death.’
And you’re not? Claudia wondered. ‘That’s understandable.’
‘I’d like to meet with you and find out where we are in the investigation.’
We, Claudia noticed, as though Faith Hubble were busily lifting prints and completing paperwork into the wee hours. ‘We’ve collected a certain amount of evidence, but we don’t as yet have autopsy results. I would like to talk with you and your family as soon as possible.’
‘Talking with Lucinda – is that absolutely necessary? She’s absolutely grief-stricken. And we already gave our statements to Delford Spires.’
‘Yes, ma’am, and I’m sure this is a difficult time for you all but, yes, I do need to speak with her, as will Judge Mosley.’
‘Perhaps you and I could meet first. To discuss how to deal with the media.’
Claudia watched David inspecting her bare apartment, his face emotionless. ‘We already have policies in place, ma’am.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do, but this is far more high-profile than a drunken tourist drowning, and there’s already been serious news leaks,’ Faith said. ‘Let’s meet in an hour, shall we, at your office?’
‘Fine.’ Let them meet to discuss the press, but Claudia would seize the opportunity for a frank discussion with the dead man’s former wife.
‘See you in an hour.’ Faith Hubble hung up.
Claudia clicked off the phone. David stood at the apartment’s large window, looking at the parking lot. ‘You should have gotten a bay view, Claudia.’
‘I’ve seen the bay every day of my life,’ she said. She didn’t want to mention she couldn’t afford a bay view on her single-woman salary. ‘Thanks for stopping by, but duty calls.’
‘Speaking of duty… Poppy’s birthday is this coming weekend, and I was hoping you could go to his party with me.’ Poppy was David’s grandfather, Patrick Power, closing in on ninety, now relegated to the care of a Port Leo nursing home but still the patriarch of the old-coast Irish clan. ‘If you’re not there. Poppy will wonder why.’
‘Oh, David, that’s not a good idea.’
‘Um, well’ – he gave her a half-apologetic smile – ‘Poppy doesn’t know about the divorce, Claud. He doesn’t believe in divorce and we haven’t wanted to upset him. His heart’s weak, you know.’
Claudia believed Poppy’s heart could serve as a rich source of granite. ‘Tell him, David. I’m not going to play along in a charade.’
‘Thanks a bunch, Claudia. Jesus. One favor. You know how Poppy loves you.’
‘Yes, he’s never missed a chance to pat my fanny.’
‘You want to hurt me, fine, whatever. Just don’t hurt my family.’
‘I don’t want to hurt anybody! I just want to have my own life!’ Now she was yelling, doing exactly what she had promised herself not to do.
‘This life is what you want?’ David gestured at the drab apartment. She had hardly unpacked any belongings in the month she had been here. A few Salazar family pictures stood on a dusty coffee table, dishes stacked in the sink, a futon unfolded in the den and sloppy with sheets. She’d let David keep most of the furniture just to spare herself the whining. ‘You don’t seem to be relishing your singleness.’
‘I’m busy with work,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you?’ Anything to change the topic.
‘Yeah. I’m working this missing-person case. Girl from Louisiana they think ended up here.’
‘Marcy Ballew? You got that one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I briefly met the girl’s mother when she stopped by the station,’ Claudia said. ‘Terrible, not knowing what happened.’
David, that master of the wounded glance and gesture, took full advantage. ‘Yeah. Not knowing what went wrong. I know exactly how the lady feels.’
12
Six berths down from Real Shame, where Pete Hubble breathed his last, was a fifty-three-foot workhorse Hatteras sports fishing boat christened Don’t Ask. This was a craft used to take serious fishermen out into the deeper bowl of the Gulf, where the marlin and shark (hopefully) provided thrills at an exorbitant hourly rate. Don’t Ask belonged to an oddball friend of Whit’s, a man known to most people simply as Gooch. Gooch did not socialize overmuch. He was unfailingly polite and ethical in his dealings with other guides, the marina, and his clients, and admired for making small loans to guides who frequently needed a cash boost at the end of the month. Most of Port Leo was happy to give him his privacy, because Gooch was ugly and big and had a hard, no-tolerance light in his glare that explained his boat’s name. Whit had only found him to be generous, loyal, and slightly east of sane.
For twenty minutes Whit had been mired in quicksand conversation with the marina manager, who could tell him nothing new about Pete and Velvet. The manager, who smelled slightly of soured baby formula and had an unnoticed glob of infant burp on his shoulder, explained that Real Shame had begun docking at Golden Gulf only five weeks ago and its bills were paid by check mailed from a company in Houston, TDD Holdings. The arrangement had been handled by an elderly man in a wheelchair who apparently worked for TDD, name of Anson Todd, and the manager had not seen Mr Todd again since the Shame docked. As for Pete and Velvet, they had not mingled much with the other marina residents, nor had they caused any trouble. Whit left the office, spotted Gooch on his boat, and headed down the T-head.
‘An honest man would be at work by now,’ Whit said as he came aboard.
‘I chose to use this day for reflection and self-improvement.’ Gooch grinned, showing slightly uneven teeth. ‘I gave myself the day off. I figured you’d be back down here soon enough. You still holding the cops’ dicks for them so they can pee straight?’
Kindness demanded one say Gooch was simply not handsome. His face was too gaunt for his body and married a too-prominent, bumpy nose with small, muddy brown eyes. He kept his sun-streaked hair cut short in a military burr. But he was powerfully built, stone-carved arms and legs, the kind of physique that encouraged burly bar patrons to keep observations about Gooch’s unfortunate face private.
‘Coffee, Y’Honor?’ Gooch asked.
‘Please, with milk and sugar.’
Gooch pointed toward the galley.
‘You’re the embodiment of the service economy, Gooch.’ Whit fixed his own cup and went back up to the deck, where Gooch gobbled his way through a leviathan bowl of Cap’n Crunch.
‘You want some?’ he asked through a milk-dripping mouth.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Screw your stepmom yet?’
‘My father and Irina are very happy, thanks for asking.’
‘And you’re very miserable,’ Gooch said.
‘You’ve got to make some more room on this wall for your diplomacy awards,’ Whit said. ‘I didn’t see you docked here last night when duty called.’
‘I spent the evening over in Port Aransas playing poker. I didn’t sail home until this morning.’
‘Were the gossips awake?’ No hen yard could compare to marina liveaboards for rapid-fire rumormongering.
‘All I’ve heard is that the guy on Real Shame shot himself in the mouth. Now it’d be a real shame indeed if that hot little number living with him on the boat really did it and got herself sent to girly prison, where she could never experience the joys of Gooch.’
‘You’ve met Velvet?’
‘Her name is Velvet?’
‘Velvet Mojo.’
‘Stripper or actress?’
‘An adult-film director.’
