by Sandra Brown
Looks could be deceiving, too. She looked innocent enough, especially in the getup she was wearing. The white T-shirt, blue jean shorts, and retro white Keds were as wholesome as home-baked cupcakes. Her blonde hair was in a loose ponytail. Her eyes were hazel, veering toward solid green. She had the scrubbed appearance of the classic all-American girl next door, except that Coburn had never lived next door to anybody who looked as good as she did.
Seeing the skimpy undies on the drying rack in the laundry room had made him realize how long it had been since he’d lain down with a woman. Looking at the soft mounds underneath Honor Gillette’s white T-shirt and her long, smooth legs made him aware of just how much he’d like to end that spell of abstinence.
She must have sensed the track of his thoughts, because when he lifted his gaze from her chest to her eyes, they were regarding him fearfully. Quickly she said, “You’re in a lot of trouble, and you’re only wasting time here. I can’t help you. Eddie didn’t own anything extremely valuable.” She raised her hands at her sides. “You can see for yourself how simply we live. When Eddie died, I had to sell his fishing boat just to make ends meet until I could return to teaching.”
“Teaching.”
“Public school. Second grade. The only thing Eddie left me was a modest life insurance policy that barely covered the cost of his funeral. He’d been with the police department only eight years, so the pension I receive each month isn’t much. It goes directly into Emily’s college fund. I support us on my salary, and there’s little left for extras.”
She paused to take a breath. “You’ve been misinformed, Mr. Coburn. Or you jumped to the wrong conclusion based on rumor. Eddie had nothing valuable and neither do I. If I did, I would gladly hand it over to you in order to protect Emily. I value her life more than anything I could ever own.”
He looked at her thoughtfully for several moments. “Nicely put, but I’m not convinced.” He stood up and reached for her, encircling her biceps again and hauling her up out of her chair. “Let’s start in the bedroom.”
Chapter 4
His street name was Diego.
That’s all he’d ever been called, and, as far as he knew, that was the only name he had. His earliest memory was of a skinny black woman asking him to fetch her cigarettes, or her syringe, and then hurling abuse at him if he was too slow about it.
He didn’t know if she was his mother or not. She didn’t claim to be, but didn’t deny it the one time he’d asked her. He wasn’t black, not entirely. His name was Hispanic, but that didn’t necessarily signify his heritage. In a city of Creoles where mixed bloodlines were historical and commonplace, he was a mongrel.
The woman of his memory had operated a hair-braiding salon. The business was open only when she felt like it, which was seldom. If she needed quick cash, she gave blowjobs in the back room. When Diego was old enough, she sent him out to solicit clients off the streets. He lured in women with the promise of getting the tightest braids in New Orleans. To men, he hinted of other pleasures to be found beyond the glass bead curtain that separated the establishment from the gritty sidewalk.
One day he came in after scrounging for something to eat and found the woman dead on the floor of the filthy bathroom. He stayed until the stink of her got to be too much even for him, then he abandoned the place, leaving her bloated corpse to become somebody else’s problem. From that day on, he had fended for himself. His turf was an area of New Orleans where even angels feared to tread.
He was seventeen years old and wise beyond his years.
His eyes showed it as he looked at the readout on his vibrating cell phone. Private caller. Which translated to The Bookkeeper. He answered with a surly, “Yeah?”
“You sound upset, Diego.”
Pissed, more like it. “You should have used me to take care of Marset. But you didn’t. Now look at the mess you’ve got.”
“So you’ve heard about the warehouse and Lee Coburn?”
“I got a TV. Flat-screen.”
“Thanks to me.”
Diego let that pass without comment. The Bookkeeper didn’t need to know that their working relationship wasn’t exclusive. He did occasional jobs for other clients.
“Guns,” he said scornfully. “They’re noisy. Why shoot up the place? I would have taken out Marset silently, and you wouldn’t have a circus going on down there in Tambour.”
“I needed to send a message.”
Don’t fuck with me, or else. That was the message. Diego supposed that anyone who’d crossed The Bookkeeper, and had heard about the mass murder, was looking over his shoulder this morning. Despite the amateurish handling of Marset’s execution, no doubt it had been an effective wake-up call.
“They haven’t found Lee Coburn yet,” Diego said, almost as a gibe.
“No. I’m closely monitoring the search. I hope they find him dead, but if not, he’ll have to be taken out. And so will anyone he’s had contact with since leaving that warehouse.”
“That’s why you’re calling me.”
“It will be tricky to get close to someone in police custody.”
“I specialize in tricky. I can get close. I always do.”
“Which is why you’re the man for this job, should it become necessary. Your skills would have been wasted on Marset. I needed to make noise and leave a lot of blood. But now that it’s done, I want no loose ends.”
No loose ends. No mercy. The Bookkeeper’s mantra. Anybody who shied away from the wet work usually became the next victim.
