she had shown an openness toward him that he suspected few others saw. He didn’t believe her capable of sticking a gun in a man’s mouth and pulling the trigger.
He was pretty sure. Fairly sure.
He finished his beer. Crap. Not sure at all, even though he’d tasted her skin, felt the broad warmth of her back pressed up against his chest, explored the shape of her mouth, smelled chamomile in her hair, knew which ribs produced ticklish laughter. He didn’t know the shape and size of her heart.
And Claudia. She’d greeted Faith with all the friendliness of a mongoose eyeing a swaying cobra. Claudia sure hadn’t believed it was a simple interview. Miss By-the-Book would blow a mighty shrill whistle on him in two seconds flat if she smelled a conflict of interest. And he couldn’t blame her.
Just then Whit noticed a chunky blond man lumber up from a darkened corner of the bar, wearing a gaudy- awful tropical shirt, and head out the door. He bumped into an older man entering the bar and said, ‘Watch it, old fart.’ The old man, already drunk, ignored him.
Whit said, ‘Come on,’ to Gooch, tossed dollars on the bar to settle the tab, and followed.
As they went out, the man clambered into a red Porsche. Grit and bird-guano splatters dusted the car. The Porsche jerked out of its slot and revved onto Main Street.
Whit ran to his Explorer, Gooch following.
‘Explaining soon?’ Gooch said.
‘Heavy. Blond. Loud. He looks like the dirtbag Ernesto described. And he’s driving a messy Porsche, just like Ernesto said.’
Whit tailed the filthy Porsche down Main Street, past the shopping district where seasonally challenged store owners had already hung Christmas decorations and dangled sprays of light in the palm and red bay trees. On his left was the bay, with rental condo developments lining the shore. Most had been built in the 1970s during a last- gasp oil boom and retained the unfortunate, granola-esque architecture of the time – boxy, with diagonally layered strips of wood for siding and balconies ringed with thick oak beams.
They drove past the Port Leo city limits for a half mile and the Porsche wheeled into a condo resort called Sea Haven. Its name was written in cursive rope for that authentic nautical air. Missing windows and sawhorses suggested renovations were under way.
The Porsche parked next to a flooring company’s van, and the driver unfolded himself from the car. Big, with terminally moussed hair and pimp-bright clothes: a crimson tropical shirt adorned with purple parrots, bright yellow golfing pants, snow-white high-top sneakers. He straightened his britches with a decisive yank as he ambled toward the building.
Whit drove past, U-turned, and circled back. The man still stood in the yard, talking to an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair.
‘Stop and talk to them or go on?’ Gooch asked.
‘Carpe diem and all that crap,’ Whit said. ‘Let’s stop.’
The old man watched them park and raised a hand to silence the young man. Whit was suddenly conscious of the KEEP JUDGE MOSLEY megasize magnetic sign on the side of his Explorer. He and Gooch walked toward them. The steely scowl on the old man’s face deepened.
‘Hello,’ Whit said. ‘I’m Whit Mosley and I’m the justice of the peace here in Encina County.’
‘I see.’ The old man nodded toward the garishly patriotic vote-mobile, bright under the streetlights. ‘I’m Anson Todd.’
Whit recognized the name from the marina manager; Todd was the man who’d made the docking arrangements for Real Shame. ‘This is Leonard Guchinski,’ Whit said.
‘Charmed,’ Gooch said.
Whit kept his eyes on the hefty guy. ‘I understand you’re acquainted with Pete Hubble.’
‘Why do you ask or care?’ the younger man challenged.
‘Junior,’ the older man said with a bored note of caution.
Ah, young Mr Deloache, ‘I’ll take that as a yes. I’m conducting the inquest into Pete’s death and I’d like to talk to you about him.’
‘We have nothing to say,’ Junior said in a petulant voice. ‘Nothing.’
