Free Lethal by Sandra Brown

Mrs. Thibadoux,” Tom said. “The search of the trucks hasn’t yielded anything.”
    The first thing he’d done last night, after being alerted to the multiple murder, was to order that all the trucks in the Royale fleet be stopped along their routes and thoroughly searched.
    “I didn’t expect it to,” Fred said. “If Coburn had an accomplice who whisked him away in a company truck, or a buddy who provided him a getaway, he could have been dropped anywhere.”
    “I’m aware of that,” Tom said testily. “But the drivers are being held and questioned all the same. And using the company manifests, we’re checking out anyone who was in that warehouse within the past month. Coburn could have forged an alliance with someone who worked for any of the companies Royale does business with. Maybe more than one.”
    “Nothing’s missing from the warehouse.”
    “That we know of,” Tom stressed. “Coburn could have been stealing for a while, a little at a time, and it just hadn’t caught up with him yet. Maybe his embezzlement wasn’t exposed until yesterday, and when Sam challenged him, he went haywire. Anyhow, I’ve got agents working that angle.”
    Fred shrugged as though to say it was the federal government’s time and manpower that were being wasted. Sardonically he said, “You can question Coburn about that when we catch him.”
    “If it’s us.”
    “It’ll be us,” Fred growled with resolve. “He’s still in the area or I’m not three-quarters Coonass.”
    “What makes you so sure?”
    “I can feel him like hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.”
    Tom didn’t argue. Some law enforcement officers had innate crime-solving skills that had inspired their career choice. Tom wasn’t one of them. He’d always wanted to be an FBI agent, to work in that environment, but he’d never deluded himself into believing that he possessed extraordinary powers of detection or deduction. He relied strictly on training and procedure.
    He knew he didn’t call to mind the sexy, glamorous image of an FBI agent that Hollywood portrayed—steely-eyed, iron-jawed men defying machine-gun bullets as they chased gangsters in fast cars.
    The perils Tom faced were of another kind altogether.
    He cleared his throat to shake off that disturbing thought. “So you think Coburn is out there somewhere.” He shaded his eyes against the sun, which hadn’t yet slipped below the tree line. He could hear the search helicopter hovering not too far away but couldn’t see it in the glare. “Chopper might spot the boat.”
    “Might. But probably won’t.”
    “No?”
    Fred relocated his gum to the other side of his mouth. “It’s been up there going on two hours. I’m thinking Coburn’s too smart to let himself be sighted that easily. It’s not like that chopper can sneak up on him. Meanwhile we’ve got police boats trolling miles—”
    A sharp whistle drew their attention to the ramshackle boat dock fifty yards from Mrs. Thibadoux’s dwelling. Doral Hawkins was waving his arms high above his head. VanAllen and Fred jogged down the grassy slope that was littered with junk, relics from salvage yards and garage sales that had been purchased, then left to the mercy of salt air.
    They joined Doral and several uniformed officers who were grouped around an area on the bank of the bayou. “What have you got, brother?” Fred asked.
    “Partial footprint. Even better, blood.” Doral proudly pointed out what was obviously spatters of blood near a distinct depression in the cool mud.
    “Hot damn!” Fred went down on his haunches to better examine the first real clue they’d found.
    “Don’t get too excited,” Doral said. “Looks like the heel of a cowboy boot. Could belong to one of those idiot teenagers the old lady was ranting about.”
    “She said they were down here at her dock only a few days ago,” Tom remarked.
    “We’ll check out their footwear,” Fred said. “But one of the ladies who works in the