A few weeks earlier, a Mexican kid had escaped the overloaded truck that was smuggling him into the States. He and a dozen others were destined for slavery of one type or another. The kid must’ve known what the future held for him. During a refueling stop, while the truck driver was paying for his gasoline, the kid got away.
Fortunately, a state trooper who was on The Bookkeeper’s payroll had found him hitchhiking on the westbound lane of the interstate. The trooper had hidden him and had been ordered to dispose of the problem. But he’d turned squeamish.
The Bookkeeper had contracted Diego to go in and do his dirty work for him. Then, a week after Diego killed the boy, The Bookkeeper hired him to take care of the driver whose carelessness had allowed the kid to escape, along with the trooper who had shown himself to be greedy but gutless.
No loose ends. No mercy. The Bookkeeper’s uncompromising policy instilled fear and inspired obedience.
But Diego wasn’t scared of anybody. So when The Bookkeeper asked him now, “Did you find the girl who got away from the massage parlor?” he replied in a flippant manner, “Last night.”
“She’s no longer a problem?”
“Only to the angels. Or the devil.”
“The body?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Diego, the only thing more annoying than an idiot is a smart-ass.”
Diego raised his middle finger at the phone.
“Someone else is calling in, so I must go. Be ready.”
Diego slid his hand into his pants pocket and fondled the straight razor for which he was famous. Although The Bookkeeper had already disconnected, Diego said, “I stay ready.”
Chapter 5
Engrossed in her program, Emily gave Honor and Coburn no notice as they passed through the living room.
When they reached Honor’s bedroom, she jerked her arm free from his grip and rubbed her bruised biceps. “I don’t want to get shot, and I certainly wouldn’t risk Emily’s life or run away and leave her behind. The manhandling is unnecessary.”
“That’s for me to decide.” He nodded toward the computer on the writing desk. “Was that your husband’s computer?”
“We both used it.”
“Boot it up.”
“There’s nothing on it except my personal emails, school records of my students, and lesson plans for each month.”
He just stood there, looking dark and dangerous, until she went to the desk and sat down. It seemed to take an
eternity for the computer to boot. She stared into the monitor, looking at the blurred reflection of herself, but all the while aware of him, standing close, emanating odors of the swamp, his body heat, and a distinct threat of violence.
From the corner of her eye, she looked at his hand. It was relaxed, resting against his thigh. Even so, she knew it could squeeze the life from her body if he put it around her throat. The thought of it wrapped around Emily’s sweet, soft neck made her ill.
“Thank you, Mr. Coburn,” she whispered.
Several seconds elapsed before he asked, “For what?”
“For not harming Emily.”
He didn’t say anything.
“And for keeping the pistol out of her sight. I appreciate that.”
Another few seconds ticked past. “Nothing to be gained by scaring the kid.” The computer asked for a password. Honor quickly typed hers in. It showed up as black dots in the box.
“Wait,” he said before she could hit Enter. “Backspace and type it again. Slowly this time.”
She pecked out the letters again.
“What does the r stand for?”
“Rosemary.”
“H, r, Gillette. Not a very original password. Easy to guess.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Let’s see.”
He reached over her shoulder and began maneuvering the mouse. He navigated through her emails, even those that had been deleted, and all her documents, which contained nothing that would interest him unless he was in second grade.
At one point, she asked politely, “Would you like to sit down?”
“I’m fine.”
He might be, but she wasn’t. He was leaning over her, occasionally making contact with her back and shoulder, his arm brushing hers as he scooted the mouse around.
Finally he was satisfied that the files he’d opened were useless to him. “Did Eddie have a password?”
“We used the same one, as well as the same email address.”
“I didn’t see any emails to or from him.”
“They’ve all been deleted.”
“Why?”
“They were taking up space on the computer.”
He didn’t say anything, but she felt a tug on her ponytail and realized that he was winding it around his fist. When he had a tight grip, he turned her head toward him. She closed her eyes, but she could feel the pressure of his gaze on the top of her head.
“Open your eyes.”
Given her recent thoughts on the strength of his hands, she did as he ordered because she was afraid not to. She was on eye level with his waist. The proximity of her face to his body, and the intimacy it suggested, was disconcerting, as she supposed he intended. He wanted there to be no doubt as to who was in charge.
But perhaps she could turn this to her advantage. Her nose was inches from the outline of the pistol beneath his T-shirt. Her hands were free. Could she—
No. Even before she had finished formulating the thought, she cast it aside. Eddie had taught her how to shoot a handgun, but she’d never been comfortable handling any firearm. She couldn’t secure the pistol and fire it before Coburn knocked it aside or yanked it from her. Any attempt to do so would only anger him. And then what? She didn’t hazard to guess.
Using her fisted ponytail as leverage, he tilted her head back until she was looking up into his face. “Why did you delete your husband’s emails?”
“He’s been gone for two years. Why would I keep them?”
“They could have had important information in them.”
“They didn’t.”
“She says, sounding real sure about it.”
