Lethal(37)

“Understood.”

“Get Coburn.”

“Also understood.”

He and Fred had had a patsy in place to frame for the warehouse murders. But the dock worker who had managed to escape the bloodbath, this Lee Coburn, had made himself an even better “suspect.”

They had counted on finding him within an hour of the killings, hunkered down somewhere, shaking in his boots, praying to his Maker to deliver him from evil. Later, they planned to attest that he’d been fatally shot while trying to escape arresting officer Fred Hawkins.

But Coburn had proved himself to be smarter than expected. He’d eluded Fred and him. And even when being tracked by armed men and bloodhounds, he’d run to Honor Gillette’s house and had spent a lot of valuable time searching it. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist…

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“I don’t pay you to think, Doral.”

The insult stung, but he pressed on. “This guy Coburn burst onto the scene a year ago and worked his way into Sam Marset’s confidence. I’m beginning to think he’s no ordinary loading dock worker, somebody who accidentally got wind of the more lucrative aspects of Marset’s operation and decided to horn in. He seems—what’s the word? Overqualified. Not your average trucking company employee.”

After another weighty silence, The Bookkeeper said bitingly, “Did you figure that out all by yourself, Doral?”





Chapter 15





Since Honor’s house was outside the city limits, the sheriff’s office had jurisdiction. The deputy, who was that department’s singular homicide investigator, was a man named Crawford. Doral had failed to catch his first name.

Doral was retelling how he’d come to find the body of his brother when Crawford looked beyond his shoulder and muttered, “Dammit, who’s that? Who let him in here?”

Doral turned. Stan Gillette must have talked his way past the uniformed officers stringing crime scene tape around the perimeter of the Gillette property. He paused only briefly on the threshold, then, sighting Doral, made a beeline toward him.

“That’s Stan Gillette, Honor’s father-in-law.”

“Great,” the detective said. “The last thing we need.”

Doral echoed the detective’s sentiment but kept his feelings from showing by assuming an appropriately somber expression as the older man approached.

The former Marine didn’t even glance at Fred’s body, which had been zipped into a black plastic bag that was presently being strapped onto a gurney for transport by ambulance to the morgue. Instead he barked as though issuing a subordinate an order:

“It’s true? Honor and Emily have been kidnapped?”

“Well, they’re not here and Coburn was.”

“Jesus Christ.” Stan ran his hand over his burred head, around the back of his neck, uttered a string of curses. Then he fixed a hard stare on Doral. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out looking for them?”

“I will be, soon as Deputy Crawford frees me to go.” He gestured toward the deputy and made a cursory introduction. “He’s investigating—”

“With all due respect to your investigation,” Stan said, interrupting Doral and addressing the deputy with none of the respect he mentioned, “it can wait. Fred died in the performance of his duty, which is a risk that every police officer accepts. He’s dead and nothing can bring him back. Meanwhile two innocent people are missing, most likely kidnapped by a man believed to be a ruthless murderer.”

He tilted his head toward Doral. “He’s the best hunter in the area. He should be out looking for Honor and Emily in the hope of finding them before they are killed, not standing here talking to you about somebody who’s already dead. And if you had any gumption at all, you’d also be out tracking the fugitive and his hostages instead of languishing here in the one place that they’re noticeably not in.”

His voice had risen with each word so that his statement ended on a full-blown shout that brought all the activity going on around them to a halt. Everyone turned to stare. Stan, his color high, his posture rigid with righteous indignation, seemed not to notice.

To his credit, the deputy didn’t wither under Stan’s blistering criticism. He was several inches shorter than both Stan and Doral, and was as physically unimposing as a man could possibly be. But he stood his ground. “I’m here in an official capacity, Mr. Gillette. Which makes one of us.”

Doral could tell that Stan was about to blow a gasket, but Crawford didn’t flinch. “I’ll have the ass of whoever let you past the crime scene tape, but as long as you’re here, you could try to be helpful. Talking down to me and issuing orders won’t get you anywhere except escorted off the premises, and if you resist, you’ll be arrested and taken to jail.”

Doral thought Stan might even be on the verge of taking out the knife for which he was famous and using it to threaten the gullet of the deputy. Before that could happen, Doral intervened. “Cut him some slack, Crawford. He’s just received distressing news. Let me have a word with him. Okay?”

The deputy shifted his gaze from one man to the other. “Coupla minutes while I’m talking to the coroner. Then, Mr. Gillette, I’d like you to walk through the house with me, see if you can spot anything that’s missing.”