Lethal Page 5

  “I gave away most of his clothes,” she said defensively. “Stan asked if he could have Eddie’s police uniforms, and I let him keep those. Some things I just couldn’t…”

  She left the statement unfinished, refusing to explain to a criminal that some articles of Eddie’s clothing brought back distinctively happy memories. Giving away those items would be tantamount to letting go of the memories themselves. As it was, they were inexorably dimming without any help from her.

  Time marched on, and recollections, no matter how dear, faded with its passage. She could now spend an entire day, or even several, without thinking about Eddie within the context of a specific memory.

  His death had left a hole in her life that had seemed bottomless. Gradually that void had been filled with the busyness of rearing a child, with the busyness of life itself, until, over time, she had learned how to enjoy life without him.

  But the enjoyment of living came with a large dose of guilt. She couldn’t escape feeling that even the smallest grain of happiness was a monumental betrayal. How dare she relish anything ever again, when Eddie was dead and buried?

  So she had saved articles of his clothing that held special memories for her, and by keeping them, kept her survivor’s guilt at bay.

  But she wasn’t about to discuss any of this psychology with Coburn. She was spared from having to say anything when Emily appeared.

  “Dora’s over and so’s Barney, and I’m hungry. Can we have lunch?”

  The kid’s question reminded Coburn that he hadn’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours except the two rich cupcakes. A search through the boxes from the attic would take time. He would eat before tackling them. He motioned the widow into the kitchen.

  After clearing the cupcakes and bowl of frosting off the table, she fixed the kid a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He asked for one for himself and watched as she made it, afraid she might slip something into his. Ground-up sleeping pills, rat poison. He was short on trust.

  “You gotta wash your hands this time.” The kid placed a step stool with her name painted on it in front of the kitchen sink. She climbed onto it. Even standing on tiptoe, she was barely able to reach the taps, but somehow she managed to turn them on. “You can use my Elmo soap.”

  She picked up a plastic bottle with a bug-eyed red character grinning from the label. She squirted some liquid soap into her palm, then handed the bottle to him. He glanced at Honor and saw that she was watching them with apprehension. He figured that as long as she was nervous about his being close to the kid, she wasn’t going to try anything stupid.

  He and the kid washed their hands, then held them beneath the faucet to rinse.

  She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “Do you have an Elmo?”

  He shook the water off his hands and took the towel she passed him. “No, I don’t have a… an Elmo.”

  “Who do you sleep with?”

  Involuntarily, his gaze darted to Honor and made a connection that was almost audible, like the clack of two magnets. “Nobody.”

  “You don’t sleep with a friend?”

  “Not lately.”

  “How come?”

  “Just don’t.”

  “Where’s your bed? Does your mommy read you stories before you go to sleep?”

  He dragged his attention off Honor and back to the kid. “Stories? No, my mom, she’s… gone.”

  “So’s my daddy. He lives in heaven.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe he knows your mommy in heaven!”

  Coburn snorted a laugh. “I doubt it.”

  “Are you scared of the dark?”

  “Emily,” Honor interrupted. “Stop asking so many questions. It’s rude. Come sit down and have your lunch.”

  They gathered around the table. The widow looked ready to jump out of her skin if he so much as said boo. She didn’t eat. Truth be told, he was as discomfited by this domestic scene as she was. Since being a kid, he’d never talked to one. It was weird, carrying on a conversation with such a little person.

  He scarfed the sandwich, then took an apple from the basket of fruit on the table. The kid dawdled over her food.

  “Emily, you said you were hungry,” her mother admonished. “Eat your lunch.”

  But he was a distraction. The kid never took her eyes off him. She studied everything he did. When he took the first crunching bite of the apple, she said, “I don’t like the peel.”

  He shrugged and said through a mouthful, “I don’t mind it.”

  “I don’t like green apples, either. Only red.”

  “Green’s okay.”

