by Matt Hilton
“Maybe it’s time you phoned your mother,” I said. “Ask her if it’d be okay to come home.”
Tears welled in her eyes. Fear, it seemed, has many expressions.
“You think John is dead.”
I didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question, anyway.
“Don’t you?” she asked.
The air I sucked through my teeth wasn’t the ideal reply. In hindsight, I wouldn’t have done it. I’d have considered the action, and spared Louise my concern. Trouble was, I did fear the worst, and Louise was intuitive enough to know it. She leaned forward into her hands and wept. Around her, three big tough guys squirmed. I reached across and took her hands from her face.
“Sorry, Louise,” I said. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.”
Louise sniffed. Shook her head. Sat up a little straighter, playing with her hair. Her way to regain composure. A smile forced into place didn’t work; it was too redolent of misery.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she said. “It’s not as if I haven’t already thought of it. He’s been gone for ages now. I mean, surely he’d have called me if he was still alive, right?”
In reality, she was asking why John would bother to pick up a phone when he’d never done the same with his wife. He’d cautioned her against phoning her own mother, for Christ’s sake. So just because he hadn’t been in touch didn’t mean he was dead.
“We can only hope that he’s hiding someplace. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s hiding out and won’t call for fear of jeopardizing your safety.” I gripped her hands with a little more pressure. “But you may have to accept the worst, Louise.”
“I know,” she said quietly. I gave her an extra squeeze.
“But,” I said, expecting the sideways glance from Rink, “if it’s possible, I’ll find him. I will bring him back, one way or the other.”
After that there wasn’t much left to cover. Louise was done speaking and prepared herself to leave. Being the consummate gentleman, Harvey offered to give her a lift home, but she declined.
“I feel like a real shit,” he announced after Louise was gone.
“No need to,” Rink said.
“The more I look at this, the more I think I should be helping you guys more than I am,” he said.
“We don’t know what we’re up against,” I told him. “Don’t know how it’s going to turn out. So maybe it’s best you leave things as they are.”
He shook his head. “I’ve heard another whisper. I can’t substantiate it, but some people are saying John disappeared owing Petoskey more than a bad debt.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“No one is saying. But Petoskey is screaming murder. Making him speak to you might not be as easy as it sounds. He might very well resist. Big time.”
“He’s a punk,” Rink put in.
“A dangerous punk,” Harvey told him. “You might go in there and not walk out again. All I’m saying is it’d be better if you had an extra pair of eyes watching your backs.”
“You live here, Harvey,” I reminded him. “It’s okay for me and Rink. We can shake up the local bad guys, but we don’t have to hang around afterward. We don’t have to live with the consequences of making any enemies here. You do.”
“Appreciate that,” he said. “But I still feel like a goddamn shitheel. It’s like I’m running out on you guys.”
“No need to,” Rink said. “We ain’t expecting you to put your head on the block for us.”
“Anyway, you’ve done a lot for us already,” I pointed out. “All we need from you now is the stuff we asked for. If Petoskey’s as dangerous as you say, we’d better take it with us.”
“It’s in the car with the photographs I told you about,” Harvey said.
The stuff we were referring to was a 12-gauge shotgun for Rink and a steel-bodied 9-mm Parabellum blowback semiautomatic SIG Sauer for me. Added to that I’d asked for a couple of military issue KA-BAR knives and an untraceable cell phone. To corner Siggy Petoskey, we’d be like ninja warriors assaulting the shogun’s castle. A shogun, self-made or not, would have his private army of loyal retainers. However we looked at it, it was going to be a dangerous mission.
Then we got back to Louise Blake. Since she’d arrived, something had been bugging me. “There’s something she isn’t telling us,” I said.
“Yeah,” Rink agreed. “I was getting the same vibe.”
Harvey simply raised his eyebrows, shrugged his wide shoulders.
“I’m not suggesting that she’s involved in John’s disappearance. But there’s something that isn’t gelling with me,” I said. “She says that John was acting all jumpy and nervous, but she didn’t press him for what he was concerned about. That strike either of you as normal behavior?”
“No way. We’re talking about a woman here,” Rink joked.
“She also said she didn’t know who he was working for. I find that a little hard to believe,” I said. “Even though my work was top secret, my wife still knew who the hell it was I was working for.”
“I suppose he could’ve been doing subcontract work,” Harvey offered.
“Or a little private enterprise,” Rink said.
“Private criminal enterprise,” Harvey added.
“If not Petoskey, who else could John have been working for?” I asked.
Harvey blew out in a harsh exclamation. “Take your pick, Hunter. Could be anyone.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. If John was involved in crime, he could be working for any one of half a million employers from anywhere in the States. “Louise said she didn’t press him about his work, but twice she mentioned that John told her to contact me if anything happened to him. People don’t give you those kind of instructions unless they’re pretty sure something is going to happen to them.”
“And,” Rink added, “he’s obviously been expecting something real bad…considering the business you’re in, Hunter.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what worries me the most.”
14
“DIFFERENT PLATES, SAME SUV.”
