A Kiss Gone Bad (18 page)

‘Don’t ever send me a famous body again.’ Dr Liz Contreras, deputy medical examiner for Nueces County, had a voice that reminded
Whit of crumpled foil – raspy, bright, a little grating.

‘You finally get some pressure to hurry Pete Hubble along?’

‘I got a call from the governor’s office. Some aide to an aide with a degree in snotitude. I explained to said flunky I don’t
have powers over time and space to hurry up blood tests.’

‘Then let me be the first to thank you for your quick work.’

‘Don’t thank me too quick. You need to chew out your evidence people. I’ve already had a chat with your delightful Mr Gardner.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Hubble’s hands weren’t properly bagged. The GSR readings are not going to be particularly accurate.’

Whit had counted on the gunshot residue tests to help him determine if Pete had been holding the gun when it fired. A high
level of residue implied suicide.

‘How was the bagging screwed up?’

‘The bag on the victim’s right hand wasn’t fastened properly, and the bag itself has defects – holes, as if torn by rough
handling. Now, that said, I found gunshot residue on the right hand, but the amount could have come from Hubble pulling the
trigger and then the residue getting worn off with crappy bagging, or because someone stuck the gun in Hubble’s mouth and
Hubble’s hand went to the gun or was by his mouth or jaw. It’s not definitive that he pulled the trigger or that he didn’t.’

Crap. If Liz said outright suicide, his ruling became simple. ‘So what can you tell me?’

‘Time of death was between seven and nine o’clock. He’d eaten shortly before he died, most of a pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza,
a number of tostada chips, and several glasses of red wine. Death was instantaneous. Bullet entry wound through the mouth
– the angle is consistent with a gun placed in a mouth with little or no struggle. So he wasn’t lurching or fighting when
the gun fired. That could indicate self-inflicted.’ She made a humming sound, and he pictured her scanning her report. ‘The
bullet didn’t exit the skull. I’ve retrieved it and sent it to the crime lab here. Dried blood around the mouth, specks of
blood on face and hands. The specks on his face are blowback – blood and tissue bursting forward from the bullet’s pressure
moving through the head.’ She paused.

‘What?’

‘Well, this amount of blowback, we ought to have seen it on Hubble’s right hand as well. There’s very little there.’

‘Would the bad bagging of the hands account for that?’

‘Maybe. But I would still expect to see as much blow-back on his trigger hand as on his face. The amount of blowback on the
gun itself is consistent with what I would expect with a self-inflicted shot. Hubble’s prints are readable on the gun, according
to the lab. They said there were a couple of partials but not readable enough for an ID.’

He thought of Eddie Gardner, easing the gun out of Pete’s mouth and thumbing the safety.

‘Could that have happened if an officer handled the gun improperly?’ Whit asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘Did he have sex before he died?’ Whit asked.

‘No.’

‘We did find a pair of panties by the bed, mixed in with his clothes.’

‘Then have Gardner check those panties for seminal traces or pubics. We will comb the deceased down for hairs and fibers not
his,’ Contreras said.

‘What’s your considered opinion as to homicide versus suicide? A lot of folks are watching me on this one.’

Liz Contreras’s voice softened. ‘That he is lying in the bed, with this bullet angle, is a big suicide supporter. There’s
just no sign of struggle. The lack of blowback and gunpowder residue could be attributed to the poor handling. But I can’t
say with certainty. If there’s much reason to believe he was depressed or suicidal, you’ll probably be safe in ruling for
suicide.’ She paused. ‘He’d had a lot to drink, too. His blood alcohol count was point two – that’s a lot of hooch, might
supercharge any depression. Toxicology on narcotics will take a while longer. I’ve sent fingernail scrapings, hairs from up
and down, and the bullet to the crime lab, along with hand swabs. They can do a double check on my work there. That’s about
it.’ She paused. ‘If your inquest is showing he was suicidal, you’re probably safe in ruling that way, Whit.’

‘Thank you, Liz. If I decide to do a formal inquest, you’ll come testify?’

‘Sure,’ Liz said. ‘Especially if you’ll treat me to one of those Russian hamburgers at your stepmom’s place.’

He chatted with her for a minute more, hearing all about her young daughter’s dominance of the Pee Wee soccer leagues in Corpus
Christi, then clicked off.

He called Delford, left a message asking him to call, and then nearly dialed Patsy Duchamp at the
Mariner
to give a statement. But he felt tired, and oddly disappointed. There was no case here to be solved, really, after all. And
Patsy didn’t have a paper hitting the
streets again until Saturday. He could talk to her in the morning.

