Lethal by Sandra Brown

carries it in a belt around his ankle, but I can’t ever touch it ’cause it’s sharp and I could get hurt.”
    “Huh.”
    Honor scraped back her chair and shot to her feet. “Time for your nap, Em.”
    Her face puckered into a frown of rebellion. “I’m not sleepy.”
    “It’s rest time. Come on.”
    Honor’s voice brooked no argument. The child’s expression was still mutinous, but she climbed down from her chair and headed out of the kitchen. Coburn left the remainder of the apple on his plate and followed them.
    In the frilly pink bedroom, the kid got up onto the bed and extended her feet over the edge of it. Her mother removed her sandals and set them on the floor, then said, “Down you go. Sleepy time.”
    The little girl laid her head on the pillow and reached for a cotton quilt so faded and frayed that it looked out of place in the room. She tucked it beneath her chin. “Would you hand me my Elmo, please?” She addressed this request to Coburn.
    He followed the direction of her gaze and saw a red stuffed toy lying on the floor near his mud-caked boot. He recognized the grinning face from the bottle of hand soap. He bent down and picked it up. The thing began to sing, startling him. He quickly handed it to the kid.
    “Thank you.” She cradled it against her chest and sighed happily.
    It occurred to Coburn that he didn’t recall a time in his life when he’d experienced that kind of contentment. He wondered what it was like to fall asleep without having to worry over whether or not you’d wake up.
    Honor bent down and kissed her child’s forehead. The kid’s eyes were already closed. He noticed that her eyelids looked almost transparent. They had tiny purple veins crisscrossing them. He’d never noticed anyone’s eyelids before, unless it was seconds before they drew a gun on him. Then that person usually had died with that telltale squint intact.
    As they left the bedroom, the toy was still singing a silly little song about friends. Honor pulled the door shut behind them. He glanced at the boxes lined up along the wall, then took her cell phone from his jeans pocket and handed it to her. She looked at him curiously.
    “Call your father-in-law. You know, the one who works at staying fit. The one with the big magic knife strapped to his ankle. Tell him the party’s off.”

Chapter 8

     
    T he Royale Trucking Company’s warehouse was cordoned off with crime scene tape. The vicinity just outside that barrier was jammed with official vehicles and those of onlookers who’d converged to gawk. They were collected in groups, exchanging the latest rumors surrounding the mass murder and the man who had committed it.
    Allegedly committed it
, Stan Gillette reminded himself as he parked his car and got out.
    Before leaving his house, he’d assessed his image in the full-length bathroom mirror with a critical eye. He’d patted his flat stomach, run his hand over his closely cropped hair, adjusted his starched collar, checked the crease in his pants legs, the shine on his shoes, and had determined that the discipline he’d acquired during his military career had served him well in civilian life.
    He’d never resented the U.S. Marine Corps’ near-impossible standards. In truth, he wished they’d beenstricter. If being a Marine was easy, everybody would be one, right? He’d been born one of the few, the proud.
    He was conscious of the authoritative figure he cut as he made his way through the crowd. People parted for him to pass. An air of command came naturally to him. Which is why he had decided to visit the scene of last night’s crime, and why no one challenged him as he made his way up to the yellow tape.
    Inside it and several yards away, Fred Hawkins was engrossed in conversation with a handful of other men, Doral among them. Stan caught Doral’s eye, and, looking grateful for the interruption, he jogged over.
    “Hell of a mess we’ve got here, Doral,” Stan said.
    “A regular