“Yeah, well, I’m an agent of the federal government, but five minutes ago you accused me of wacking out. It happens all the time, you said.”
“Not to my son!” Gillette shouted with such force he sprayed spittle. “Eddie wasn’t a crook.”
“Then prove it,” Coburn challenged. “If you’re so damn sure of Saint Eddie’s honor, if you’re innocent of criminal activity, you should be eager to help us find whatever it was that Eddie stashed before he was killed.”
Honor took a step closer to her father-in-law. “I believe Eddie died a hero, not the victim of an accident. My actions this week might appear out of character, bizarre even. But, Stan, everything I did, I did with one purpose in mind, and that was to dispel even a hint that Eddie was corrupt.”
“This man,” Gillette said, hitching his chin toward Coburn, “who you claim to trust, is the one who has brought Eddie’s reputation into question. Doesn’t that strike you as a paradox?”
“Coburn questions everything and everyone. That’s his job. But no matter what Coburn says or suspects, I haven’t lost faith in Eddie.” She paused, then asked softly, “Have you?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then help me prove just how valorous he was. Help us find what we’re looking for.”
He released a gust of breath. He looked from her to Coburn, patent dislike in his burning gaze.
Coburn felt the old man needed some goading. “How come you hate me so much?”
“You have to ask?”
“We’ve explained why I took Honor and Emily away, why I kept them separated from you. Now that you know I’m not a kidnapper, now that you know they’re safe, I’d think a little gratitude for saving their lives would be in order.
“Instead, you attack me, nearly cut off my arm. You wouldn’t even have talked to me if I hadn’t secured you to that chair. You despise me on principle, Gillette. Why?” He waited a beat, then said, “Is it because you think my suspicions of Eddie are so very wrong? Or because you’re afraid they’re right?”
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 physica
lly. 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.