Sandra Brown - Lethal

“What did he make of the mess inside?” Tom asked.

“You mean in addition to his brother’s body? Made the same thing I did of it. Somebody-we gotta presume Coburn-was searching for something.”

“Like what?”

“Anybody’s guess.”

“Was it found?”

“Anybody’s guess. Nobody seems to know what Coburn was after. Not Doral, not Mrs. Gillette’s father-in-law.”

He told Tom about Stan Gillette’s untimely arrival at the crime scene and described the former Marine down to his spit-and-polished shoes. “He’s a real hard-ass, but in his present situation, I probably wouldn’t be a nice guy either,” the deputy admitted.

The investigator took his leave, but gave Tom permission to walk through the house. He was conscientious to stay out of the way of the technicians who were painstakingly picking through the mess, trying to gather evidence. He was in and out in a matter of minutes.

His drive back to Lafayette from the Gillette place took over an hour, and when he walked into his office, he did so relieved that the obligatory errand was behind him.

But no sooner had he sat down at his desk than the office line rang. He depressed the blinking intercom button. “Yes?”

“Deputy Director Hamilton is calling from Washington.”

Tom’s stomach dropped like a plunging elevator. He cleared his throat, swallowed, thanked the receptionist, and depressed the other blinking button. “Agent VanAllen.”

“Hi, Tom. How are you?”

“Fine, sir. You?”

Clint Hamilton, with customary brusqueness, cut straight to the reason for the call. “You’ve got a dung heap of trouble down there.”

Tom, wondering how in hell Hamilton had gotten wind of it, hedged. “It’s been a busy couple of days.”

“Fill me in.”

Tom talked for the next five minutes without interruption. Several times, he paused to make sure that they hadn’t been accidentally disconnected. During those pauses, Hamilton didn’t speak, but Tom could hear him breathing, so he kept talking.

When he finished, Hamilton remained quiet for several moments, long enough for Tom to dab at his damp upper lip with his pocket handkerchief. Hamilton had placed a lot of confidence in him. That faith in his abilities was now being tested, and he didn’t want Hamilton to find him lacking.

When Hamilton finally spoke, he stunned Tom with a question. “Was he one of your agents?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This man Coburn. Was he an agent working undercover for you to investigate Sam Marset’s trucking interests?”

“No, sir. I never heard of him until I went to the crime scene at the warehouse and learned from Fred Hawkins the name of the suspect.”

“Fred Hawkins who’s now dead.”

“Correct.”

After another noticeable pause, Hamilton said, “Okay, continue.”

“I… uh… I forgot-”

“You were telling me that agents from your office are working hand in glove with the Tambour P.D.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t want to sweep in there and piss them off. The warehouse murders are their jurisdiction. The sheriff’s office has Fred Hawkins’s homicide. But once it’s determined that Mrs. Gillette has indeed been kidnapped-”

Hamilton rudely interrupted him. “I know about jurisdiction, Tom. Let’s go back to Sam Marset. He would have been in a perfect position to engage in illegal interstate trafficking.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“Has any such connection been drawn?”

“No, nothing so far.” He told Hamilton about the search of every truck in the fleet, the questioning of each driver and other employees. “I’ve assigned agents to track down and interview anyone that we can place in and around that warehouse in the last thirty days, but so far no illegal contraband has been discovered.”

“What motive did the suspect have for killing his boss and fellow employees?”

“We’re trying to ascertain that, sir. But Coburn’s lifestyle is making it difficult.”

“In what way?”

“He’s been described as a loner. No friends, family, little interaction with coworkers. Nobody knew him well. The people-”

“Give it your best shot, Tom,” Hamilton said with palpable impatience. “Take a guess. Why’d he kill them?”

“He was a disgruntled employee.”

“A disgruntled employee.” Hamilton said it without inflection, certainly without enthusiasm.

Tom thought it smart to keep quiet.

Eventually Hamilton said, “If Coburn’s only beef was with his boss, if he wigged out over a slight he suffered on the loading dock, or because he was shortchanged on overtime pay, why’d he go to the house of a dead cop and turn it upside down? If he was fleeing the scene of a mass murder, why’d he hide out with the widow and child for an estimated twenty-four hours? And if he took them, why did he? Why not just dispose of them right then and there? Doesn’t that atypical behavior bother you like a popcorn hull stuck in your teeth?”

These weren’t rhetorical questions. Tom had worked in the Lafayette field office with Clint Hamilton only briefly, but it had been long enough for him to learn that the man didn’t waste his breath on unnecessary words.

When Hamilton was bumped up to Washington, D.C., leapfrogging the district office in New Orleans, he had recommended Tom as his successor, and, even at the time, Tom had been aware that Hamilton’s endorsement of him had been met with skepticism by some and vociferous opposition by others. Hamilton had fought for Tom, and he’d won the fight.

Each day when he entered the office where Hamilton had once sat, Tom felt pride in succeeding such an able, revered, even feared agent. He also experienced a cold panic that he wouldn’t live up to the other man’s standards or expectations. In any capacity.

If he were being baldly honest with himself, he would even go so far as to wonder if Hamilton had tossed him a bone because of Lanny. It made him hot with humiliation and indignation even to consider that his appointment had been extended out of pity, but he feared such was the case.

He also wondered where Hamilton was getting his information. He didn’t just know about Marset’s murder and what had happened afterward, but he was well informed of the details. Meaning that he had consulted someone in the local office even before calling Tom. That rankled.

However, he didn’t want Hamilton to discern his self-doubt, so he affected a confident tone. “I’ve asked those questions myself, sir. They’re unsettling.”

“To say the least. They imply that this was no mental malfunction, no ordinary shoot-’em-up by some nutcase with personality issues. Which means, Tom, that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First order of business, find them.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a pregnant pause the length of an aircraft carrier, Hamilton said a brisk, “I’ll be standing by,” then clicked off.

Following the directions Honor gave him, Coburn drove the stolen car down the narrow dirt lane. It was overgrown with weeds and saplings that knocked against the car’s underside. Forty yards from their destination, he rolled to a stop and stared in dismay at the derelict shrimp boat, then turned his head and looked pointedly at Honor.

Defensively she asked, “Do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah. We don’t launch it.”

He took his foot off the brake and continued on, approaching with caution, although it was virtually impossible that anyone would be lying in wait to ambush them on the hulk. A person would have to be crazy to board the vessel, which seemed about to collapse in on itself at any second.