A Kiss Gone Bad (3 page)

‘A woman’s been staying here.’

Eddie Gardner shrugged. ‘Imagine. A guy who fucks for a living keeps a lady handy.’

Whit returned to the combined galley/sitting area. He heard Claudia and another officer detailing and bagging the evidence
out on the deck, which was most in danger of being affected by the threatening weather.

Opposite the couch was a brand-new television, and videotapes were wedged into an open cabinet. Whit pulled up a tape from
one stack.
Cleopatra’s Love Slaves
featured an elfin-faced platinum blonde in a golden, vaguely Egyptian costume. She was about to lick a rubber asp caught
in her cleavage. Behind her loomed an oiled, chesty fellow in a toga with a lusty stare: Pete. A list of performers covered
the left side of the tape cover: Dixxie St Cupps and Rachel Pleasure and Love Ramsey. After several female names were listed
‘Big Pete Majors’ and another man; the casting wasn’t split evenly by gender. But then, men generally weren’t the main attractions.
Velvet Mojo was credited as the producer and director.

Whit pawed through the rest of the cassettes:
Mixin’ Vixens, More Lovin’ Spoonfuls, Oral Arguments XI.
‘Big Pete Majors’ was listed as a performer on every tape. Velvet Mojo was listed on all of them as producer and
director, all under the Hot and Bothered label. Whit counted twelve tapes and noticed they were all done in the past year.
Pete and his harem believed in hard work.

Whit sat in shock. He wondered if Pete’s mother, the senator, knew of her son’s career. Or Faith, who never mentioned her
ex. Two extraordinarily bright, accomplished women – the shame would burn them both like acid. Personally. Politically.

He noticed books piled on the sofa. There were several books on screenwriting basics, dialogue, technique. Porn didn’t require
much in the way of story structure, Whit thought, but the books looked well worn.

The other collection of tapes – twice the size of the porn collection – was a world away from the adult tapes, and Whit recognized
some titles only because he’d taken film appreciation years ago at Tulane for an easy A.
City Lights,
one of Charlie Chaplin’s masterpieces.
The Battleship Potemkin,
a long-ago classic of Russian cinema. Abel Gance’s
Napoleon,
D. W. Griffith’s
Birth of a Nation. Gone With the Wind.
Films by Alfred Hitchcock, by John Ford, by Stanley Kubrick. And a bevy of obscure foreign cinema, films from Australia and
Sweden and Italy that Whit had never heard of. Combine the two stacks and you would have the world’s most bizarre film festival.

Whit peeked into the VCR and found a tape already in the drive. Still wearing his gloves, Whit powered up the television and
the VCR.

The tape snapped into sudden focus. Pete Hubble walked along a curve of rural road, sauntering backward, talking into the
handheld camera with the earnest patter of a tour guide. The time stamp in the corner of the screen indicated the footage
had been shot ten days ago.

‘Here’s where my brother’s car was discovered,’ Pete said in his rumbling baritone. The camera panned over a clutch of small
white frame houses with a private, ratchety pier jutting into the water. ‘Before this was just beach and field, and kids parked
here.’

‘I’m sure you never did,’ a woman’s smoky voice commented, off-camera. She apparently was operating the camcorder.

Pete smiled. ‘I was too shy.’

‘You triumphed over your phobia.’ A pause. ‘Were the keys in his car?’

‘No. Never found.’

‘Any sign of foul play?’

‘No. Mom made Corey work for the car. I couldn’t believe he’d just abandon it.’

‘They find
anything
in it?’

‘A gas receipt, from Port Lavaca, was under the seat. So we know he or someone had been driving the car and had been up the
coast.’ Pete shaded his eyes against the sun. ‘No prints in the car that weren’t Corey’s. Everyone thought at first that somebody
kidnapped Corey. But never a note, never a call.’

‘So start theorizing. Then we’ll go slam some coffee.’

‘Corey dumped his own car because it would have been traced too easily and he wanted to disappear,’ Pete said.

‘Why?’

‘To make my mother suffer.’ Pete shrugged into the camera lens. ‘I don’t know how to make that part work in the screenplay
without Corey looking like a bastard.’

