“In what way?”
“He’s been described as a loner. No friends, family, little interaction with coworkers. Nobody knew him well. The people—”
“Give it your best shot, Tom,” Hamilton said with palpable impatience. “Take a guess. Why’d he kill them?”
“He was a disgruntled employee.”
“A disgruntled employee.” Hamilton said it without inflection, certainly without enthusiasm.
Tom thought it smart to keep quiet.
Eventually Hamilton said, “If Coburn’s only beef was with his boss, if he wigged out over a slight he suffered on the loading dock, or because he was shortchanged on overtime pay, why’d he go to the house of a dead cop and turn it upside down? If he was fleeing the scene of a mass murder, why’d he hide out with the widow an
d child for an estimated twenty-four hours? And if he took them, why did he? Why not just dispose of them right then and there? Doesn’t that atypical behavior bother you like a popcorn hull stuck in your teeth?”
These weren’t rhetorical questions. Tom had worked in the Lafayette field office with Clint Hamilton only briefly, but it had been long enough for him to learn that the man didn’t waste his breath on unnecessary words.
When Hamilton was bumped up to Washington, D.C., leapfrogging the district office in New Orleans, he had recommended Tom as his successor, and, even at the time, Tom had been aware that Hamilton’s endorsement of him had been met with skepticism by some and vociferous opposition by others. Hamilton had fought for Tom, and he’d won the fight.
Each day when he entered the office where Hamilton had once sat, Tom felt pride in succeeding such an able, revered, even feared agent. He also experienced a cold panic that he wouldn’t live up to the other man’s standards or expectations. In any capacity.
If he were being baldly honest with himself, he would even go so far as to wonder if Hamilton had tossed him a bone because of Lanny. It made him hot with humiliation and indignation even to consider that his appointment had been extended out of pity, but he feared such was the case.
He also wondered where Hamilton was getting his information. He didn’t just know about Marset’s murder and what had happened afterward, but he was well informed of the details. Meaning that he had consulted someone in the local office even before calling Tom. That rankled.
However, he didn’t want Hamilton to discern his self-doubt, so he affected a confident tone. “I’ve asked those questions myself, sir. They’re unsettling.”
“To say the least. They imply that this was no mental malfunction, no ordinary shoot-’em-up by some nutcase with personality issues. Which means, Tom, that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First order of business, find them.”
“Yes, sir.”
After a pregnant pause the length of an aircraft carrier, Hamilton said a brisk, “I’ll be standing by,” then clicked off.
Chapter 20
Following the directions Honor gave him, Coburn drove the stolen car down the narrow dirt lane. It was overgrown with weeds and saplings that knocked against the car’s underside. Forty yards from their destination, he rolled to a stop and stared in dismay at the derelict shrimp boat, then turned his head and looked pointedly at Honor.
Defensively she asked, “Do you have a better idea?”
“Yeah. We don’t launch it.”
He took his foot off the brake and continued on, approaching with caution, although it was virtually impossible that anyone would be lying in wait to ambush them on the hulk. A person would have to be crazy to board the vessel, which seemed about to collapse in on itself at any second.
“Who does it belong to?” he asked.
“To me. I inherited it when my dad died.”
Coburn knew virtually nothing about marine craft of any size, but he’d been in coastal Louisiana long enough to recognize an inshore shrimp trawler. “He shrimped in that thing?”
“He lived on it.”
The craft looked about as seaworthy as a broken matchstick. It sat half in, half out of a sluggish channel that Honor claimed eventually fed into the Gulf. But from this vantage point, the waterway looked like a stagnant creek.
Coburn guessed that the boat hadn’t been afloat for years. Vines had overtaken the hull. The wheelhouse paint, what was left of it, was curled and peeling. Windowpanes that weren’t missing altogether were cracked and so coated with grime they barely resembled glass. The metal frame supporting the butterfly net on the port side was bent practically at a forty-five-degree angle, making it look like the broken wing of a great bird.