Lethal(88)

In addition to being bored, Diego disliked being idle for this long. He stayed on the move, like a shark, cruising invisibly below the surface, striking hard and fast before continuing on. Fluid. That was the word. He liked being fluid, not stationary.

Mainly, he resented that The Bookkeeper had held out the carrot of Lee Coburn, then had assigned him to do a mindless job that any moron could do. He thought of a dozen other activities that he could be enjoying more, not the least of which was spending time with Isobel at home.

Home. That’s the term with which he thought of his underground bunker now.

The Bookkeeper was keeping him from that most pleasant of pastimes.

“I sense some discontent in your tone, Diego.”

He stayed sulkily silent.

“I have a reason for assigning you to watch Wallace.”

Well, so far that reason had escaped Diego. He didn’t really care what the reason was. But The Bookkeeper was on the phone now, and the prospect of a more exciting and higher-paying job perked him up. “Today’s the day I get Coburn?”

“Coburn is an undercover FBI agent.”

Diego’s heart bumped, not with anxiety, dread, or fear, but with excitement. Taking out a fed, that was trippy, man.

“You know what that means, Diego.”

“It means he’s toast.”

“It means,” The Bookkeeper said testily, “you’ll have to move with extreme caution, but swiftly. When I give the go-ahead, you won’t have much time.”

“So give me time. Tell me now, when and where?”

“Details are pending. You’ll know what I want you to know, when I’m ready for you to know it.”

Which Diego translated to mean that The Bookkeeper didn’t know the details yet either. He grinned, thinking about how aggravating that must be. But he wasn’t stupid, and he wanted the contract, so he spoke with affected humility. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready for me.”

The Bookkeeper usually got in the last word, and this time was no exception. “The New Orleans authorities still haven’t discovered that whore’s body.”

“I’ve told you. They won’t.”

“Which begs a question, Diego.”

“What question?”

“How is it that you’re so sure of that?”

Then the line went dead.





Chapter 33





Honor and Coburn made it back to the playground parking lot without incident.

The mother and child had left. The teenager had taken a break from his tennis practice and was now lying under a tree, earphones on, doing something on his cell phone. He didn’t notice the couple who got into a stolen car and drove away.

Only then did Honor ask Coburn about his brief exchange with Hamilton. “What did he say?”

“He wants us to turn ourselves over to Tom VanAllen. He gave me his word that VanAllen is solid and that we’ll be safe in his custody.”

“Do you believe him?”

“If VanAllen is that solid, why didn’t Hamilton let him in on my op? Now, all of a sudden, Hamilton trusts him. That makes me nervous. I’d have to be eyeball to eyeball with VanAllen before I could gauge his trustworthiness, and I won’t have that much time before placing our lives in his hands.”

“And the other part? About his ability to protect us.”

“I have even less confidence in that.” He looked over at her. “The hell of it is, I’m running out of options.”

“I would say so. You’ve resorted to puncturing harmless footballs.”

He ignored that, but she hadn’t really expected an apology.

“The thing is, I know I’m right.” He looked over at her as though daring her to contradict him.

“All right, say Eddie did have something, how long can you continue to search for it alone? What I mean is,” she said, rushing to continue before he could interrupt, “with all the technology that the FBI has at its disposal, if you were working with other agents, with a network of personnel, wouldn’t you stand a better chance of discovering what Eddie had stashed?”

“My experience with a network of personnel? Things usually get fubared, and I’m talking on a colossal scale. Even good agents get hamstrung by bureaucratic red tape, and the federal government has miles and miles of it, most of which is wound around the DOJ. That’s why Hamilton had me working alone.”

“And why it’s only your life that’s in jeopardy now.”

He shrugged. “Goes with the job.” Then he tipped his head for emphasis. “My job. Not yours.”

“I’m here because I chose to be.”

“You chose wrong.”

They’d been keeping to the outskirts of town, where there were clusters of houses now and then, but no organized neighborhoods like the one they’d left. Sad-looking strip centers and lone businesses were either run-down or had been closed for good, some abandoned after Katrina and never reopened, others victims of the economic crash caused by the BP oil spill.

Coburn pulled into the parking lot of a strip center that had a Dollar General store, a barber shop, and a small market and liquor store that featured homemade boudin sausage and antitheft bars on all the windows.

He cut the motor, then propped his elbow in the open window and cupped his mouth and chin with his hand. For several minutes he sat still, as though in deep thought, but his eyes remained in constant motion, watching everyone who went into or out of one of the businesses, warily evaluating each car that drove into the parking lot.