Lethal (24 page)

She cast a glance at the twenty-four bottles encased in plastic. “You stole that off the truck?”

“Piece of cake. When I went into the store, the deliveryman was behind the counter with the cashier. His hand was inside her pants and his mouth was on her nipple. They had eyes only for each other. I grabbed my stuff, paid, and got out quick. They won’t remember me at all, only the interruption.”

Honor’s cheeks burned with embarrassment over the images he’d conjured. She wondered if the story was true, and even if it was, why had he painted such a vivid picture? To fluster her? Well, she was flustered, but if Coburn cared or noticed, he gave no indication of it as he checked his wristwatch.

“I’ll try Hamilton again.”

Using his own phone, he redialed the number, and this time Honor heard a man answer. “Hamilton.”

“You son of a bitch. Why are you fucking me over?”

He replied blandly, “A man in my position can’t be too careful, Coburn. If the caller ID is blocked, I don’t answer.”

“I identified myself.”

“After I heard the news, I would have known it was you anyway. You’re in a world of hurt. Or should I say a vat of gumbo?”

“Oh, that’s real funny.”

“Not so much. Mass murder. Kidnapping. You’ve outdone yourself, Coburn.”

“Like I need you to tell me that. If I wasn’t in trouble, I wouldn’t be calling.”

Switching to a more serious tone, the man on the other end said, “Is speculation correct? Do you have the woman?”

“And her kid.”

“Are they all right?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. We’ve been picnicking.” After a weighty, sustained silence, Coburn said again, “They’re
fine
. You want to talk to her yourself?”

Without waiting for an answer, he passed the phone to Honor. Her hands were trembling as she raised it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Gillette?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Clint Hamilton. I want you to listen carefully. Please, for your child’s sake as well as your own, don’t underestimate the importance of what I’m about to tell you.”

“All right.”

“You, Mrs. Gillette, are in the company of a very dangerous man.”

T
ori had slammed her front door hard behind Doral, flipped the deadbolt, then for half an hour had railed at herself for not slapping the fire out of Doral Hawkins over his parting remark.

But even long after he’d left her house and she’d had time to calm down somewhat, his threat echoed. It had been unsettling to say the least. She wasn’t as afraid for herself, however, as she was for Honor.

Tori was self-sufficient, independent, and accustomed to taking care of herself. But she wasn’t above asking for help if she deemed it necessary. She placed a call.

“Tori, sweetheart. I was just thinking about you.”

His voice immediately soothed her raw nerves. Matching his sexy tone, she asked, “What were you thinking?”

“I was just sitting here daydreaming, wondering if you’re wearing panties.”

“Of course not. I’m my horny self. Why do you think I called you?”

That pleased him. He gurgled an ex-smoker’s chuckle. He was thirty pounds overweight and had bright capillaries on his nose from imbibing oceans of bourbon over the course of his fifty-eight years. But he could afford to drink the best.

His name was Bonnell Wallace, and he had more money than God, which he kept in the New Orleans bank that had been privately held by his family since the Spanish had governed Louisiana or since the beginning of time, whichever had come first.

His beloved wife of thirty-something years had succumbed to cancer a year ago. Fearing the same fate, Bonnell had tossed the cigarettes, cut back to five or six drinks a day, and joined Tori’s health club. Which more or less had sealed his future.

He’d become husband candidate number four, and that was fine by him because he thought the sun rose and set inside the panties she claimed not to be wearing.

“Will you do something for me, Bonnell?”

“You name it, sugar.”

“A friend of mine is in danger. The life-or-death kind.”

Instantly, he dropped his bantering tone. “Jesus.”

“I may need some money on short notice.”

“How much?”

Just like that. No questions asked. Her heart swelled with affection.

“Don’t agree so fast. I’m talking serious cash. Like a million or more.” Tori was thinking in terms of a ransom, and wondered what the going rate was for the safe return of a young widow and her daughter. “I’m good for it. But I may not be able to access my accounts in time.”

“Tell me what’s going on. How else can I help?”

“Have you heard about the woman and child who were kidnapped this morning?”

He had. Tori filled in the blanks. “I can’t even think about what she and Emily might be going through. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t just sit here and do nothing. With your help, I can at least have cash on standby if her father-in-law gets a call from their abductor. Stan’s financially stable, but he won’t have that kind of money.”

“You just let me know what you need, when you need it, and it’s yours.” He paused, then said, “I’m only a phone call away, Tori. Good Christ, you must be worried sick. Do you want me to come and stay with you?”

Because of his grown children, and because of her policy that employees of the club were not to date the clientele, they had kept their affair a secret. His willingness to drop everything, leave the bank in the middle of a workday, and rush to her aid signified more than just courtesy and concern.

In a voice choked with emotion, she said, “Have I told you what a sweetheart you are? How important you are to me?”

“You mean it?”

“I do,” she said, speaking with an unmitigated honesty that surprised her.

“Well, that’s good. Because I feel the same.”

When he’d enrolled in her health club, she’d immediately been attracted to his engaging manner. She’d overlooked his portly body and had checked out his portfolio. Realizing his worth, she had set her sights on him.

