Lethal(76)

To Crawford’s further consternation, Doral joined them from the cabin below. The deputy holstered his gun and placed his hands on his hips. “Mrs. Gillette must have called you and told you where she was. Why didn’t you notify me?”

“Honor didn’t call anybody,” Stan said stiffly. “I already checked her call log. It’s been cleared. Even the calls she and I exchanged yesterday are no longer on there.”

The deputy’s eyes shifted back and forth between them, landing on Doral with an accusatorial glare. “If she didn’t call you, then one of your late brother’s friends in the police department must have tipped you that we’d got the signal.”

He was right, of course. A police officer, who was a friend to both Fred and Doral, had called Doral with news of this latest development. Out of loyalty, Doral had in turn called Stan. While Crawford was still pulling together a team, the two of them had been speeding here.

But even with the head start, they’d arrived only minutes before Crawford, which had been long enough for Stan to determine that the ramshackle boat had recently been inhabited. The sheets on the bunks were still warm, although he’d hated making that observation, especially in front of Doral. It unnerved him to think of his late son’s widow, and Emily, of course, being that cozy with Lee Coburn.

Coburn wasn’t so careless as to leave the phone behind. He’d left it deliberately, using it as a decoy to attract the posse to the boat, while he was moving away from it and taking Stan’s family with him.

It was galling.

He and Doral had been talking about Coburn’s caginess before the arrival of Crawford and his team. “I’ve bribed everybody I know to bribe, Stan,” Doral had said with disgust. “Nobody can, or will, say definitely.”

It hadn’t taken long for the rumor to circulate through the police department, then beyond, that Lee Coburn might be a federal agent who’d been working undercover in Sam Marset’s trucking firm. Which would put an entirely different spin on Sunday night’s massacre.

About that, Stan’s feelings were ambiguous. He hadn’t quite determined what he thought of that and how, if it was true, it affected him.

But Doral had. He’d told Stan, “It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. Coburn shot my brother in cold blood. I don’t care if he’s a felon, a feeb, or the prince of darkness, I’m gonna kill him.”

Stan understood the sentiment. Regardless of who or what Coburn was, he’d made an enemy of Stan when he’d cast suspicion on Eddie. And now Honor’s reputation was being compromised. If Coburn had taken Honor and Emily as insurance for a safe getaway, why hadn’t he abandoned them by now? If his reason for taking them had been ransom, why hadn’t he demanded it?

And if Honor was a hostage, why hadn’t she left them a trail they could follow? She was a clever girl. She must realize that dozens of law enforcement personnel and volunteers were scouring the countryside in search of her and Emily. Surely she could have figured out a way to leave subtle signposts.

If she had wanted to. That’s what gnawed at Stan. What kind of sway did this man Coburn hold over her?

Doral had remarked on the close quarters of the cabin below, and then had looked at Stan, his eyebrows raised. And now Stan could tell that Crawford’s thoughts were moving along that same track.

Stan bluffed. Taking an aggressive stance, he said to Crawford, “I suggest you stop wasting time and begin tracking where Coburn took my family from here.”

“I’ll get on that myself,” Doral said and started to go.

Deputy Crawford put out a stiff arm to stop him. “Don’t you have a funeral to plan?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that I understand why you’d want to hunt down your brother’s killer and get revenge. But this is a police matter. Nobody invited you to participate. And if I find out who’s feeding you information from inside the P.D., or from inside the sheriff’s office, I’m going to nail his ass to a fencepost.”

Doral moved Crawford’s arm aside. Smirking, he said, “I’d pay to see that,” then left the boat.

Crawford ordered two of the officers to search the craft for clues, starting with the cabin. They clumped down the steps. He sent the rest out to search the surrounding area for footprints, tire tracks, anything.

When he and Stan were alone, Crawford said, “I couldn’t help but notice the name of the boat, Mr. Gillette. Honor.”

“It belonged to her father.”

“Past tense?”

“He died several years ago.”

“She owns it now?”

“I suppose.” Honor hadn’t mentioned her father or his boat since his demise. It had never crossed Stan’s mind to ask what had become of the trawler. It was hardly a coveted legacy.

Crawford said, “You might have mentioned the boat yesterday.”

“I didn’t think of it. In any case, I wouldn’t have known where it was moored.”

“You didn’t keep track?” he asked, sounding surprised. Or maybe skeptical.

“No. I didn’t like her father. He was an aging, dope-smoking hippie who called himself a shrimper but was actually a ne’er-do-well who never had two nickels to rub together. He wore beads and sandals, for godsake. Look around,” he said, raising his arms. “He lived on this boat. The condition of it speaks to the kind of person he was.”