Dead Men's Dust (17 page)

THERE WAS NO TIME FOR CLEANUP.

We had to move fast.

Priority was getting Louise away from any backlash from the turmoil at her house. Harvey was up to the task. He took Louise one way with instructions to meet us in an hour. Rink and I streaked away from the house and the rising wail of approaching sirens.

Away from the cordon of police vehicles, I asked Rink to pull up at a telephone booth.

The call was enough to ensure that police action would be in our favor. Walter has that effect. It’s the weight a sub-division director of the CIA wields.

We met at the same diner as last time. Louise was dressed as before. Still good-looking. Still worn around the edges. But she was different now. She held herself tentatively, like every muscle in her body ached. Fear haunted her eyes.

She was hurting from the beating she’d taken. Scared half to death by what she’d witnessed. I sympathized with her, but that wasn’t why we were there. The men who’d tortured her did so for a reason. She knew more than she was admitting to.

She’d already swallowed a cup of black coffee and was asking for more when we walked in. Harvey, playing chaperone, was sitting opposite her in the same booth. He looked as sharp as Samuel L. Jackson did in the remake of
Shaft.

In contrast, I felt, and probably looked, like someone who’d slept in his clothes and tended to his ablutions in a tiny bowl in a cramped bathroom. Though washed and shaved, my body felt gritty and as rumpled as my shirt. The splinters of wood in my cheek itched like hell.

I sat down in no mood for wasting time.

“So what’ve you got to tell us, Louise?” I asked.

Louise shook her head, reaching for her coffee. I put my hand over her cup and she snapped her face to mine. There was fear there, but not a little anger. Good. It was the ideal mix.

“You haven’t come up with anything that’d help us find John?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I haven’t exactly had the time, considering I was held captive all morning.”

“Have you seen the news?”

From the tight grimace on her face, I could tell that she had.

“Have you spoken to the FBI yet?”

“Yes. They were at my place half the night. Another reason I didn’t get around to looking for
clues
.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“Just what I told you.”

“Which is just about nothing,” I said. Sarcasm was heavy in my voice, but I was in no frame of mind to worry about hurting her feelings. In my estimation, she wasn’t the sensitive type anyway.

“I don’t know anything.”

“Bullshit!” I said a little too loudly. The waitress behind the serving counter shot me a concerned look. I raised an apologetic hand. The waitress nodded and went on about her business. She knew when to keep her nose out of other people’s affairs.

“The men who were in your house,” I said. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” she said. Her voice was strident. She pawed at the tail of her blouse, hitching it up. Her ribs were red and swollen from repeated whacks from the Yellow Pages. “Why do you think they were hitting me?”

Okay, then. She did have a point.

She didn’t tell them anything. But it didn’t mean there was nothing to tell.

Her hands were icy cold when I took them in mine.

“Now, Louise. We’re going to start over again. This time you tell me what you know. Okay? You asked me here to help find John. I’ve traveled thousands of miles. The least you can do is tell me the goddamn truth.”

Louise prized her hands free, then looked down at the table. I thought I detected a tear at the corner of one eye, but I could have been mistaken. She pushed her hair off her face, maybe surreptitiously wiping away the tear. When she looked up at me, it was with clear, defiant eyes.

“John’s no killer,” she said.

“I know that,” I told her. “But he has been up to something illegal. And you know exactly what it is.”

She shook her head, a lock of hair breaking loose and floating across her features. “If I say anything, he could go to prison.”

I snorted. “If you say
nothing
he’ll be going to prison for a damn sight longer.”

“If he doesn’t go to the gas chamber, that is,” Rink added for emphasis.

“He didn’t kill anyone,” Louise said. She was adamant. Her fingernails dug at the tabletop. “He was with me when some of the murders took place. I can swear to that!”

“You have to prove it, though,” I pointed out. “Your solemn word
isn’t worth shit, Louise. Can you also give him an alibi for the other times of death?”

“That’s the problem,” she said. She glanced over at the waitress, checking that she wasn’t listening. She leaned toward me and whispered, “If I say where he really was, he’ll get put in prison anyway.”

