Dead Men's Dust jh-1

by Matt Hilton

  One of the handlers, a skinny youth with a huge nose covered in acne, twisted his face at Rink. He was uglier than his mutt. At least the dog had an excuse; it had already gone a couple of rounds.

  "Got a problem with your hearing?" Rink demanded.

  "The dogs will fight," he said.

  "Then it's your job to stop them, Zit Boy," Rink said. "Now get the hell in there. One of you at either end."

  The big-nosed youth entered the ring first, pulling his struggling dog to him. When he was as settled as he could be, the second dog handler entered. Rink pushed the gate to, flipped a catch in place. No one moved in the arena. The tough guys huddled together. Dogs' teeth and a 12-gauge shotgun made the proverbial rock and hard place.

  Harvey's surveillance shots of Sigmund Petoskey came in handy. He looked like a typical wealthy businessman. Shirt, tie, suit, and shiny shoes. Well groomed and manicured. He looked out of place in this setting. Even if I'd never viewed a photo of him, I'd have picked him out by the contempt that radiated from him.

  "Hi, Siggy!" I said. "Like to bring your ass over here?"

  Petoskey's eyebrows rose and he lifted a finger to his chest.

  "Yeah," I confirmed. "I want a word with you."

  Pointing my SIG at his chest, I indicated the bulge in his breast pocket where ordinary businessmen would carry a notebook.

  "Lose the piece."

  Petoskey pulled a Berretta out of the shoulder rig. Two fingers; like he'd done it before. He placed the gun on the floor at his feet, kicked it away from him.

  "Okay. Get over here."

  He stood his ground.

  "You are making one hell of a mistake, you goddamn asshole," he directed at me. With his Eastern European name, you'd half expect him to have the stilted accent of a villain from a James Bond movie. You would be wrong. Just as Rink is a contradiction of his ancestry, so is Sigmund Petoskey. He spoke with the cultured tones of an Ivy Leaguer with top honors.

  Admittedly, his first words weren't anything you'd expect from one of such a background. Then again, you only have to recall Rink's summing up of Siggy's childhood to imagine where the gutter language came from.

  "No," I told him. "You're the one making the mistake."

  "Who the hell are you, coming here and shooting up my place? My personal friend the mayor will have something to say about this!"

  "I don't give a damn what the mayor says," I told him.

  "He'll have your job for this," Petoskey said. He rounded on Rink. "And yours."

  "Like I said," I told him, "you're the one making the mistake. We aren't police officers, Siggy. For all I care, your friend the mayor can kiss my ass."

  For a second time Petoskey's eyebrows sought the top of his head.

  "Not the police?"

  "Not the police," I echoed.

  "Then you're with Hendrickson. I should have known . . ."

  His words faltered at the shake of my head.

  "I don't know Hendrickson from Jimmy Hendrix," I told him.

  "So who the blazes are you?"

  "Someone who needs answers. And I want them quickly."

  Petoskey looked at his feet, gave a slow shake of his two-hundred- dollar haircut. Something dawned on him and he slowly raised his face to look at me. A scowl broke across his features. "This is about John Telfer, isn't it?"

  John was indeed why I was there, but I'd expected to have to draw the information from him like rusty nails from a knotty plank.

  "Where is he?" I demanded. "If you've hurt him I'll—"

  Petoskey sneered. "You think I have him?"

  "Maybe not here, but I believe you know where he is."

  "Look," he said, stepping toward me in defiance, "I already told your friends I don't know where he is. The son of a bitch took off owing me a substantial sum of money. Do you think if I knew where he was, I wouldn't have brought him back by now? Jesus Christ, how many times have I got to tell you people the same damn thing?"

  I didn't answer.

  This wasn't a put-on. Petoskey's words rang true. He really didn't know where my brother was. So it was pointless questioning him any further regarding John's whereabouts. Time for a change of tack.

  "You've already spoken to my friends?" I asked.

  "Twice!" he said. Full of impotent fury, he held out his hands. An expansive gesture, taking in the entire room. "And now this?"

  "Okay, Siggy. Just cool it," I told him.

  "I'll do no such thing." He lifted a stubby finger toward me. "You come in here shooting and making demands. Now you want me to act reasonably toward you?"

  "Unless you want me to start shooting again, you will," Rink drawled from across the room. For emphasis, he aimed the shotgun directly at the group of men in the dog-fighting pit.

  Petoskey wore righteous anger like a dead man's suit. He folded his arms across his chest. Challenged Rink with a sneer. Then he turned it on me. It faltered when I shoved my SIG into the dimple on his chin.

  "Tell me," I said. "Who are these friends that you're talking about?"

  "You should know," Petoskey said.

  "Indulge me," I said.

  "Your friends from the government. Who else?"

  It was a war to keep my features flat, but this was a surprise, and it probably showed. Petoskey misread me. Maybe it was the way I allowed my gun to drop from his chin.

  "See. I knew it," he announced. His two friends nodded along with him. One of them opened his mouth to say something. I shot him a warning look. The man clammed up immediately.

  To Petoskey I said, "You're saying that CIA agents have spoken to you about John Telfer?"

