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?”