He, having spent the last five years of his marriage nursing his suffering wife, had been ripe for fun, for sex, for Tori’s raunchy teasing, flirting, and flattery. Bonnell
Wallace was a feared and revered businessman, shrewd in all his dealings, but he’d been putty in Tori’s talented and well-experienced hands.

However, over time she’d formed an attachment to him that was no longer just about snagging another rich husband. Beneath the flab left by good living, she’d discovered a good heart, a good friend, a good man. She had grown genuinely fond of him, and for her, that was as close as she was ever going to get to true love.

They exchanged air kisses and disconnected reluctantly. As she clutched the phone to her chest, her smile lingered for several minutes. But when her doorbell rang, she dropped her phone, bolted to the door, and flung it open.

On her threshold stood Stan Gillette. If it had been Elvis she wouldn’t have been as shocked.

She didn’t like Honor’s father-in-law, and the dislike was returned. In spades. Neither made a secret of their mutual antipathy. It went beyond being on opposite sides of the conservative/liberal coin.

The only thing they had in common was their love for Honor and Emily, and nothing except that shared love could have brought Stan to her doorstep.

Her heart practically stopped. She gripped the door for support. “Oh, God. They’re dead?”

“No. At least I hope not. May I come in?”

Weak with relief, she stood aside. He marched—the only word to describe his tread—across her threshold, which he no doubt equated to the gateway to Gomorrah, then stopped and looked around as though assessing an enemy camp. She supposed that to some extent, he was. Her furnishings were tasteful and expensive, but his lips were set with stern disapproval when he turned to her.

“How did you hear?”

She wondered how the man managed to make a simple question sound like he was about to jam bamboo shoots under her fingernails. But the circumstances called for her to be civil. “I saw it on the news.”

“You haven’t heard from Honor?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

His eyes narrowed on her. “Who else asked you that?”

“Doral. He was here when I got home from the club. Like you, he seems to think that Honor’s kidnapper would call a time out and let her contact me.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm.”

“And I don’t need you implying that if I knew what had happened to Honor and Emily I’d be standing here disliking you with every fiber of my being. I’d be out doing something to bring them safely back. Which begs the question, why aren’t
you
out there searching for them instead of stinking up my house with your narrow-minded, judgmental self-righteousness?”

So much for civility.

He bristled. “Can you think for one nanosecond that I care more about insulting you than I do about the welfare of my son’s widow and child, the only family I have left?” Tori understood exactly where he was coming from. Her concern for Honor and Emily overrode her hatred of him. Having had her outburst, she backed down. “No, Stan, I don’t think that at all. I know you love them.”
In your overbearing and possessive fashion
, she was tempted to add, but didn’t. “You must be going through hell.”

“To put it mildly.”

“Why don’t you sit down? Can I get you anything? Water? Soft drink?
Stiff
drink?”

He almost smiled before catching himself. “No. Thanks.” He didn’t sit, but stood in the center of her living room, looking ill at ease.

“I love them, too, you know,” she said softly. “How can I help? What do you know that the media doesn’t?”

“Nothing. Not really.”

He told her about his conversation with Doral and Deputy Crawford. “The house was a wreck. Crawford seemed more interested in knowing what might be missing from it, as if the fact that Honor and Emily were missing were secondary.”

“He’s a deputy sheriff in a backwater parish. Is he up to the task of getting them back in one piece?”

“I hope so. Of course the FBI is on the case, too. They’ve also called in assistance from other parishes and the New Orleans P.D.” He took a turn around the room, but she could tell he was preoccupied.

“Something is bothering you. What?”

He turned back to her. “It may be nothing.” For several seconds, he wrestled with the decision to air his concern, then asked a seemingly unrelated question. “Have you ever tucked Emily in for the night?”

“As recently as two weeks ago. Honor had me out for burgers on the grill. We put Emily down, then kicked back and killed a bottle of wine.”

By telling him that, she was hitting below the belt, because he considered her a bad influence on Honor.

From the moment they were introduced, he’d regarded her as a slut, unsuitable friend material for the daughter-in-law of Stanley Gillette. Which, from Tori’s standpoint, was just too effing bad. She and Honor’s friendship had been forged when they were girls, and it had endured despite the divergent paths their lives had taken.

She admired Honor’s way of life, but she didn’t envy it. Not for her was the home-and-hearth scene. Marrying your high school sweetheart wasn’t her idea of hot romance. Eddie had been an excellent husband and father, and she had liked him for loving Honor and making her happy. His death had been a tragedy.

But Stan kept him alive and present to the point where Honor felt guilty if she as much as contemplated dating. That had been one topic they’d discussed over that excellent bottle of Pinot Noir.

Not for the first time, Tori had urged Honor to start going out, to meet new people, specifically men. “Your period of grieving has been twice the accepted time. You need to kick up your heels, and I mean that in the most literal sense. What’s the holdup?”

“It would break Stan’s heart if I began dating,” Honor had replied wistfully.

Tori had argued that she wasn’t married to Stan, and who cared what he thought anyway.

Apparently Honor did. Because she was letting Stan prevent her from having a future. He was keeping her shackled to the past and to a husband who was dead and buried.