Lethal (35 page)

“Bye.” He stood up, pivoted quickly, and started walking quickly back toward the truck. “Hurry up,” he told Honor over his shoulder.

Emily scrambled into the backseat of the Mini Cooper. Honor wasn’t happy about her riding without her child seat, but Tori promised to drive with special care until she could stop and buy one.

When it came time for the two women to say goodbye, Tori eyed her warily. “You’re sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“I’m not at all sure. But I’ve got to do it anyway.”

Tori smiled ruefully. “You always were the Girl Scout.” She hugged Honor tightly. “I can’t even pretend to understand it all, but even I’m smart enough to realize that you’re trusting me with Emily’s life. I’d die before letting something bad happen to her.”

“I know you would. Thanks for this.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

The two friends shared a long look of unspoken trust, then Tori got into the Mini. As Honor closed the car door for her, Tori said through the open window, “I don’t care who or what Coburn is, I just hope you’re finally getting laid.”

C
lint Hamilton had been on the telephone for ten minutes with Tom VanAllen, who was giving him a full account of the morning’s events. He sounded reluctant, hesitant, and apologetic, which didn’t surprise Hamilton, because the upshot of the report was that Coburn had outfoxed and eluded the authorities again.

When VanAllen concluded, Hamilton thanked him absently, then remained silent for nearly a full minute while he absorbed and analyzed the new information. Finally he asked, “Any sign of a struggle aboard the boat?”

“I’m sending you some pictures by email. Our agent took interior and exterior shots. As you’ll see, it’s a shambles, but if you’re asking if they found fresh blood or anything like that, then no.”

“Coburn left the phone there, and it was on?”

“Deputy Crawford and I agree that he left it behind intentionally.”

“To draw everyone to the boat, while he was going the opposite direction.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hamilton had no doubt that had been Coburn’s intention. “The footprints. Did they indicate that Mrs. Gillette was being dragged from the boat? Heel skid marks, anything like that?”

“No, sir. In fact, Crawford has come right out and suggested that she’s not a hostage as originally believed.”

“I sense a
furthermore
.”

“Well, we’ve been given no indication that she’s attempted to escape from Coburn.”

“How could she without risking her child’s safety?”

“I understand, but, as Crawford pointed out, she obviously had access to her telephone, yet she didn’t use it to make any distress calls.”

Everything that Tom was saying lent even more credibility to what Hamilton had heard from the widow herself during their phone conversation yesterday. Forsaking law and order, trusted lifelong friends, and even her father-in-law, who by all accounts was her personal guard dog, Honor Gillette had allied herself with Lee Coburn.

“What about the tire tracks?”

“Their footprints led us right to them a couple hundred yards from the boat. The tread is clearly defined and has already been typed. The tires came as standard issue on several makes of Ford pickups, model years 2006 and 2007.”

“Jesus. That narrows it down to several thousand pickups in Louisiana alone.”

“It’s a daunting number of vehicles, yes, sir.”

“I’m sure the locals are running checks on stolen Ford pickups.”

“None reported so far.”

Not surprising. Coburn would have chosen his vehicle wisely.

“State agencies have ordered that every Ford truck of those model years be stopped and checked,” VanAllen was saying. “Meanwhile, Mr. Gillette is very concerned about his daughter-in-law and granddaughter. He came straight here from the shrimp boat and was—”

“Explain to me what he was doing there when the authorities arrived.”

VanAllen shared Deputy Crawford’s suspicion that Doral Hawkins and Stan Gillette had a direct pipeline into the Tambour P.D. “Crawford thinks they’ve got moles inside the sheriff’s office, too. Courthouse. Everywhere.”

“The good ol’ boy system,” Hamilton remarked.

“Yes, sir.” VanAllen continued by describing Stan Gillette’s state of mind. “He went ballistic over Crawford’s insinuation that his daughter-in-law was ‘in cahoots’—his words—with Coburn. He caused quite a scene in our lobby, insisted on seeing me personally, gave me an ass-chewing for not putting this ‘upstart deputy sheriff’ in his place. Said I was being derelict in my duties and that if his family wound up dead, their blood would be on my hands. Which,” he said around a sigh, “I know without his telling me.”

Hamilton considered his decision for several seconds, then said, “Tom, Mrs. Gillette and her little girl are in danger, but not from Coburn. He’s one of ours. He’s an agent.”

After a momentary pause, VanAllen said, “Crawford asked me point-blank if he was. I said no.”

“Where did he get the notion?”

“Rumor mill, he said.”

That was troubling. The rumor had to have originated in Tom VanAllen’s own office, based on the fishing Hamilton
had done yesterday. Apparently his inquiries hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought. Shelving that issue for the moment, he gave Tom background information on Coburn.

