
done Web interviews. Whore. Slut. They cease to mean much after a while.’ She offered a smile. ‘I prefer to think of myself
as a pleasure engineer.’
He laughed because he could tell she needed him to.
‘At least this way I get to choose what I’m called, Whit.
Whore’s
a term coined by men to trample any woman with sexual vitality.’ Velvet licked the blue cheese from her fork with a slow,
baroque flourish of her tongue. Whit waited for the chain reaction of heart attacks to decimate the retired men in the restaurant,
but no one keeled over.
‘That makes you uncomfortable,’ Velvet said. ‘You’re all squirmy boy now.’
‘I am not.’
‘What a squirmy man needs is a kiss gone bad,’ Velvet said.
‘A what?’
‘In regular movies, ninety percent of the time, you get the kiss and that’s it. Maybe they wriggle, real fakey, in bed. But
it’s antiseptic sexuality. In adult movies you get the kiss and two seconds later the cast is getting way down and dirty.
I just call it a kiss gone bad. But it’s really good. You know, you’re my ideal audience. Single, a little bored, too respectable
to ever solicit a prostitute but probably in need of sweet relief.’
‘I’m not bored,’ Whit said. He felt color creeping up past his collar.
‘Have you ever seen one of my movies, Whit?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever seen any porn movie? Be honest.’
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘When one of my brothers got married, we had a bachelor party with an X-rated tape rolling on the VCR.’
‘If you watched it, and it made your God-fearing little soldier stand at attention, honey, you can’t look down your nose at
me. I’m giving you and every other man what greases your wheels.’ She lowered her voice even further. ‘I bet my tapes are
under more beds and hidden away in more closets here in your sweet little Gomerville than you would ever imagine.’
‘What do you want me to say, Velvet? Good for you?’
‘I just don’t want you to act like what I do is so terribly wrong. I’m not filled with angst over what I do.’
‘All this angst Pete supposedly felt about his brother’s disappearance, is that really why he ended up in porn?’
‘He did it because it’s fun,’ she said in a flat voice, fork poised above the messy salad.
‘Fun. And that’s why you did the movies, too?’
She began to eat her salad, not answering him, shoveling
drenched chunks of lettuce in her mouth, staring at her plate. ‘Drop the armchair psychology.’
‘It’s just that … you seem too smart for this.’
She glanced at him quickly. ‘Oh, and so the blue movies are full of morons, huh? Judgie boy, I’ve worked with computer programmers,
accountants, lawyers. People who want to make one flick, just for laughs, use a horny-corny name, get in, get out. You think
they’re better than me ‘cause they do drive-by porn?’
‘No,’ Whit said. ‘But I want to know why you and Pete did these movies.’
‘Why? Want me to make you a star?’ she asked.
‘I’m quite sure I’d be a disappointment on film.’
‘You got a good jawline. That’s important. The camera likes you better.’
‘So why? I just would like to know.’
‘There’s no soap opera answer. My folks didn’t beat me, my dad didn’t abuse me, none of that tabloid talk-show shit.’ She
set her fork down. ‘I’m the worst-case scenario of a preacher’s kid. My dad was a Methodist minister in Omaha. I wouldn’t
mind going back there one day, live life a little slower.’
‘Your mom?’
‘Died when I was four. Lupus.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t remember much about her, except she made the best lemon pie you ever ate. I’d sit on the kitchen floor while she
baked, waiting to lick the spoon. And she liked gardenias. The house always smelled of them before she died.’ She leaned back
against the booth’s seat. ‘My dad married his church secretary just to give me a mama. She was a mean old cow who’d gone to
the Hitler Secretarial School, and when I turned sixteen Dad was dying of cancer. He told me they’d slept together exactly
one time. That was it. She cut him off right after because she
had all the sensuality of a stale raisin. That’s what’s wrong with this world: there’s not nearly enough love or happiness
or orgasms.’
‘About your mom … my mother took off when I was two. Never saw her again,’ Whit said. ‘And my dad was a drunk until I was
seventeen.’
‘Geez, you should’ve ended up on the other side of the camera with me,’ Velvet said. ‘Since nothing is our own fault and everything
is the fault of our family’s, right? Wrong. I don’t blame my mom or my dad for any of my choices, Whit. I wanted to make a
lot of money, I wanted to make movies, and I liked the sex.’
Whit pictured a little girl, sitting in a kitchen smelling of lemon peel and gardenias, the soft camouflage for a sickbed.
‘I wanted to go to film school. Be the female Coppola. But that costs money, Whit, and I wasn’t filling the bank waiting tables
or mopping up spilled beer or tutoring kids in algebra. I met a guy. He said I could make a lot of fast cash, use a fake name,
no one would ever know.’ She paused. ‘So I stayed in it. We build these little worlds for ourselves and then we never get
to move out.’
‘Meaning no one was gonna hire you for legit film work once you went down Porn Street?’
‘The judge’s robe does a nice job of covering your vicious streak.’
‘It’s vicious of me to point out the obvious?’
She said nothing.
‘What you gonna do after Pete is buried?’ Whit asked softly.
‘Go back to California. Find the next guy who can supersize his boner when there’s a camera three inches away and a crew of
five standing around picking their noses.’
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t do that.’
She smiled but not the kind of smile that said aren’t you sweet. ‘Gee willikers, Whit, you gonna sweep me off my feet and
save me from myself?’
‘I just think you could … not do these movies anymore.’
‘Why are you a judge?’ she asked suddenly. ‘You don’t fit the type at all. Too free-spirited to be comfortable judging other
people.’
‘My dad got me the job,’ he said, and she laughed.
‘But you’re sticking with it, right? You want to be elected. You’re like a small-town Gerald Ford, wanting everyone to vote
for you and really give you the job you got handed. Why?’
‘I never wanted to be a politician. I hate that part of the job. But I think truth matters, even the little truths of small-claims
and traffic court.’
‘And death inquests.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bull,’ she said. ‘You like the power, Whit. I can see it in your eyes, that quick flash of
yes, I’m the judge, don’t mess with me,
I like the power, too. When some lonely, horny guy slides one of my tapes into his machine, I have power over his pleasure.
I can make him tingle all over or I can make him as limp as string. Never had much power as a kid, I bet.’ She smiled, a cat
warming up for a good purr. ‘Littlest of six boys, you probably didn’t get to pick when you took a pee. I’m not inclined to
surrender my power any more than you are, Whit.’
Their
bitokes
arrived, and Irina plopped in the booth, chatting up Velvet, asking her if she’d walked through the shopping district and
seen the Arts Center and the Maritime Museum. Velvet, steeped in sudden courtesy, spoke with complete assurance and sounded
like an aspirant to the Junior League. Irina left them, patting Velvet on the hand, telling her how nice it was to meet her.
Velvet toyed with the prescription-pad-size dessert menu clamped above the salt and pepper. ‘What if … you decide suicide,
and more evidence comes later that says not suicide?’
‘I can reopen the case, conduct a new inquest. But considering Pete tried to kill himself before, if the autopsy remotely
suggests suicide …’
‘I knew you’d cop out. You’re not going to risk your own political neck to help me.’
‘Give me something, then. Do you know anything he knew that could have gotten him killed? Anything specific?’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t think that’s keeping me up at night? That maybe whoever shot him thinks I know what Pete knew?
I don’t. I don’t.’