He went home, ate a quiet dinner with Babe and Irina, and was getting into his car to go to Irina’s café to borrow her computer
when Velvet pulled up. He stood in the yard and waited for her to get out of the car.

‘You got a minute for me?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. I have some news for you,’ Whit said. ‘We have a suicide note.’ He explained to her Sam’s revised account.

She leaned against her car. ‘No way, Whit. I sure don’t believe he killed himself, and I sure don’t believe he killed his
own brother.’

‘The note said Corey’s death was an accident.’

‘I still don’t believe it.’ She stalked around the yard in a circle, burning nervous energy. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Why? Why not?’

‘Because he was a genuinely sweet guy. He was. I can look at him the same way I look at you and know you couldn’t kill someone.’

‘We never, ever know people exactly the way they are.’

Velvet shook her head. ‘I want to see this note.’

‘The police and the Hubbles haven’t released it to the press yet.’ He watched her fidget. ‘I don’t think I can get you a copy.
I’m sorry. Velvet.’

‘His damned family. They’ll say Pete was a murderer and a suicide. I mean, why not kick him when he’s dead?’ She crossed her
arms. ‘Don’t you have autopsy results yet, anything to contradict that stupid note?’

He wasn’t about to disclose Liz Contreras’s findings, not yet. ‘Nothing yet.’ He paused. ‘Tell me about Junior Deloache.’

She crossed her arms. ‘Junior? What’s to tell?’

‘I understand he wants to be in movies.’

To his surprise she laughed. ‘Honey, I couldn’t sell tickets to Junior. The biscuit, shall we say, lacks yeast.’

‘He says Pete promised him.’

‘Only if Junior bought his way in.’

‘You mean, an actor pays you?’

‘Not exactly. I’ve known investors who’ve wanted to come watch the shoots or take some photos of their own. Or screw a starlet,
if she didn’t mind. But never while the camera was rolling.’

Whit studied her. ‘Pimping for investors. What does that have to do with love and happiness and all that stuff you whacked
me with at lunch, pray tell? Doesn’t that make you just a glorified madam?’

‘Life is a tough business.’

‘And you’re running right back into the sleaze.’

‘What am I supposed to do, Whit? Put down roots here in Pleasantville?’

‘Why not make this film about Corey that you and Pete planned?’

She stared. ‘Without Pete? I don’t think so. Plus, the purse is empty. He hadn’t gotten the financing.’

‘Any excuse will do, right, as long as you can make more porno crap.’

‘This crap is what I do, and I tend to be quite good at it.’ She stepped closer to him. ‘Would you like to experience how
good? We could do a tape together, never release it in the U.S. Distribute it in Asia only. No one here would ever know.’

He didn’t say anything for ten seconds, and she laughed. ‘No smart answer? Whit, under all that assurance you’re such a white-bread
boy. If I took you on, you’d be toast.’

‘And if I took you on, maybe I could help you get out of the pit you’re in. Deep in your heart you know porn’s wrong. You
know. I can tell you do.’

‘I don’t. I’m not one bit debased. I’m superior to any man who pays money for my tapes. And the last thing I need or want
is a white knight to bring me a new set of morals. Mine are just fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t tell you what you do is wrong.
Let me guess why you’re still living at home at your advanced age. Your stepmother’s charms?’

‘No.’

‘Whit, you’re a sweet man. But you look at me like a street whore maybe your church could sponsor. I like my life as it is.’

‘I like you, period, and I don’t want to see you ruin your life.’

‘It’s mine to ruin, as you put it.’

‘If I rule for suicide, what are you gonna do?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Does that note mention his career?’

‘Not directly.’

‘If it wasn’t for Sam … I’d blast Lucinda Hubble with Pete’s career in every paper I could.’

‘Why do you hate her so?’

‘Because, Whit, she hated her own kids. Pete told me once his mother treated him and Corey like stagehands in her great play
of life. Faith should have been Lucinda’s kid. She seems to relish the role of Little Miss Macbeth. If Lucinda won’t stand
by Pete when he’s dead, I ought to hit her exactly where it hurts. With the voters.’

‘Vendettas don’t get you far.’

‘They get you far enough.’ She got in her car.

Whit stood in the yard, in the twilight, and watched her go.

‘Excitable thing, isn’t she?’ a voice called to him, coming across the yard. Whit turned and saw Buddy Beere, dressed in a
suit the color of a stale brownie and thick-knotted polyester tie, clutching a sheaf of campaign flyers.

‘Hi,’ Whit said.

