Lethal(86)

He took a step toward her and made it intentionally intimidating. “You don’t like me?”

“I despise you.”

“You do?”

“Yes!”

“Is that why you sucked my tongue down your throat last night?”

She seethed for a count of five, then spun away from him, but before she’d taken a single step he reached out and brought her back around. “That’s what you’re really pissed about, isn’t it? Because we kissed.” Lowering his face closer to hers, he whispered, “And you liked it.”

“I hated it.”

He didn’t believe that. He didn’t want to believe it. But he forced himself to appear indifferent to whether she had liked it or not. He released her arm and stepped away from her. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Humans are animals, and animals mate. They also sneeze and cough and fart. And that’s about as much as that kiss meant. So relax. You didn’t cheat on your dead husband.”

She hiccupped a sound of affront, but before she could articulate a response, he took out his cell phone and turned it on. By now Hamilton would know about this morning’s close call on the shrimp boat. Coburn wanted to know what the fallout of that had been.

He placed the call. Hamilton answered immediately. “Coburn?”

“Good guess.”

“You pulled a fast one this morning.”

“By the skin of my teeth.”

“Which was enough. Where are you?”

“Try again.”

“I’ve set it up with Tom VanAllen for you and Mrs. Gillette to come in. He’s as solid as Gibraltar. It’ll be safe. I give you my word.”

Coburn held Honor’s stare. His cheek still stung where she’d slapped him, where hours ago her daughter had left the wet imprint of a goodbye kiss. He wasn’t used to dealing with people who wore their emotions on their sleeves, and these Gillette women had made it an art. No wonder he was cranky.

“Coburn?” Hamilton said, repeating his name for the third time.

“I’ll call you back,” he said, and clicked off the phone.





Chapter 32





He lied to you.”

Tom VanAllen made a motion with his shoulder that could have been either a shrug of indifference or of concession. “Not outrightly.”

“He deliberately misled you,” Janice said. “What would you call it?”

He would call it lying. But he didn’t want to use that term with Janice to describe how Hamilton had manipulated him. Essentially, he was defending Hamilton’s manipulation, and he hated himself for it. But to admit how gullible he’d been would make him look even more ridiculous to his wife.

He’d come home to help her with Lanny, who’d kept them up most of the night moaning. It was a distress signal they knew well. Those pitiable sounds were his only means of communicating that something was wrong. Sore throat? Earache? Muscle cramp? Headache? He wasn’t running a fever. They checked him daily for bedsores. Because they didn’t know why he was suffering, they couldn’t do anything to relieve it, and, as parents, that was torture.

Maybe he’d only been afraid, and their presence at his bedside had comforted him, because eventually he’d fallen asleep. But it had been a rough night. That, coupled with Tom’s professional crisis, was making both of them feel particularly whipped today.

After tending to Lanny, he’d declined her offer to make lunch, and had instead chosen the den as the room in which to tell her about Hamilton’s trickery. He’d noticed the computer was on, and when he remarked on it, she admitted to having spent several hours that morning investigating the websites of some of the better perpetual care homes within a reasonable distance.

Tom regarded that as a step forward. Of sorts. Paradoxically it was a forward step that led to an end. He was almost relieved to have another crisis diverting his attention from that one.

“How do you know he’s telling the truth now?” Janice asked.

“You mean about Coburn being an undercover agent?”

“That man seems no more like an FBI agent than—”

“Than I do.”

Her stricken expression was as good as an admission that he’d taken the words out of her mouth. She tried to recant. “What I meant was that Coburn sounds like someone who’s cracked. He killed eight people, counting Fred Hawkins.”

“Hamilton claims Coburn didn’t shoot those men in the warehouse.”

“Then who did?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Does he know?”

Tom shrugged.

She exhaled a gust of breath, her annoyance plain. “So he’s still playing head games with you.”

“He’s paranoid.” Hamilton had come right out and accused Tom’s office of being riddled with holes through which information was flowing. Deputy Crawford had groused about the moles in the various law enforcement agencies. “Everyone is paranoid, with reason,” he told Janice.

“Why didn’t Coburn call you for help when all hell broke loose? Why did he run away from the massacre, ransack the Gillette house, and make himself look a criminal?”

“He wanted to maintain his cover for a while longer. Besides, Hamilton is his exclusive go-to guy. Hamilton put him there in Marset’s company, and no one else knew. I wasn’t even Coburn’s fallback contact.”