But if Delford had killed Corey, then Delford could eliminate every iota of bothersome evidence. This theoretical killing might be impossible to prove.
He tried to imagine Corey stalking Delford, a grungy doper rich kid following around a respected officer. Corey would follow Delford, learn his routine, attempt to strike when Delford was most vulnerable – so when was that? What had the boy seen? What had he known? Why was he headed north?
He wondered where Delford was that fateful weekend.
Whit got out of his car, filled his tank, bought a fried apple pie and Dr Pepper at the convenience store, and ate a second lunch, all the while considering what would light the fuse of a pissy, self-centered fifteen-year-old.
He didn’t think of it until he thought about his own childhood, his own missing parent and what actions lit his own slow rage.
Jealousy. Resentment. The hungry need for a parent, even one who shows no interest.
Whit got on his cell phone and called Georgie.
31
Thursday evening, as the sun began its dip below the horizon, Claudia drove down Highway 35, searching for Heather Farrell. No one at Little Mischief Beach had seen Heather, and Claudia suspected that she might have moved on. Whit’s constable, Lloyd, had not been able to serve Heather the subpoena to appear in court tomorrow. Lloyd was cruising around the other local parks, hoping to spot her, and was concentrating on the northern half of the county. Claudia decided that Heather might have migrated south.
At least her need to find Heather had taken her away from David’s gloating.
‘Claudia, we just made our careers. Both of us,’ he had exulted. The Jabez Jones case was the biggest of his rather staid term in the sheriff’s department, and he could hardly contain his excitement.
‘You need to find Jabez first,’ she cautioned. ‘I wouldn’t be counting any promotions until then.’
‘What do you think I should wear for Entertainment Tonight, if they want an interview?’ David wondered. ‘They cover wrestling stories, right?’
‘Your uniform.’ Claudia knew any answer was easier than an argument for sanity. ‘But pressed, okay?’
She turned off the main highway, at an intersection marked by crumpled, wood-grayed county piers, a reminder of the last big hurricane three years ago. The money to repair them had gone instead to new piers in Port Leo and Laurel Point. The piers were abandoned now except for a flock of pelicans, preening on the rotting posts. She remembered walking along the short piers with David, hand in hand, breathing the smell of buttery popcorn, of salt, of dead mullet, of bait souring in the air, of spilled chocolate ice cream melting between the boards. Her wedding ring had felt newly heavy, a sudden anchor with a chip of diamond.
There was a small park on the south side of St Leo Bay, and she drove slowly past it. A family of three was strolling along the beach. An elderly woman sketched in the fading light, perched atop a picnic table, squinting at the wind-whipped bay. Claudia stopped and gave a description of Heather to the family and the woman. No one had seen her.
Claudia got back in her unmarked Taurus and headed farther south, the road curving down toward the hamlets of Encina Pass and Copano. She saw a white BMW speeding toward her, the driver intent on a phone. The car bulleted past, and Claudia saw Faith Hubble at the wheel.
Claudia lacked both a radar gun and jurisdiction. She headed down toward Encina Pass, and three minutes later she spotted Whit Mosley, getting into his Ford Explorer, the campaign sign magnets peeled off the sides. In the parking lot of a little puck of a motel, a twenty-dollar-a-night joint that catered to poor hipsters, tourists on bony budgets, and cheating husbands from Corpus Christi.
It didn’t cater to justices of the peace and senators’ chiefs of staff.
She pulled in beside Whit just as he started his car. She saw him force the smile, the faked-pleased look that suggested gosh, I’m glad to see you when it really meant oh, shit to the nth degree.
And a deep-inside part of her, never touched by David, twisted.
Claudia got out of her car. Whit powered his window down.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘What are you doing all the way down here in the bumfuck part of the county?’
He didn’t answer right away. ‘Talking with a friend.’
‘Faith Hubble, maybe?’
He didn’t say anything. ‘I saw her speeding down the road not three minutes ago. I couldn’t imagine why she was gracing a remote part of the county with her divine presence. So what’s going on. Honorable?’
‘I wanted to ask her,’ he said mildly, ‘about a shotgun.’
‘Shotgun?’
‘Corey Hubble owned a shotgun. I asked what happened to it after he vanished.’
‘And you had to discuss this with her in a backwater motel?’ She remembered their faces when she’d arrived at Whit’s door – the way they both focused on her, the way they didn’t look at each other with her standing there, the wineglasses set close together on the coffee table.
Whit clicked off his engine. ‘I can’t discuss it.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Either way I’m not talking about it.’
Claudia swallowed, aware suddenly of a sheen of sweat on her palms, the back of her legs, her shoulders. ‘If you’re involved with her… you should recuse yourself from the inquest.’
‘I disagree, Claudia. But I can’t discuss this with you. You’re going to have to trust me.’
‘Whit, please…’
‘I have to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And he powered up the window and drove out of the lot. She stood in the oily smear of his parking place, watching him go.
She got back in her Taurus, and looked for Heather Farrell for another hour without success before she headed home.
*
Whit lay on his back in his bed, watching the ceiling fan rotate above him.
Did you think you were James Bond? A romp in the hay would loosen her tongue – she’d talk about whatever she knew about the day Corey vanished? The meeting had been rushed, the lovemaking awkward. Her kisses wore on his lips like sandpaper, and she had pulled away, frowning, saying. We doing this or not? And so he had, but the sex felt more duty than pleasure, and her finishing gasps when she arched against him sounded forced. Perhaps Velvet should have taped them with all the sincerity they had shown.
Faith claimed to know nothing about Corey’s disappearance, a shotgun, or a grudge against Delford Spires. The more he talked, the more hastily she rinsed and dressed, and when she left all she said was, ‘Give me a lead time of a couple of minutes, okay? And you drive back via Old Bay Road, not the highway.’ Then the door shut, with not a single kiss good-bye.
And Claudia. He wanted to tell her, confide in her, but if he did, she and his family were at enormous risk. What if the man in the dark had been Delford or Eddie Gardner? What if his brothers were being watched right now, as threatened? The risk was too much. He would go on with his plan, conduct the inquest tomorrow, rule, and then worry less about the peace in his job title and more about the justice.
Finally he slept, and he dreamed of himself and Claudia’s brother Jimmy, boys gigging for frogs in the murky backwash creeks, Claudia tagging along, the serious pest.
32
At twenty till one Friday afternoon the Blade debated whether or not he should take a seat for the inquest. The hearing would start shortly, but he did not wish to be conspicuous by his presence. It was pleasant to sit in the cramped confines of the VW Beetle and watch the few television reporters strutting on the county courthouse lawn. All three of them, from the local Corpus affiliates, primped their doughnut-glaze hair. Again the sudden urge to simply get out of the car, walk over to them, and say. Do I have a story for you – but you must call me the Blade, washed over him, and he pumped up his Beach Boys tape, listening to them implore Rhonda for help, and the desire ebbed. To the Boys, Rhonda was a patron saint of love; perhaps he could find a Darling with the same name one day. Encina County was a Rhonda-rich environment. And perhaps one day he would walk up to a reporter and let his infamy begin. But not today.