Chapter 28
Even before Tori checked the light beyond her shutters, she knew by instinct that it was an ungodly hour for her phone to be ringing.
She groaned and buried her head deep into her pillow to escape the noise. Then, remembering the events of yesterday, she rolled toward her nightstand and grabbed her phone. “Hello?”
“Tori, did I wake you up?”
Not Honor and not Bonnell, who were the only people on earth whom she might forgive for calling her at dawn. “Who’s this?”
“Amber.”
Tori scowled and flopped back down onto her pillow. “What? And it had better be good.”
“Well, just like you instructed me, the first thing I do each morning after turning off the alarm is to turn on the sauna and whirlpool in both locker rooms so they can be getting hot. Then when all the lights in the studio have been turned on, I unlock the front door, because sometimes there are people waiting—”
“For godsake, Amber, get to it.”
“That’s when I check the main number’s voice mail. This morning, somebody left a weird message at 5:58, just a few minutes before I opened up.”
“Well, what was it?”
“ ‘What does Barbie see in Ken?’ ”
Tori sat bolt upright in bed. “That’s all she said?”
“Actually it was a man.”
Tori thought on that for several moments, then said, “Well, isn’t it obvious to you that it was a crank call? Don’t bother me with crap like this again.”
“Are you coming in today?”
“Don’t count on it. Cover for me.”
Tori ended the call and bounded out of bed. She skipped doing her hair and makeup, which she never skipped, and dressed rapidly in the first clothes her hands touched when she reached into her closet. Then, grabbing her keys and handbag, she left through the front door.
But halfway to her car in the driveway, she noticed a beat-up panel truck parked at the curb across the street, about a third of the distance to the corner. Anyone inside it would have an unobstructed view of her house. She couldn’t tell whether or not anyone was behind the wheel, but Doral’s words came back to her. I’ll be on you like white on rice.
Maybe she’d been watching too many crime shows on TV, maybe she was being super-paranoid, but she’d never seen the truck on her street before, her best friend had been kidnapped yesterday, and she’d been threatened and manhandled by a local hoodlum.
She’d rather be paranoid than stupid.
Rather than continuing on to her car, she bent down and picked up the morning issue of the newspaper that was lying in the wet grass. Pretending to read the front page, assuming a casual saunter, she retraced her steps back into the house and soundly closed the door behind her.
Then she quickly went through her house, slipped out her back door, and, cutting a path that couldn’t be seen from the street, walked across her lawn, which melded into that belonging to the house directly behind hers. There was a light on in the kitchen. She knocked on the door.
It was answered by a handsome, buff young man. He was cradling a smug-looking cat in his arms. Tori despised the cat, and the feeling was mutual. But she adored the man, because he’d once told her that in his next life he wanted to be an unapologetic diva bitch just like her.
He was a client who never missed a workout. Well-defined biceps bulged when he pushed open the screen door and motioned her in. “This is a surprise! Hon, look who’s come to call. Tori.”
His partner in this, the only gay marriage in Tambour, whose body was equally buff, entered the kitchen as he speared a cuff link into his sleeve. “Hell must have frozen over. I didn’t know you ever got up this early. Sit down. Coffee?”
“Thanks, no. Listen, guys, can I borrow a car? I gotta go… somewhere… in sort of a hurry.”
“Something wrong with your Vette?”
“It’s making a funny noise. I’m afraid it’ll quit on me, and I’ll be stranded.”
She hated telling them such a transparent lie. They’d been excellent neighbors, and over the years had become loyal friends, dispensing expensive wine and commiseration each time she got divorced. Or married, for that matter.
They looked at her, then at each other, then back at her. She knew that they knew she was lying, but if she tried to explain, they would drive her to the nearest loony bin.
Finally the one with the cat asked, “The Lexus or the Mini Cooper?”
Upon seeing Stan, Crawford exclaimed, “What the hell?”
Under other circumstances, Stan might have enjoyed the deputy’s humiliation and bafflement, but he could feel the egg on his own face. Unused to being made a fool of, he was trying very hard to keep his dignity intact and his fury under control. It wasn’t Crawford he wanted to lash out at, however. It was the man who, twenty-four hours ago, had robbed him of Honor and Emily.
“My daughter-in-law’s cell phone,” he said, extending it to Crawford.
He snatched it from Stan. “I know what it is and who it belongs to. How the hell did you get it, and what are you doing here with it?”
“Well, one thing I’m not doing with it is playing Thomas the Tank Engine games,” Stan retorted.
Crawford activated the phone. From the screen, the cartoon steam engine smiled up at him.
“It’s Emily’s favorite game,” Stan told him.
“So they have been here.”
“Those are my late son’s clothes,” he said, motioning to the damp heap on the boat console. “There’s food and water below. Empty cans and wrappers. Yes, they were definitely here, but they’re gone.”
To Crawford’s further consternation, Doral joined them from the cabin below. The deputy holstered his gun and placed his hands on his hips. “Mrs. Gillette must have called you and told you where she was. Why didn’t you notify me?”
“Honor didn’t call anybody,” Stan said stiffly. “I already checked her call log. It’s been cleared. Even the calls she and I exchanged yesterday are no longer on there.”
The deputy’s eyes shifted back and forth between them, landing on Doral with an accusatorial glare. “If she didn’t call you, then one of your late brother’s friends in the police department must have tipped you that we’d got the signal.”
