A Kiss Gone Bad Read Free

traffic court, which could be dishwater dull or raucously entertaining (depending
     on the cases), but he also issued arrest and search warrants, magistrated the arrested into jail, signedcommitment orders for the insane, ordered autopsies, and conducted death and fire inquests.
    With Encina County too small for a medical examiner of its own, Whit served as the first line of forensic defense. So far
     in his six months this unpleasant duty had reared itself four times: once with a car crash at the edge of the county, twice
     with drownings on St Leo Bay, and once for an elderly suicide who, his insides gnawed with pancreatic cancer, washed several
     fistfuls of Valium down with a fifth of vodka while listening to Hank Williams CDs.
    Another death, and the whole county would be watching. All the attention could make or break his anemic campaign.
Great. Your lover’s ex-husband is dead, and you get to rule on cause of death. Congratulations.
    Whit headed past the long line of docked boats on the T-head, most shrouded in bright blue coverings. Weekend boaters from
     Corpus Christi or Houston owned these craft. A few folks lived on their boats full-time, retirees or trust-fund babies. Whit
     ducked under another banner of crime-scene tape taped right at the boat’s stern.
    ‘Hello, Honorable.’ Claudia Salazar, a Port Leo police detective, stood on the deck of
Real Shame,
watching him scale the ladder. A gust whipped her dark hair around her face, and she yanked it back over her ears. She looked
     decidedly more official than he did in her black slacks, white blouse, and a PLPD windbreaker.
    ‘Hey,’ Whit said. ‘I heard this may be politically testy. No press yet?’
    ‘We have a short grace period before they swarm, once it gets out that Senator Hubble’s son is dead,’ Claudia said. ‘Get your
     quotes ready.’
    ‘Has anyone called the senator?’
    ‘Delford is,’ she answered. Delford Spires was the longtime police chief in Port Leo. He had a full ruddyface and a natty mustache that made him look like a chunky catfish.
    He followed Claudia across a pristine deck down to a living area and galley filled with clutter: a thick paperback propped
     open with a carton of Marlboros and an empty wineglass. On the floor a pizza box lay open with torn cheese and pepperoni glued
     inside. Two empty bottles of cheap cabernet stood on the coffee table. Each label had been peeled away from the bottles; little
     curls of paper dotted the floor. On one side of the den a series of windows faced the gunmetal waters of the bay. On each
     end, small stairs led to sleeping cabins. Claudia went to the aft stairs.
    ‘Here’s where he was found.’ She stepped aside so Whit could enter the tiny stateroom.
    The dead man lay naked on the bed, lying on his back, arms and legs spread, the sourness of death-released waste scenting
     the close air.
    ‘I haven’t seen him in fifteen years,’ Whit said. ‘But that’s Pete Hubble.’ He did not add that Pete Hubble had skinny-dipped
     with Whit’s older brothers and once you saw Pete naked you were unlikely to confuse him with someone else. ‘It might be best
     to get a formal ID from family or friends.’
    Eddie Gardner, another police department investigator, stood in the corner of the bedroom, snapping photos. An evidence-collection
     kit lay open at his feet.
    ‘You were supposed to wait for Judge Mosley to get here,’ Claudia said.
    ‘Sorry.’ Gardner shrugged. ‘Just taking some photos. I didn’t disturb anything for the judge.’ Gardner made
judge
sound like
dog turd.
He wore his thinning hair pulled in a short ponytail, aiming for and missing the surfer dude look. He was a recent hire from
     Houston andhad tried too hard to go coastal with the flowered shirts and baggy shorts.
    ‘Why don’t you get started on searching and cataloging the rest of the boat?’ Claudia suggested in a patient tone. Gardner
     went up the stairs with his smirk.
    ‘Houston know-it-all,’