Tubal Cain was in no doubt. The vehicle parked in the lot of the Pacific View Hotel was the one stolen from him yesterday. Even if it had been sprayed a different color, furry dice hung in the window, and whitewall tires added, he’d have known the vehicle for his own. It had a vibe that he could feel even from across the width of the parking lot. That vehicle had witnessed death, and the pall of violence hung over it like a miasma of poisonous fumes.
As nonchalant as a man with the right—which he certainly had, in his estimation—he ambled over to the 4x4. The locks were engaged. Not that they’d stop him from taking back what was rightfully his if he were of a mind to do so.
Nothing on the front seat but an empty water bottle and the remnants of a KFC meal, but on the dash was a disc removed from the CD player. Swing When You’re Winning, the very disc he’d been playing prior to stopping for the stranded motorist. If he had required confirmation, there was his proof.
He wandered to the rear of the car. A cursory inspection of the license plate spoke volumes. The area around the locking nuts was clean, unlike the rest of the plate, which had a fine coating of dust. The clean areas proved that someone had turned the locking nuts very recently. It was obvious to someone with his expert eye that someone had removed the plates from another vehicle, then screwed them in place on this one.
“Guy’s a freaking amateur,” he reminded himself. But—and this was a caution he would heed—not to be underestimated.
Credit where it’s due, then: changing the plates was on the way to being a good idea. The thief didn’t know that Cain wouldn’t be reporting the theft of the vehicle, so it was sensible to install a new identity.
Some constructive criticism was in order, though. It was good that the thief had tried to cover his tracks. It was just a pity that he hadn’t taken the time to do so properly. Any cop worth his salt would notice the clean area around the locking nuts and know immediately that the p
lates had been switched. He shook his head in pure reproof. “I don’t know if it’s your lack of experience or whether you’re just too lazy for your own good.”
A slow walk took him around to the driver’s side. Peering inside he saw no sign of his stolen Bowie knife. It meant one of two things: either the knife was concealed out of sight or the thief had it with him in his hotel room. Considering the third option wasn’t pleasant: that the thief might have dumped the knife somewhere along the way.
Finished with the car, he made his way toward the front of the hotel. It was a three-story affair, built on land barely a stone’s throw from Route 405. Prime location, except that larger hotels blocked the view of the ocean. The name of the hotel was a marketing lie. Probably wishful thinking. Either that or the name was thirty years out of date.
Inside, overhead fans spun indolent circles in lemon-scented air, the lobby as cool and clean as a spring morning. Cain’s rubber-soled shoes made a soft squishing sound on the faux-marble tiles, barely disturbing the tranquility. On his right was a long reception desk behind which was a small office area. A young woman, a California cutie with straw-colored hair and rosy cheeks, was bent over a computer. Cain smiled at her, but she didn’t as much as raise her head. Spreadsheets held more interest for her than a handsome man. Cain walked on past her toward the communal dining area.
The steward wasn’t at his station. In fact, no one challenged him. The room was devoid of staff or any of the hotel’s clientele. A glance at his wristwatch told Cain that it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner.
He stepped back into the lobby area, thinking about his best option. There were alternatives, but the sensible course of action would be to wait for the thief to show up at the SUV. From there he could take him out and regain what was rightfully his.
“Can I help you, sir?”
The blond woman had exited the office and now stood at the reception desk. She had a sheaf of papers in her hands and a smile on her face. Apparently a handsome man did override the attraction of a spreadsheet.
To miss an opportunity would be tantamount to a crime. Without pause Cain swung toward her, affecting his best humble-and-caring-guy face. “Yeah, uhm, I was wondering if someone could help me out. I didn’t realize anyone was around when I first walked in.”
Like many before her who’d come into contact with Tubal Cain, the receptionist was oblivious to his lies. The power of a smile and twinkling green eyes are never to be undervalued in a lunatic’s arsenal. She waved the sheaf of papers in the general direction of her office. “Sorry about that, I had my nose buried in some work.”
Cain waved off her apology. “It’s nothing, really,” he said. “I just pulled in and noticed that a car outside has its lights on. Just thought I’d come in and let you know. Wouldn’t like anyone to find a dead battery. Bit of an inconvenience for them.”
The woman swung sideways, pulling a large ledger toward her. “What kind of vehicle is it?”
“Mercedes SUV. Black and silver. Has Nevada plates.”
The woman checked the register. Opportunities presented must be grasped with both hands. As calmly as possible, Cain leaned over the counter, watching as she traced down a list of names with a well-manicured fingernail. In the split second before she looked up, Cain turned his head aside and scanned a poster on the wall at the rear of the reception area as if it had held his interest throughout.
“I’ll give the owner a call and let him know. I’m sure he’ll be grateful for your help,” she said.
“It’s nothing,” Cain reassured her, “but there’s nothing worse than a dead battery. And it’s so easily avoided, too. I’d only hope that if I were ever so careless, someone would do the same for me.”
“Me, too,” said the woman. “I remember one time I was at the mall and I left my lights on. Had to call a tow truck and everything. It was so embarrassing.”
“And costly, I bet?”
“Oh, not too bad. It was more the inconvenience,” the woman said. She covered the memory of her discomfiture with a hand over her mouth. To some the act would look coy, but to Cain it was reminiscent of a self-conscious halitosis sufferer.
