They let Velvet digest that bit of news for a moment. She didn’t move.
‘Did he own a gun?’ Claudia asked.
‘No. He hated guns. Didn’t want them around.’
Claudia glanced at Whit. ‘Would one of his family perhaps have lent him a gun?’
‘I avoided his family,’ Velvet said. ‘I wasn’t up to their tight-assed snuff. His mother’s an A- I bitch and his ex-wife’s her understudy. They didn’t want us around.’
So Faith knew Pete was in town. Why didn’t she tell me? Whit touched Velvet’s shoulder; she didn’t flinch away. ‘Where would Pete have gotten the gun from?’
‘The boat belongs to a friend of Pete’s. He might have gotten the gun from him. I don’t know.’ Velvet began to shiver.
‘Who’s this friend?’ Claudia asked.
‘A guy named Deloache. Junior Deloache. He lives in Houston, but he’s got a weekend condo here.’ Velvet grabbed Whit’s arm. ‘Did a doctor look at Pete? Are you sure he’s dead?’
‘I’m quite sure. I’m sorry.’
‘Did you see any sign of depression in Mr Hubble?’ Claudia asked.
‘You think he killed himself?’ Velvet sounded incredulous. ‘No way. No way, no way, no way.’ She stood, pacing away from the couch, shaking her head.
Claudia stood. ‘I know this is hard…’
‘You never knew him, Miss Thing, and you’re gonna pretend to know him better than me? He… didn’t… kill… himself.’
Whit asked the obvious question. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Her glare would have savaged a tank. ‘Because. He liked himself way too much. He wasn’t depressed. If he’s dead, someone killed him.’
‘Fine,’ Claudia said. ‘Who would want him dead?’
Velvet’s tongue dabbed her lips. ‘Well, first of all, not me. I know how cops work and I didn’t have any reason to want Pete dead.’
‘What’s your relationship with him?’ Whit asked.
‘We’ve been friends for a long time. We’ve worked together on a bunch of art films. Dozens of them.’
‘So was he your boyfriend?’ Claudia asked.
‘Boyfriend. How milk-and-cookies. No.’ Velvet frowned. ‘Look, go talk to Jabez Jones. He used to be a famous wrestler, now he’s a Jesus jumper on cable TV. You know him?’
‘We know him,’ Whit said.
Velvet nodded. ‘Pete’s working on a new film project and he wanted some cooperation from Jabez, but Jabez told us to fuck off. But yesterday, I came home from the grocery and Jabez is here and he and Pete are talking on the boat and I can tell Pete’s upset – his face was lipstick-red, like his head was about to burst. Jabez was smirking like he’d just popped a good money shot.’
Her choice of metaphors, Whit decided, was clearly influenced by her career.
‘We’ll talk to Jabez,’ Claudia said. ‘Anyone else?’
Velvet pinched her lip between finger and thumb. ‘His ex-wife, Faith Hubble. They’d been bickering over Pete getting to see his son… Faith didn’t want Pete to have anything to do with Sam. Pete wanted joint custody, which I knew he wouldn’t get, but he and Faith argued about Sam. A lot.’
Great, great, great. Whit cleared his throat.
‘Where were you tonight, Velvet?’ Claudia asked.
‘Screw you,’ Velvet said. ‘There’s no way you’re gonna suspect a senator’s flunky or a minister, right, so start barking up my ass.’
‘I’m just asking where you were tonight, when you last saw him, what you last spoke about,’ Claudia said easily. ‘No one’s barking up your ass, so just calm down and help us.’
Velvet shivered again and sat back on the couch. ‘Pete had work to do on his screenplay.’
‘About his brother?’ Whit asked.
‘Yeah,’ Velvet said slowly. ‘How did you know?’
‘I saw the tape he had in the machine, scouting out locations, talking about his brother’s car.’