‘Hi, Whit. Hope you don’t mind me canvassing your neighborhood. Just out meeting the voters.’

‘Well, I suppose if you haven’t grown up and known most of the voters all your life, you need to campaign.’ He felt extraordinarily
peevish, and the sight of Buddy, in his lumpy suit and sweaty brow and dork’s tie, only irritated him.

Buddy didn’t rise to the bait. ‘If it makes you feel better, two houses on the street already said they were voting for you.’
Considering there were at least fifteen houses, Whit saw the jab.

‘Thanks.’

‘That was Pete Hubble’s girlfriend, right?’ Buddy asked. ‘You still chasing her?’

‘Part of the inquest is gathering information on the deceased. To do that you have to talk to the bereaved. You’ll have to
learn that if you win.’ Suddenly he was tired of arguing and jousting with this little man so determined to take his job away.

‘Good night. Buddy.’

Buddy rolled his remaining flyers into a cylinder. ‘Whit? One question. Did you have to buy your robe, or did the county buy
it for you? I just want to be sure I get the right size.’

Claudia called Whit on his cell phone before she collapsed in bed, giving him an update on what she’d found in the Corey Hubble
case file. He told her about the autopsy results and the bad bagging.

‘You’ll really have to discuss this with Delford,’ she said. ‘Out of my hands now.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Whit said. ‘Delford’s being unfair.’

‘Well, let Gardner handle it,’ she said. ‘Apparently the lesson learned here is that the Hubbles warrant special treatment.’
She paused. ‘Gardner did do the tests on the note. There were two sets of prints. Pete’s and Sam’s.’

‘I guess that settles that,’ Whit said.

Driving to the Café Caspian, Whit watched gleaming lights dot the harbor: fishing boats, pleasure boats, the restaurants by
the piers that jutted into the bay. His cell phone buzzed as he pulled up in front of the darkened café.

‘I understand you are Sam’s confessor.’ Faith sounded hoarse and worn. ‘He says you were very good to him. Thank you, Whit.’
Less frosty than when she’d stormed from the guest house.

‘You’re welcome. How are y’all doing?’

‘Sam is still upset, and of course Lucinda is having to deal with Pete’s confession.’

‘You talk to me like you’re talking to the press.’

‘Do I? I guess so. I’ve got spin doctors from Austin coming out of my ass. Forgive me. Sam is devastated. Lucinda is in shock.
If Pete had just told her then what happened with Corey … my God, how their lives would
have been different. The suffering we would have been spared. Needless, so needless.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so
testy. Frankly I could use about seven hours in bed with you.’

‘Faith … do you believe the note?’

A silence. ‘Of course I do. I feel horrible for Pete now, imagining what he must have gone through. Why he decided to steep
himself in what passed for pleasure. Why he couldn’t tell me …’ Her voice broke for a moment and then she laughed, one of
those soft laughs, not funny, made at the sadness of the world. ‘I always considered him a failure as a husband. I must have
been an equal failure as a wife.’

‘After Corey vanished, did Pete seem different? Troubled?’

He could hear Lucinda’s voice in the background, apparently talking on another line, soft and mournful. ‘Pete was never the
same. But all I can worry about is Sam, okay?’

‘I’m sorry. Faith.’ Condolences never counted for much with him. They always seemed designed to coddle the giver in the face
of mortality. But he tried. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘At least it’s over. Thank you, Whit. Bye.’

He unlocked the café doors and headed back to Irina’s office. An untidy whirl of papers covered her desk. A calendar from
the local branch of the Texas Coastal Bank was pinned to one wall. Framed on her desk was a selection of photos of family
in faraway Russia. A dour mother, a sunny brother who needed orthodontic work and wore his hair in an unstylish chop. Irina
rarely spoke of them, as though they were from a chapter of life best forgotten.

He powered up her iMac, accessed the Internet, and found himself on the Yahoo! Web portal. He began with
a search for ‘Big Pete Majors,’ the film name Pete Hubble had used for his career.

A number of Web sites popped into view, along with brief descriptions. Most of the sites appeared to be online businesses
selling pornographic videos. The site with the highest relevance in the search proclaimed itself as ‘THE Big Pete Majors site
for the Truly Devoted Fan.’ Whit clicked on it.

The site belonged to a Truly Devoted Male Fan of Pete’s. It offered reviews of Pete’s cornucopia of movies, a message board
where Pete’s fans could post deep thoughts, and a gallery of downloadable pictures of Pete, both by himself and in action
with his co-stars.

