‘Did you ever visit him on the boat?’
‘Yes. Once, when I went there with Sam. I wanted to be sure Pete was creating a suitable environment for visits. That whore Velvet wasn’t around. That helped.’
‘If you were on the boat, then I’ll need to get your prints,’ Claudia said sweetly. ‘We want to identify everyone who’s been aboard and see if there are prints not accounted for.’
‘You must be joking.’
‘I’m not. It’s painless.’
Claudia took Faith’s prints herself there in her office, quickly and efficiently. Faith spoke not a word during the procedure and wiped her hands clean with a cloth Claudia handed her.
‘Senator Hubble and I will cooperate in every way,’ Faith said. ‘I just hope you’ll cooperate as well and remember that the senator’s done a great deal for this region.’ She dropped the cloth back on Claudia’s desk. ‘Your family’s been in Port Leo for many years, haven’t they?’ Her voice, asking, was shiny as a knife.
‘Yeah.’
‘Your dad’s a shrimper?’ Asking when it sounded like she already knew.
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s a very honorable profession.’ She gave Claudia a half smile, shaped like the cruel crescent Claudia remembered from high school: the popular girl grinning, closing in for the kill on some mouse of a geek. ‘He ever have trouble holding on to his shrimping license?’
‘No. Never. Not a bit of trouble.’
‘That’s good. You know, licenses are much harder to come by these days. The senator’s trying to make sure we get the right balance between preventing overharvesting of the bays and protecting our economic interests.’ Faith wadded up the ink-smeared cloth. ‘I suppose some shrimpers will lose their livelihoods because their licenses will get bought out by the state. Or won’t be available at all.’
Claudia said nothing.
‘I certainly appreciate the information you gave me.’ Faith’s smile was as warm as summer honey. ‘May I call you Claudia from now on?’
Claudia nodded. Faith Hubble shook hands and lumbered to her feet, tucking her too-little purse under her arm. Claudia walked her to the front door, Faith saying hello to every person they passed, and then headed back to her office alone, her stomach twisting.
She went to the quiet of the ladies’ room and washed her face in icy water. She stared at her dripping face in the mirror. Jesus Christ, Claudia, that mouthy bitch just threatened your father, didn’t she?
Maybe the woman was just making conversation. Or not. Maybe Faith Hubble was rattled after having to give her prints, feeling a little cornered.
She thought of her father, Cipriano, waving at her as his little shrimp boat chugged into St Leo Bay for a day’s work, empty nets hanging behind him like ancient tattered flags, rope and nylon to cull a precarious living, him telling her to be a good girl.
One simple step would set her course aright. Take Delford’s blunt but good advice and treat Hubble as a suicide. Pete Hubble was a moody loser, outcast from a respected family. He’d earned a debased living, and it wouldn’t surprise her in the least if the toxicology tests revealed drugs in his system. He probably had killed himself and spared both his family and Velvet the shock of finding him by inviting Heather Farrell to the boat.
You’re some cop. Quiver like a little kid and let those two tell you how to do your job. She fumed – she should have confronted Faith Hubble right then and there. She called Whit Mosley at the courthouse.
‘Hey, Honorable, it’s Claudia.’
‘What’s the matter? You sound deflated.’
‘No, just tired.’ Suddenly she didn’t feel like embarrassing herself with private revelations to Whit. ‘I wanted to update you on where we are.’ She told him about her questioning of Velvet, the missing laptop, and her discussion with Faith, sticking to the facts. ‘What do you think of suicide as an explanation?’
‘Your boss came down hard on me last night to push for suicide,’ Whit said. ‘I didn’t appreciate it.’
‘He…’ Claudia stopped herself. Delford Spires had been her ardent supporter, her mentor on the force. ‘I know he’s never been your favorite, but he is a smart man. I’m sure he meant well.’
Whit updated her about his discussion with Ernesto Gomez and the information he had gleaned. ‘I’d like to know who this dirtbag is that Pete argued with on the boat. We should ask Velvet.’
‘I’m going to have a background check made on Pete Hubble, see if he has a record in California. I’m going to check Velvet, too,’ Claudia said. ‘I’d like to visit Jabez Jones. His name keeps cropping up.’
‘Take me with you, but I’m booked up until this evening with the joys of court,’ Whit said.
Claudia said, ‘I’ll call and see when we can meet with him.’
‘Fine. I’ll call you as soon as I know details that are forensic and meaningful,’ he said.
‘Fine. Bye,’ she said, still feeling peevish. She had a lot of phone calls to make, computer searches to do. She picked up the sheaf of pink messages left for her by the dispatcher. Two from Patsy Duchamp at the Port Leo Mariner, no doubt looking for a quote. One from her mother, no doubt to berate her for divorcing Deputy Wonderful. And one, surprisingly, from the Reverend Jabez Jones.
She reached for her phone.
15
Heather Farrell spent a damp night in a grove of bent live oaks near Little Mischief Beach, surrounded by bluestems that stood tall and thin and kept her hidden. Lying on her back, the limbs of the oaks were fingers of a gnarled claw pointing away from the bay, shaped by the ceaseless wind. At night the trees looked frightening, transplanted from the forest where Hansel and Gretel roamed. When she awoke she peeled a scrawny orange and ate, watching the few pleasure boats plying the waters on a brisk autumn morning. She got out her notebook and began to sketch the boats: the prows cutting the water, the foaming curl of wake left in their path, the hard angles of stern and bow and flying bridge.
She hummed as she drew.
She hoped Sam would come. His father was dead, and Heather knew propriety demanded Sam be at home. He was no doubt upset. But she hoped he might prefer the solace of the beach rather than his frostbitten mother and egocentric grandmother. He might prefer her.
Heather wished for a shower; she had settled for a quick sponge bath at the police station. She rubbed toothpaste on her teeth and gums with her finger and rinsed and spat with a gulp of water from her oversize water bottle she kept in her knapsack. She emerged from the oak motte and headed down to the shores of Little Mischief Beach, and found Sam there, watching the waves inch against the sand.
Heather came up behind him, wanting to touch the cool skin at the nape of his neck and feel his hair, the same color as his father’s. Instead she gently touched his back.
Sam Hubble turned. The wind had reddened his smooth cheeks. Red lines webbed his eyes. A dribble of snot clung to one nostril.
‘Hi you,’ he said.
‘Hi yourself.’ She kissed him shyly on the cheek. She dug a tissue from her jeans pocket and dabbed his nose. ‘It’s okay. It’s all okay.’
‘We shouldn’t be seen together,’ he said softly. ‘And one of my grandmother’s jerks will probably be out looking for me. I’m supposed to be at home, inconsolable with grief.’
Heather loved that Sam used big words like inconsolable – he sounded so smart. Smart guys were sexier to her, but she didn’t know many. She’d get him a little tattoo, maybe of heather in bloom, when they got to New Orleans, and then he’d just be to die for. ‘So we sit tight?’ she asked.
Sam shrugged and sniffed. ‘Probably for the next week or so.’
‘And then we can go? We can get out of here?’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘But you’ll be a runaway. No way is your grandmother going to let you go.’
‘I got that covered. There won’t be a stink – she and Mom won’t come looking for me. That’s a guarantee.