  “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “My grandpa can peel an apple from the top to the bottom without it breaking. He says he likes to make a long curl of the peel, just like my hair. And guess what else.”

  “What?”

  “Mommy can’t do it because she’s a girl, and Grandpa says boys do it best. And Mommy doesn’t have a special magic knife like Grandpa’s.”

  “You don’t say.” He glanced across at Honor, who’d rolled her lips inward. “What kind of special magic knife does your grandpa have?”

  “Big. He carries it in a belt around his ankle, but I can’t ever touch it ’cause it’s sharp and I could get hurt.”

  “Huh.”

  Honor scraped back her chair and shot to her feet. “Time for your nap, Em.”

  Her face puckered into a frown of rebellion. “I’m not sleepy.”

  “It’s rest time. Come on.”

  Honor’s voice brooked no argument. The child’s expression was still mutinous, but she climbed down from her chair and headed out of the kitchen. Coburn left the remainder of the apple on his plate and followed them.

  In the frilly pink bedroom, the kid got up onto the bed and extended her feet over the edge of it. Her mother removed her sandals and set them on the floor, then said, “Down you go. Sleepy time.”

  The little girl laid her head on the pillow and reached for a cotton quilt so faded and frayed that it looked out of place in the room. She tucked it beneath her chin. “Would you hand me my Elmo, please?” She addressed this request to Coburn.

  He followed the direction of her gaze and saw a red stuffed toy lying on the floor near his mud-caked boot. He recognized the grinning face from the bottle of hand soap. He bent down and picked it up. The thing began to sing, startling him. He quickly handed it to the kid.

  “Thank you.” She cradled it against her chest and sighed happily.

  It occurred to Coburn that he didn’t recall a time in his life when he’d experienced that kind of contentment. He wondered what it was like to fall asleep without having to worry over whether or not you’d wake up.

  Honor bent down and kissed her child’s forehead. The kid’s eyes were already closed. He noticed that her eyelids looked almost transparent. They had tiny purple veins crisscrossing them. He’d never noticed anyone’s eyelids before, unless it was seconds before they drew a gun on him. Then that person usually had died with that telltale squint intact.

  As they left the bedroom, the toy was still singing a silly little song about friends. Honor pulled the door shut behind them. He glanced at the boxes lined up along the wall, then took her cell phone from his jeans pocket and handed it to her. She looked at him curiously.

  “Call your father-in-law. You know, the one who works at staying fit. The one with the big magic knife strapped to his ankle. Tell him the party’s off.”

  Chapter 8

  The Royale Trucking Company’s warehouse was cordoned off with crime scene tape. The vicinity just outside that barrier was jammed with official vehicles and those of onlookers who’d converged to gawk. They were collected in groups, exchanging the latest rumors surrounding the mass murder and the man who had committed it.

  Allegedly committed it, Stan Gillette reminded himself as he parked his car and got out.

  Before leaving his house, he’d assessed his image in the full-length bathroom mirror with a critical eye.
He’d patted his flat stomach, run his hand over his closely cropped hair, adjusted his starched collar, checked the crease in his pants legs, the shine on his shoes, and had determined that the discipline he’d acquired during his military career had served him well in civilian life.

  He’d never resented the U.S. Marine Corps’ near-impossible standards. In truth, he wished they’d been stricter. If being a Marine was easy, everybody would be one, right? He’d been born one of the few, the proud.

  He was conscious of the authoritative figure he cut as he made his way through the crowd. People parted for him to pass. An air of command came naturally to him. Which is why he had decided to visit the scene of last night’s crime, and why no one challenged him as he made his way up to the yellow tape.

  Inside it and several yards away, Fred Hawkins was engrossed in conversation with a handful of other men, Doral among them. Stan caught Doral’s eye, and, looking grateful for the interruption, he jogged over.

  “Hell of a mess we’ve got here, Doral,” Stan said.