No banner proclaimed on the site’s front page that Pete was gone. The copy below the
BIG PETE MAJORS UNOFFICIAL TEMPLE OF APPRECIATION
read:
If you’re a Big Pete Majors fan, you’ve come to the right place! This is a labor of love for me (I’m Kevin). ALL Pete’s fans
are welcome here str8, gay, bi, whatever! Enjoy!!!!!!!!

str8
? Whit studied the arcane code a moment before realizing it meant ‘straight.’

Kevin certainly had scads of free time. Whit explored the message board: there were a few dozen messages, some months old.
Several messages were titled
PETE LEAVING PORN?

It was a hot rumor, and Pete’s devotees promulgated reason after reason: AIDS, erectile dysfunction, drying out in Betty Ford,
conversion to fundamentalism, an ongoing bicker with porn directors. The final message was posted by Kevin:
It is my privilege (as you know) to know Pete slightly, because he’s appreciated my efforts on-line, and I just talked with
him via phone and he said NO WAY is he cutting out from porn!!!! He said to tell you all he really appreciates our concern,
but he is due back in L.A. in a few months. He is doing some so-called
legit work (hush hush) back in Texas (where one MAY surmise that everything is indeed bigger!). Don’t know if he’ll still
be exclusive with director Velvet Mojo, but some Pete is better than no Pete. So stop the rumors, he’s not sick and he’s not
dead and he should be back in front of cameras soon.

The message was dated last Monday, early afternoon. Hours before Pete died.

Whit found nothing of interest in the rest of the messages – mostly discussions of which films showed Big Pete Majors to advantage
(films of particular merit were awarded a ‘two dicks up’ by one enterprising pair of critics), comments on his acting skills,
discussions of which starlets he had the hottest sex scenes with. All from participants with odd code names such as
lovergrrl
and
madforpete
and
boyslut69.
Consumers of sex – as opposed to those actually having sex – needed reviews before plunking down their hard-earned money,
Whit supposed.

He scooted back to the Temple of Appreciation’s main Web page. He found a link to send E-mail to Web master Kevin. Whit clicked
on the link and typed in:
Hi Kevin, I’d like to talk to you about your recent conversation with Pete. I know Pete here in Texas, and I’m afraid I have
some unsettling news and would prefer to talk rather than E-mail you. Would you please call me – my phone will pay the bill
if you call my cell phone. 361-555-6788. Thank you. Judge Whit Mosley, Justice of the Peace, Encina County, Texas,
He hoped his title might induce a more rapid response.

Curiosity got the better of Whit, and he clicked on the gallery’s front link. The pictures were organized by action. Pete
alone. Pete receiving oral sex. Pete masturbating. Pete doing it doggy style. Pete doing it with Asian girls. With black girls.
With bottle blondes. With
two girls at once. A wide menu, to appeal to the widest possible lack of taste.

Whit remembered the boy that Pete had been: fun, carefree, quick to tease, helping to toilet-paper the oaks in front of Delford’s
house, high-fiving the Mosleys after the infamous Pepto-pink paint incident with Delford’s house. That boy was gone. Maybe
all this sex, all this pleasure, was a dam against the grief over what he had done to his brother.

Whit returned to the search engine and typed a search on ‘Velvet Mojo.’ The list returned a number of sites selling videos
and one site entirely devoted to Velvet herself.

This site proclaimed itself to be
VelvetRocks! the only site for America’s preeminent female director of porn.
A picture of Velvet that was at least five years old, dressed in a leather biker garb with carefully moussed platinum hair.
She sat astride a gleaming motorcycle. A sternness hardened her face instead of the wanton pucker of the rising starlet. The
site included a listing of the movies she had directed (over sixty), links to purchase her videos, a listing of awards she
had garnered from the adult film industry (seven), and a whole bevy of reviews by the pornorati, as Whit mentally termed the
more slavish fans. She had performed on the other side of the camera at the beginning of her career for ten films, two of
which were described on the site as ‘classics.’

There were pictures from her appearances, available for download.

A guiltiness Whit hadn’t known since he’d stolen peeks at his older brothers’ carefully stashed
Playboys
when he was young rumbled along his bones. He had never seen naked photos of a woman he knew socially. But curiosity won
the advantage over refinement, and he clicked on a thumbnail-size photo.

What slowly filled the browser’s screen was a color still from a movie that portrayed postal workers breeding at will. Velvet
was in a badly buttoned clone of a mail deliverer’s uniform, her breasts about to break out from the confines of the cloth.
Her blond hair was combed huge, her lips painted crimson, her cheeks rouged. One hand crept down from the flat plane of her
stomach to the too-tight serge of her uniform’s skirt.

