Free A Kiss Gone Bad by Jeff Abbott Page B

You’ll
     want to do a formal one, not just issue a cause of death. Make sure the Corpus paper’s there. Get your photo taken a bunch,
     maybe at the crime scene. In your robe, and wear proper shoes for once. Issue press releases, all that.’ Babe rubbed his hands
     together. ‘That asswipe Buddy Beere must be shitting bricks with all this terrific publicity you’re gonna get.’
    ‘You get this morning’s merit badge for good taste,’ Whit said. ‘A man is dead, you know.’
    ‘I’m sorry for Pete and the Hubbles – you know that. What the hell was Pete doing back anyway? Where’s he been?’
    ‘Working for the CIA,’ Whit answered above the roar of the shower, to give Babe a meaty morsel. ‘Something about nuclear release
     codes in Ukraine. Perhaps we shouldn’t tell Irina.’
    ‘You’re not amusing to your daddy.’
    ‘Oddly enough, making you laugh about a death case wasn’t on my to-do list today. I got breakfast at the Shell Inn with Patsy
     and Tim.’
    Babe frowned. ‘You tell Georgie to quit slinging mud all over town about poor helpless Irina.’
    ‘News flash. You not only remarry again but you fund a competing café. Of course she’s pissed at you.’ Whitrinsed shampoo from his head and soap from his body. Babe handed him a towel.
    ‘Georgie’ll forgive me – she always does. Women are far better at forgiving than men could ever be,’ Babe said.
    Whit thought of Faith Hubble and wondered if that was really true.
    The Shell Inn was an establishment one might generously term a half-breed. The front of the restaurant offered serviceable
     meals, catering to the fishing crowd and the retirees who refused to slap down more than five bucks for a meat-and-two-vegetable
     plate. The back contained a funky, dark bar that boasted its own atmosphere – breezes of bourbon, mists of beer, warm fronts
     of tobacco smoke. For the old guard of Port Leo the Shell Inn, which had been in continuous business since 1907 except the
     five times it was nearly destroyed by hurricanes, was a basic requirement of life in town, up there with a newspaper and water
     service.
    Georgie O’Connor Mosley perched by the cash register, sipping milky coffee and contemplating the
Corpus Christi Caller-Times
financial section. She had been Whit’s first stepmother, his mother’s oldest and dearest friend. Georgie and Babe had married
     more out of friendship and a mutual hope to provide six devastated boys a mother, but those reasons shriveled under the never-setting
     sun of reality. Georgie, relentlessly practical and blunt, and Babe, a roaring drunk still in love with an absent first wife,
     only lasted three stormy, legendary years. The six Mosley boys all loved Georgie without reserve. They knew the bullet she
     had taken for them. Babe had bought the Shell Inn for her the Christmas after their divorce, a parting gift, and Georgie kept
     the Mosley name to irritate him.
    ‘Tell your daddy he should’ve listened to me aboutthose overseas stock funds,’ Georgie said as Whit entered. ‘I’m making a killing. I could buy and sell Babe’s ass.’
    ‘He’s more conservative with his money,’ Whit said.
    ‘I would think anyone who imports firm young former Communist flesh into his bed would be receptive to new ideas.’ Georgie
     kissed his cheek – she smelled of lip balm and oranges – and steered him to his corner table where Patsy Duchamp and Tim O’Leary
     sat.
    ‘No coffee for Whit, Georgie, until he gives me a quote,’ Patsy Duchamp said as Whit sat down. Patsy was the editor of the
Port Leo Mariner,
a biweekly paper, and like Whit she had trudged home carting an English degree from a prestigious college. Patsy’s hair was
     as dark as a crow’s feathers; she had sharp, penetrating eyes; and she rationed her smiles.
    ‘No comment. Patsy,’ Whit said as Georgie sloshed steaming coffee into Whit’s cup.
    ‘Quote, please.’ Patsy’s breakfast had already arrived, and she stirred a pat of