This was
the question Doral had most dreaded, because he didn’t have an answer for it. “Who’s to say?”
“You’re to say, Doral. Find them. Learn what they know or retrieve what they have, then dispatch them.”
“You don’t need to tell me.”
“Don’t I? I told you and your brother not to let anyone leave that warehouse alive.”
Doral felt his face burn.
“And let me emphasize,” The Bookkeeper continued, “that there’s no room for another mistake. Not when we’re on the brink of opening up a whole new market for ourselves.”
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.