swamp.”
“Let’s hope.”
“His employee application said his residence before Tambour was Orange, Texas. But I checked the address and it’s bogus.”
“So nobody knows for sure where he came from.”
“Nobody to ask,” Fred said dryly. “His coworkers on the loading dock are dead.”
“But he’s been in Tambour for thirteen months. He had to know somebody.”
“Nobody’s come forward.”
“Nobody would, though, would they?”
“Guess not. After last night, who’d want to claim him as a friend?”
“Bartender? Waitress? Somebody he traded with?”
“Officers are canvassing. A checker at Rouse’s who’d rung up his groceries a few times said he was pleasant enough, but definitely not a friendly sort. Said he always paid in cash. We ran his Social Security number through. No credit cards came up, no debts. No account in any town bank. He cashed his paychecks at one of those places that do that for a percentage.”
“The man didn’t want to leave a paper trail.”
“And he didn’t.”
Doral asked if Coburn’s neighbors had been interviewed.
“By me personally,” Fred replied. “Everybody in the apartment complex knew him by sight. Women thought he was attractive in that certain kind of way.”
“What certain kind of way?”
“Wished they could fuck him, but considered him bad news.”
“That’s a ‘
“Of course that’s a ‘
“Who told you that?”
“It’s just something I know.” He nudged his twin in the ribs. “ ’Course I understand women better than you do.”
“Piss up my other leg.”
They shared a chuckle, then Fred turned serious again. “Men I talked to said they knew better than to mess with Coburn, which wasn’t a problem, because he came and went without even a nod for anybody.”
“Girlfriends?”
“None that anybody knew of.”
“Boyfriends?”
“None that anybody knew of.”
“You search his apartment?”
“Thoroughly. It’s a one-room efficiency on the east side of town, and not a damn thing in it to give us a clue. Work clothes in the closet. Chicken pot pies in the freezer. The man lived like a monk. One thumbed copy of
“Computer?”
“No.”
“What about his phone?”
Fred had found a cell phone at the murder scene and had determined that it didn’t belong to any of the bullet-riddled bodies. “Recent calls, one to that lousy Chinese food place that delivers in town, and one came in to him from a telemarketer.”
“That’s it? Two calls?”
“In thirty-six hours.”
“Well, damn.” Doral swatted at a biting fly.
“We’re checking out the other calls in his log. See who the numbers belong to. But right now, we know nothing about Lee Coburn except that he’s out here somewhere, and that we’re gonna catch shit if we don’t find him.” Lowering his voice, Fred added, “And I’d just as soon return him in a body bag as in handcuffs. Best thing for us? We’d find his lifeless body floating in a bayou.”
“Townsfolk wouldn’t complain. Marset was highly thought of. Practically the freaking prince of Tambour.”
Sam Marset had been the owner of the Royale Trucking Company, president of the Rotary Club, an elder at St. Boniface Catholic Church, an Eagle Scout, a Mason. He had chaired various boards and was usually grand marshal of the town’s Mardi Gras parade. He had been a pillar of the community whom folks had admired and liked.
He was now a corpse with a bullet hole in his head, and, as if that one hadn’t been enough to kill him, another had been fired into his chest for extra measure. The other six shooting victims probably wouldn’t be missed much, but Marset’s murder had warranted a televised press conference earlier that morning. It had been covered by numerous community newspapers from the coastal region of the state, and all of the major New Orleans television stations were represented.
Fred had presided, flanked at the microphone by city officials, including his twin. The New Orleans P.D. had loaned Tambour police a sketch artist, who’d rendered a drawing of Coburn based on descriptions provided by neighbors: Caucasian male around six feet three inches tall, average weight, athletic build, black hair, blue eyes, thirty-four years of age according to his employee records.
Fred had concluded the press conference by filling television screens with the drawing and warning locals that Coburn was believed still to be in the area and should be considered armed and dangerous.
“You laid it on pretty thick,” Doral said now, referring to Fred’s closing remarks. “No matter how slippery Lee Coburn is, everybody’s going to be after his hide. I don’t think he has a prayer of escaping the area.”
Fred looked at his brother and raised one eyebrow. “You mean that honestly, or is that wishful thinking?”
Before Doral could reply, Fred’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and smiled across at his brother. “Tom VanAllen. FBI to the rescue.”
Chapter 3
Coburn gradually backed away from the woman, but even then, her fear of him was palpable. Good. He needed her to be afraid. Fear would inspire cooperation. “They’re searching for you,” she said.
“Behind every tree.”
“Police, state troopers, volunteers. Dogs.”
“I heard them yelping early this morning.”
“They’ll catch you.”
“They haven’t yet.”
“You should keep running.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Gillette?”
Her expression became even more stark with fear, so the significance of his knowing her name hadn’t escaped her. He hadn’t randomly selected her house in which to take refuge. It-she-had been a destination.
“Mommy, the kitty went into the bushes and won’t come out.”
Coburn’s back was to the door, but he’d heard the little girl come in from outside, had heard the soles of her sandals slapping against the hardwood floor as she approached the kitchen. But he didn’t turn toward her. His gaze remained fixed on the kid’s mother.
Her face had turned as white as chalk. Her lips looked practically bloodless as her eyes sawed back and forth between him and the kid. But Coburn gave her credit for keeping her voice light and cheerful. “That’s what kitties do, Em. They hide.”
“How come?”
