He still looked gaunt and pale. ‘We’re gonna find this fucker, Claudia. Jesus. You expect shit like this in Houston, not here.’ He mopped his brow and she noticed the dark circles underneath his uniform’s sleeves. He was sweating as though fevered. ‘I thought you were taking care of this girl.’
Her throat worked. ‘I… she didn’t want help. She didn’t want protection. I tried.’
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Christ. Try harder next time.’
Silence fell between them, the soft sound of the waves, boats creaking in the harbor a block away. Claudia’s heart hammered in her chest.
‘Marcy Ballew,’ Delford finally said. ‘Maybe this is what happened to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Claudia said. She told him about her research. ‘I’m still waiting to hear back from Laredo and Brownsville on their missing-persons cases.’
‘We got a missing girl and we got a butchered girl. And the way Farrell was killed, Jesus. He took out her organs.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ she cautioned. ‘Marcy Ballew could be sitting on a beach in California for all we know. And I think that this might have more to do with Pete Hubble’s death. For God’s sakes, once it gets out that the girl who found him is dead herself… it’s an awful stretch for coincidence, Delford. Surely you see that.’
He blanched. ‘She’s a transient. They’re always easy targets. Sure could be a coincidence.’
‘Maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to.’
‘Pete Hubble committed suicide. There was nothing for her to see. Hell, she was prone to amble at night. She just might have walked herself into some new trouble.’
Claudia kept her voice low. ‘I’m not going to argue with you, because it seems pointless. But this is not like you, Delford. Bullying me. Sticking your hand in the middle of investigations. Just wait until the press learns the girl who found Pete Hubble is gutted and sliced up in the bay. You tell people there’s no connection, you’re gonna be looking for a new job. Why are you fighting me every step of the way?’ She felt sick, breathless.
Delford Spires sank onto the steps next to her. All the bluster from before was gone, and she saw his hands tremble as he slowly rubbed his jawline.
‘Whit Mosley believes – and I’m not sure how, since I can’t get in touch with him – Pete Hubble got half a million in cash from Junior Deloache. The money’s gone. There’s no trace of it in Pete’s account. Pete’s dead. Now Heather’s dead. I think this missing money is at the heart of this, Delford.’
He blinked at her. ‘Jesus Christ, this’ll kill Lucinda.’
Claudia cared very little for Lucinda Hubble’s feelings at the moment. ‘It’s already killed Pete and Heather.’
‘You think the mob cut up that little girl and dumped her?’
‘Yes, I do. At least based on what I know now. We need to find Deloache.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘You talk to Eddie yet?’
‘Eddie’s not answering my calls,’ Delford said. ‘I’m gonna go over to his house and see what’s up.’ He turned and headed back toward the station.
Claudia went back inside to the interrogation room. A slip of paper from the girl’s jeans was there, secure in an evidence bag. Claudia stared at the phone number that had been tucked in the girl’s wallet. It was blurred from the water but still readable. Faith Hubble’s home phone. Maybe Faith had offered to help the girl, given that she’d had the trauma of finding Pete’s body. Right. Faith Hubble, good Samaritan.
She turned to the worn, grass-stained duffel. After Heather’s body had been found. Patrolman Fox and another officer immediately combed her hangout. Little Mischief Beach, for information. A couple of girls puffing cigs on the beach, transients, knew Heather and when told of her fate, shattered into tears. One produced a duffel bag within ten minutes. They thought Heather had just blown town and you know, they could sure use her stuff if she didn’t need it. They’d last seen her on Wednesday night.
Claudia sorted through the contents. A pair of jeans, crusty with sand. A pair of panties. She examined the manufacturer and the size: on both counts, the same as the panties found at Pete’s death scene. Claudia let out a long breath. She’d had Heather show that she had underwear on, but she’d been given a bathroom break before and had her duffel with her. She could have changed into a pair of fresh panties before Claudia asked. Maybe she was messing around with Pete Hubble and suddenly had to get dressed in a hurry.
Yeah, if she killed Pete. Or if she was with Pete when he was killed.
She called the crime lab in Corpus and asked them to compare any pubic hairs found in the panties in Pete’s case with Heather Farrell’s pubic hairs, once they had processed her body. She had a sick feeling that there would be a match.
She pawed, through the duffel bag. Two sweaters, threadbare, a couple of T-shirts with Port Leo themes, one for the Port Leo varsity swim team. A small stash of cash: thirty dollars. A couple of bus tickets to go as far as Houston, unused – the ones the constable had mentioned at the inquest. Who was going with her? A notebook, full of stiff but accurate pencil drawings of whooping cranes, Caspian terns, egrets, and roseate spoonbills. Boats, people walking on the beach. She hadn’t been kidding about being an artist. With instruction she might have been quite good. Another page, full of hopeful scribbling. Heather Hubble. Mrs Heather Hubble. Heather Farrell-Hubble. Heather and Sam, the H and the S ornately drawn together to form a lopsided heart.
Holy God.
The drive to Lucinda Hubble’s house took three minutes. Lights were on, both upstairs and downstairs, even at the late hour. Lucinda answered the door, in silk pajamas and robe. The skin under Lucinda’s eyes was dark, like a pale bruise.
She tore open the door quickly after Claudia’s knock, her eyes wide. Seeing Claudia seemed to make her breath freeze.
‘Hello, Senator. I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Is Faith here?’
‘Bad news,’ she repeated dully. But she led Claudia into the main den, where Faith was speaking softly into a telephone. Faith clicked off the moment she saw Claudia, not even bothering with a good-bye.
‘What’s going on?’ Faith asked without preamble.
‘The young woman who found Pete’s body. Heather Farrell, is dead. A shrimper’s net caught her body out in the bay a couple of hours ago.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Lucinda said, paling. The women exchanged glances.
‘Was it an accident?’ Faith asked. ‘Did she drown?’
‘Hardly. Stabbed, disemboweled, throat slashed.’
Claudia let the silence hang. Lucinda sank into a chair.
‘There are those who might be tempted to treat this as a coincidence – Heather finds Pete dead and ends up dead herself in a matter of days. I don’t believe in coincidence. I don’t care how Judge Mosley ruled.’ She glared at Faith Hubble, then turned to Lucinda. ‘I never thought your son committed suicide. Senator, and I think so even less now. You have anything you want to tell me?’
Lucinda folded her hands in her lap. ‘I can think of nothing that could help you. I’m horrified beyond belief that such a crime could happen here.’
Faith said, ‘Let’s call Delford,’ as though Claudia were not sitting there.
That boiled Claudia’s blood. ‘We have another young woman missing, and if Heather’s death is not related to Pete’s, I think it’s related to this other case. Have either of you heard of Marcy Ballew?’
Both women shook their heads.
‘She vanished from Deshay, in western Louisiana. She worked at a nursing home there.’
Faith shook her head, but Lucinda’s mouth worked and she made a noise in her throat.
‘Senator?’ Claudia asked.
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t know her. Or of her.’
‘In Heather’s jeans we found a piece of paper that had your home phone number on it. Had either of you been in contact with her?’
Faith looked stunned. ‘Lord, no.’
‘I gave the girl that number,’ Lucinda said quickly. Faith looked over at her, surprised.