For months The Bookkeeper had been obsessed with sealing a deal with a new cartel out of Mexico that needed an established and reliable network to provide protection as they trafficked their goods across the state of Louisiana. Drugs and girls going one way, guns and heavy weaponry the other. They were big players, willing to pay substantial sums for peace of mind.

The Bookkeeper was determined to get their business. But it wasn’t going to happen unless one hundred percent reliability was guaranteed. Killing Sam Marset was supposed to have been a swift and bloody resolution to a problem. “Make a splash,” The Bookkeeper had told him and Fred, tongue in cheek.

But although it would never be admitted, the mass murder had opened up a hornet’s nest. They were now in damage control mode, and in order to protect his own interests, Doral would go along. He had no choice.

“The next time I call you, Doral, it’ll be from another cell phone. If Coburn’s got Fred’s phone—”

“He’ll have your number.”

“Unless your brother did as told and cleared the log each time we talked. But in any case, I’ll switch to a new phone.”

“Understood.”

“Get Coburn.”

“Also understood.”

He and Fred had had a patsy in place to frame for the warehouse murders. But the dock worker who had managed to escape the bloodbath, this Lee Coburn, had made himself an even better “suspect.”

They had counted on finding him within an hour of the killings, hunkered down somewhere, shaking in his boots, praying to his Maker to deliver him from evil. Later, they planned to attest that he’d been fatally shot while trying to escape arresting officer Fred Hawkins.

But Coburn had proved himself to be smarter than expected. He’d eluded Fred and him. And even when being tracked by armed men and bloodhounds, he’d run to Honor Gillette’s house and had spent a lot of valuable time searching it. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist…

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“I don’t pay you to think, Doral.”

The insult stung, but he pressed on. “This guy Coburn burst onto the scene a year ago and worked his way into Sam Marset’s confidence. I’m beginning to think he’s no ordinary loading dock worker, somebody who accidentally got wind of the more lucrative aspects of Marset’s operation and decided to horn in. He seems—what’s the word? Overqualified. Not your average trucking company employee.”

After another weighty silence, The Bookkeeper said bitingly, “Did you figure that out all by yourself, Doral?”

Chapter 15

Since Honor’s house was outside the city limits, the sheriff’s office had jurisdiction. The deputy, who was that department’s singular homicide investigator, was a man named Crawford. Doral had failed to catch his first name.

Doral was retelling how he’d come to find the body of his brother when Crawford looked beyond his shoulder and muttered, “Dammit, who’s that? Who let him in here?”

Doral turned. Stan Gillette must have talked his way past the uniformed officers stringing crime scene tape around the perimeter of the Gillette property. He paused only briefly on the threshold, then, sighting Doral, made a beeline toward him.

“That’s Stan Gillette, Honor’s father-in-law.”

“Great,” the detective said. “The last thing we need.”

Doral echoed the detective’s sentiment but kept his feelings from showing by assuming an appropriately somber expression as the older man approached.

The former Marine didn’t even glance at Fred’s body, which had been zipped into a black plastic bag that was presently being strapped onto a gurney for transport by ambulance to the morgue. Instead he barked as though issuing a subordinate an order:

“It’s true? Honor and Emily have been kidnapped?”

“Well, they’re not here and Coburn was.”

“Jesus Christ.” Stan ran his hand over his burred head, around the back of his neck, uttered a string of curses. Then he fixed a hard stare on Doral. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out looking for them?”

“I will be, soon as Deputy Crawford frees me to go.” He gestured toward the deputy and made a cursory introduction. “He’s investigating—”

“With all due respect to your investigation,” Stan said, interrupting Doral and addressing the deputy with none of the respect he mentioned, “it can wait. Fred died in the performance of his duty, which is a risk that every police officer accepts. He’s dead and nothing can bring him back. Meanwhile two innocent people are missing, most likely kidnapped by a man believed to be a ruthless murderer.”

He tilted his head toward Doral. “He’s the best hunter in the area. He should be out looking for Honor and Emily in the hope of finding them before they are killed, not standing here talking to you about somebody who’s already dead. And if you had any gumption at all, you’d also be out tracking the fugitive and his hostages instead of languishing here in the one place that they’re noticeably not in.”

His voice had risen with each word so that his statement ended on a full-blown shout that brought all the activity going on around them to a halt. Everyone turned to stare. Stan, his color high, his posture rigid with righteous indignation, seemed not to notice.

To his credit, the deputy didn’t wither under Stan’s blistering criticism. He was several inches shorter than both Stan and Doral, and was as physically unimposing as a man could possibly be. But he stood his ground. “I’m here in an official capacity, Mr. Gillette. Which makes one of us.”

Doral could tell that Stan was about to blow a gasket, but Crawford didn’t flinch. “I’ll have the ass of whoever let you past the crime scene tape, but as long as you’re here, you could try to be helpful. Talking down to me and issuing orders won’t get you anywhere except escorted off the premises, and if you resist, you’ll be arrested and taken to jail.”

Doral thought Stan might even be on the verge of taking out the knife for which he was famous and using it to threaten the gullet of the deputy. Before that could happen, Doral intervened. “Cut him some slack, Crawford. He’s just received distressing news. Let me have a word with him. Okay?”

The deputy shifted his gaze from one man to the other. “Coupla minutes while I’m talking to the coroner. Then, Mr. Gillette, I’d like you to walk through the house with me, see if you can spot anything that’s missing.”

Stan glanced around at the disarray. “How could I possibly determine that?”

“I understand, but it wouldn’t hurt to look. Maybe you’ll notice something that gives us a clue as to why and where Coburn took them.”

“That’s the best you can do?” Stan asked.

The deputy merely returned his steely look, then said, “Coupla minutes,” and moved away. But suddenly he came back around. “Who notified you? How’d you get here so fast?”

Stan rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet as though he didn’t intend to answer. Finally he said, “Yesterday Honor told me that she and Emily were sick. Obviously she was coerced into saying that, purposely to keep me away. This morning I was worried about them and decided to drive out and check on them. When I arrived, I found the house surrounded by police cars. One of the officers told me what it’s feared has happened.”

Crawford sized him up again, said, “Don’t touch anything,” then turned away to consult the coroner.

Doral nudged Stan’s arm. “Back here.”

They moved down the hallway. Doral went past Emily’s bedroom, but Stan paused at the open door and then went in. He walked over to the bed and stared down at it for several long moments, then slowly surveyed the room with his eagle eyes.