‘Don’t make him a saint if he wasn’t one, Pete,’ the woman said.

Pete shook his head and the tape fuzzed to blue, then resumed with Pete standing in front of a sign,
JABEZ JONES MINISTRIES.

‘Visual notebook, part two, still scouting locations for the shoot.’ Pete pointed up at the sign. ‘Here’s where muscle-bound
morons come to wrestle with their sins.’

‘I remind you,’ the woman’s voice said, ‘my daddy was a preacher. Be nice.’

‘Jabez declined to be interviewed for my movie. It makes you wonder,’ Pete said. ‘I have a feeling he’s just waiting to see
the movie and sue big-time.’

‘Let him sue your ass,’ the woman counseled. ‘Free publicity.’

Pete grinned. ‘Like I’m gonna have to worry about publicity. I’m gonna be front page on every paper in the country.’

‘Yeah. Right. Whatever,’ the woman said. Annoyance dripped from her words, as though there was a secret she wasn’t privy to
and wanted to be.

The tape jumped again. Pete stood on a stretch of jumbled heavy granite blocks, a fishing jetty near Port Leo Park. The surf
surged in and the waves slammed hard against the pink and gray stones, spraying droplets into the air. Wind whipped Pete’s
hair; the time stamp said this was filmed a week ago.

‘Hand me the flowers,’ Pete ordered. From out of the frame came a woman’s hand, covered with jangling bracelets, offering
a large bouquet of daisies and carnations, the kind found in the grocery checkout lines,
wrapped in green paper. Pete tossed the bouquet into the waves; the flowers churned in the tide, bounced, vanished, churned
again. The camera panned up to Pete’s face.

‘There’s no grave for my brother, but we used to fish off this jetty. It’s the best I can do.’ He began to cry, softly.

A few moments of silence. ‘I think I’m gonna bring Sam here,’ Pete said, and the woman said, ‘Oh, Jesus, you got to listen
to reason,’ and the film went black.

He looked over his shoulder, ejected the tape, and stuck in one of the adult offerings –
Johnny Ampleseed.
The new tape had only been rewound midway. It took less than twenty seconds watching Pete and two bleached blondes kneeling
in an orchard to confirm Pete Hubble was indeed a celluloid sleaze. His timeless lines consisted of ‘Oh, yeah,’ ‘Do it, baby,’
and ‘Now it’s your turn.’

Whit felt sick. For Faith, for Lucinda, for Sam. Another part of him wondered: so what was living
that
life like?

Whit put the first tape back in the machine and powered off the television. Pete had been making a film project about his
brother’s disappearance. Going legit with a film career after working in porn, unless he had decided to inject adult themes
into his family’s tragedy. Whit thought probably not.

Whit went up to the deck. He spotted Claudia Salazar talking to a sheriff’s deputy along the gangplank. Another deputy carefully
packed a few bagged and tagged items into a large cardboard box. The ambulance had departed, replaced by a mortuary service
hearse, ready to transport the body when Whit gave the go-ahead.

Whit waited for Claudia to head back to the boat. ‘I’m pronouncing him dead as of 10:45 p.m.,’ he said. ‘I’m authorizing the
autopsy and ordering an inquest. It’s all right to transport the body now.’ He scribbled details
on an authorization of autopsy form, signed it, then Claudia witnessed his signature. ‘Is it you or Prince Charming that’s
in charge of the investigation?’

‘Delford’s given me the case. You thinking suicide?’

‘Before we get to that question … he’s a porn star.’

Claudia blinked, her face paling in the marina lights. ‘Your shirt’s funny, but you’re not.’

He explained what he’d found, both the adult and legit tapes. Claudia rubbed her face. ‘Holy holy God,’ she mumbled.

‘Back to your question,’ Whit said. ‘Suicide’s certainly suggested. There’s no sign of a note, but he turned down a picture
of his son. I saw the same in a suicide down in Darius a few weeks back. But… considering this guy’s livelihood, I’m wondering
why that camera – with no tape – is pointed at the bed. And there’s a pair of women’s panties mixed in with his own clothes.
Is our young witness missing any underwear?’

‘Oddly enough, I haven’t checked.’

