Gillette’s glare turned even more malevolent, but finally he ground out the question, “What the hell is it that you’re looking for?”
“We don’t know, but we have a clue.” Coburn motioned to her. “Show him.”
She turned her back to Gillette, raised her shirt, and tipped down her waistband to expose the small of her back. She explained when and how she’d gotten the tattoo. “That long weekend was only two weeks before Eddie was killed. He drew the design for the tattoo artist. He didn’t want to place me in danger by giving me the item outright, so he left me with the clue of where to find it.”
“You still don’t know what this item is?” Stan asked.
“No, but Coburn figured out that the tattoo says ‘Hawks8.’ ”
It had taken a while to decipher the figures concealed within the intricate swirls and curlicues of the seemingly random pattern. The significance of the time and intimacy required to unravel the puzzle wasn’t lost on Gillette.
“You went to bed with this guy.”
Although the old man bristled with censure as he snarled the words, Honor didn’t flinch. “Yes, I did.”
“For the purpose of vouchsafing your husband’s integrity. Is that what you expect me to believe?”
She glanced at Coburn, then looked her father-in-law straight in the eye. “Frankly, Stan, I don’t care what you believe. The only reason I slept with Coburn was because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with Eddie. Judge me to your heart’s content, but I’ll tell you right now that your opinion on this matter makes no difference to me whatsoever. I didn’t need your permission to sleep with Coburn. I don’t have to justify it. I don’t regret it. I won’t apologize for it, now or ever.” She squared her shoulders. “Now, what does ‘Hawks8’ mean?”
Coburn knew the instant that Gillette realized he was defeated. Diminished pride transformed him physically. His chin lowered to a less belligerent angle. His shoulders relaxed, fractionally but noticeably. The ferocity in his eyes faded several degrees, and there was weariness in his voice when he spoke. “The Hawks was a soccer team up in Baton Rouge. Eddie played one season with them. He was number eight.”
Coburn asked, “Does he have a framed picture of the team? A roster? Trophy? Uniform?”
“Nothing like that. It was a ragtag league and soon disbanded. What they mostly did was get together on Saturday afternoons and drink beer after the games. They played in shorts and T-shirts. Nothing fancy. No team photos.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Coburn said to Honor, then left them and went into Eddie’s bedroom, where he remembered finding a pair of soccer cleats in the closet. He had examined each shoe, but perhaps he’d missed something.
He took the cleats from the closet, dug his fingers into the right shoe, then ripped out the innersole. Nothing. He turned the shoe over, studied the sole, and realized he’d need a tool in order to pry it off. He searched the left shoe in a similar manner, but when he ripped out the innersole, a minuscule piece of paper dropped into his lap.
It had been folded once so that it would lie flat inside the innersole without causing a wrinkle. He unfolded the note and read the single printed word: BALL.
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.