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.
Velvet practiced pulling the automatic from her purse for ten more minutes until the motion felt fluid and natural and the gun didn’t feel so alien in her grip. If Junior Deloache became a problem, she thought, she’d have to fire without flinching. She imagined shooting him in the stomach – clearly the biggest target on him – and tried not to think about how much blood might explode from his guts.
Him or you. Just think of it as him or you if it comes to that. Junior was, she thought, most likely full of bluff, and he might even be useful to her.
Her fantasies shifted from gunning down a hot-breathed Junior Deloache to placing the cool barrel of the Sig against Faith Hubble’s head and forcing that snide bitch to sing the truth. Yes, I killed him, I killed him, please don’t hurt me…
A gentle knock rapped on the door. She went and peered through the peephole. Faith Hubble stared back at her through the security hole, arms crossed, frowning like she wanted to bite the world in half.
‘Velvet? You there?’ Faith called. She knocked again.
Velvet hurried back to her purse. She clicked on the recorder and found the ammunition in the bottom of the bag.
‘You’re stupider than I thought,’ Gooch said.
Whit nursed his beer. He and Gooch sat in a deserted corner at Georgie’s bar at the Shell Inn. Being a Tuesday night, the bar was mostly empty, only a few figures quaffing down liquid forgetfulness in the shallow light. The tarpons on the wall, mounted over draped netting, caught the glow of the television along their preserved curves. Georgie sat at the bar, smoking a cigarette and working the New York Times crossword puzzle with a bloodred pen.
He had just confessed to Gooch about his affair with Faith and was now receiving a quota of due lashings.
‘What do you think Buddy Beere might make of this, Whitman?’ Gooch rattled the ice in his near-empty glass of bourbon. ‘He’ll fry you into political hash.’
‘Buddy doesn’t have to know. And Pete’s her longtime ex. I don’t think there’s a professional conflict in me handling the case.’
‘Buddy will. And no secret in this county gets kept forever,’ Gooch said. ‘There’s too many big mouths and prying eyes and booze.’ He finished his drink with a toss and signaled to the vapid barkeep for a refill. She didn’t see him, giggling with Eddie Gardner at the bar. Whit watched Gardner, who had pointedly ignored him. If Claudia was slaving over the Hubble case tonight, Gardner wasn’t.
‘I’ve discovered the silver lining. You blow the election, you can work for me,’ Gooch mused. ‘I’m thinking of buying a much bigger boat, you know, a serious party barge. If I do it, you can wriggle out from under Babe’s wing and grab a real life.’
‘Yeah. Scrubbing decks, gutting fish, keeping drunks from going overboard. And best of all, taking orders from you. My life’s dream.’
‘You ain’t got room for snooty.’ Gooch finally got the bartender’s attention when she turned from laughing at a joke of Gardner’s. She nodded and brought Gooch his drink. Whit watched the young woman hurry back to Gardner, intent on not leaving him shifted in neutral too long.
‘Why do cute girls like a greaseball like Gardner?’ Whit wondered.
Gooch shrugged. ‘You ask this while diddling Faith Hubble.’
Whit considered. ‘She’s fun.’
‘And willing. Is that all you require?’
‘No.’
‘What else? Breathing?’ Gooch put a hand over his heart in mock horror. ‘God help us, you’re not in love with her, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ Whit said.
‘So she’s just someone you sleep with?’
‘She’s…’ Whit stopped. Lover implied more emotional depth than either he or Faith had yet brought to the bed. One-night stand was logistically incorrect. Sexual release carried all the warmth of freezer burn. He just liked her; he still liked her. ‘We’re in a shadowy area.’
His map of Faith’s heart consisted of the roughest sketch. He knew Sam was her north star, her everything, with perhaps Lucinda and her political career a near second. But when they were together – from the first time – she had shown an openness toward him that he suspected few others saw. He didn’t believe her capable of sticking a gun in a man’s mouth and pulling the trigger.
He was pretty sure. Fairly sure.
He finished his beer. Crap. Not sure at all, even though he’d tasted her skin, felt the broad warmth of her back pressed up against his chest, explored the shape of her mouth, smelled chamomile in her hair, knew which ribs produced ticklish laughter. He didn’t know the shape and size of her heart.
And Claudia. She’d greeted Faith with all the friendliness of a mongoose eyeing a swaying cobra. Claudia sure hadn’t believed it was a simple interview. Miss By-the-Book would blow a mighty shrill whistle on him in two seconds flat if she smelled a conflict of interest. And he couldn’t blame her.
Just then Whit noticed a chunky blond man lumber up from a darkened corner of the bar, wearing a gaudy-awful tropical shirt, and head out the door. He bumped into an older man entering the bar and said, ‘Watch it, old fart.’ The old man, already drunk, ignored him.