“Pity I wasn’t around that time,” Cain said. “Could’ve saved you some trouble.”
The woman’s amused laughter was the tinkling of Christmas bells. Humble and caring guy strikes again. When she looked at him this time, it was with more interest. “Are you a guest here, sir?”
“No,” Cain said. “I was just driving by and my phone rang. I don’t have a hands-free kit, so I pulled over. Hope you don’t mind me using one of your parking spots for a few minutes? I’d have been gone by now if I hadn’t noticed the lights on the car I told you about.”
“It’s not a problem, sir. In fact, it’s good of you to take the time to come in and tell me. Thousands of people wouldn’t have even bothered.”
“That’s true,” Cain said in agreement. But then again, he always did suspect that he was unique. “Isn’t it sad, though, that people have got to a point where they’ll just walk on by without offering a hand?”
“It is.” The woman nodded. “Not many people I meet are as nice as you.”
Ooh, the nice word. Cain thought she was nice, too. Unfortunately, he had wholly different reasons for his opinion. His estimation was based purely upon the judgment of the ossuary-building artist within him. Clark Kent’s X-ray vision was no less penetrating than his scrutiny. She had a pleasing bone structure behind the rosy cheeks. A little plump, perhaps, so that he couldn’t easily define the fine skeletal lines he adored. He glanced from her face to her hands. They were slim and long fingered, the nails polished to a sheen. Now there were treasures he would cherish. Slowly he traced each digit in turn with his eyes.
She was aware of this examination. She stirred, ever so slightly uncomfortable under his gaze. Cain acted startled, offering her an abashed grin.
“Sorry. You caught me staring,” he said. “It’s just that…well, uh, you have such beautiful hands.”
“My hands?” The woman didn’t know how to answer, but she was flattered. Unconsciously she gripped the sheaf of papers tightly in one hand while she held out the other and studied it. Cain leaned toward her.
“I hope you don’t think I’m giving you some sort of cheesy come-on,” he said. “I’m simply speaking the truth. Your hands are lovely.”
“Thanks,” she said. “That’s really sweet of you to say so.”
The catch in her throat gave her an appealing huskiness. She coughed. Eyes darting toward the office as though checking for a disapproving supervisor. The unashamed impression she was portraying was frowned upon by the hotel management, either that or she genuinely was as naive as she appeared. She discretely slipped her hands below the counter. Her rosy cheeks had become twin candy apples.
“Sorry if I’m embarrassing you,” Cain said. “I don’t mean to.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m not embarrassed.” Despite her words, her cheeks were growing even redder. She dropped her chin toward her chest, swayed in indecision, then laughed.
Cain laughed with her.
“Look,” he said. “I have embarrassed you. I’m sorry. Please accept my apologies.”
He put out a hand and the woman reached for it reflexively.
They shook hands.
“Apology accepted,” said the woman, still laughing.
Cain was slow to release her hand. He allowed his fingers to trail along her palm, prolonging the sensation for as long as possible. One of his human frailties was a total lack of empathy, but what he lacked in compassion he more than made up for in sensory ability. He did not have the capacity to love a woman, but he did love to touch a woman.
He would lodge the sensation in some far recess of his mind, a memory to summon for later. If he couldn’t have her hands, he could have the sensory recall of their touch whenever he desired. And that thought was enough to sustain him for now. The primary need on his agenda was his reckoning with the
thief. Afterward, if everything went well—as it most definitely would—he could come back at his leisure and take her hands as genuine trophies.
Finally, he stepped back, gave a slight wave.
“Well, I’d best get going,” he said. “I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is.”
“Honestly, sir, it was no problem.”
“See you,” he said. “And once again, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
“Yeah, see you,” the woman replied. She lifted her hand in reflex. Caught it in midwave. Then laughed and continued the gesture.
Cain gave her his most self-effacing grin. His wink was full of promise.
He walked back through the lobby. In the old Hollywood musicals, Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire would have made the walk a grand swagger, hands in pockets, whistling merrily before swooping around to catch her looking. Cain wasn’t so flamboyant; at the exit he merely twisted at the shoulder. It was enough to confirm that, yes, she was still watching him. There was more than a little interest in her gaze. He waved again and she waved back, her face breaking into a wide smile. In true Astaire form he made a show of opening the door and pushing outside.
But as he walked away, his smile turned to a frown, then a scowl. Achieving his objective of flushing out the thief was one thing, but there was no way he could act on it now. The receptionist was a bit dim, but she still had enough of her wits about her to remember the man who had lured the client outside before he was brutally butchered.
Self-recrimination wasn’t something he often indulged in, but even he could see that he’d made a mistake. I shouldn’t have flirted with her, he thought. I should’ve simply gone in, given her the story, then got the hell back out again. By flirting with the bitch, I’ve forced her to take a good look at my face. Stupid, Cain, stupid. If I take the thief now, she could give a good description of me to the police. And that just will not do.
He’d put his identity at risk for the sake of a minute or two of banter with a pretty girl. Not good when you are the United States’ current most prolific and undetected serial murderer.
