Lethal (17 page)

The deputy merely returned his steely look, then said, “Coupla minutes,” and moved away. But suddenly he came back around. “Who notified you? How’d you get here so fast?”

Stan rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet as though he didn’t intend to answer. Finally he said, “Yesterday
Honor told me that she and Emily were sick. Obviously she was coerced into saying that, purposely to keep me away. This morning I was worried about them and decided to drive out and check on them. When I arrived, I found the house surrounded by police cars. One of the officers told me what it’s feared has happened.”

Crawford sized him up again, said, “Don’t touch anything,” then turned away to consult the coroner.

Doral nudged Stan’s arm. “Back here.”

They moved down the hallway. Doral went past Emily’s bedroom, but Stan paused at the open door and then went in. He walked over to the bed and stared down at it for several long moments, then slowly surveyed the room with his eagle eyes.

Looking troubled, he rejoined Doral and followed him into Honor’s bedroom. In the salty language of the military, he expressed disgust over the damage done to it.

“Listen,” Doral said, needing to get this out before Deputy Crawford reappeared. “Promise you won’t fly off the handle.”

Stan promised nothing, merely stared at him.

Doral said, “Crawford noticed something and commented on it.”

“What?”

Doral indicated the bed. “Looks like two people slept there last night. I’m not making anything of it,” he added hastily. “I’m just telling you that Crawford remarked on it.”

“Suggesting what?” Stan asked through lips that barely moved. “That my daughter-in-law slept with a man wanted for seven murders?”

Doral raised one shoulder, the gesture both noncommittal and sympathetic. “Is there a chance, Stan, the smallest
chance, that she, you know, had met this guy before he showed up here yesterday?”

“No.”

“You’re sure? You know everybody Honor—”

“I’m sure.”

“Every woman that Fred interviewed yesterday—neighbors, women who work at the trucking company—pretty much agree this guy’s a stud.”

“If Honor is with Lee Coburn,” Stan said, his voice vibrating with anger, “she was taken against her will.”

“I believe you,” Doral said, contradicting his insinuation of only seconds earlier. “The good news is that her and Emily’s bodies weren’t found here along with Fred’s.”

For the first time Stan acknowledged Doral’s loss. “My condolences.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you told your mother?”

“I called my eldest sister. She’s on her way out to Mama’s place now to break the news.”

“She’ll be heartbroken. First your dad and Monroe. Now this.”

Doral’s father and the second eldest of the Hawkinses’ eight children had died in an offshore rig accident several years ago. Mama would take Fred’s death hard. Doral could imagine the weeping and wailing. His sister was better equipped to handle that scene than he was. Besides, he had problems of his own to deal with.

“There’s something else you should be aware of, Stan,” he said, speaking in a low voice.

“I’m listening.”

“Before you got here, Crawford was asking a lot of questions about Eddie.”

Stan was taken aback and instantly wary. “What kind of questions?”

“Leading questions. He noticed that Eddie’s clothes were strewn all over the place. Old files had been rifled through. He said it looked to him like Coburn was after something that had belonged to Eddie. I dismissed it, but Crawford kept coming back to that.

“The photo of the four of us, taken after the fishing trip?” Doral continued in a hushed voice. “Crawford noticed that it had been removed from the frame. He bagged the whole kit and caboodle as evidence. Yeah,” he said, noticing Stan’s surprise and displeasure.

“Did you challenge him about it?”

“He said they might be able to lift Coburn’s prints off it.”

“Flimsy excuse. Anything in the house could have Coburn’s fingerprints on it.”

Doral raised both shoulders. “I’m just telling you. It was a picture of Eddie, and Crawford’s stuck on the idea that Coburn was searching for something that related to him.”

“But he didn’t say what.”

Doral shook his head.

Crawford chose that moment to interrupt. Coming into the room, he said, “Mr. Gillette. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

Stan drew himself up. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” Without waiting for a response, he launched a verbal attack. “As a citizen and taxpayer, I’m demanding that you do whatever is necessary, using whatever resources you have, to bring my daughter-in-law and granddaughter home safely.”

Crawford’s face turned red, but he kept his voice even. “We all want Coburn apprehended and the safe return of your family.”

“That sounds like pro forma bullshit,” Stan said. “Save
your banal promises for somebody stupid enough to take heart from them. I want action. I don’t care what guidelines your handbook says to follow. I want this criminal found, killed if necessary, and my daughter-in-law and granddaughter returned to me unharmed. We can make nice then, and not until then, Deputy. And if I’m not getting through to you, I can go over your head. I know the sheriff personally.”

“I know what my duties are, Mr. Gillette. And I’ll perform them in accordance with the law.”

“Fine. Now that we know where each other stands, you do what you’ve got to do, and I’ll do likewise.”

“Don’t go taking the law into your own hands, Mr. Gillette.”

Stan ignored that, gave Doral a pointed look, and, without another word, marched out.

T
his isn’t my car.”

Coburn took his eyes off the rearview mirror to glance over at Honor. “I ditched yours.”

“Where?”

“A few miles from your house where I picked up this one.”