I looked at Harvey, then at Rink, for support. Both sat with frowns on their faces. It was helpful having such sage council at hand. When I spoke, I’d lost the hard edge to my voice. “Tell me what he’s been up to, Louise. If I’m going to help John, I need to know.”

She chewed at the corner of her lower lip. Any other time it would have looked as sexy as hell. Not now, though. She simply looked like a woman terrified of the consequences of her next words. “The delivery job,” she said.

“Oh,” I said.

She shook her mane of hair. “It’s not what you think.”

“Not
drugs
?” I asked.

Louise looked like I’d just thrown salt in her face. “No. Not drugs. Do you think I’d stand by him if he
ever
went near that crap?”

I placed my hands flat on the table, leaned forward to stare in her face. “Depends on how much you love him.”

Louise snorted and gave me the dead eye.

“Okay. Sorry. I don’t doubt that you love him.”

“It wasn’t drugs,” she stated.

“Okay,” I said, relieved. “So what was he doing?”

Louise picked up her coffee in defiance, drained it, placed the cup back down. A stall while she ordered the words in her mind. “He was couriering.”

“Couriering what?”

“It wasn’t so much what as who he was doing it for.” She glanced around again. “Like I said, if the police find out, he’ll be in deep shit.”

“Let’s worry about finding John first,” I said. “We can worry about the police later.”

Louise dropped her head in acquiescence.

“He stole something. Something big.”

I blinked. “Something big?”

“That’s all I know. He wouldn’t say what it was.”

I pushed my hands through my hair, back down over my face, then leaned my elbows on the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I finally said. Though I knew she wasn’t. John had got very good at hiding secrets toward the end.

“Honestly. He wouldn’t say, so I didn’t ask. Whatever it was, he said he could sell it, to make life better for everyone,” she said. As if that made things all right.

I swore under my breath. I knew exactly where this was taking us now. Who the fake CIA agents probably were. “Who was he working for?”

“Sigmund Petoskey,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “But who was he collecting from?”

“I don’t know for sure. A gangster from up north. Henry-something-or-other.”

“Hendrickson?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“The men who were beating you this morning,” I said. “They work for Hendrickson, huh?”

“They’re the ones that John’s running from,” she agreed. She turned her face to the table, began playing with her empty cup.

“Have they been pressuring you for John’s whereabouts?” I asked. “Before this morning, I mean.”

Without answering, she leaned back, lifted up her blouse. I saw a toned abdomen. She pulled down the waistband of her skirt and there were three definite cigarette burns peeking above her panty line. “I’d show you more,” she said, “only I don’t know you as well as my gynecologist.”

I bit down on my lip. One thing I was sure about: there was going to be a reckoning with the two who’d escaped us this morning.

“Why didn’t you say something, Louise? We could’ve stopped them from hurting you again.”

Her downcast eyelids trembled. “I was trying to protect John.”

I looked at Harvey. “Any word on the street about the two who got away from us?”

“Nothing, Hunter,” he replied. “You ask me, they heard the news and took off to the Mojave to try an’ pick up John’s trail. Which I suggest is probably your best play, too.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Rink told me.

Yeah. Me, too. But there were still a few loose ends I wanted to clear up first. When we’d raided Petoskey’s building, I thought he’d been too ready to talk. Made me wonder if he’d been hiding something else about John. His anger at my brother had never been about a gambling debt. It had all been about this
something big
Louise mentioned. “Louise, what involvement did John have with Petoskey?”

She pulled her hair into a rope with her hands. “Petoskey was paying him decent money to drive up-country. I don’t know where he was going, but he was gone about three days each time. He’d come back with his van loaded with packing crates and he’d drop them off at a warehouse Petoskey owns. That was his only part in it.”

“What happened to the packing crates after they were dropped off?”

“I don’t know, John didn’t tell me.”

“And you’ve no idea what was inside them?”

“No.”

Rink asked, “Any word about what Petoskey is up to, Harvey?”