“I am,” she snapped. “Eddie wouldn’t have been so careless as to put important information in an email.”
He held her stare as though gauging the strength of her argument. “Do you do your banking on this computer?”
“No.”
“Pay any accounts?”
She shook her head as much as his hold on her hair would allow. “Neither of us used it for personal business.”
“What about his work computer?”
“It belonged to the police department.”
“It wasn’t given to you?”
“No. I suppose another officer has use of it now.”
He studied her face for another long moment, and must have determined that she was telling the truth. He released her hair and backed away. Relieved, she stood up and moved away from him and toward the door. “I’m just going to check on Emily.”
“Stay where you are.”
His eyes made a sweep of the room and did a double take when something on top of the dresser grabbed his attention. He crossed quickly to the bureau and picked up the picture frame, then thrust it into her hands. “Who are these guys?”
“The oldest one is Stan.”
“Eddie’s father? He’s in awfully good shape for a man his age.”
“He works at it. That’s Eddie standing next to him.”
“The other two? Twins?”
“Fred and Doral Hawkins. Eddie’s best friends.” Smiling over the fond memory, she ran her fingers across the glass sealing the photograph. “They’d gone on an overnight fishing trip into the Gulf. When they put in the following afternoon, they posed on the pier with their catch and asked me to take this picture.”
“Is that the boat you sold?”
“No, that was Doral’s charter boat. Katrina took it. Now he’s our city manager. Fred is a policeman.”
He looked at her sharply, then tapped the glass inside the frame. “This guy’s a cop?”
“He and Eddie enrolled in the police academy together and graduated in the same class of new officers. He—” She broke off and looked away from him, but he caught her chin and jerked her head back to him.
“What?” he demanded.
She saw no point in hedging. “Fred is spearheading the manhunt for you.”
“How do you know?”
“He conducted a press conference this morning. He pledged your swift capture and justice for the seven men you killed. Allegedly.”
He absorbed that, then released her chin and took the frame from her. To her consternation, he turned it over and began folding back the metal tabs so he could remove the easel back.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
He took it apart and, inside, found only what she knew he would: the photograph, a piece of stiff backing, and the glass. He stared hard at the photograph and checked the date printed on the back of it. “They seem like a real chummy quartet.”
“The three boys became friends in grade school. Stan practically raised the Hawkins twins along with Eddie. They’ve been a great help to us since he died. They’ve been especially attentive to Emily and me.”
“Yeah?” He gave her a slow once-over. “I’ll bet they have.”
She wanted to lash out at him for what his smirk insinuated. But she held her tongue, believing it was beneath her dignity to defend her morals to a man who was smeared with his victims’ blood. She did, however, take the photograph from him and return it and the pieces of the frame back to the top of her bureau.
“How’d he die?” he asked. “Eddie. What killed him?”
“Car accident.”
“What happened?”
“It’s believed he swerved to miss hitting an animal, something. He lost control and went headlong into a tree.”
“He was by himself?”
“Yes.” Again she looked wistfully at the photograph that had so perfectly captured her husband’s smiling face. “He was on his way home from work.”
“Where’s his stuff?”
The question yanked her from the poignant reverie. “What?”
“His stuff. You’re bound to have kept his personal belongings.”
In light of their conversation, his wanting to go through Eddie’s effects was the height of insensitivity, and it offended her almost more than having been th
reatened with a pistol. She met his cold, unfeeling eyes head-on. “You’re a cruel son of a bitch.”
His eyes turned even more implacable. He took a step toward her. “I need to see his stuff. Either you hand it over to me, or I’ll tear your house apart looking for it.”
“Be my guest. But I’ll be damned before I’ll help you.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
Catching his malevolent implication, her gaze swung beyond his shoulder toward the living room where Emily was still enjoying one of her favorite shows.
“Your kid is all right, Mrs. Gillette. She’ll stay all right so long as you don’t play games with me.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“So we understand each other, neither am I.”
He spoke softly, malevolently, and his point was made. Furious with him, and with herself for having to capitulate without putting up more of a fight, she said coolly, “It would be helpful if you told me what you’re looking for.”
“It would be helpful if you quit jerking me around.”
“I’m not!”
“Aren’t you?”
“No! I have no idea what you want or even what you’re talking about. Gold bars? Stock certificates? Precious stones? If I had something like that, don’t you think I would have liquidated it by now?”
“Cash?”
“Do I look like I have a lot of cash at my disposal?”
“No. You don’t. But you wouldn’t make it obvious, because that would be stupid.”
“Stupid in what way?”
“If you were suddenly flush with cash, people would be on to you.”
“People? What people? On to me? I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.”
During this heated exchange, he’d been coming ever closer until now they were toe to toe. His sheer physicality made her feel trapped. It was hard not to move away from him, but she refused to dance that dance again. Besides, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how effective his intimidation tactics were.
“Now, for the last time,” he said, “where’s Eddie’s stuff?”