  “A regular cluster-you-know-what.” Doral took a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and held a lighter to it. Noticing Stan’s frown of disapproval, he said, “Hell, I know, but this situation… And I was two weeks into being a nonsmoker.”

  “I’m sixty-five today, and I ran five miles before dawn,” Stan boasted.

  “Big deal. You run five miles before dawn every day.”

  “Unless there’s a hurricane blowing.”

  Doral rolled his eyes. “And then you only run two and a half.”

  It was an old joke between them.

  Doral angled his exhale away from Stan, looking at him askance. “I figured wild horses couldn’t keep you away for long.”

  “Well, I appreciate your returning my calls and keeping me updated, but there’s nothing like being in the thick of it.” He was watching Fred, who was gesturing broadly as he talked to the men around him.

  Following the direction of Stan’s gaze, Doral nodded at the tall, skinny man who was giving Fred his undivided attention. “Tom VanAllen just got here. Fred’s filling him in.”

  “What’s your take on him?”

  “He’s the best kind of feeb. Not too bright. Not too ambitious.”

  Stan chuckled. “So if this investigation goes south—”

  “He catches the flak. Most of it anyway. If the feds can’t get to the bottom of this, how the hell can the local P.D. be expected to?”

  “It makes good copy.”

  “That’s the idea. Shift the heat off Fred and onto the feds. ’Course we’ll be keeping close watch over everything they do.”

  “Give me the behind-the-scenes details.”

  Doral talked for several minutes, but didn’t tell Stan much that he didn’t already know or hadn’t surmised. When Doral wrapped up, Stan asked, “No eyewitnesses?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how’s it being laid on this Coburn?”

  “Only seven employees clocked in last night. Count Sam coming in, and that means eight people were here at midnight when the shooting started. Coburn’s the only one unaccounted for. At the very least he’s a person of interest.”

  “What motive would he have had?”

  “He locked horns with the boss.”

  “Fact or conjecture?”

  Doral shrugged. “Fact. Until somebody says otherwise.”

  “What do you know about the man?”

  “Well, we know he ain’t caught yet,” Doral said with exasperation. “Men and dogs have been all over that area where it’s believed he ran into the woods, but nothing’s turned up. Lady who lives around there says her rowboat’s missing, but she suspects the neighbor’s kids took it and didn’t bring it back. Officers are checking out that lead. We’ll see.”

  “Why aren’t you out there searching? If anybody can find him—”

  “Fred wanted to escort VanAllen out there, make sure he got seen on TV, establish that the feds are on the case. As city manager I personally welcomed VanAllen into the fray.”

  Stan processed all that, then asked, “What about the murder weapon?”

  “Coroner says a large-caliber handgun killed Sam. The rest were shot with an automatic rifle.”

  “And?”

  Doral turned to his mentor. “Nary a firearm found at the scene.”

  “Leading us to assume that Coburn is heavily armed.”

  “And has nothing to lose, which makes him dangerous. Public enemy number one.” Doral noticed his brother waving at them. “That’s my cue to come rescue him.” He threw down his cigarette and ground it out.

  Stan said, “Tell Fred I’ll join the volunteers later this evening.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Honor’s cooking me a birthday dinner.”

  “Out at her place? Long way out there. When are you going to persuade her to move into town?”

  “I’m making headway,” Stan lied, knowing that Doral was ribbing him about his running argument with his daughter-in-law.

  Stan wanted her to move into town. She demurred. He understood her wanting to stay in the house that she and Eddie had moved into as newlyweds. They’d put a lot of themselves into making it a home, spending most weekends applying elbow grease until they’d got it the way they wanted it. Naturally she would feel a strong bond to the place.

  But it would be easier for him to keep an eye on her and Emily if they lived closer to him, and he didn’t plan to give up the argument until Honor came around to his way of thinking.

  “I’ll catch up with you after the party,” he told Doral. “But it won’t be late.”