“Nope,” Harvey said. “Petoskey’s probably only playing the middle man. Likely, whatever’s in the crates is getting shipped out of the country.”

“Where to?” I asked.

“Beats me, man,” Harvey said.

I had my suspicions but let them lie for now.

“What do you think?” Rink asked me. “Petoskey, Russian Mob? The Mambo Kings, Cuban? You think there’s some kind of communist connection? You know where I’m going with this?”

“Could be. But it’s not our concern just now. I’m more interested in finding John before anyone else gets to him.”

Rink exhaled. “You want me to wait before I call this in?”

“Yeah, Rink. The last thing I want is more involvement from the government. It’s bad enough we had to call in a cleanup crew for this morning. As far as Walter’s concerned, we offed a hit man. That’s all.”

Walter had come through for us on this one. However, just the sniff of foreign involvement would mean the entire weight of the Central Intelligence Agency coming down on us like an avalanche. At best our movements would be severely hindered, at worst we’d be locked in a small dark place for fear we’d jeopardize their mission. Our suspicions had to remain just that.

“Don’t worry, Rink. If things do turn out as we suspect, Petoskey will be made to pay when this is over with,” I told him.

Louise watched us with dawning horror. Panic was building in her and I gave her a look to stop her from raising her voice. But she did blurt it out. Maybe it was more of a frantic whisper. “Are you saying those men at my house could be
terrorists
?”

“No, I’m not saying that,” I told her.

“They could’ve killed me.”

“Of course,” I said. It was pointless lying. If the beating didn’t finally get what they wanted from her, who knows what they would have done next? Louise’s face fell. She wrapped her arms around her body as if to stop her aching ribs from exploding. She rocked in place.

I felt shitty. After all she’d been through, I wasn’t coming across as the sympathetic type. Sure, she’d been lying…at first. But what
woman wouldn’t do that to protect her man? It was probably the ideal time to give her a little hope again.

“Now that they’ve got a lead on John, I guarantee you won’t see them again,” I said.

“But what if they don’t find John? Won’t they come back?”

“They won’t,” I promised. Not if I stopped them first.

Louise was growing despondent again, speeding up her back-and-forth movement. She snatched the rope of hair into the corner of her mouth and began gnawing on it.

“At least we’ve got a starting point,” I said. “We’ll leave for Los Angeles this afternoon, try and pick up John’s trail from there.”

“Why Los Angeles?” she asked, coming to a sudden halt. I wondered if I’d touched on something she knew. But she didn’t say anything, only waited for me.

“It’s obvious that John was headed west. His car was found abandoned only a few hours from Los Angeles; I’m betting that’s where he is now.”

“Some big-time players out on the West Coast,” Rink agreed. “You think John’s out there looking for a buyer?”

“Yeah,” I said.

If John wasn’t the killer of those people at the motel, something had suddenly become very obvious to me. The real killer and John had crossed paths. Maybe John was already dead, buried somewhere out in the Mojave Desert. In all likelihood, the killer now had what John had stolen, which probably meant he’d be looking for a buyer for it. That meant the killer was probably in the L.A. area trying to hook up with one of these big-time players. Whatever this
something big
turned out to be, it was a curse; he was welcome to the damned thing. But if he had killed John, he’d just made himself a major enemy.

“
KEN BIANCHI AND ANGELO BUONO,” CAIN WHISPERED TO
himself.

As serial killers go, their names aren’t easily recalled. Not like Bundy or Gacy. Not until their singular epithet is apparent: the Hillside Strangler. Now that’s a name that’s familiar to every American citizen over the age of puberty.

Cousins Bianchi and Buono terrorized the western states in the 1970s, raping and killing in unison. The law only caught up with them after Bianchi’s lust became too great and, without the aid of his partner, he’d botched the abduction of two women.

It isn’t often that killers work together. As far as Cain was concerned, Bianchi and Buono were the only true serial killers to do so. Which was why he’d been toying with the notion that the world was overdue for another terrible twosome.