Whit said, ‘Come on,’ to Gooch, tossed dollars on the bar to settle the tab, and followed.
As they went out, the man clambered into a red Porsche. Grit and bird-guano splatters dusted the car. The Porsche jerked out of its slot and revved onto Main Street.
Whit ran to his Explorer, Gooch following.
‘Explaining soon?’ Gooch said.
‘Heavy. Blond. Loud. He looks like the dirtbag Ernesto described. And he’s driving a messy Porsche, just like Ernesto said.’
Whit tailed the filthy Porsche down Main Street, past the shopping district where seasonally challenged store owners had already hung Christmas decorations and dangled sprays of light in the palm and red bay trees. On his left was the bay, with rental condo developments lining the shore. Most had been built in the 1970s during a last-gasp oil boom and retained the unfortunate, granola-esque architecture of the time – boxy, with diagonally layered strips of wood for siding and balconies ringed with thick oak beams.
They drove past the Port Leo city limits for a half mile and the Porsche wheeled into a condo resort called Sea Haven. Its name was written in cursive rope for that authentic nautical air. Missing windows and sawhorses suggested renovations were under way.
The Porsche parked next to a flooring company’s van, and the driver unfolded himself from the car. Big, with terminally moussed hair and pimp-bright clothes: a crimson tropical shirt adorned with purple parrots, bright yellow golfing pants, snow-white high-top sneakers. He straightened his britches with a decisive yank as he ambled toward the building.
Whit drove past, U-turned, and circled back. The man still stood in the yard, talking to an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair.
‘Stop and talk to them or go on?’ Gooch asked.
‘Carpe diem and all that crap,’ Whit said. ‘Let’s stop.’
The old man watched them park and raised a hand to silence the young man. Whit was suddenly conscious of the KEEP JUDGE MOSLEY megasize magnetic sign on the side of his Explorer. He and Gooch walked toward them. The steely scowl on the old man’s face deepened.
‘Hello,’ Whit said. ‘I’m Whit Mosley and I’m the justice of the peace here in Encina County.’
‘I see.’ The old man nodded toward the garishly patriotic vote-mobile, bright under the streetlights. ‘I’m Anson Todd.’
Whit recognized the name from the marina manager; Todd was the man who’d made the docking arrangements for Real Shame. ‘This is Leonard Guchinski,’ Whit said.
‘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.’
‘You do smell funny,’ Whit said. ‘Watch me. I’ll subpoena both of them so fast their beady little eyes’ll pop.’
The elevator doors slid open with a creaky fanfare. Junior Deloache stood there with a box of raisin bran crushed under his arm and a six-pack of beer. He looked like a delivery boy gone to seed but a cold light of calculation touched his eyes.
‘Hi, Junior,’ Whit said. ‘Could we talk for a second? Just outside?’
Junior shook his head. ‘I gotta make sure Anson gets his Mr Plumb-r cereal.’
‘I’d like to see what all you’re doing with Sea Haven. I only have a couple of questions for you.’
Junior shrugged and Whit and Gooch followed him through the dismantled lobby to a large patio, aglow with fuzzy security lights, bare of furniture, with an emptied, cracked pool. A decaying cabana-cum-bar with a graying palm-thatched roof stood nearby, lopsided with neglect.
‘Welcome to Groo-vin’ Central,’ Junior said. ‘Once we get it cleaned up and lure all the young chickies here.’
Gooch said, ‘Oh, yes, I just see chickies flocking here by the dozens.’
‘You gonna have the money to finish?’ Whit asked.
Junior gave him a scornful sideways glance. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Didn’t you owe Pete Hubble serious money?’
‘Most certainly did not.’
‘People at the marina heard the two of you bickering about money. Saw you shoving him around on your boat.’
Junior frowned, but Whit saw he had to think about it first. ‘Your sources are faulty, man. I didn’t owe him money.’
Gooch asked, ‘So what did Pete owe you?’
‘And you would be who?’ Junior asked. ‘You the bailiff for the judge or something?’
‘Gooch is just a friend along for the ride.’ Whit wished Gooch would shut up.
‘There was no owing of any sort, man. There’s a real difference between friends goofing around and arguing. I just got a big voice.’
‘When did you last see Pete?’ Whit asked.
‘A few days ago, last week. He and I took the boat out.’
‘Do you want to talk about whatever this money issue was at an inquest hearing? Because I’ll call you to testify if I think it’s relevant. Or if you’re not cooperating. I’m sure the police would be interested.’
Not testifying, Whit suspected, might be a family virtue long drummed into Junior, probably since he broke the legs of his first G.I. Joe in the nursery.
‘I had no reason to want Pete dead. See, Pete promised me I could be in a movie.’
‘The one he was making about his brother?’
‘Tragedy is not my style. A, you know, different kind of movie.’ Junior swiveled his hips with a not-so-subtle grind.