  “Hopefully we’ll have Coburn by then. If not, ask around if you don’t see me or Fred right away. We’ll need you.”

  “Challenging?”

  “Not to Fred and me.”

  Coburn figured Honor Gillette would jump at the chance to speak to her father-in-law, but she put up an argument. “He’s not due here until five-thirty. You’ll be gone by then.”

  He hoped so, too. But he didn’t want the old man showing up early. He nodded at the phone in her hand. “Make up something. Convince him not to come.”

  She used speed dial to place the call.

  “Don’t try anything cute,” Coburn warned. “Put it on speaker.”

  She did as he asked, so he heard the crispness in the man’s voice when he answered. “Honor? I tried to call you earlier.”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t get to the phone.”

  Immediately he asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid the party has to be postponed. Em and I both came down with a bug. A stomach virus. I’d heard that one was going around. Two of the kids in Vacation Bible School—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Coburn gave his head a hard shake.

  “No, Stan,” she said quickly. “We’d expose you, and there’s no sense in your getting it, too.”

  “I never catch these things.”

  “Well, I’d feel awful if you did. Besides, we’re fine.”

  “I could bring you Gatorade, soda crackers.”

  “I’ve got all that. And the worst is past us. Em’s been able to keep down some Sprite. She’s napping. We’re feeling a little wrung out, but I’m sure this is one of those things that runs its course within twenty-four hours. We’ll have your party tomorrow evening.”

  “I hate to postpone it for Emily’s sake. She’s going to love her present.”

  She smiled wanly. “It’s your birthday.”

  “Which entitles me to spoil my granddaughter if I’ve a mind to.”

  Background noise, which had been loud during their conversation, turned into a racket.

  “What’s all the noise? Where are you?” Honor asked.

  “Just leaving Royale’s warehouse. If you’ve been sick you might not have heard about what happened here last night.” He encapsulated it. “Fred’s in charge of the posse. Doral briefed me.”

  Her eyes on Coburn’s, s
he said, “This man sounds dangerous.”

  “He should be scared silly. Regardless of the holiday, every badge in five parishes is on the lookout. They’ll run this murderer to ground soon enough, and when they do he’ll be lucky if they don’t string him up in the nearest tree. Everybody’s jumpy and wants to avenge Sam Marset.”

  “Any fresh leads?”

  “A woman’s boat was stolen overnight. They’re checking that out now. And the FBI is on board.”

  Honor gave an appropriate murmur that could have been interpreted any number of ways. Stan Gillette must have taken it to mean that she was weary.

  “Rest while you can. I’ll call later to check on the two of you, but in the meantime, if you need anything—”

  “I’ll call, I promise.”

  They exchanged goodbyes and Stan Gillette clicked off. Coburn extended his hand and, with reluctance, Honor dropped her cell phone into it. Meanwhile he was using his own phone to redial the number he’d called earlier. He got the same recorded message. “What holiday is it?”

  “Yesterday was the Fourth. Since it fell on Sunday—”

  “Today’s the national holiday. Shit. I didn’t think of that.”

  He pocketed both phones, then stood there considering the boxes he intended to pillage. “How long will the kid sleep?”

  “An hour. Sometimes a little longer.”

  “Okay, into the bedroom.”

  He nudged her elbow, but she balked. “Why? I thought you wanted to go through the files.”

  “I will. After.”

  Her expression went slack with fear. “After?”

  “After.”

  Chapter 9

  He nudged her toward the bedroom. Her heart was hammering, and as she entered the room, she frantically looked about for a possible weapon.

  “Sit on the bed.”

  There was nothing she could reach and utilize before he shot her, but the least she could do was to make a stand. She turned to face him and defiantly asked, “Why?”

  He’d removed the pistol from the waistband of his jeans. He wasn’t pointing it at her, but even holding it down at his side and lightly tapping his thigh with the barrel was threat enough. “Sit down on the end of the bed.”