The thought hadn’t appealed for long. For a number of reasons. John Telfer didn’t have the gall to pull the trigger when he’d had the opportunity. He was no killer. He was a thief who deserved only to be punished. But mainly, why the hell should John
freaking
Telfer share any of his glory?

No, any thought of a fledgling partnership was out the window. Telfer had to die. Perhaps he’d even be Cain’s magnum opus, his announcement to the world. The death that would make him famous.

However, there was still a task or two to be completed before Cain allowed himself the satisfaction of flaying the hide from Telfer’s thieving hands. First off, there was the subject of what he’d discovered in Telfer’s backpack.

The denouement had come as a surprise to him.

“I’ve got a feeling I know what this is,” Cain said.

Telfer sighed. “They’re plates.”

“Litho plates? For printing counterfeit money.”

Telfer sighed again.

Cain slowly bent down and picked up one of the wads. As Telfer eyed him expectantly, he peeled one of the bills loose and held it up to the light above his head. The watermark was there.

“Not bad,” Cain said. “Though if you look closely, there’s a little merging of the whorls along the edge. It wouldn’t pass the scrutiny of a Treasury agent.” He was lost momentarily as he studied the note, turning it over in his hand. The gun was no longer pointed at Telfer, and for a split second the opportunity was there for Telfer to leap at him. Even with his hands bound, he might have wrenched the gun free and turned the tables on his captor. But the moment passed. “This paper stock. How did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” Telfer said. “I had nothing to do with the printing of the money. I was just a courier.”

Cain nodded to himself. “Apparently the paper’s the hardest thing to come by. It’s all produced up at a mill in Massachusetts. Under guard of the U.S. Treasury Department, no less. It’s some sort of high-grade cotton and linen mix, extremely hard to duplicate. And see these little blue and red lines? They’re rayon fibers mixed in to make the paper even more difficult to fake. Most counterfeit bills don’t have these. Oh, wait, I see it now.” He held the note very close to his face. “The
security marks aren’t actually in the weave of the paper. They’ve been added at the printing stage. Still, it’s a very good copy.”

Telfer looked at him as though he was mad—which in effect he probably was.

Cain laughed to himself. “I have a keen eye for detail, that’s all.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

Cain waved down the flattery.

“I just know these kind of things.” He laughed in a self-conscious manner totally out of character. “I suppose you could say I’m well read. A mine of useless information, huh?”

“Or you do work for the people who are after me,” Telfer said. He made it sound as though he was joking, but the idea had obviously invaded his thoughts.

Cain twisted his mouth. “No. I work alone.”

By the look in his eyes, Telfer believed him. But it didn’t make his predicament any less dangerous.

Cain dropped the bill on the coffee table, reached for the litho plates. “These can’t be originals?”

“I don’t suppose they are,” Telfer replied. “But they’re still worth decent money to the right person.”

Cain gave him a shallow smile. “Are you attempting to bribe me, Mr. Telfer?”

“If it’s going to save my life, yes.”

Cain’s smile turned into a full grin. “At last! We’re being fully truthful now. That’s more like it.” He pulled the tape free from the stack of four litho plates and held one of them up. “They’re not real plates. They’ve been etched from a copy after a hundred-dollar bill was scanned into a computer. That’s why there’s no clarity on the scrollwork. Still, like you say, they’ll be worth good money to the right buyer.”

Telfer grinned along with him. “So what do you say we make a deal? My life for the plates?”

“Nah,” Cain said, dropping the litho on the table. “It’s not as simple as that. Why would I let you go when I can kill you and then take the plates for myself?”

Telfer inclined his chin. “You seem to know a lot about the process of making counterfeit notes. Do you also know who’s in the printing game? Who’d be prepared to buy the litho plates from you?”

Nodding his head, Cain said, “Well, I have to admit…you’ve got me there.”

“I’ve already set up a deal. I’m supposed to meet the buyer tomorrow.”

Cain snorted.

“It’s the truth. Why would I lie to you?”

“Who are you meeting with?”