  "Aren't you listening to me? Twice they've been at my office. Twice they've demanded to know the location of John Telfer. I wish I'd never seen Telfer's goddamn face!"

  "These agents actually said they were CIA?" I asked.

  "They didn't need to. I can smell a spook a mile off."

  "So you're only guessing?" I said, with not a little hope.

  Petoskey shook his head. "They didn't exactly introduce themselves, if that's what you mean. One of them flashed a badge the first time they came around; they didn't bother the second time. Pretty much the way you haven't now, eh?"

  Again I didn't answer. CIA agents, by virtue of their secretive trade, aren't in the habit of flashing badges or announcing their identities. Petoskey had to be confused, must have misread the acronym on the badge. It would be easily done, I suppose, though I doubted that the Child Support Agency would go to such lengths to trace an absent father.

  Judging my silence to be guilt, he said, "You can go back and tell your bosses that they're barking up the wrong tree. For the third time, I do not know where John Telfer is. Have you got that?"

  We had lost a major advantage, and unless we started shooting again, it was an unsalvageable situation.

  On the same wavelength, Rink moved toward me. His shotgun still menaced the men in the arena. No one moved. It wasn't so much the fear of being shot as that they thought we were CIA. Worse than going up against the police, they weren't prepared to risk the ire of the government. They wouldn't make a move. Apparently, neither would we. Not now that we'd been uncloaked as government agents.

  Petoskey was wearing a smug look on his face.

  "Quite a mess, eh?" he crowed.

  Yeah, it was a mess, but not for the reason he thought. We backed toward the demolition job I'd done on the wall.

  "Oh, for pity's sake. Use the door, will you?" Petoskey said.

  "We'll leave as we came," I said as we continued to back out.

  "Do me a favor," Petoskey called as we stepped through the hole into the abandoned office. "When you do find Telfer, tell him I want my ten grand. Plus thirty percent interest. And you can tell him not to show his face around any of my places again. He's not welcome. Tell him he can post the money to me."

  If he'd let it lie at that, I don't know where the hunt would've taken us next. As it was, like many self-righteous punks, he loved the s
ound of his own voice too much. "And tell him my car had better have a full tank of gas when he drops it off."

  I stepped back into the opening. What a difference a couple of seconds had made. Tough guys all, the goons in the ring were already fighting their way past one of the dogs in an effort to get out. To win face with their boss, and without exception, they offered to chase us down. Petoskey and the other two suits had moved toward them, and Siggy wasn't a happy puppy.

  My SIG rapped a sharp command, shattering the light fixture above their heads.

  Did you ever play the children's game called Statues? You stand with your back to an advancing group, you turn around sharply, and the group has to become petrified in place, as though under a gorgon's stare. Anyone who moves is out of the game. Well, that's what it felt like then.

  My gun was now a useless threat, but I aimed it anyway.

  "Telfer took one of your cars?" I demanded.

  "Yes," Petoskey snapped. "If you'd taken the time to read your friends' reports you would already know that."

  "Must've missed it," I said. "What car are we talking about?"

  "Read the damn report," Petoskey said.

  I took three steps, my anger level rising with each one. Grabbing Petoskey by his lapels, I jammed the SIG under his chin with my other hand.

  Petoskey's eyes went wide. That a government agent would actually have the balls to shoot him with all these witnesses standing around was now a definite possibility. Maybe I should have shot him. Undoubtedly, the world would've been a better place with one less scumbag in it.

  "Just tell me what damn car you're talking about or I swear to God I'll kill you," I said.

  "Pontiac," Petoskey snapped. "It's a goddamn Pontiac. Okay?"

  "Write down the license number," I ordered.

  "I haven't got a pen," Petoskey said.

  "Find one." I pushed him away from me. Petoskey's face was scarlet. He actually stepped back toward me.

  "Here," one of the other suits said quickly, pulling an expensivelooking gold-plated pen from a jacket pocket. Petoskey snatched it out of his hand, then glanced around looking for paper. Again the suit came to the rescue, tearing a page from an equally expensive pocket diary. Petoskey quickly scribbled down a number, then thrust it at me.

  "Satisfied?" he asked.

  I snatched the paper out of his hand.

  "Thank you," I said.

  "You're welcome," Petoskey said. Not that I believed him. My spite was reflected by his bilious glare. We were rival wolves meeting on a forest trail. We edged backward, neither wanting to be seen to be giving ground, but each recognizing the prudence of doing so.

  Rink was at my shoulder. He made a cautious noise in the back of his throat, Rinkese for "We've outstayed our welcome, Hunter." How could I possibly disagree? It was definitely time to leave if the clamor of reinforcements charging up the far staircase was anything to go by.

  We played it cool as we stepped through the hole in the wall. Then we ran like hell.

  19

  mr. so-called-ambrose wasn't a name that came easily to the lips, so Cain decided he'd refer to him simply as thief. It was all he was, and he didn't deserve to be called anything else. Thief, thief, thief.

  Names always fascinated Cain. To be named is the achievement of recognition, and he wasn't about to give Ambrose the honor. He was nothing in Cain's estimation. Just a bum. Below contempt. Nothing but a sneaking thief.

