Lethal (18 page)

“The Bookkeeper is a facilitator. He goes to the people who’re supposed to be preventing all this illegal trafficking, then bribes or strong-arms them into looking the other way.”

“He bribes policemen?”

“Police, state troopers, agents at the state weigh stations, the man guarding impounded vehicles, anybody who has the potential of impeding the trafficking.”

“The Bookkeeper pays off the official…”

“Then takes a hefty commission from the smuggler for guaranteeing him and his cargo safe passage through the state of Louisiana.”

She ruminated on that, then said, “But you didn’t learn his identity.”

“No. I’m missing a key element.” He stopped at a crossroads and turned his head, giving her a hard look.

“Which you came to my house in search of.”

“Right.” He took his foot off the brake and accelerated through the intersection. “The DOJ isn’t—Department of Justice,” he said to clarify—“isn’t going to make a case until it knows it can’t lose in court. We might make a deal with someone to testify against The Bookkeeper in exchange for clemency, but we also need hard evidence. Files, bank records, phone records, canceled checks, deposit slips, names, dates. Documentation. Proof. I think that’s what your late husband had.”

“You think Eddie was involved in this?” she asked. “Drugs? Guns? Human trafficking? You are so wrong, Mr. Coburn.”

“Truth is, I don’t know what side of the business your husband was working. But he was blood brothers with the twins, and in my book that makes him damn suspicious. And being a cop would be an asset, just like it was to Fred.”

“Eddie was an
honest
cop.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? You’re his widow. But I saw his bosom buddies mow down seven people in cold blood. I would have been victim number eight if I hadn’t gotten away.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I was expecting something to happen. The meeting was supposed to be peaceful, no weapons. But I was on high alert because The Bookkeeper is reputed to be a ruthless son of a bitch. Do you remember a few weeks ago—it was on the news—about a Latino kid found in a ditch up near Lafayette with his throat cut?”

“There was no identification on him. Do you know who he was?”

“Not his name. I know he was being transported by one of The Bookkeeper’s ‘clients’ to a place in New Orleans that caters to…” He glanced into the rearview mirror. The kid was singing along with Elmo. “Caters to clients with lots of money and a taste for kinky sex. This kid knew what awaited him. He escaped during a refueling stop.

“Most of these kids are too scared to go to the authorities, but one might get brave. Apparently The Bookkeeper feared as much. His people caught up to this kid before he could do any damage.” He looked at her and muttered, “He’s probably better off dead. Shortly after the kid’s body turned up, a state trooper was found with his throat slit. I have an inkling the two murders are connected.”

“Do you think this Bookkeeper is a public official?”

“Could be. Maybe not. I was hoping to learn his identity on Sunday night,” he said tightly. “Because something big is brewing. I’ve just caught whiffs of it, but I think The Bookkeeper is courting a new client. Scary people with zero tolerance for screw-ups.”

Again she massaged her forehead. “I refuse to believe that Eddie was involved in anything relating to this. I can’t believe it of Sam Marset, either.”

“Marset was in it strictly for the money. He was a fat cat who profited off vices, but he wasn’t violent. If somebody crossed him, he ruined them. Usually financially. Or caught them with their pants down in a hotel room and blackmailed them. Like that. He was of the mind that the flyblown body of a thirteen-year-old boy being found in a ditch was bad for business.

“And that was only one of the grievances Marset was holding against The Bookkeeper. He demanded that they sit down together, hash out their differences, clear the air. The Bookkeeper agreed.”

“But pulled a double-cross.”

“To put it mildly. Instead of The Bookkeeper, it was the Hawkins twins who showed up. Before Marset could even voice his outrage over the switcheroo, Fred popped him. Doral had an automatic rifle. He opened fire on the others, taking out my foreman first. The instant I saw them at the door, I smelled a rat and slipped behind some crates, but I knew they’d seen me. When the others were down, they came after me.”

He approached a railroad crossing, but didn’t let it slow him down. The car bounced over it. “I’d taken the precaution of carrying a pistol to work that night, along with my extra cell phone. I left one phone behind on purpose. That’ll throw them off. They’ll chase their tails tracking down the calls on it.

“Anyway, I made it out of the warehouse alive and got to an abandoned building. One of the twins searched it, but I hid in the crawl space until he left. Then I hightailed it toward the river, bent on eventually getting to you before they caught up to me.” He looked over at her. “You more or less know the rest.”

“So what now? Where are we going?”

“I have no idea.”

She turned her head so quickly, her neck popped. “What?”

“I didn’t plan that far ahead. Actually, I didn’t count on living through that first night. I figured I’d either be killed by an overanxious officer or by someone on The Bookkeeper’s payroll.” He glanced over his shoulder into the backseat. “I sure didn’t count on having a woman and kid in tow.”

“Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience we’ve imposed,”
Honor said. “You can drop us at Stan’s house and go on about your business.”

He gave a short laugh. “Don’t you get it? Haven’t you been listening? If Doral Hawkins or The Bookkeeper think you know something that could help convict them, your life’s not worth spit.”

“I
do
understand. Stan will protect us until—”

“Stan, the man in the one-for-all-and-all-for-one photo with your late husband and the Hawkins twins?
That
Stan?”