Telfer shook his head. “Christ, man. Give me a little credit, will you? I’m trying to save my life here. You can’t expect me to tell you who I intend selling the plates to.”

“I could cut the name out of your throat,” Cain pointed out.

“Yes, you could. But it wouldn’t do you any good. My buyer won’t deal with anyone but me. He’s too afraid that the FBI is onto him to deal with anyone he doesn’t know. If I don’t show at the meet, he won’t show.”

“Touché.”

“So that means that you need to keep me alive, or the deal will be off.”

“How much money are we talking about here?”

Telfer exhaled. Indicating the pile of money, he said, “About two hundred grand for that.” He paused. “Maybe half a million for the plates.”

Cain raised an eyebrow. “Seven hundred thousand?”

“Three fifty apiece.”

Cain shook his head. “Seven hundred for me. You get to stay alive.”

The corners of Telfer’s mouth turned down.

“That’s the deal,” Cain told him. “All or nothing.”

“Okay,” Telfer said after a beat. For the first time in hours, he appeared to have relaxed into the seat. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Cain smiled as well, restacked the litho plates. “Yes,” he said. But his voice held all the promise of a serpent.

It had been a long night. And he’d done a lot of thinking.

He wasn’t a greedy man. If he wanted something, he just took it as his own. Appropriated the chattels of his victims as if they were the spoils of war. He’d never found it difficult to finance his lifestyle before, but he had to admit that the thought of a cool seven hundred thousand bucks rang sweet even to his ears. Especially when enunciated slowly.

Seven. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars.

Undeniably, the subject of the money was a distraction. He’d pondered taking what was already available and making do, but the thought that the bogus money could spell his downfall made him hold back. Why risk blowing his cover by passing a fake note at a goddamn McDonald’s when he could have as much of the real thing as he’d ever require?

Not only that, but the thought of playing Telfer like a pawn appealed to his sense of the grandiose. He’d allow Telfer to touch the money, hold it in his hands, let him sniff the stench of riches beyond his dreams, before finally snatching it away from him. That would be just punishment for the trouble he’d caused.

Then, of course, it would be a pleasant trip out into the desert for the final reckoning.

Yes, the subject of the money was a distraction. But so was what he’d just witnessed on the motel’s TV set. He wasn’t one for watching television. Never had been. The only reason he’d switched it on was to mask their conversation from guests in the adjacent rooms.

He wasn’t averse to seeing his handiwork on the screen. But there
was a major difference this time. He had a good mind to telephone the freaking FBI and put them right about a thing or two. Particularly regarding Telfer’s part in the slaying of the two drifters he’d appropriated the VW from. Why the hell should Telfer get any of the glory from that?

“Don’t you be getting any big ideas,” he said. “We both know who killed those two, and before long
everyone
will know the truth. How anyone could even think you were responsible is beyond belief.”

He turned from the TV to observe the trussed form lying on the recliner. Telfer hadn’t the faintest idea what he was referring to. He was asleep, fatigue finally overcoming his fear and discomfort. Cain raised an eyebrow. He listened to Telfer’s breathing patterns. Not feigning, then? Definitely asleep.

Cain made a noise deep in his throat, the call of a quizzical owl. He leaned forward and switched off the TV. Then he walked over to the recliner, lifted his foot, and nudged Telfer awake. It was Telfer’s turn to make owl noises, this one startled and ready to take flight.

“Chill out,” Cain told him. “I’m not going to harm you.”

Stiffly, Telfer squirmed up to a sitting position. It wasn’t an easy task with both hands and feet bound. “What’s going on?”

“Almost time to go,” Cain told him.

Telfer sucked in a couple of breaths, exhaled long and loud. Then he rocked forward so that he was on the edge of the recliner. He nodded at his bonds. “You planning on carrying me outta here?”

“No,” Cain said, “I’m going to allow you to walk. But remember that I’ll be holding a gun. Shout or try to run and I’ll kill you. I don’t care how many people are around, I’ll do it. The truth—as they say—will out.”

