Sandra Brown - Lethal

“I didn’t venture into the head,” she admitted.

“Probably wise. I saw a couple of buckets on deck. I’ll fill them with creek water. You and Emily can use those.”

She was glad that troublesome subject had been addressed, but she moved away from discussing it further. “Now that we’ve got water, I can wipe down some of the surfaces we’re forced to touch.”

“Be stingy with the water.”

“I will.” Then she asked him the questions that had been plaguing her. “Were you able to reach your man? Hamilton?”

“I tried. Same woman answered. I demanded she put him on. She insisted that I was dead.”

“What do you make of that?”

He shrugged and bit into a cookie. “Hamilton doesn’t want to talk to me yet.”

“What do you make of that ?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not worried?”

“I don’t panic unless I have to. Wastes energy.”

She stored that for later rumination or discussion. “Did you check Fred’s cell phone for stored numbers?”

“There were none, which is what I expected. And only one call in his log, that last one to his brother. This phone was a throw-down.”

“A burner,” she said, remembering the term he’d used before.

“No records. Disposable. Virtually untraceable.”

“Like yours.”

“Saved for a rainy day. Anyway, my guess is that he used this phone to stay in contact with his brother and The Bookkeeper, and that he immediately erased numbers from the call log. If I ever get it into the hands of techies, they can tear into it and see if possibly there’s any intel to be had. But for right now, Fred’s phone isn’t of much help to us. All the same, I’ll keep the battery out of it.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t kept up with the technology, but I think there are experts who can locate a phone even if it’s turned off. All they need is the phone number. As long as there’s a battery in the phone, it’s transmitting a signal.”

“Is that true?”

He shrugged. “I’ve picked up buzz.”

“How long would it take? To locate a phone, I mean.”

“No idea. That’s not my area of expertise, but I’m not going to take any chances.”

Forty-eight hours ago, she wouldn’t have imagined herself having a conversation about intel and burners and such things. Nor would she have imagined a man like Coburn, who could eat Chips Ahoy at the same time he was discussing a man he’d killed only a few hours earlier.

She didn’t know quite what to make of Lee Coburn, and it was disturbing that she wanted to make anything of him at all.

Changing the subject, she asked, “Where’d you get the truck?”

“I got lucky. I spotted a rural mailbox with lots of mail in it, a dead giveaway that the residents are away. House sits way back off the road. The truck keys were hanging on a peg inside the back door. Just like at your house. I helped myself. Hopefully the owners will stay gone for at least a few more days and the truck won’t be reported stolen.”

“I assume you switched the license plates with another vehicle.”

“S.O.P.” Reading her blank look, he said, “Standard operating procedure. Remember that if you decide to pursue a life of crime.”

“I doubt that will happen.”

“So do I.”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for living on the edge.”

He gave her a slow once-over. “You may surprise yourself.” When his gaze reconnected with hers, it was hot and intense.

Uncomfortably, she looked away from it. “Did you buy or steal the groceries?”

“Bought.”

She remembered the money he’d been carrying in the pocket of the jeans. “You weren’t afraid of being identified?”

“The cap and sunglasses were in the console of the truck.”

“I recognized you in them.”

He chuckled. “They weren’t looking at me.”

“They?”

“I stopped at a bait shop out in the middle of nowhere. Slow day. No other customers in the place. Only the bottled-water delivery truck in the parking lot.”

She cast a glance at the twenty-four bottles encased in plastic. “You stole that off the truck?”

“Piece of cake. When I went into the store, the deliveryman was behind the counter with the cashier. His hand was inside her pants and his mouth was on her nipple. They had eyes only for each other. I grabbed my stuff, paid, and got out quick. They won’t remember me at all, only the interruption.”

Honor’s cheeks burned with embarrassment over the images he’d conjured. She wondered if the story was true, and even if it was, why had he painted such a vivid picture? To fluster her? Well, she was flustered, but if Coburn cared or noticed, he gave no indication of it as he checked his wristwatch.

“I’ll try Hamilton again.”

Using his own phone, he redialed the number, and this time Honor heard a man answer. “Hamilton.”

“You son of a bitch. Why are you fucking me over?”

He replied blandly, “A man in my position can’t be too careful, Coburn. If the caller ID is blocked, I don’t answer.”

“I identified myself.”

“After I heard the news, I would have known it was you anyway. You’re in a world of hurt. Or should I say a vat of gumbo?”

“Oh, that’s real funny.”

“Not so much. Mass murder. Kidnapping. You’ve outdone yourself, Coburn.”

“Like I need you to tell me that. If I wasn’t in trouble, I wouldn’t be calling.”

Switching to a more serious tone, the man on the other end said, “Is speculation correct? Do you have the woman?”

“And her kid.”

“Are they all right?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. We’ve been picnicking.” After a weighty, sustained silence, Coburn said again, “They’re fine . You want to talk to her yourself?”

Without waiting for an answer, he passed the phone to Honor. Her hands were trembling as she raised it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Gillette?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Clint Hamilton. I want you to listen carefully. Please, for your child’s sake as well as your own, don’t underestimate the importance of what I’m about to tell you.”

“All right.”

“You, Mrs. Gillette, are in the company of a very dangerous man.”

Tori had slammed her front door hard behind Doral, flipped the deadbolt, then for half an hour had railed at herself for not slapping the fire out of Doral Hawkins over his parting remark.

But even long after he’d left her house and she’d had time to calm down somewhat, his threat echoed. It had been unsettling to say the least. She wasn’t as afraid for herself, however, as she was for Honor.

Tori was self-sufficient, independent, and accustomed to taking care of herself. But she wasn’t above asking for help if she deemed it necessary. She placed a call.

“Tori, sweetheart. I was just thinking about you.”

His voice immediately soothed her raw nerves. Matching his sexy tone, she asked, “What were you thinking?”

“I was just sitting here daydreaming, wondering if you’re wearing panties.”

“Of course not. I’m my horny self. Why do you think I called you?”

That pleased him. He gurgled an ex-smoker’s chuckle. He was thirty pounds overweight and had bright capillaries on his nose from imbibing oceans of bourbon over the course of his fifty-eight years. But he could afford to drink the best.

His name was Bonnell Wallace, and he had more money than God, which he kept in the New Orleans bank that had been privately held by his family since the Spanish had governed Louisiana or since the beginning of time, whichever had come first.