‘Come in for a minute,’ the old man invited, as though he’d not heard Junior’s pronouncement. His voice, scratchy, reminded Whit of a dusty, worn record. ‘Junior, do me a favor. We’re out of cereal and I’m not facing the morning without my raisin bran. Run down to the store.’ He pivoted the wheelchair sharply and zoomed for the condo’s lobby.
‘Anson, we got cereal,’ Junior called to the old man’s back.
‘Not the kind I like,’ Anson said, not giving Junior another glance. ‘Go.’
Junior, abandoned, stood slack-jawed and then loped to his Porsche and roared off. Whit and Gooch followed Anson into the condo’s lobby. Wood shavings, tattered wallpaper, and a half-dismantled reception desk, cluttered with a forest of empty soda cans, decorated the half-done vestibule. A couple of construction workers, begrimed with sawdust but getting excellent overtime, inspected unfurled blueprints with lukewarm interest.
‘Late night to be working construction,’ Gooch said.
‘Late night to be bothering people,’ Anson said.
They followed Anson into a cramped, rackety elevator. Anson punched eight, the top button.
‘So you own this building?’ Whit asked.
‘No.’ Anson declined further explanation. Anson Todd looked to be edging seventy. He wore a black turtleneck, gray sweatpants covering withered legs, and wire-rimmed glasses over cat-green eyes. An ugly, welted scar scored his temple, and his overlong gray hair was combed over to hide the mark.
‘Let me guess. You work for Mr Deloache, Senior,’ Whit said.
The elevator stopped, and Whit held the door for Anson to wheel himself out. Anson motored out of the elevator into a garishly appointed suite. It looked to Whit like an animal lover’s apartment from hell: zebra prints on the wall, a leopard sofa, a tiger skin on the floor. The monotony of hides was broken by the neon-kissed furniture that had likely been purchased at the House of Lime. A thick-necked youth glanced up from the television; his overinflated physique made him look like he had been gulping steroids with his mother’s milk.
‘Hey,’ the young man greeted Anson, a wary glance going to Gooch and Whit.
‘Go watch TV in the master bedroom,’ Anson ordered. ‘Come if I call you.’
‘Sure,’ the monosyllabic hulk agreed. He lurched up from the couch and stomped into another room, slamming the door behind him.
Anson Todd said, ‘I love chaperoning the mentally deficient. Have a seat, Judge. Mr Guchinski.’ He gestured toward an expansive leather sofa the color of a frozen margarita. Instead Whit wandered to the wall of windows that showed a panoramic view of St Leo Bay and the Gulf. To the north, the huge piers jutting out into the bay dazzled with light, and house lights along Santa Margarita Island glittered like a broken bracelet of diamonds.
‘I see why you stay here instead of aboard Real Shame,’ Whit said.
‘Actually, the Shame’s not wheelchair-friendly. I stay off except for an infrequent fishing trip. Coffee? Beer?’
Gooch leaned against the window, thick arms linked behind his back. Whit eased onto the plush leather couch.
‘No, thank you,’ Whit said. ‘We won’t take up much of your time.’
‘You won’t need much, Judge. We don’t know a thing about Pete’s death. Yes, Mr Deloache Senior owns Real Shame and has for five years. But Pete was an acquaintance of Junior’s. Mr Deloache never met him.’
‘The gun that was found in Mr Hubble’s hand wasn’t registered.’
‘If there was an unregistered gun aboard, then Mr Hubble or his lady friend brought it. Not ours.’
‘She denies that.’
Anson smiled. ‘Once she’s over her grief, maybe her memory improves.’
Whit wondered if memory enhancements came in the form of fists or threats. ‘I’ve spoken with witnesses who say Junior visited Pete pretty regularly at the marina. Argued with him about money. Behaved badly yesterday.’
‘Define badly.’
‘Tried to rough up Pete.’
‘Junior? He’s a teddy bear. He couldn’t bruise fruit. Look, from where I sit, you got hearsay. You got anyone