Whit swallowed. Velvet looked far prettier in person, in her sweats and jeans and her hair not a cumulus cloud. In the picture
she was a Barbie doll maddened with lust. She didn’t look like any real woman he knew. The true woman lay buried beneath the
trying-too-hard stance and the stage paint. He selected a second picture for download. As the picture slowly built, Whit could
see that Pete lay atop her, her oversize breasts jabbing into his over-pumped chest, both of them grinning with ecstasy so
faked it looked like pain.

A kiss gone bad, she had called it.

He clicked off the downloading picture before the whole bonanza presented itself. He knew these people. He couldn’t watch
them this way.

On a whim, he did a Web search on Pete Hubble instead of Pete Majors. He slowly paged through the results. Zip that was relevant:
only a cluster of genealogy sites that listed various Peter Hubbles from the past three hundred years in their databases.
He did a similar search for Corey Hubble and got one result back other than the regular cluster of genealogy sites. The enthusiastic
Kevin’s Pete-tribute site. Odd.

He moved the mouse toward the link at the same time the office lights went black and a finger of God shrieked past his ear.
The iMac’s screen burst with a bright, blinding nova. Whit fell behind the desk, clutching his head.

‘Hello, Judge,’ a voice rumbled from the doorway. Low, throaty, a man’s voice, hoarse, neutral of accent or drawl. ‘Stay down
on the floor and you won’t be hurt.’

Whit stayed exactly where he was, his heart pounding hard against the thin carpet. The desk shielded him, but in the pitch-dark
he couldn’t see his assailant. A faint electric crackle served as the dying gasp of the ruined computer. Whit heard his own
ragged breathing, far too loud.

‘Listen, Your Honor,’ the polite voice said. ‘I could have blown your motherfucking head off now and I didn’t. That’s because
I want you to listen. Are you listening?’

‘Yes,’ Whit croaked. He tried to think of any weapon there might be in the office: nothing.

‘Good. You rule that Pete Hubble committed suicide. If you don’t, you die. And so does your father. And so does his wife.
And so do Claudia Salazar and Delford Spires. You will all be killed at the same time, by, uh, multiple operatives. Understand?’

Jesus,
Whit thought,
Jesus Mary and Joseph.

‘And should you go to other authorities with this threat, not only will you be killed, but also your five brothers and their
families. In Houston and in Atlanta and in Austin and in New York and in Miami. We know where all our little Mosleys flock.
Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Whit answered. His voice sounded raw.

‘Say it with conviction. I think judges need conviction.’ A small, sickening laugh. ‘Pick one of your brothers. I’ll kill
him to prove I mean business.’

Horror flooded Whit.

‘Pick a brother,’ the voice said genially, ‘or I order them all killed.’

Whit gasped. ‘Please don’t. I’ll do what you want.’

‘Which one?’ The voice oozed enjoyment. ‘Teddy in
Houston? It’d make Father’s Day rough for his three little delectable girls. Or Joe in Atlanta? That software company probably
pays him big, his widow should live large on insurance. How about Mark in Austin, who so wants to be a writer? Isn’t he your
favorite brother? Let’s spare the world another crappy poet.’

‘Please don’t hurt them. Please!’

‘Pick one,’ the shooter snapped.

‘Me. I pick me!’ he screamed. ‘Just leave them alone!’

A slight laugh. ‘Said with conviction. So how will you rule?’

‘Suicide, suicide, suicide.’

‘Fine. I’m generous tonight so all your brothers get to wake up tomorrow and fuck their wives and breathe the air.’ A pause.
‘Sorry about Irina’s computer, but better it than the back of her head.’ In the darkness he sensed the shooter leaning over
the desk, toward him. To look up would mean death.

‘Now here’s what we’re going to do, asshole. You’re going to stay kissing the floor here for the next thirty minutes. Because
a buddy of mine is watching this café, and if a light comes on, or you move, I come back and shoot you. Do you understand
me?’

‘Yes,’ Whit answered. ‘I completely understand.’

‘Don’t let me down. Judge.’

Whit heard the door shut. He heard only the harsh labor of his own breathing. He fingered his neck, face, and ear; there was
no wound. He lay perfectly still on the floor.

The guy sounded like – what? A polite psychopath? A government agent? Or like a tough guy who’d seen a lot of bad movies.
Multiple operatives.
Who the hell was this?

You willing to take a chance? With your life and your family’s?

He let the thirty minutes pass, not moving in the darkness. His cell phone rang, and rang, and rang, but he did not answer
it.