Telfer gave him an odd look. He had no idea what Cain was referring to. Cain smiled to himself. Let him wonder. Let him fear.

Cain indicated Telfer’s feet. “I’ll cut you loose in a moment. Your hands’ll stay tied until it’s time to leave.”

“Okay.”

“If you want to use the bathroom I’ll let you.”

“That’s good of you,” Telfer grunted.

“That’s okay. Don’t want you thinking I’m a total bastard.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Telfer said. He watched Cain. The ghost of a smile played across Cain’s lips.

“What’ve you got in your fridge? Anything cold to drink?” Cain asked.

“Nothing. Unless you like milk.”

Cain made a face. Then, hopefully, “Chocolate milk?”

“Cow’s milk.”

Again the face.

“There’s always tap water,” Telfer offered.

“I’ll pass,” Cain said.

“You know, I think I do need to go to the toilet.”

Cain tsk-tsked. “Better only be a number one. I refuse to wipe your ass for you.”

“You could always loosen my hands,” Telfer suggested with a smile.

“Your hands stay tied till I’m good and ready.”

Telfer shrugged. “Do you want to unzip me?”

“Forget about it,” Cain said deep in his throat. “You can go just before we leave.”

Telfer gave him a wink and a jerk of his head.

“What are you so goddamn happy about?” Cain demanded.

“It’s good to be alive,” Telfer said.

“Yeah,” Cain said. “Just keep that thought in mind and we’ll do just fine.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Okay, time to cut these ropes. And no Bruce Lee stuff. You try to kick me and I’ll shoot your feet off.”

If Telfer could have raised his palms, he would have. “I thought we’d made a deal. I’m not going to try to escape. I’ve promised you I’ll
do the deal for the litho plates. You’ve promised that you’ll let me live. I’m happy with that.”

“I’ll only be happy when you’re out of my frigging hair,” Cain grunted.

“You could always let me go now,” Telfer offered.

Cain snorted. There was something disarming about John Telfer that appealed to him. Something that made him smile. Maybe killing him was a little extreme? No, it was just. An eye for an eye. Telfer had stolen his Bowie knife and thrown it away. It was fitting that a knife be used to punish him in turn.

Cain made Telfer push both feet out. Then, in a swift draw that would have shamed a gunslinger, Cain brought out the scaling knife and swiped it down in a shallow arc. The cord from the Venetian blinds that he’d used to tie Telfer’s ankles gave with a twang and Telfer’s legs sprang apart. Before Telfer could control his wayward feet, the knife was back in Cain’s waistband.

Cain gave him a tight smile. The quick-draw display was for more than the purpose of loosening his prisoner’s legs; it was a show of his skill with a blade. Something for Telfer to dwell on while they traveled together.

“So how’re we gonna do this?” Telfer asked.

“We’re going to go out to my car. I’ll have the gun. Simple as that.”

“Do I get to put my shoes back on?”

“Obviously,” Cain said.

“What about my backpack?”

“I’ll carry it.”

“My spare clothes?”

“Leave them,” Cain said. Again he smiled, but this time there was a cold edge to it. “If you wish, you can always come back for them afterward.”

Telfer sat back, lips pursed. “Do you want to pass me my shoes or can I fetch them myself?”

“Here,” Cain said, slinging his shoes to him. Telfer squeezed his feet in without the benefit of untying the laces. “Ready?”

Telfer smiled in affirmation.

Cain came forward. He held the gun in his left hand, and again drew the scaling knife with his right. This time the motion was languid. He pressed the gun to Telfer’s forehead. “Easy now,” he warned.

Telfer didn’t move except to raise his bound wrists. Cain snicked apart the electrical cord. Telfer dropped his hands but continued to work his wrists in small circles, attempting to get the blood flowing again. Cain backed away.

“Now,” Cain said. “We do this nice and easy. We go out of the room and down the back stairs. You’ll lead the way. When you get to the ground floor, go to the right, go around to the parking lot. When we get there, I’ll tell you where my car is. Okay?”