“It would also be a P.R. nightmare for the bureau. Sam Marset is just a name to you, but in these parts he was looked upon as a saint. Drag his name through the mud without absolute proof of his corruption, make charges that won’t stick, and all you’ll do is cause resentment among the law-abiding population and put the offenders on red alert.
“Then the DEA will get pissed off and blame us for sending every dealer underground. Same with the ATF, Customs and Border Protection, Homeland Security. Everybody will get skittish and back off stings they had planned, and we’ll all slink back to square one with nothing but our dicks in our hands.
“If you bring me in now, that’s what will happen. After a week or so, when things have cooled down, the smugglers will return to supplying their customers. They’ll go on killing each other, plus a few innocent bystanders now and then whenever a deal goes south, and those casualties will be on your head, and on mine for not finishing my job.”
Hamilton waited several beats, then said, “Bravo, Coburn. That was a very impassioned speech, and I hear you.” He paused again. “Okay. You stay. But as good as you are, you can’t clean this up by yourself, especially now that you’re a suspected mass murderer. Badges down there would love to get in their target practice on you. You’ll need backup. VanAllen will provide it.”
“Nix. The Bookkeeper has informers in every police department, sheriff’s office, city hall, and courthouse. Every-freaking-body is on the take.”
“You’re saying you think VanAllen—”
“I’m saying give me forty-eight hours.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“All right, thirty-six.”
“What for?”
Coburn focused more sharply on Honor. “I’m on to something that could blow the top off.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“You pick.”
“Shit.”
Honor could sense Hamilton’s frustration. Through the phone, she heard him blow out another gust of breath.
Finally he said, “This something involves Mrs. Gillette, doesn’t it?”
Coburn said nothing.
“I’m not a rookie either, Coburn,” Hamilton said. “You don’t really expect me to believe that you chose her house, out of all the houses in coastal Louisiana, to hide in, and that while you were there, you just up and decided to ransack the place. You can’t expect me to believe that without some über-strong motivating factor she came with you of her own free will after watching you fatally shoot a family friend in her living room.
“And you certainly can’t expect me to believe that you, of all people, have taken a widow and child under your wing out of the goodness of your heart, when it has come under debate many times whether or not you even possess a heart.”
“Aw now, that really hurts my feelings.”
“I know Mrs. Gillette’s late husband was a police officer. I know that the recently deceased Fred Hawkins was his best friend. Now, call me crazy, but the coincidence of that has got my gut instinct churning, and even on an off day, it’s usually pretty damn reliable.”
Coburn dropped the sarcasm. “You’re not crazy.”
“Okay. What’s she got?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she know who The Bookkeeper is?”
“She says no.”
“Do you believe her?”
Coburn stared hard at her. “Yeah.”