‘There’s women’s clothing in the closet, including some stuff you ain’t gonna see the Junior League sporting during the Buccaneer
Ball. If this girl isn’t staying with him, it belongs to someone else.’

‘You think … he was filming a movie and got snuffed?’

Whit shrugged. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘This is turning nastier by the second.’

‘Where is your witness?’

‘Down at the station. Gardner and the deputies can finish the scene work, I’m going to question her and get a statement.’
She jabbed a finger at him. ‘Not a word, Whit, not a word to anyone.’

He jabbed a finger back at her but smiled. ‘Gardner says this girl is a runaway. If you’re not going to detain her I don’t
want her taking off before the inquest.’

Claudia nodded. ‘I’ll make sure she sticks close.’

‘I wonder if the person taping Pete talking about his brother was our runaway.’

‘Let’s talk to her,’ Claudia said. ‘We’ll compare her voice to the tape.’

They walked back to
Real Shame.
Claudia quickly inspected the tape collection and retrieved Pete’s homemade tape, and they went back on the dock, toward
the marina office. An angry voice boomed along the docks, and they saw a woman arguing with Patrolman Fox at the police tape
boundary.

‘Lady says she lives on the boat,’ Fox called to Claudia. ‘Her name’s Velvet.’

‘Velvet Mojo,’ Whit whispered, ‘is the director of Pete’s movies.’

‘Velvet Mojo sounds like a real bad wine,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s okay,’ she called back to Fox.

The woman was in her late twenties, with streaky blond hair combed back to her shoulders. She wore a dark long-sleeve T-shirt
that read
MEAN PEOPLE SUCK
and baggy blue-jean shorts with scuffed sneakers.

‘Velvet?’ Claudia asked as they came to the tape.

The woman stared, and Whit saw fear in her eyes, fueled by the police, the crowd, the hearse.

‘What’s going on here? Is Pete in trouble?’ the woman asked.

Whit immediately recognized the woman’s voice from the videotape. Smoky, hinting of hazy bars and purred invitations.

‘Maybe we could go inside and talk.’ Claudia nodded toward the marina office.

Velvet shook her head. ‘I want to know what’s happened. Right freaking now.’

‘And I want to tell you. But inside,’ Claudia said.

‘Jesus,’ Velvet said, but she allowed herself to be led to
the marina office. The wind gusted against them once, smelling of rain.

Inside the office, Claudia gently steered Velvet to a couch and sat down with her. ‘Velvet – pardon, but is that your real
name?’

‘Yeah, it’s what I go by. But Mojo’s made up,’ Velvet said, as if that could be a revelation.

‘So what’s your real name?’

‘Velvet Lynn Hollister.’ Her gaze darted back and forth between Whit and Claudia.

‘I’m Claudia Salazar with the Port Leo Police Department, and this is Judge Whit Mosley. He’s our justice of the peace.’

‘Is Pete in trouble? Did he—’ She stopped.

‘Pete has died,’ Claudia said. ‘He was found shot to death this evening. I’m terribly sorry.’

Velvet accepted this news without screams or tears. Her throat worked in the dim light of the office for a few moments. ‘Dead?
On the boat?’ She held herself very still, hands fixed in her lap, eyes dry.

‘Yes,’ Whit said. ‘He had been shot in the mouth. The gun was in his hand.’

They let Velvet digest that bit of news for a moment. She didn’t move.

‘Did he own a gun?’ Claudia asked.

‘No. He hated guns. Didn’t want them around.’

Claudia glanced at Whit. ‘Would one of his family perhaps have lent him a gun?’

‘I avoided his family,’ Velvet said. ‘I wasn’t up to their tight-assed snuff. His mother’s an A-
I
bitch and his ex-wife’s her understudy. They didn’t want us around.’

So Faith knew Pete was in town. Why didn’t she tell me?
Whit touched Velvet’s shoulder; she didn’t flinch away. ‘Where would Pete have gotten the gun from?’

‘The boat belongs to a friend of Pete’s. He might have
gotten the gun from him. I don’t know.’ Velvet began to shiver.

‘Who’s this friend?’ Claudia asked.

