A Kiss Gone Bad Read Free Page B

asked.
    ‘Big-built guy, no signs of struggle. It’s hard to stick a gun in the mouth of a guy this big.’
    At one corner of the bed stood a sleek video camera, mounted on a tripod, aimed at the bed. Gardner watched Whit examine the
     camera.
    ‘Shit, maybe he was shooting a home movie with that little gal out there and things got rough,’ Gardner said.
    ‘Little gal?’
    ‘Girl that found him. Looks like she’s spent her last dime and got no place to go. Dirty, strung out.’ Gardner laughed. ‘She
     might have screamed bloody murder if she saw that dick coming at her.’
    ‘Maybe,’ Whit said. Gardner had all the appeal of head lice, but he had a point. Whit remembered a tidbit he’d read in a forensics
     book about bodily fluid residue. He carefully inspected the dead man’s genitals with his latexed fingers; the massive penis
     appeared dry. There hadn’t been immediate predeath sex, he bet, but themmedical examiner in Corpus Christi could properly make that determination.
    Gardner watched him probe the organ. ‘If it gets hard, yell.’
    ‘Don’t worry. I will.’ Whit felt uneasy embarrassment again. No doubt Gardner would gossip back in the police station:
Jesus, Mosley felt up the dead guy’s dick, can you believe it?
    Whit noticed a frame turned down on the bedside dresser, and he righted it. It was a photo of a young boy, on the verge of
     the teenage years, with a scattering of freckles and mischievous brown eyes. Hints of Pete Hubble lay in his face: the square
     jaw, the crinkled smile, the brown hair. Signs of Faith Hubble were the small ears, the slink of the raised eyebrow. It was
     an old photo of Sam Hubble, Pete and Faith’s son. Sam was now fifteen, a bright kid Whit had always liked. He wondered how
     on earth the boy would take this news.
    ‘The only suicide I’ve worked,’ Whit said, ‘the fellow turned every family picture to the wall before taking the big gulp.’
    ‘Another vote for suicide.’ Gardner loaded another roll of film. More flashes filled the room.
    Still wearing his gloves, Whit flipped open the video camera’s housing. No tape inside.
    ‘Was there a videotape in here Claudia took?’ he asked.
    ‘Don’t believe so.’
    ‘Did you take it?’
    Gardner frowned. ‘Nope.’
    Whit shut the case. Discarded clothing lay piled in the corner of the room. Still wearing the gloves, Whit picked through
     the mound. In the pile were faded men’s jeans, a cowboy belt still threaded through the loops; a white T-shirt; and men’s
     black briefs that must have clinched the family jewels in a vise grip. Nestled with the shirtwere a pair of cotton women’s panties, decorated with little intertwining violets. Whit hooked the panties with one gloved
     finger and raised them toward Gardner.
    ‘Looky, looky, there must’ve been nookie.’ Gardner glanced behind him to make sure Claudia Salazar hadn’t returned to the
     room. ‘Ought to check to see if the girl’s got her delicates. I’ll volunteer.’
    ‘A hero in her darkest hour,’ Whit said. ‘What has the witness told you?’
    ‘Her name’s Heather Farrell. Got that scared-goat look of a runaway. We’re running a check on her to see if she’s got a record.
     She said she met Hubble on the beach over the course of the last week, and he asked her to come over tonight.’
    Whit studied Pete Hubble’s face. Little of the boy he had known remained in the dead man’s looks. A memory bubbled up: Whit,
     barely twelve, hanging at the edges of one of Whit’s brothers’ birthday parties, full of raucous teenagers, and Pete sneaking
     Whit – youngest of the six Mosley boys – slugs of prime bourbon. He’d thrown up at the party’s end, on the shoes of his oldest
     brother’s date, and gotten the last whipping he’d ever received from his father. Pete. Mr Fun. At least before his brother
     vanished.
    ‘I wonder how many fuck films he made,’ Gardner said.
    ‘Don’t go broadcasting details of that career