‘Of course.’ She labeled the tape of Heather’s statement and dropped it in an accordion folder.
‘You okay about David?’
She closed the folder. ‘I’m fine, Delford, really.’
‘I noticed today that you weren’t wearing your ring no more.’
Claudia’s thumb rubbed along the bare ring finger. A band where the skin, shielded by metal that supposedly meant forever, stayed pale. ‘Yeah, well, the divorce was final yesterday. I sent David back the ring.’
‘I know it’s a tough time, Claud, and maybe I ought to let Gardner handle this one.’
‘There’s no need,’ Claudia said. ‘Really, Delford, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine and work is heaven for me right now.’
He coughed.
‘I can smell the advice baking,’ she said.
‘I’d treat this like a suicide.’
‘I don’t think Whit and the ME have talked cause of death yet.’
Delford ran a finger along a curve of his mustache. ‘Whit Mosley couldn’t find his ass in the dark with three flashlights. After the election he’ll probably be running a snow-cone stand.’
‘No. He’ll be a housepainter,’ Claudia said.
‘You ain’t one bit funny,’ Delford shot back. It was a Port Leo legend: fifteen years ago Whit and his five brothers had, in four masterful hours when Delford was away at a football game, painted Delford’s house pink. Violent, electric, Pepto-Bismol pink. Delford, unwilling to be the butt of a joke, had viewed the Mosley boys like crazed terrorists, even after they repainted his house back to its original white. The rest of the town hid its laughter behind their hands and shook their heads in mock scorn at those wild Mosleys.
‘You’re still not over that prank,’ Claudia said. ‘That’s why you don’t like any Mosley.’ She herself liked Whit Mosley fine. He’d palled around with her brother Jimmy as kids, fishing, gigging for frogs, swimming in the bay, and Whit never made her – the tagalong tomboy – feel unwelcome. He had kind eyes, gray as the bay when the clouds hung low. And he was easy to work with. The last JP, God rest her soul, puked at every single death scene and guilted Claudia into taking macrame and quilting classes with her. Whit kept his lunch and hobbies to himself.
‘I don’t like Mosley period. He’s running the bench like a beach attraction,’ Delford fretted. ‘I’m just saying Pete smells like suicide to me.’
‘Are you jumping or driving to that conclusion?’
‘When I told Lucinda that Pete was dead, she asked straightaway if he’d killed himself. She told me in detail about the mental problems he’s been suffering from over the past several years. It’s in her statement.’
‘She knew he was nuts but didn’t know he was doing porn?’ Claudia asked.
Delford frowned. ‘Well, maybe she did know. But I wouldn’t blame her for not mentioning it.’
‘His friend Velvet insists he would never commit suicide.’
‘Let’s talk about Pete’s friends. This boat he was staying on. Real Shame. It’s registered in Houston. It’s owned by a fellow named Tommy Deloache. In Houston, he’s known as Tommy the Roach. Suspected drug ties, suspected money launderer.’
‘And Pete hanging with criminals bolsters your suicide theory how?’
‘From what Houston PD says, if the Deloaches wanted Pete dead, he’d be in the Gulf, sixty feet down wired to blocks. They tidy up after themselves. They don’t leave bodies around to be autopsied.’
She stood. ‘I’ll keep you apprised of what I find.’
‘Claud, don’t get bent. I’m just asking you to be sensitive to a mother’s grief. Remember Lucinda’s got an election in less than a month, and this could derail it.’
‘The senator wouldn’t get more sympathy votes if he was murdered as opposed to suicide?’ Claudia asked bluntly. ‘Suicide sounds like maybe she was a bad mother.’
‘Damn it, Claudia, you’ve never handled a death this high-profile. And my gut, which is both bigger and older than yours, tells me Pete killed himself. If you chase the wrong path and embarrass yourself, not to mention Senator Hubble, with all this unrelated garbage about porn and Corey Hubble and what not, that’s going to be remembered.’
He shoved his chair hard against the table.
‘Well, hell, Delford, if you don’t have confidence in me, don’t give me the case.’
‘I’m just trying to help you. The case is yours. Just mind how you run it.’
She nodded, and he turned and left. Claudia stared at the door he slammed behind him.
9
‘Why didn’t you tell me Pete was back in town?’ Whit asked.
He heard the sharp rasp of Faith Hubble’s breath. ‘Oh, Whit. God, babe, I didn’t think it mattered. He said… he wasn’t going to stay long. A couple of weeks, no more.’
‘If I had an ex-wife, wouldn’t you have wanted to know if she showed up in Port Leo.?’ he asked.
‘We’re not… dating, Whit. We’re just… I mean… oh, God, I can’t have this conversation now. Sam’s out of his mind with grief, and Lucinda’s a zombie.’
Whit hated having to press, but he did. ‘Pete was writing a screenplay, Faith. I don’t think he was just waltzing in and out of Port Leo on a quick jaunt.’
‘Oh, God.’ She couldn’t hide the shock in her voice. ‘Movie.?’
‘Did you know he was in the movie business, Faith?’
‘I can’t… discuss this right now. Sam’s real upset. He needs me.’
‘Fine. But I need to talk to you all tomorrow.’
‘I want that. I want to see you.’
‘Fine, I’ll call you tomorrow. Please give my sympathies to the senator and Sam.’
‘I will. And thank you, in advance, Whit, for your help. We appreciate it.’
They said their good-byes and hung up. Whit wondered exactly what kind of help he was supposed to provide, unasked.
Whit transferred his field notes to an inquest report and assigned the death a case number. He had called the ME’s office in Corpus Christi as soon as he got into his office to report Pete’s death and the body’s expected arrival at their facility. The on-call ME had phoned back and Whit gave her a brief summation of the case. He asked her to be sure and check the corpse for any signs of foul play, although from the body’s condition suicide was indicated. He hung up and watched the clouds begin to pour a thin, steady rain on the sleeping town.
He gathered up a notebook from the JP Training Center that offered details on conducting a formal death inquest, locked up his office, and headed down the darkened hallways of the courthouse.
Grief, in whatever variety, reminded Whit of his mother. When he was two, she had packed up and walked away from her husband and six sons and vanished into the great blue of the world, and in odd moments he ached for her touch as he might ache for a missing limb. For the first time in weeks he wondered where his mother was, if she were dead or alive. He imagined her buried under an assumed name, or her unmourned bones bleached by the sun, a victim of terrible evil. But not always. He also imagined her munching a peanut butter sandwich, licking stray dabs of plum jelly from her fingers, watching The Tonight Show, curled on a bed with green sheets. Green had been her favorite color, she often wore a thin green ribbon in her blond hair, at least in pictures. He could not remember if he ever played with the ribbon.
He wondered if she ever thought of him. Perhaps five sons had seemed manageable and six was just one son too many.
His mother. Corey Hubble. Both gone into the maw of the world.
The difference between Whit and Pete, Whit mused, was that Pete acted. Or at least attempted to peel back the layers of years toward truth and document what had happened to Corey.
Whit admired his guts.
So what had Pete found?
The police station’s night dispatcher, a she-grizzly named Nelda, buzzed him into the building. Whit free-loaded a cup of high-voltage, road-tar coffee from her and collapsed on a rough old bench. Velvet was giving a statement to Claudia Salazar, he was told, and Nelda peered at him strangely when he said he’d wait.