Mr Kiss and Tell Read online

  ROB THOMAS

  Rob Thomas is the creator of the television series Veronica Mars and iZombie and the co-creator of the television series Party Down. He lives in Austin with his wife and two children. He has finally recovered from Ray Allen’s three-pointer in Game 6 of the 2013 NBA Finals.

  JENNIFER GRAHAM

  Jennifer Graham graduated from Reed College and received her MFA from the University of Texas at Austin. Her short stories have appeared in The Seattle Review and Zahir. She currently lives in Austin with her husband.

  ALSO IN THE VERONICA MARS MYSTERY SERIES

  The Thousand-Dollar Tan Line

  ALSO BY ROB THOMAS

  Rats Saw God

  Slave Day

  Doing Time: Notes from the Undergrad

  Satellite Down

  Green Thumb

  A VINTAGE ORIGINAL, JANUARY 2015

  Copyright © 2015 by Rob Thomas, Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc., and Alloy Entertainment LLC

  All rights reserved. Published by Vintage Books, a division of Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, Penguin Random House companies.

  Produced by Alloy Entertainment

  1700 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  www.alloyentertainment.com

  Based on characters from the series Veronica Mars, by Rob Thomas.

  Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Vintage Books Trade Paperback ISBN: 9780804170727

  eBook ISBN 9780804170734

  Thomas author photograph © Eric Doggett

  Graham author photograph © Jennifer Grandin Le

  eBook adapted from book design by Claudia Martinez

  Cover design by Mark Abrams

  Cover photographs: key © Ragnar Schmuck/Corbis; woman © moodboard/Alamy; image of Veronica Mars based on a photograph by Robert Voets 2014 WBEI

  www.vintagebooks.com

  v4.0

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also in the Veronica Mars Mystery Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  PROLOGUE

  It was raining in Neptune. That was rare, even for early March; the little SoCal city usually boasted blue skies year-round. But the clouds had rolled in off the ocean, and now raindrops pattered across the houses of rich and poor alike, the one great equalizer in a town without a middle class.

  A grimy white van trolled slowly through the east edge of town, where Zen landscaping gave way to weed-strewn lots. There were no millionaires’ homes here—no boutiques, no surf shops, no post-op resorts for wealthy nip/tuck patients. Out here were prefab houses propped on cinderblocks, biker bars, chop shops. The buildings were all sun-bleached and dingy, the roads speckled with potholes that sent the van bucking on its worn-out shocks.

  Frank Kozlowski was a junk dealer, just like his old man had been. His late wife always liked to say he was in “antiques,” but ninety percent of what he found was well and truly junk—broken appliances he stripped for parts, scrap metal he recycled at a buck a pound. But every so often he found something really good. In a town like Neptune, where the wealthy always had more than they knew what to do with, a guy with wheels and initiative could make out like a bandit. High-end furniture that just needed reupholstery or refinishing; designer clothes with minor stains and tears. Paint-by-numbers art, antique road signs, and metal lunch boxes with ’70s-era cartoon characters on the front. He salvaged the best of it and resold it from his garage, mostly to young, Tyrolean-hatted guys and buzz-cut girls in resale mom jeans who used words like “naive” and “authentic” to describe his wares. Kozlowski didn’t mind—or in most cases even notice—the affectation. These kids kept the mortgage paid and the fridge stocked with beer.

  He drove slowly through the rain, alert for any kind of glimmer from the underbrush. A rosary swayed back and forth from his rearview mirror, almost in time with the wipers. In the passenger seat, his little wire-haired mutt, Gus, sat at attention, ears pricked forward. It was just after seven a.m. and he’d already been out here for two hours. So far all he’d found was a stack of warped two-by-fours, a brass drawer pull, and a molded plastic chair pocked with cigarette-burn stigmata.

  But the business was like that. Some mornings were a bust. Other mornings, the junk fairy lit a path at your feet and led you to something special. That’s what really got him out of bed at four in the dark, cold-ass morning. Not so much the promise of cash as that into-the-red spike of adrenaline, the thrill of the next big find. The way a single magic discovery could vindicate a hundred shitty, wasted trips. He’d never been able to explain that to Nell. She always groaned when he came back with rusted, filthy roadside dross. “Jesus, Frank, why can’t you just hit up estate sales like everyone else? Flea markets. Thrift shops. This stuff is worthless.”

  Worthless. The word—the very idea—left him dumbstruck. Nothing was worthless. Not if you knew who needed it. Not if you knew how to salvage it. She’d never really appreciated that.

