On his dash from the room, he rounded the corner of the door so fast, he grazed his shoulder, which jarred his injured arm and sent a bolt of pain straight to his brain. It hurt so bad it made his eyes water, but he kept running.
“What is it?” Honor asked as he raced through the living room.
On his way past her, he slapped the small note into her hand. “His soccer ball.”
“I put it back in the box in the loft,” Gillette called after him.
Coburn made it through the kitchen and into the garage within seconds. He flipped on the light, then rounded Gillette’s car and hastily climbed the ladder to the loft. He ripped open the box and upended it, catching the soccer ball before it bounced off the loft and down to the garage floor. He shook it, but heard nothing moving inside.
Cradling the ball in his elbow, he retraced his path back into the living room. With Honor and Gillette watching expectantly, he pressed the ball as one would test a melon’s ripeness. Noticing that one of the seams was crudely sewn, not at all like the factory stitching on the rest of the ball, he picked up Gillette’s knife from off the floor and used it to rip the seam. He pulled back the leather flap he’d created.
A USB key fell into his palm.
He locked eyes with Honor. The contents of the key would either exonerate or indict her late husband, but Coburn couldn’t let himself consider what impact this find might have on her. He’d spent a year of his life working Marset’s freight dock waiting for this payoff, and now he had it.
Gillette was demanding an explanation for the key and its significance. Coburn ignored him and walked quickly to the master bedroom, activated the computer, which was in sleep mode, and inserted the key into the port. Eddie hadn’t bothered with a password. There was only one file on the key, and when Coburn clicked on it, it opened immediately.
He scanned the contents, and when Honor joined him, he couldn’t contain his excitement. “He’s got the names of key people and companies all along the I-10 corridor between here and Phoenix where most of the stuff from Mexico is dispersed. But better than that, he’s also got the names of corrupt officials.
“And I know the information is solid because I recognize some of the names. Marset had dealings with them.” He pointed to one of the names on the list. “He’s a weigh station guy who’s on the take. Here’s a used car dealer in Houston, who supplies vans. Two cops in Biloxi. Jesus, look at all this.”
“It must’ve taken Eddie a long time to compile the information. How did he get access to it?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know if his motive was noble or criminal, but he’s left us with the goods. Some are nicknames—Pudge, Rickshaw, Shamu. Diego has an asterisk beside his name. He must be real important to the organization.”
“Does it identify The Bookkeeper?”
“Not that I see, but it’s a hell of a start. Hamilton’s gonna piss his pants.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and tried to turn it on but immediately saw that the battery was dead. “Shit!” Quickly he took Fred’s phone from his pocket and snapped in the battery. When it came on and he saw the readout, he frowned.
“What?” Honor asked.
“Doral has called three times. And all in the last hour.”
“Doesn’t make sense. Why would he be calling Fred?”
“He wouldn’t,” Coburn said thoughtfully. “He’s calling me.” Suddenly overcome by a foreboding that squelched the elation he’d felt only moments earlier, he depressed the call icon.
Doral answered on the first ring. In a jolly voice, he said, “Hello, Coburn. Good of you to finally call me back.”
Coburn said nothing.
“Someone here wants to say hi to you.”
Coburn waited, his heart in his throat.
Elmo’s song came through loud and clear.
Chapter 43
When Honor heard the song, she clapped both hands over her mouth, but started screaming behind them.
Coburn didn’t silently scream, but he felt like it. Fear, a foreign emotion to him, struck him to his core, and the mightiness of it stunned him. Suddenly it was clear to him why fear was such an effective motivator, why it reduced hardened men to mewling children, why, in the face of fear, individuals were willing to barter their god, country, anything for the threat to be removed.
His mind became a slide show of horrific images that he’d seen in war zones, the bodies of children burned, beaten, hacked at, until they no longer retained human form. Their youth and innocence hadn’t protected them from a violent, unconscionable egomaniac demanding absolute surrender. Such as The Bookkeeper.
And The Bookkeeper had Emily.
“Okay, Doral, you’ve got my attention.”