“I recruited him straight out of the Marines and trained him personally. He’s one of the best undercover agents in the bureau. He always worked deep, but never as deep as he did at Marset’s company.

“He took Mrs. Gillette and the little girl from their home for their own protection. I spoke with her on the phone yesterday. Neither she nor the child has suffered any harm from Coburn. Nor will they. On that score, you can ease your mind.” He paused, then said, “What you should be concerned about is the seepage of information out of your office.”

VanAllen didn’t say anything for the longest time, but Hamilton could feel the man’s slow burn coming through the phone. When he did speak, his voice vibrated with anger. “Why did you deliberately mislead me about Coburn?”

“Because his mission was sensitive. Before revealing who he was, I had to know how he was perceived.”

“You made a fool of me.”

“No, I—”

“What would you call such gross manipulation?”

“Tactics, Tom.” Hamilton raised his voice to match the angry level of VanAllen’s. “There’s some bad shit going on down there, and everyone is susceptible to corruption.”

“That’s a chickenshit response.”

“Ours is a chickenshit business. In order to be good at it, you can’t trust anybody.”

“If you didn’t trust me, why did you appoint me to this job? Or
is
that why? Because you
didn’t
trust me.”

“I appointed you because you were, and are, the best man for that position.”

VanAllen gave a bitter laugh. “Well, in light of my position, can you tell me why Coburn was planted inside Sam Marset’s trucking company?”

“Is this line secure?”

“Is any?”

“Good point,” Hamilton said dryly.

“The building was swept for bugs this morning. We’re as safe as we ever can be. What was Coburn’s mission?”

Hamilton talked him through the nuts and bolts of Coburn’s secret op. “Essentially he went in to unmask all the players. Discovered more than he bargained for.”

“The Bookkeeper.”

“The Bookkeeper. Coburn says he was on the verge of making an ID.”

“So why haven’t you made arrangements for him to come in, share what he knows?”

“I tried,” Hamilton said. “He’s reluctant.”

“Why?”

“He wants to finish what he started.”

“How noble,” VanAllen said snidely. “The truth is, he doesn’t trust this office and his fellow FBI agents.”

Hamilton said nothing. Some statements didn’t need any elaboration.

“Where does Mrs. Gillette fit into this?” VanAllen asked.

“Not her per se. Possibly her late husband. Coburn thinks Gillette died with secrets to reveal about The Bookkeeper.”

“That explains why Stan Gillette was yelling about false accusations against his late son.”

“Chalk up another reason for him to hate Coburn.
And then there’s Doral Hawkins, who’s out to avenge his brother. The target on Coburn’s back gets bigger every minute he’s out there.”

“Which makes his reluctance to come out of hiding understandable.”

“It’s a volatile situation, and the whole thing could blow up in our faces.” Having reached the heart of the matter, Hamilton waited several beats, then said, “That’s why I need you to be in top form, Tom.”

“You want me to bring them in.”

“I do. Bring them in along with any knowledge either has of The Bookkeeper. We need to finish this thing.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Understanding alone isn’t good enough, Tom. I need to know that I can count on you.”

A
s soon as Coburn climbed back into the pickup truck, he placed his hands on the steering wheel and tried to ignore the damp spot on his cheek where Emily had planted a kiss.

He wanted to wipe it away, but doing so would be an acknowledgment that it was there and that he felt it. Better that he attach no significance to it whatsoever. But as he watched the Mini Cooper disappear around the bend on the other side of the bridge, he realized that he was going to miss the kid’s chatter.

When Honor joined him in the pickup, he gave her a dirty look for having lagged behind, but he didn’t say anything because she was trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears, and the last thing he needed was for her to have a crying jag.

He started the truck, glad to be leaving this so-called secret meeting place. As they crossed the groaning wooden bridge, Honor said, “You mentioned to Tori that the
authorities would be on the lookout for this pickup by now. What makes you think so?”

He explained about the tire tracks they had left near the boat. “No way they could have missed them. If these tires were put on this truck at the factory, they’ll be on the lookout for this make and model.”

“Which means we risk being stopped.”

“Until we get another set of wheels.”

“You plan to steal another car?”

“I do.”

“From?”

“The same family that supplied the truck.”

They drove for almost twenty minutes along back roads on which even natives to the region could have become lost. But Coburn had a photographic memory of places he’d been and a flawless sense of direction, so he was able to relocate the house from which he’d taken the pickup.

The house was half a mile away from its nearest neighbor. It sat roughly seventy yards off the road, and was screened by a dense grove of pine trees. The mailbox at the turnoff was the only giveaway that there was a house at all. The box was still bulging with uncollected mail.

As he slowly guided the pickup up the private drive, he was relieved to note that nothing had changed since he’d been there eighteen hours earlier. The owners hadn’t returned.