  Still, that road went both ways. He’d been startled by the silence in the house in the year since she’d died (emphysema; she’d never been able to give up the fucking cigarettes), startled by how hard it was to sleep without her cold feet on his calves all night. They’d never had any kids. Now it was just him and Gus and a restless, edgy energy that sent him pacing from room to room and woke him in the pre-dawn chill, hounding him out of the house and into the junkyards and abandoned buildings fringing Neptune. He never thought to call the feeling grief.

  Now, cruising along the empty road, his mind drifted. He thought about the donuts he always picked up on the way home, and the hot shower he’d take after unloading the shit from his van. Gus would need a bath too, after the rain and mud. He’d just about decided to throw in the towel and head home when he saw it.

  There.

  He eased his van onto the shoulde
r and killed the engine. The road banked sharply downward toward a lot fringed with buckwheat and sumac, a scraggly patch of land with a faded FOR SALE sign nailed to a post. The sign had been there at least a decade. This wasn’t exactly prime real estate, situated on the edge of town in the empty miles between a ramshackle trailer park and the Balboa County Youth Correctional Compound. Half of Neptune seemed to use it as a cost-effective dumping ground, making it a regular stop on Kozlowski’s circuit. He’d found some good stuff in that lot over the years. A box of dog-eared Playboys. A six-foot fiberglass cheeseburger from a long-defunct drive-through. The front half of a ’68 Buick Skylark that he’d sold to a restoration company. And now he’d caught a glimpse of something through the gloom—something that might just be worth stumbling down that bank for.

  Gus jumped lightly out of the van and took off running, his tail flailing right and left. He loved the hunt as much as Kozlowski, sensing his master’s excitement and feeding off it. Kozlowski stepped out after the dog, slamming the door behind him. Icy needles of rain stung his cheeks and neck. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, his boots sinking down in the mud. For a moment he couldn’t see anything, and he wondered if he’d imagined it. But then he found it again—a dirty pink shape, half hidden in the sedge. A dress form, perhaps a mannequin? His heart gave the familiar little stutter that almost always meant a good score.

  The man knelt alongside Gus and patted the dog’s trembling rump. “What do you think? Worth getting wet for?”

  Gus whipped around in a tight, fast little circle. That was good enough for Kozlowski.

  The incline was steep and slippery. He edged his way down, leaning back to keep from going ass-over-teakettle. Gus scampered ahead of him and then paused at the base of the hill, shaking water from his coat. Kozlowski’s eyes locked in on the thing in the field. Definitely a mannequin—he could see the arms and legs splayed out in the mud. Cleaned up and restored it might get him a C-note from a vintage shop or a tailor. And there was the outside chance it was worth real money. He’d heard of antique mannequins going for seven, eight hundred a pop, sometimes more if it was a rare model in good condition.

  But even from fifty feet away, this one was looking pretty rough. Its wig was so tangled and dirty he couldn’t guess what the original color might have been. The left arm crooked out at a strange angle to the rest of the body, probably busted. Dark streaks of mud wreathed the pale figure. Gus darted ahead across the field toward the thing, running in wild circles around it for a moment as Kozlowski approached.

  He was a few yards away when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly shot up. Something felt wrong about the whole scene. The mannequin’s skintight dress was hiked up around its waist, its sculpted buttocks bare to the sky. Another time he might have thought it was funny, trying to imagine why the hell the manufacturers had designed a dress-store dummy with a realistic ass. But here in the rain, splayed out in the mud, it looked so sad—so sick—he felt a creeping unease that crowded out the dollar signs he’d imagined.

  Gus was pawing at the thing’s torso, a thin whine coming up from his throat. Through the sound of the rain, Kozlowski could hear the distant croak of a raven from the tree line around the lot. He stepped closer, barely noticing the dull throb in his knee or the cold weight of his soaked denim jacket, kneeling down next to the shattered form in the gorse.

  Two things happened at once.

  The first was that Kozlowski’s eyes confirmed what some part of his gut already suspected: that the pale peach color was not fiberglass but flesh. That the dress was torn almost to shreds. That the black grime caking the skin was laced with streaks of dark red.

  The second was that the woman’s left hand—jutting at a grotesque angle from the rest of her body—slowly clenched, fingers curling down into the dirt.

  She was still alive.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The mid-July heat in Courtroom Three was stifling. Spectators packed into the gallery had removed their jackets and loosened their collars, shirts and blouses sheer with sweat. Makeshift paper fans, folded from crime-prevention handout flyers, fluttered throughout the room. The AC in this wing of the Balboa County Courthouse was out. And because the criminal justice institutions of Neptune, California, thought Eli “Weevil” Navarro’s conviction was a foregone conclusion, they hadn’t seen fit to move the proceedings to a cooler part of the building. It figured to be a quick day’s work proving that an inked-up ése with a rap sheet dating back to grade school had returned to his old ways.

