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, she 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.”