He was right, of course. A police officer, who was a friend to both Fred and Doral, had called Doral with news of this latest development. Out of loyalty, Doral had in turn called Stan. While Crawford was still pulling together a team, the two of them had been speeding here.
But even with the head start, they’d arrived only minutes before Crawford, which had been long enough for Stan to determine that the ramshackle boat had recently been inhabited. The sheets on the bunks were still warm, although he’d hated making that observation, especially in front of Doral. It unnerved him to think of his late son’s widow, and Emily, of course, being that cozy with Lee Coburn.
Coburn wasn’t so careless as to leave the phone behind. He’d left it deliberately, using it as a decoy to attract the posse to the boat, while he was moving away from it and taking Stan’s family with him.
It was galling.
He and Doral had been talking about Coburn’s caginess before the arrival of Crawford and his team. “I’ve bribed everybody I know to bribe, Stan,” Doral had said with disgust. “Nobody can, or will, say definitely.”
It hadn’t taken long for the rumor to circulate through the police department, then beyond, that Lee Coburn might be a federal agent who’d been working undercover in Sam Marset’s trucking firm. Which would put an entirely different spin on Sunday night’s massacre.
About that, Stan’s feelings were ambiguous. He hadn’t quite determined what he thought of that and how, if it was true, it affected him.
But Doral had. He’d told Stan, “It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. Coburn shot my brother in cold blood. I don’t care if he’s a felon, a feeb, or the prince of darkness, I’m gonna kill him.”
Stan understood the sentiment. Regardless of who or what Coburn was, he’d made an enemy of Stan when he’d cast suspicion on Eddie. And now Honor’s reputation was being compromised. If Coburn had taken Honor and Emily as insurance for a safe getaway, why hadn’t he abandoned them by now? If his reason for taking them had been ransom, why hadn’t he demanded it?
And if Honor was a hostage, why hadn’t she left them a trail they could follow? She was a clever girl. She must realize that dozens of law enforcement personnel and volunteers were scouring the countryside in search of her and Emily. Surely she could have figured out a way to leave subtle signposts.
If she had wanted to. That’s what gnawed at Stan. What kind of sway did this man Coburn hold over her?
Doral had remarked on the close quarters of the cabin below, and then had looked at Stan, his eyebrows raised. And now Stan could tell that Crawford’s thoughts were moving along that same track.
Stan bluffed. Taking an aggressive stance, he said to Crawford, “I suggest you stop wasting time and begin tracking where Coburn took my family from here.”
“I’ll get on that myself,” Doral said and started to go.
Deputy Crawford put out a stiff arm to stop him. “Don’t you have a funeral to plan?”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that I understand why you’d want to hunt down your brother’s killer and get revenge. But this is a police matter. Nobody invited you to participate. And if I find out who’s feeding you information from inside the P.D., or from inside the sheriff’s office, I’m going to nail his ass to a fencepost.”
Doral moved Crawford’s arm aside. Smirking, he said, “I’d pay to see that,” then left the boat.
Crawford ordered two of the officers to search the craft for clues, starting with the cabin. They clumped down the steps. He sent the rest out to search the surrounding area for footprints, tire tracks, anything.
When he and Stan were alone, Crawford said, “I couldn’t help but notice the name of the boat, Mr. Gillette. Honor.”
“It belonged to her father.”
“Past tense?”
“He died several years ago.”
“She owns it now?”
“I suppose.” Honor hadn’t mentioned her father or his boat since his demise. It had never crossed Stan’s mind to ask what had become of the trawler. It was hardly a coveted legacy.
Crawford said, “You might have mentioned the boat yesterday.”
“I didn’t think of it. In any case, I wouldn’t have known where it was moored.”
“You didn’t keep track?” he asked, sounding surprised. Or maybe skeptical.
“No. I didn’t like her father. He was an aging, dope-smoking hippie who called himself a shrimper but was actually a ne’er-do-well who never had two nickels to rub together. He wore beads and sandals, for godsake. Look around,” he said, raising his arms. “He lived on this boat. The condition of it speaks to the kind of person he was.”
“And yet your daughter-in-law came here to hide.”
Stan actually took a threatening step toward the deputy. “I resent the implication that Honor is hiding from me.”
Crawford wasn’t intimidated. He didn’t back down. “You’ve heard the rumor about Coburn being a fed.”
He stated it as fact. Stan said nothing.
Crawford pulled a knowing frown. “Come on, Mr. Gillette. You’ve heard the rumor. What do you think about it?”
Stan wasn’t going to confirm or deny anything to this man in whom he had little confidence. “All that concerns me is the safe return of my daughter-in-law and grandchild. I’m going to leave you now and try to find them myself.”
Crawford sidestepped to block Stan’s path. “Couple of things first.” He paused for a beat, then said, “Mrs. Gillette obviously had access to her cell phone. So why didn’t she call 911? Or you? If she wanted to be found, wouldn’t she have done that instead of letting her little girl play games on her phone?”
Stan schooled his expression not to change. “You said a couple of things.”
“You might want to reconsider who you ally yourself with.”
“Why?”
“I received an initial ballistics report. The bullet that killed Fred Hawkins didn’t match any of the ones fired during the warehouse mass murder.”
Stan was quick with an explanation. “Coburn would have dumped the guns he used at the warehouse. They’re probably at the bottom of a bayou. He used another to shoot Fred.”
“Or,” the deputy said, drawing out the qualifier, “he wasn’t the warehouse shooter.”