  Generally a safe call around here, thought Veronica Mars, sitting near the back of the courtroom next to her father. Neptune’s finest seldom collar anyone who can afford a long trial. If you’re poor or nonwhite, our wheels of justice run fast, but not necessarily true.

  She opened the collar of her shirt and gave it a few quick tugs, trying to accomplish what the dead AC couldn’t. But say this for us: When we railroad ’em, we do it in classic Hollywood style. Sweltering courtroom…fluttering paper fans…court reporter blotting her cleavage. All we lack are the bailiffs in Colonel Sanders suits and the gallery full of saturnine black folks in overalls.

  “In the past week, you’ve heard the evidence against my client fall apart piece by piece.” Cliff McCormack stood in front of the courtroom, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He was fiftyish, six-three, and angular, dressed in a gray suit and a Jungle Jewels green tie that was one part razzle-dazzle and two parts JC Penney clearance rack. His voice was deep and whiskey-dry as he addressed the jury.

  “The so-called witness who claimed to have sold the gun to Mr. Navarro rescinded his statement in the weeks after the incident. The recording of the roadside-assistance call Celeste Kane made to the Beacon Corporation just before the incident also contradicts much of her story—including her claim that Mr. Navarro threatened her verbally.”

  Is it me or did someone put extra sambal in Cliff McCormack’s pad thai? The old warhorse is bringing it hard for Weevil. Veronica had known the public defender for most of her life; he and her father were old friends. He had a sardonic, often self-deprecating manner—he referred to himself as the Kmart of the legal system—but Veronica knew better. Cliff worked hard to try to get his clients a fair shake. It was quixotic work in a town like Neptune, with justice for sale to the highest bidder, but he was one of the good guys. “The prosecution has gone out of its way to paint a picture of a hardened criminal returning to his old ways. But what are we to make of the five years between his last conviction and the events that took place the night of January twenty-fifth? Five years in which Eli Navarro has proven himself a responsible and law-abiding citizen, time and time again. You’ve heard from dozens of character witnesses—friends, coworkers, clergy—who say my client is a hard worker, a loving father and husband—in all respects a model of reform.”

  Hmm…laying it on a bit thick there, Cliffy, Veronica thought. Sure, until six, seven months ago, Weevil Navarro had seemed like a changed man—a far cry, at least, from the high school crime kingpin Veronica had known a decade earlier. Back then, Weevil was the alpha head cracker of the local bike gang. His photo was a staple in BUST*ed!, the local police mug shot tabloid. But when she’d seen him at their high school reunion less than a year earlier, it seemed he’d finally settled down. He was happily married, a doting father, a small business owner.

  That had all changed when he’d tried to help Celeste Kane after her car had broken down in one of the more “colorful” parts of town. Weevil had woken up in the hospital with a hole in his shoulder and a stack of criminal charges on his head, including attempted theft, attempted assault, and brandishing a deadly weapon. Celeste claimed he’d threatened her. According to the cops, he’d been clutching a stolen Glock in his hand when they’d arrived on the scene. According to Weevil, he hadn’t touched a gun in years.

  Since then, his once-successful auto repair shop had folded. None of Neptune’s wealthy wanted their Bentleys and McLarens being cased by a guy who’d al
legedly pulled a gun on one of their own. He’d been putting in a few hours at his uncle’s body shop, but he was barely scraping by. Small wonder, then, that he’d backslid into some of his old habits with his old crew of biker reprobates. Weevil took care not to tell her more than he thought she, a detective and the daughter of a former sheriff, needed to know. But his newfound discretion made it, if anything, even clearer that he was extralegally supplementing his income.

  “In the end,” Cliff said, “the prosecution’s case is a house of cards, collapsing from the weight of unanswered questions and flatly bizarre assumptions. Remember, the alleged attack took place just sixteen minutes after he’d taken his babysitter home.” He paused to let this fact sink in.

  From her seat, all Veronica could see of Weevil was the back of his head. It was close-shaven, shiny with sweat. The fading Gothic letters of a tattoo were just visible, creeping up his neck right above his collar. Behind him, Navarro siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles crowded into the gallery, tense and silent. She recognized Chardo, the cousin who’d once let Weevil take the rap for his own credit card fraud. Apparently that was water under the bridge now.

  A few chairs down from Chardo, Weevil’s wife, Jade, sat with her shoulders rigid, her gaze fixed on the jury box. The pretty, doe-eyed woman looked more haggard every time Veronica saw her—dark semicircles under her eyes, collarbone showing through her top with alarming sharpness. Between the garage’s closure, the medical bills, the criminal charges, and Weevil getting back with his boon companions in the PCH gang, Jade was under a lot of falling dominoes. And now the last one was teetering and ready to fall one way or the other.