“It’s stolen?”

“No, I knocked on the door and asked if I could borrow it.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “The owners will report it.”

“I switched the plates with another car.”

“You did all this between leaving my house and coming back to head off Fred?”

“I work fast.”

She absorbed all that information, then remarked, “You said you saw Fred in a boat.”

“The road follows the bayou. I was driving without headlights. I saw the light on his boat, pulled off the road
to check it out. Saw him and recognized him instantly. Figured what he would do if you repeated to him anything of what I’d told you. Went back. Lucky for you I did.”

She still didn’t look convinced of that, and he couldn’t say he blamed her for doubting him. Yesterday when he’d barged into her life, she’d been icing cupcakes for a birthday party. Since then he’d threatened her and her kid at gunpoint. He’d manhandled and wrestled with her. He’d wrecked her house and tied her to her bed.

Now he was supposed to be the good guy who’d talked her into fleeing her home because men she’d known and trusted for years were in fact mass murderers with designs on killing her. Naturally, she’d be more than a little skeptical.

She was nervously running her hands up and down her thighs, now clothed in jeans instead of yesterday’s denim shorts. Occasionally she would glance over her shoulder at the little girl, who was in the backseat playing with that red thing. It and the ratty quilt that she called her bankie, along with Honor’s handbag, were all that he’d allowed them to bring with them. He’d hustled them away literally with nothing except the clothes on their backs.

At least their clothes belonged to them. He was wearing those of a dead man.

Not for the first time.

In a whisper, Honor asked, “Do you think she saw?”

“No.”

On their race through the house, Honor had created a game requiring Emily to keep her eyes shut until they were outside. For expediency, Coburn had carried her from her pink bedroom to the car. He’d kept his hand on the back of her head, her face pressed into his neck, just in case she cheated at the game and opened her eyes, in which case
she would have seen Fred Hawkins’s body on the living room floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday that you were an FBI agent? Why run roughshod over me?”

“I didn’t trust you.”

She looked at him with a bewilderment that seemed genuine.

“You’re Gillette’s widow,” he explained. “Reason enough for me to harbor some doubts about you. Then when I saw that photo, saw him and his dad being chummy with the two guys I’d seen kill those seven in the warehouse, heard you extol them as dearest friends, what was I supposed to think? In any case, I was and am convinced that whatever Eddie had, you have now.”

“But I don’t.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you do have it and just don’t know that you do. Anyway, I no longer think you’re holding out on me.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Even if you’d been crooked, I think you’d have given me anything I wanted if I didn’t hurt your little girl.”

“You’re right.”

“I came to that conclusion just before dawn this morning. I figured I’d leave you in peace. Then I saw Hawkins on his way to your house. Sudden change of plan.”

“Am I truly to believe that Fred killed Sam Marset?”

“I witnessed it.” He glanced at her; her expression invited him to elaborate. “There was a meeting scheduled for Sunday midnight at the warehouse.”

“A meeting between Marset and Fred?”

“Between Marset and The Bookkeeper.”

She rubbed her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

He took a breath, collected his thoughts. “Interstate Highway 10 cuts through Louisiana, north of Tambour.”

“It goes through Lafayette and New Orleans.”

“Right. I-10 is the southernmost coast-to-coast interstate, and its proximity to Mexico and the Gulf make it a pipeline for drug dealers, gun runners, human traffickers. Big markets are the key cities it passes through—Phoenix, El Paso, San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans—all of which also have major north/south routes that intersect it.”

“Essentially—”

“Connecting I-10 to every major city in the continental U.S.”

Again she nodded. “Okay.”

“Any vehicle you pass on it—everything from a semi, to a pickup, to a family van—might be transporting street drugs, pharmaceuticals, weapons, girls and boys destined for forced prostitution.” He looked over at her. “You still following me?”

“Sam Marset owned Royale Trucking Company.”

“You get a gold star.”

“You’re actually saying that Sam Marset’s drivers were dabbling in this illegal transport?”

“Not his drivers. Sam Marset, your church elder and historical society whatever. And not dabbling. He’s big-time.
Was
. Sunday night put an end to his life of crime.”

She thought that over, checked to see that the kid was still distracted by her toy, then asked, “Where do you factor in?”

“I was assigned to get inside Marset’s operation, find out who he did business with, so the hotshots could set up a series of stings. It took me months just to gain the foreman’s trust. Then, only after Marset gave his approval, I
was entrusted with the manifests. His company ships a lot of legal goods, but I also saw plenty of contraband.”

“Human beings?”

“Everything except that. Which is good, because I’d have had to stop that shipment, and that would have entailed blowing my cover. As it was, I had to let a lot of illegal contraband go through. But my bosses aren’t interested in one truck of dry goods concealing one box of automatic handguns. The bureau wants the people sending and receiving them. I didn’t have enough proof yet to catch the big fish.”

“Like Marset.”

“Him and bigger. But the real prize would be The Bookkeeper.”

“Who is that?”

“Good question. The bureau didn’t even know about him until I got down here and realized that somebody is greasing the skids.”

“You just lost me.”