“Where did he get the notion?”
“Rumor mill, he said.”
That was troubling. The rumor had to have originated in Tom VanAllen’s own office, based on the fishing Hamilton had done yesterday. Apparently his inquiries hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought. Shelving that issue for the moment, he gave Tom background information on Coburn.
“I recruited him straight out of the Marines and trained him personally. He’s one of the best undercover agents in the bureau. He always worked deep, but never as deep as he did at Marset’s company.
“He took Mrs. Gillette and the little girl from their home for their own protection. I spoke with her on the phone yesterday. Neither she nor the child has suffered any harm from Coburn. Nor will they. On that score, you can ease your mind.” He paused, then said, “What you should be concerned about is the seepage of information out of your office.”
VanAllen didn’t say anything for the longest time, but Hamilton could feel the man’s slow burn coming through the phone. When he did speak, his voice vibrated with anger. “Why did you deliberately mislead me about Coburn?”
“Because his mission was sensitive. Before revealing who he was, I had to know how he was perceived.”
“You made a fool of me.”
“No, I—”
“What would you call such gross manipulation?”
“Tactics, Tom.” Hamilton raised his voice to match the angry level of VanAllen’s. “There’s some bad shit going on down there, and everyone is susceptible to corruption.”
“That’s a chickenshit response.”
“Ours is a chickenshit business. In order to be good at it, you can’t trust anybody.”
“If you didn’t trust me, why did you appoint me to this job? Or is that why? Because you didn’t trust me.”
“I appointed you because you were, and are, the best man for that position.”
VanAllen gave a bitter laugh. “Well, in light of my position, can you tell me why Coburn was planted inside Sam Marset’s trucking company?”
“Is this line secure?”
“Is any?”
“Good point,” Hamilton said dryly.
“The building was swept for bugs this morning. We’re as safe as we ever can be. What was Coburn’s mission?”
Hamilton talked him through the nuts and bolts of Coburn’s secret op. “Essentially he went in to unmask all the players. Discovered more than he bargained for.”
“The Bookkeeper.”
“The Bookkeeper. Coburn says he was on the verge of making an ID.”
“So why haven’t you made arrangements for him to come in, share what he knows?”
“I tried,” Hamilton said. “He’s reluctant.”
“Why?”
“He wants to finish what he started.”
“How noble,” VanAllen said snidely. “The truth is, he doesn’t trust this office and his fellow FBI agents.”
Hamilton said nothing. Some statements didn’t need any elaboration.
“Where does Mrs. Gillette fit into this?” VanAllen asked.
“Not her per se. Possibly her late husband. Coburn thinks Gillette died with secrets to reveal about The Bookkeeper.”
“That explains why Stan Gillette was yelling about false accusations against his late son.”
“Chalk up another reason for him to hate Coburn. And then there’s Doral Hawkins, who’s out to avenge his brother. The target on Coburn’s back gets bigger every minute he’s out there.”
“Which makes his reluctance to come out of hiding understandable.”
“It’s a volatile situation, and the whole thing could blow up in our faces.” Having reached the heart of the matter, Hamilton waited several beats, then said, “That’s why I need you to be in top form, Tom.”
“You want me to bring them in.”
“I do. Bring them in along with any knowledge either has of The Bookkeeper. We need to finish this thing.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Understanding alone isn’t good enough, Tom. I need to know that I can count on you.”
Chapter 31
As soon as Coburn climbed back into the pickup truck, he placed his hands on the steering wheel and tried to ignore the damp spot on his cheek where Emily had planted a kiss.
He wanted to wipe it away, but doing so would be an acknowledgment that it was there and that he felt it. Better that he attach no significance to it whatsoever. But as he watched the Mini Cooper disappear around the bend on the other side of the bridge, he realized that he was going to miss the kid’s chatter.
When Honor joined him in the pickup, he gave her a dirty look for having lagged behind, but he didn’t say anything because she was trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears, and the last thing he needed was for her to have a crying jag.
He started the truck, glad to be leaving this so-called secret meeting place. As they crossed the groaning wooden bridge, Honor said, “You mentioned to Tori that the authorities would be on the lookout for this pickup by now. What makes you think so?”
He explained about the tire tracks they had left near the boat. “No way they could have missed them. If these tires were put on this truck at the factory, they’ll be on the lookout for this make and model.”
“Which means we risk being stopped.”
“Until we get another set of wheels.”
“You plan to steal another car?”
“I do.”
“From?”
“The same family that supplied the truck.”
They drove for almost twenty minutes along back roads on which even natives to the region could have become lost. But Coburn had a photographic memory of places he’d been and a flawless sense of direction, so he was able to relocate the house from which he’d taken the pickup.
The house was half a mile away from its nearest neighbor. It sat roughly seventy yards off the road, and was screened by a dense grove of pine trees. The mailbox at the turnoff was the only giveaway that there was a house at all. The box was still bulging with uncollected mail.
As he slowly guided the pickup up the private drive, he was relieved to note that nothing had changed since he’d been there eighteen hours earlier. The owners hadn’t returned.
“How did you get here yesterday?” Honor asked. “How’d you find it?”
“I was driving around looking for a car that would be easy to steal. Noticed the mailbox. I went past, ditched the other car about two miles from here, then doubled back on foot.” He pulled the truck to its original spot behind the house and cut the engine.
“Nice place,” she remarked.
He shrugged. “I guess. It serves my purpose.”
Honor, looking thoughtfully at the shuttered windows on the back of the house, said, “I was married to a police officer sworn to safeguarding people and property. Do you ever feel guilty about stealing cars or trespassing?”
“No.”
She turned her head and looked at him with a combination of dismay and disappointment.
Both of which vexed him. “If you’re nursing qualms about trespassing and stealing cars, you should have gone with your friend. But, for Eddie’s sake, you wanted to see this through. If you want to see it through and stay alive, you’d better start thinking mean.”
“Like you.”
“Me? No. Mean like the bad guys who transport young girls from city to city to be sex slaves to degenerates. That’s mean. And your darling Eddie might have been part of it.”
He opened the door to the pickup and got out. He didn’t look back to see if Honor would follow. He knew she would. That had been a cheap shot, but it was calculated to snap her out of her conscientious slump.
Besides, he’d had it up to here with Saint Eddie. And who knew? Maybe Eddie had specialized in trafficking girls.