A Kiss Gone Bad Read Free Page A

Claudia muttered.
    ‘Eddie’s got to stop those public displays of affection for me,’ Whit said. He pulled on latex gloves and switched on an overhead
     light. A bit of bedsheet was wrapped awkwardly around Pete’s upper torso, a gun loosely gripped in his right hand, his mouth
     a gaping hole. His eyelids stood at half-mast, rimmed with blood.
    ‘This just sucks,’ Whit said.
    ‘Did you know him well?’ Claudia asked.
    ‘He was friends with a couple of my older brothers. I knew his brother Corey better than him.’
    Claudia cocked her head. ‘Corey. He went missing, didn’t he?’
    ‘Yeah. About fifteen years ago.’
    A hoarse voice called down to Claudia. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said.
    Whit probed – gingerly – Pete Hubble’s throat for a pulse. Nothing, obviously. He poked the paling skin: cool but not cold,
     and rigor mortis had not yet begun.
    The windows were shut in the cabin, but the boats at Golden Gulf were docked in neat succession. Surely someone would have
     heard the fatal shot. He raised the blinds on the windows. The two berths next to
Real Shame
were empty. On the other side was the open bay and the long pall of night.
    Whit opened his notebook to a blank scene-of-death form. He heard more officers boarding the boat, into the galley and living
     area, Claudia greeting them, dividing responsibilities. Whit wrote:
Oct 12, 10:45 p.m. Peter James Hubble, male, age ~40, brown hair, brown eyes,
six-six, around 220 pounds, nude except for gold chain with lion’s head on it around neck, red-and-green dragon tattoo on
     right forearm, lying face up on bed, sheet wrapped partially around chest, 9mm Glock in right hand, bullet wound in mouth,
     blood spray on face.
    Whit peered inside Pete’s broken mouth, bringing his flashlight to bear on the damage. The tongue, the back teeth, the palate,
     the uvula, the smooth pink walls looked exploded. The back of the mouth was a gruesome tunnel boring to the brain. Pete had
     his lips wrapped neatly around the barrel when the gun went off.
    ‘Ate the gun, didn’t he?’ Eddie Gardner asked conversationally. He had returned with his camera.
    ‘Apparently.’
    ‘Sheriff’s deputies are helping Claudia, so you and I can get the body done.’ He spooled film into the camera, still smirking.
     ‘Love the shirt. Parrots are you.’
    Whit ignored the jab, leaning close to the gun. ‘Odd. The safety is on.’
    ‘I pulled the gun out of his mouth so I could click on the safety. Standard procedure.’ Gardner explained this in a tone usually
     reserved for addressing toddlers. ‘Wouldn’t expect you to know.’
    Great. A Buddy Beere supporter. ‘Did you take a picture first, with the gun in his mouth?’
    ‘No. Forgot. Just trying to secure the scene, Judge.’
    Whit wrote in his notebook:
Gardner didn’t take requisite pictures, mention THAT in the inquest report.
    ‘So you knew this guy?’ Gardner asked.
    ‘Ages ago.’
    ‘There’s a whole bunch of adult movie videos in a cabinet by the television. And this guy’s picture is on some of the covers.’
    Whit stared at him. ‘Please be kidding.’
    Gardner grinned. ‘Not kidding at all. You could hold ablue film festival with all the porn up there.’ He pointed at the dead man’s prodigious organ. ‘Jesus, a horse would be jealous.
     Makes sense he might make some money off of that.’
    The son of a prominent state senator starring in porn films. The imagined headlines took a greasy turn in Whit’s mind. He
     wondered if Faith knew.
    He watched Eddie Gardner snap photos of seemingly every square inch of the bed, excepting the square inches that had landed
     Pete in movies.
    ‘Eddie,’ Whit said, ‘please photograph the gun. I’m going to need those for the inquest.’ Gardner took several shots of the
     pistol from different angles. Neither man spoke for a minute until Gardner finished the roll.
    ‘You thinking suicide. Judge? Looks that way to me.’
    ‘Why?’ Whit