“Surely, you don’t think—”

“Why not?”

“Stan’s a former Marine.”

“So am I. Look how I turned out.”

He’d made his point. She hesitated, then said staunchly, “My father-in-law would protect Emily and me with his dying breath.”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. Until I do, you stay with me and contact nobody.”

Before she could say more, they heard the wail of sirens. Within seconds, two police cars appeared where the road met the horizon. They were approaching and closing quickly.

“Doral must have found his brother’s corpse.”

Though his muscles contracted with tension and he gripped the steering wheel of the stolen car tighter, Coburn maintained his speed and kept his eyes straight ahead. The squad cars screamed past at a high rate of speed.

“Police car,” the kid chirped. “Mommy, police car.”

“I see it, sweetheart.” Honor threw a smile back at her, then came around to him again. “Emily will need food. A place to sleep. We can’t just keep driving around in a stolen car, dodging the police. What are you going to do with us?”

“I’m about to find out.”

He checked the clock in the car’s dashboard and saw that it would be past nine on the East Coast. He took the next turn off the main road. The blacktop soon gave way to gravel and gravel to rutted dirt, and the road finally came to a dead end at a stagnant creek covered with duckweed.

He had three phones. Fred’s. Beyond that one last call to his brother, the call log had been empty. But since Fred used that phone for illegal purposes, Coburn hadn’t expected to find The Bookkeeper’s number highlighted. All the same, he would keep the phone. For safe measure, he removed the battery.

They couldn’t use Honor’s cell because the authorities could locate it using triangulation. He took the battery from it too.

Which left Coburn’s burner, the disposable he’d bought months earlier but had never used until yesterday. He turned it on, saw that he was getting a cell signal, and punched in a number with the hope that today his call would be answered.

“Who are you calling?” Honor asked.

“You jump out of your skin every time I move.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not really.”

He looked at her elbows and upper arms, which bore bruises. The backs of her hands were also bruised from her banging them against the headboard when he’d tied her to it. He regretted that he’d had to get physical, but he wouldn’t apologize for it. She would have been hurt much worse if he hadn’t.

“You don’t have to worry about me grabbing you anymore,” he told her. “Or waving a pistol at you. No more jitters, okay?”

“If I’m jittery it could be because I saw a man shot dead in my home this morning.”

He’d already said what he had to say about that, and he wasn’t going to justify it again. If you got a chance to take out a violent criminal like Fred Hawkins, you didn’t stop to reason why. You pulled the goddamn trigger. Otherwise, you’d be the one no longer breathing.

How many men had he seen die? How many had he seen die violently? Too many to count or even to remember. But he supposed that for a second-grade schoolteacher’s clear green eyes, it was a shocking thing to witness, which she would always associate with him. No help for that. However, this call would put an end to her flinching every time he moved.

He was about to disconnect and try again when a woman answered. “Deputy Director Hamilton’s office. How can I direct your call?”

“Who’re you? Put Hamilton on.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

“Look, cut the bullshit. Give him the phone.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

Damn bureaucrats
. “Coburn.”

“I’m sorry, who did you say?”

“Coburn,” he repeated impatiently. “Lee Coburn.”

After a sustained pause, the woman at the other end said, “That’s impossible. Agent Coburn is deceased. He died more than a year ago.”

D
iego’s cell phone vibrated, but just to be ornery, he waited several seconds before answering it. “Who’s this?”

“Who were you expecting?” The Bookkeeper asked with matching snideness.

“Found your fugitive yet?”

“He’s proving to be more of a problem than originally thought.”

“You don’t say? Those couple of clowns really fucked up, didn’t they? Letting him get away like that.” He wanted to add,
That’s what you get for not giving me the job
, but decided not to press his luck. He didn’t rely solely on The Bookkeeper for income, but their business relationship—if you could even call it that—was lucrative.

For years after leaving the hair-braiding salon, he’d lived on the streets, finding shelter where he could, scavenging for food and clothing. He’d survived by a wily intellect that had come to him through some unknown contributor to his cloudy gene pool, and it hadn’t taken him long to
figure out that barter, theft, and salvaging only got one so much. The only currency that mattered was money.

Diego had applied himself to earning it. He observed and learned and proved to be a quick study. The marketplace for his particular skills was limitless. His business thrived regardless of the economic climate for any other field of commerce. In fact, he was busiest whenever times got hard and the prevailing dog-eat-dog law of the jungle was more strictly enforced.

By his early teens he’d cultivated a reputation for sudden and explosive violence, so even the toughest of the tough respected his slight build and small stature and, for the most part, gave him a wide berth. He had no friends and few competitors because few were as good.

As far as the state of Louisiana was concerned, he didn’t exist. His birth had never been recorded, so he never had attended school. Although basically illiterate, he could read a smattering of English, enough to get by. He spoke fluent Spanish, which he’d picked up on the street. He couldn’t point out his hometown on a map, but he knew it like the back of his hand. He’d never even heard of long division or the multiplication tables, yet he could tabulate amounts of money in his head with lightning speed. Already he was calculating what he would charge for doing Coburn.

“So is the guy caught yet, or what?”