“No.”
On their race through the house, Honor had created a game requiring Emily to keep her eyes shut until they were outside. For expediency, Coburn had carried her from her pink bedroom to the car. He’d kept his hand on the back of her head, her face pressed into his neck, just in case she cheated at the game and opened her eyes, in which case she would have seen Fred Hawkins’s body on the living room floor.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday that you were an FBI agent? Why run roughshod over me?”
“I didn’t trust you.”
She looked at him with a bewilderment that seemed genuine.
“You’re Gillette’s widow,” he explained. “Reason enough for me to harbor some doubts about you. Then when I saw that photo, saw him and his dad being chummy with the two guys I’d seen kill those seven in the warehouse, heard you extol them as dearest friends, what was I supposed to think? In any case, I was and am convinced that whatever Eddie had, you have now.”
“But I don’t.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you do have it and just don’t know that you do. Anyway, I no longer think you’re holding out on me.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Even if you’d been crooked, I think you’d have given me anything I wanted if I didn’t hurt your little girl.”
“You’re right.”
“I came to that conclusion just before dawn this morning. I figured I’d leave you in peace. Then I saw Hawkins on his way to your house. Sudden change of plan.”
“Am I truly to believe that Fred killed Sam Marset?”
“I witnessed it.” He glanced at her; her expression invited him to elaborate. “There was a meeting scheduled for Sunday midnight at the warehouse.”
“A meeting between Marset and Fred?”
“Between Marset and The Bookkeeper.”
She rubbed her forehead. “What are you talking about?”
He took a breath, collected his thoughts. “Interstate Highway 10 cuts through Louisiana, north of Tambour.”
“It goes through Lafayette and New Orleans.”
“Right. I-10 is the southernmost coast-to-coast interstate, and its proximity to Mexico and the Gulf make it a pipeline for drug dealers, gun runners, human traffickers. Big markets are the key cities it passes through—Phoenix, El Paso, San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans—all of which also have major north/south routes that intersect it.”
“Essentially—”
“Connecting I-10 to every major city in the continental U.S.”
Again she nodded. “Okay.”
“Any vehicle you pass on it—everything from a semi, to a pickup, to a family van—might be transporting street drugs, pharmaceuticals, weapons, girls and boys destined for forced prostitution.” He looked over at her. “You still following me?”
“Sam Marset owned Royale Trucking Company.”
“You get a gold star.”
“You’re actually saying that Sam Marset’s drivers were dabbling in this illegal transport?”
“Not his drivers. Sam Marset, your church elder and historical society whatever. And not dabbling. He’s big-time. Was. Sunday night put an end to his life of crime.”
She thought that over, checked to see that the kid was still distracted by her toy, then asked, “Where do you factor in?”
“I was assigned to get inside Marset’s operation, find out who he did business with, so the hotshots could set up a series of stings. It took me months just to gain the foreman’s trust. Then, only after Marset gave his approval, I was entrusted with the manifests. His company ships a lot of legal goods, but I also saw plenty of contraband.”
“Human beings?”
“Everything except that. Which is good, because I’d have had to stop that shipment, and that would have entailed blowing my cover. As it was, I had to let a lot of illegal contraband go through. But my bosses aren’t interested in one truck of dry goods concealing one box of automatic handguns. The bureau wants the people sending and receiving them. I didn’t have enough proof yet to catch the big fish.”
“Like Marset.”
“Him and bigger. But the real prize would be The Bookkeeper.”
“Who is that?”
“Good question. The bureau didn’t even know about him until I got down here and realized that somebody is greasing the skids.”
“You just lost me.”
“The Bookkeeper is a facilitator. He goes to the people who’re supposed to be preventing all this illegal trafficking, then bribes or strong-arms them into looking the other way.”
“He bribes policemen?”
“Police, state troopers, agents at the state weigh stations, the man guarding impounded vehicles, anybody who has the potential of impeding the trafficking.”
“The Bookkeeper pays off the official…”
“Then takes a hefty commission from the smuggler for guaranteeing him and his cargo safe passage through the state of Louisiana.”
She ruminated on that, then said, “But you didn’t learn his identity.”
“No. I’m missing a key element.” He stopped at a crossroads and turned his head, giving her a hard look.
“Which you came to my house in search of.”
“Right.” He took his foot off the brake and accelerated through the intersection. “The DOJ isn’t—Department of Justice,” he said to clarify—“isn’t going to make a case until it knows it can’t lose in court. We might make a deal with someone to testify against The Bookkeeper in exchange for clemency, but we also need hard evidence. Files, bank records, phone records, canceled checks, deposit slips, names, dates. Documentation. Proof. I think that’s what your late husband had.”
“You think Eddie was involved in this?” she asked. “Drugs? Guns? Human trafficking? You are so wrong, Mr. Coburn.”
“Truth is, I don’t know what side of the business your husband was working. But he was blood brothers with the twins, and in my book that makes him damn suspicious. And being a cop would be an asset, just like it was to Fred.”
“Eddie was an honest cop.”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? You’re his widow. But I saw his bosom buddies mow down seven people in cold blood. I would have been victim number eight if I hadn’t gotten away.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I was expecting something to happen. The meeting was supposed to be peaceful, no weapons. But I was on high alert because The Bookkeeper is reputed to be a ruthless son of a bitch. Do you remember a few weeks ago—it was on the news—about a Latino kid found in a ditch up near Lafayette with his throat cut?”
“There was no identification on him. Do you know who he was?”
“Not his name. I know he was being transported by one of The Bookkeeper’s ‘clients’ to a place in New Orleans that caters to…” He glanced into the rearview mirror. The kid was singing along with Elmo. “Caters to clients with lots of money and a taste for kinky sex. This kid knew what awaited him. He escaped during a refueling stop.
“Most of these kids are too scared to go to the authorities, but one might get brave. Apparently The Bookkeeper feared as much. His people caught up to this kid before he could do any damage.” He looked at her and muttered, “He’s probably better off dead. Shortly after the kid’s body turned up, a state trooper was found with his throat slit. I have an inkling the two murders are connected.”
“Do you think this Bookkeeper is a public official?”
“Could be. Maybe not. I was hoping to learn his identity on Sunday night,” he said tightly. “Because something big is brewing. I’ve just caught whiffs of it, but I think The Bookkeeper is courting a new client. Scary people with zero tolerance for screw-ups.”
Again she massaged her forehead. “I refuse to believe that Eddie was involved in anything relating to this. I can’t believe it of Sam Marset, either.”
“Marset was in it strictly for the money. He was a fat cat who profited off vices, but he wasn’t violent. If somebody crossed him, he ruined them. Usually financially. Or caught them with their pants down in a hotel room and blackmailed them. Like that. He was of the mind that the flyblown body of a thirteen-year-old boy being found in a ditch was bad for business.