‘A guy named Deloache. Junior Deloache. He lives in Houston, but he’s got a weekend condo here.’ Velvet grabbed Whit’s arm.
‘Did a doctor look at Pete? Are you sure he’s dead?’

‘I’m quite sure. I’m sorry.’

‘Did you see any sign of depression in Mr Hubble?’ Claudia asked.

‘You think he killed himself?’ Velvet sounded incredulous. ‘No way. No way, no way, no way.’ She stood, pacing away from the
couch, shaking her head.

Claudia stood. ‘I know this is hard …’

‘You never knew him, Miss Thing, and you’re gonna pretend to know him better than me? He … didn’t … kill … himself.’

Whit asked the obvious question. ‘How can you be so sure?’

Her glare would have savaged a tank. ‘Because. He liked himself way too much. He wasn’t depressed. If he’s dead, someone killed
him.’

‘Fine,’ Claudia said. ‘Who would want him dead?’

Velvet’s tongue dabbed her lips. ‘Well, first of all, not me. I know how cops work and I didn’t have any reason to want Pete
dead.’

‘What’s your relationship with him?’ Whit asked.

‘We’ve been friends for a long time. We’ve worked together on a bunch of art films. Dozens of them.’

‘So was he your boyfriend?’ Claudia asked.

‘Boyfriend. How milk-and-cookies. No.’ Velvet frowned. ‘Look, go talk to Jabez Jones. He used to be a famous wrestler, now
he’s a Jesus jumper on cable TV. You know him?’

‘We know him,’ Whit said.

Velvet nodded. ‘Pete’s working on a new film project and he wanted some cooperation from Jabez, but Jabez told us to fuck
off. But yesterday, I came home from the grocery and Jabez is here and he and Pete are talking on the boat and I can tell
Pete’s upset – his face was lipstick-red, like his head was about to burst. Jabez was smirking like he’d just popped a good
money shot.’

Her choice of metaphors, Whit decided, was clearly influenced by her career.

‘We’ll talk to Jabez,’ Claudia said. ‘Anyone else?’

Velvet pinched her lip between finger and thumb. ‘His ex-wife, Faith Hubble. They’d been bickering over Pete getting to see
his son … Faith didn’t want Pete to have anything to do with Sam. Pete wanted joint custody, which I knew he wouldn’t get,
but he and Faith argued about Sam. A lot.’

Great, great, great.
Whit cleared his throat.

‘Where were you tonight, Velvet?’ Claudia asked.

‘Screw you,’ Velvet said. ‘There’s no way you’re gonna suspect a senator’s flunky or a minister, right, so start barking up
my ass.’

‘I’m just asking where you were tonight, when you last saw him, what you last spoke about,’ Claudia said easily. ‘No one’s
barking up your ass, so just calm down and help us.’

Velvet shivered again and sat back on the couch. ‘Pete had work to do on his screenplay.’

‘About his brother?’ Whit asked.

‘Yeah,’ Velvet said slowly. ‘How did you know?’

‘I saw the tape he had in the machine, scouting out locations, talking about his brother’s car.’

‘Pete wanted to be alone – he writes better – but didn’t want to write down at the beach, which is where he usually goes.
Said maybe I could go entertain myself. So I went and did some shopping, ate a burger down at a
café by Port Leo Beach, and went to see a movie.’ She stared at Claudia. ‘I got my ticket stub, and the geek behind the snack
counter flirted with me. Alibi enough for you?’

‘I’d like to get a statement from you down at the station,’ Claudia said evenly.

‘Oh, shit, am I gonna need a lawyer?’ Velvet grabbed Whit’s arm. ‘You’re a judge, right? Do I need a lawyer?’

‘You’re not under arrest, ma’am,’ Claudia said. ‘If you want a lawyer, you can get one. We just want to get a statement from
you.’

‘Do you have someplace you can stay. Velvet?’ Whit asked. ‘Y’all’s boat is a crime scene, and you can’t stay there, at least
for now.’

Velvet’s shoulders sagged, the enormity of the situation settling upon her. ‘You mean like friends? No, I don’t have any friends
here. I don’t fit in with all you decent folk.’