  The thief was back in his room now. Probably wondering what to do about the flat tire. There was a spare bolted to the rear of the vehicle, but the thief appeared to be the type of man too easily defeated when it came to mechanical contrivance. He was both inept with a lug wrench and too damn lazy to use it. The latter was probably the overriding factor. Why go to the trouble of changing a defective tire when he could go steal himself another car?

  Evening was fully upon the hotel now. Way out over the ocean the stars were pale glimmers on a velvet backdrop. Here, the light cast through tinted lenses onto the hotel facade was mint green and coral pink. A cornucopia of shadows jittered and danced as a faint breeze stirred the foliage.

  Cain watched as the rosy-cheeked receptionist finished her shift, wandered out into the parking lot, and drove off in an imported Ford Ka. He was tempted to follow her, to act out the fantasy that had been playing through his mind these past hours. In the end, he let her go. Weighed against the risk of losing sight of the thief, it wasn't worth it. Other opportunities would arise to invite the girl back to his special place.

  Cain opened the car door and stepped out onto asphalt. The air still held the heat of the day. He shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off his tie, and unbuttoned his collar. Jacket and tie went in the trunk of the car.

  He wandered around the side of the building to the garden area, savoring the scent of jasmine only slightly tainted by exhaust fumes from the highway. The pool rippled under fluorescent lighting, a vibrant blue that was now unsullied by the bobbing forms of overfed children and grandmothers floating on inflatable beds.

  He sauntered over to the foot of the stairs.

  Act furtively and you're done for—another pearl of wisdom from his killer's rule book. Cain mounted the stairs as if he had the right to be there. He took two steps at a time, almost bounding up to the first landing. He slowed slightly as he climbed to the next floor, tilting his face down. The thief could be on his way down, and he didn't want to be recognized before he could engineer a proper reunion.

  At the top of the stairs he turned slowly to the left, surveying the scene. Then, happy that no one was approaching, he walked along the terrace toward the door of the thief's room. His rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the terra-cotta tiles. He stooped down and pulled them off.

  The thief's room was at the corner of the building, and the terrace terminated just to the left of the door. If the thief happened to come out now, Cain would have nowhere to hide. Immediate action wouldn't be as satisfying as the drawn-out torment he had in mind, but there would be nothing else he could do.

  At the door, he bent down and placed his shoes on the floor. Minuscule drifts of sand abutted the wall next to the door, blown there on the wind, or maybe the remnants of someone walking on the beach and carrying proof of their labor back with them.

  "This rule is the one that takes priority above all others, thief," he whispered. "Be mindful of Locard's principle." That precept of forensic science held that a person left behind a small part of himself wherever he went, be it hair, saliva, semen, skin cells, clothing fibers, or soil or plant matter transported on the soles of shoes or in the folds of clothing. The list was endless. And included fingerprints.

  From a trouser pocket, Cain pulled out a roll of plastic bags and some rubber bands. Cocking an ear toward the door so its opening wouldn't surprise him, he stooped down and pulled a plastic bag over each foot, stuffed the cuffs of his trousers inside, then sealed them with the rubber bands. That done, he repeated the process with his hands.

  The bags were spacious and flopped at the ends of his fingertips like translucent flippers. He looked ludicrous but didn't care. The last thing the thief would think of when folds of flesh were being stripped from his body was Cain's diabolical fashion sense.

  Lastly, he pulled a cloth bag from his pocket. He'd prepared eyeholes earlier, burning them into the white cloth with the cigarette lighter from the Oldsmobile. The mask made him think of the KKK. Not that he was a racist. He wasn't. Regardless of race, creed, or color, he hated everyone with equal passion.

  Low and away from the balcony's edge, he slipped the bag over his

  head before standing up and facing the door. The eyeholes took away a little of his peripheral vision, but that was okay. He had a single intent and would be going forward from now on.

  Readiness for the long-anticipated reunion required only one more thing. He reached under the tail of his shirt and pulled free the scaling knife. He held it up before his eyes, admiring the rainbow effect along its cutting edge. S
harp, so very, very sharp.

  Now he was ready.

  He knocked on the door.

  20

  more than one thing was troubling me about the whole setup. Louise Blake continued to nag at me like a bug burrowing its way through my cerebral cortex. There was much that woman knew but wasn't telling me. Her reticence, I believed, was linked to the below-the-belt strike that Sigmund Petoskey had dealt us. The CIA could be involved, and that had jarred me to the core.

  "I have to make a couple of calls," I said. Harvey Lucas extended his hospitality in the manner of a southern gent, and I was going to take him up on it. The telephone was on a desk across the room.

  Harvey watched with an expression that was hard to define. I caught myself in midstride. To gather our wits after such a crushing blow, we'd returned to his office—a rented unit in an industrial complex on the other side of town. Harvey seemed pleased to see us, as if we deemed him a worthwhile ally after all. However, once I'd mentioned the CIA, he didn't appear to be anywhere near as enthusiastic. Pausing with my hand over the handset, I waited for him to object. Harvey inclined his chin.