Sandra Brown - Lethal

“Where?”

“A few miles from your house where I picked up this one.”

“It’s stolen?”

“No, I knocked on the door and asked if I could borrow it.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “The owners will report it.”

“I switched the plates with another car.”

“You did all this between leaving my house and coming back to head off Fred?”

“I work fast.”

She absorbed all that information, then remarked, “You said you saw Fred in a boat.”

“The road follows the bayou. I was driving without headlights. I saw the light on his boat, pulled off the road to check it out. Saw him and recognized him instantly. Figured what he would do if you repeated to him anything of what I’d told you. Went back. Lucky for you I did.”

She still didn’t look convinced of that, and he couldn’t say he blamed her for doubting him. Yesterday when he’d barged into her life, she’d been icing cupcakes for a birthday party. Since then he’d threatened her and her kid at gunpoint. He’d manhandled and wrestled with her. He’d wrecked her house and tied her to her bed.

Now he was supposed to be the good guy who’d talked her into fleeing her home because men she’d known and trusted for years were in fact mass murderers with designs on killing her. Naturally, she’d be more than a little skeptical.

She was nervously running her hands up and down her thighs, now clothed in jeans instead of yesterday’s denim shorts. Occasionally she would glance over her shoulder at the little girl, who was in the backseat playing with that red thing. It and the ratty quilt that she called her bankie, along with Honor’s handbag, were all that he’d allowed them to bring with them. He’d hustled them away literally with nothing except the clothes on their backs.

At least their clothes belonged to them. He was wearing those of a dead man.

Not for the first time.

In a whisper, Honor asked, “Do you think she saw?”

“No.”

On their race through the house, Honor had created a game requiring Emily to keep her eyes shut until they were outside. For expediency, Coburn had carried her from her pink bedroom to the car. He’d kept his hand on the back of her head, her face pressed into his neck, just in case she cheated at the game and opened her eyes, in which case she would have seen Fred Hawkins’s body on the living room floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday that you were an FBI agent? Why run roughshod over me?”

“I didn’t trust you.”

She looked at him with a bewilderment that seemed genuine.

“You’re Gillette’s widow,” he explained. “Reason enough for me to harbor some doubts about you. Then when I saw that photo, saw him and his dad being chummy with the two guys I’d seen kill those seven in the warehouse, heard you extol them as dearest friends, what was I supposed to think? In any case, I was and am convinced that whatever Eddie had, you have now.”

“But I don’t.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you do have it and just don’t know that you do. Anyway, I no longer think you’re holding out on me.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Even if you’d been crooked, I think you’d have given me anything I wanted if I didn’t hurt your little girl.”

“You’re right.”

“I came to that conclusion just before dawn this morning. I figured I’d leave you in peace. Then I saw Hawkins on his way to your house. Sudden change of plan.”

“Am I truly to believe that Fred killed Sam Marset?”

“I witnessed it.” He glanced at her; her expression invited him to elaborate. “There was a meeting scheduled for Sunday midnight at the warehouse.”

“A meeting between Marset and Fred?”

“Between Marset and The Bookkeeper.”

She rubbed her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

He took a breath, collected his thoughts. “Interstate Highway 10 cuts through Louisiana, north of Tambour.”

“It goes through Lafayette and New Orleans.”

“Right. I-10 is the southernmost coast-to-coast interstate, and its proximity to Mexico and the Gulf make it a pipeline for drug dealers, gun runners, human traffickers. Big markets are the key cities it passes through-Phoenix, El Paso, San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans-all of which also have major north/south routes that intersect it.”

“Essentially-”

“Connecting I-10 to every major city in the continental U.S.”

Again she nodded. “Okay.”

“Any vehicle you pass on it-everything from a semi, to a pickup, to a family van-might be transporting street drugs, pharmaceuticals, weapons, girls and boys destined for forced prostitution.” He looked over at her. “You still following me?”

“Sam Marset owned Royale Trucking Company.”

“You get a gold star.”

“You’re actually saying that Sam Marset’s drivers were dabbling in this illegal transport?”

“Not his drivers. Sam Marset, your church elder and historical society whatever. And not dabbling. He’s big-time. Was . Sunday night put an end to his life of crime.”

She thought that over, checked to see that the kid was still distracted by her toy, then asked, “Where do you factor in?”

“I was assigned to get inside Marset’s operation, find out who he did business with, so the hotshots could set up a series of stings. It took me months just to gain the foreman’s trust. Then, only after Marset gave his approval, I was entrusted with the manifests. His company ships a lot of legal goods, but I also saw plenty of contraband.”

“Human beings?”

“Everything except that. Which is good, because I’d have had to stop that shipment, and that would have entailed blowing my cover. As it was, I had to let a lot of illegal contraband go through. But my bosses aren’t interested in one truck of dry goods concealing one box of automatic handguns. The bureau wants the people sending and receiving them. I didn’t have enough proof yet to catch the big fish.”

“Like Marset.”

“Him and bigger. But the real prize would be The Bookkeeper.”

“Who is that?”

“Good question. The bureau didn’t even know about him until I got down here and realized that somebody is greasing the skids.”

“You just lost me.”

“The Bookkeeper is a facilitator. He goes to the people who’re supposed to be preventing all this illegal trafficking, then bribes or strong-arms them into looking the other way.”

“He bribes policemen?”

“Police, state troopers, agents at the state weigh stations, the man guarding impounded vehicles, anybody who has the potential of impeding the trafficking.”

“The Bookkeeper pays off the official…”

“Then takes a hefty commission from the smuggler for guaranteeing him and his cargo safe passage through the state of Louisiana.”

She ruminated on that, then said, “But you didn’t learn his identity.”

“No. I’m missing a key element.” He stopped at a crossroads and turned his head, giving her a hard look.

“Which you came to my house in search of.”

“Right.” He took his foot off the brake and accelerated through the intersection. “The DOJ isn’t-Department of Justice,” he said to clarify-“isn’t going to make a case until it knows it can’t lose in court. We might make a deal with someone to testify against The Bookkeeper in exchange for clemency, but we also need hard evidence. Files, bank records, phone records, canceled checks, deposit slips, names, dates. Documentation. Proof. I think that’s what your late husband had.”

“You think Eddie was involved in this?” she asked. “Drugs? Guns? Human trafficking? You are so wrong, Mr. Coburn.”

“Truth is, I don’t know what side of the business your husband was working. But he was blood brothers with the twins, and in my book that makes him damn suspicious. And being a cop would be an asset, just like it was to Fred.”