‘I see. Pete was going to let you be in a groo-vin’ movie,’ Whit said in an understanding tone.
‘Yeah, you’re on board now. Fucking A.’
‘Anson and your dad must’ve loved that idea.’
The smile faded.
‘I got the impression whatever Anson said, you did.’ Whit gently poked the box of raisin bran.
‘Yeah, well, that’s me being nice to an old fart. Anson’s older’n hell, he already got one wheel in the grave.’
‘So with Pete gone I guess your movie career is on hold. Unless you can convince Velvet to cast you in her next opus.’
He grinned. That’s no problem.’
‘Why is that?’
Junior set the cereal and beer down, gently, stood, and rubbed his palms against each other, warming his fists for use. ‘You know, you’re grilling me like chicken, dude, and I don’t got to give you the time of day.’
‘Oh, yes, please let’s get physical,’ Gooch interrupted. ‘I haven’t had a workout today, and you got punching bag written all over your gut.’
Junior started a retort, then seemed to reconsider as he noted the size of Gooch’s biceps. ‘I sure as hell ain’t gonna answer any more questions.’
‘Fine. I’ll see you in my courtroom.’ Whit had found his weapon – Anson’s and Junior’s loathing of court – and wasn’t about to surrender it.
A cold rage lit Junior’s eyes. ‘My daddy’s attorneys will eat you alive.’
‘What’s with these attorneys and the food metaphors? Eat us alive and grilling you like chicken and consider Whit an appetizer? No wonder you’re chunky,’ Gooch said.
‘Gooch. Don’t,’ Whit said. He shrugged at Junior. ‘So start working your cell phone and get all of your daddy’s attorneys down here. The bill the lawyers charge to your dad for all that travel time should be substantial.’
Junior considered this – calling his father to gather a bevy of lawyers in Port Leo – and suddenly cooperated. ‘Look, Judge, you want to chase down the right fox, you need to look at the X-Bitch.’
‘Who?’
‘Pete’s ex. He called her the X-Bitch, you know, like The X-Files? Freaking alien weirdo. She was about to drive him crazy.’
‘How so?’
‘Man, how didn’t Faith? Over at his boat all the time, trying to sweeten him up. I caught Pete and Faith once, I swear, inches from fucking. Velvet would’ve had a coronary.’
‘Velvet says Pete was just a friend.’
‘Yeah, right, they’re just friends after he’s had his dick inside her a couple of hundred times. You know women don’t think that way, not even porn stars.’ Junior laughed, relaxing now that the topic was back on treasured ground. ‘But the X-Bitch, hell, I think she kinda had a split personality going as far as Pete was concerned. She wanted him but she wanted him gone. She works for that old shit of a mother of his, and you know they were soiling their panties when he moved back. Jesus, he told me his mother offered him money to go away. He didn’t want to do it and I’m all like, dude! Are you nuts? Take the money, ditch Port Lame here and go back to L.A., where life is real.’ Junior shook his head. ‘Shit, he should’ve taken that money. He really should’ve.’
Anson wheeled into view in the open doorway. ‘Junior!’ he bawled. ‘Get in here.’
Junior picked up his groceries. ‘I had every reason to want Pete alive, and his family sure as hell didn’t. Later.’ He turned and went back to Anson, walking past him without a word. Whit followed him back through the lobby. Anson wasn’t in a mood to parry further.
‘Good night. Judge,’ he said with solemnity, and motored himself back into the elevator after Junior.
Whit and Gooch walked out of the lobby. Junior hardly appeared credible on paper, but his words gave Whit pause. If Velvet was right, and Pete was going to sue for custody, had Faith tried to disarm him with sex? And if Lucinda had truly offered her son cash to fade away… what had she done when he refused?
It suggested they knew damn well Pete might be suing for custody, and had more than a prayer of winning. But Junior would be hard to present as a credible witness.
‘I must get the name of the reform school he attended,’ Gooch said. ‘I want to sponsor a scholarship.’
Whit walked past Junior’s Porsche and noticed the rear left corner looked like it had suffered a minor accident. The left taillight was smashed. Whit remembered the one-eyed Porsche he’d passed last night heading away from the marina, trash disco blaring into the night – hours before Anson claimed they’d arrived in Port Leo.
The Blade was tired.
Midnight had come to Port Leo, his favorite time, and he stood beneath a canopy of live oaks and listened to the wind – the wind that had caressed, in its time, every inch of the world, every woman – whisper through the oak limbs.
It was a good day, he supposed. He knew where Velvet was, a toy just waiting to be opened. His plan for Heather Farrell had been put in motion. He could sleep and dream up a store of delights that, in the days ahead, he could make real.
Not every man, he knew, was so blessed and rich. He went into the garage to prepare his boat for its chores.