‘Pete wanted to be alone – he writes better – but didn’t want to write down at the beach, which is where he usually goes. Said maybe I could go entertain myself. So I went and did some shopping, ate a burger down at a cafe by Port Leo Beach, and went to see a movie.’ She stared at Claudia. ‘I got my ticket stub, and the geek behind the snack counter flirted with me. Alibi enough for you?’
‘I’d like to get a statement from you down at the station,’ Claudia said evenly.
‘Oh, shit, am I gonna need a lawyer?’ Velvet grabbed Whit’s arm. ‘You’re a judge, right? Do I need a lawyer?’
‘You’re not under arrest, ma’am,’ Claudia said. ‘If you want a lawyer, you can get one. We just want to get a statement from you.’
‘Do you have someplace you can stay. Velvet?’ Whit asked. ‘Y’all’s boat is a crime scene, and you can’t stay there, at least for now.’
Velvet’s shoulders sagged, the enormity of the situation settling upon her. ‘You mean like friends? No, I don’t have any friends here. I don’t fit in with all you decent folk.’
Whit said, ‘I’ll be sure you have a place to stay.’
Claudia gave him a raised eyebrow that seemed to say, Aren’t you the little white knight?
‘Thanks, but I don’t need your help.’ Velvet stood. ‘Can I see Pete? Maybe I should be the one to tell his mother.’
‘The police chief will do that,’ Claudia said. ‘He’s known Pete’s mother for a long time. Let’s get you down to the station, get your statement, and then we can go from there. Okay?’
Velvet crossed her arms. ‘Take all the statements you need. Tell me how I can help. Because there is no freaking way that Pete killed himself. None.’ Her mouth hardened. ‘And if you people don’t find who killed him, I’ll make more trouble than you can imagine. I assume you both can spell lawsuit?’
5
The small crowd of marina dwellers was a mix of boat bums, Gulf wanderers, and snowbirds. They had little in common except a desire for quiet and the sun-driven crinkle around the flesh of their eyes. They’d been hurried off their boats and they stood clustered in the parking lot, bathed by the glow of the police lights. One could hear mutterings about life being too short and the wrong class of people booking at the Golden Gulf. An overeager Officer Fox had used the word suicide in an ill-advised sentence, and the rumor rippled through the small crowd.
The Blade listened to the murmured gossip. His heart jolted like he’d dosed himself with a tickly bit of electro-shock. No one paid him much heed, only a couple of the boat bums saying hello. He kept his hands tucked inside his light windbreaker.
He watched a police officer forage in the trunk of a patrol car. The Blade wondered how the officer would react if he leaned close and whispered: I have a passion I’d like to share with you. Come see my graves. But he wouldn’t. The city would decorate the officer. The news pretties would hail the cop as hero while labeling the Blade as crazy. The boat snobs right here would jockey for camera position and gasp, Oh, yes, we’re terribly shocked. He seemed like the nicest man. And he probably wouldn’t even get to tell his side of the story on TV.
Life was blatantly unfair unless you were willing to take it by the balls and squeeze hard. He watched as one older lady stopped and chatted with the whistling officer. He spoke and she hurried back to the crowd, where she whispered eagerly.
He stood and waited. The elderly lady panted with excitement, ferrying the sad news to each knot of people.
‘It’s the man who lived on Real Shame that’s dead,’ she said to the Blade and two other men. ‘They think he might’ve shot himself. Isn’t that terrible?’
Shot himself. Shot himself. What wonderful delicious morsels of words. If they were candy he would have eaten them and then licked his fingers.
He wanted to see his new Darling, to touch her, to feel the heavy weight of her hair, lick her skin, and exult in the warmth of her breath against his neck. She would need comfort, poor baby.
‘I bet you that trashy girlfriend of his cheated on him and he killed himself.’ The old woman lowered her voice. ‘Wearing those thong swimsuits. A piece of trash.’
Like Pete Hubble hadn’t been a piece of trash, too, thought the Blade. He wondered what interesting pops and creaks the old woman’s jaw would make if he broke it.