Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"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 de?nite 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 expensive-looking 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 de?nitely 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.

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?at 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?nished 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?uorescent lighting, a vibrant blue that was now unsullied by the bobbing forms of overfed children and grandmothers?oating on in?atable 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?rst landing. He slowed slightly as he climbed to the next?oor, 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?bers, 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?opped at the ends of his?ngertips like translucent?ippers. He looked ludicrous but didn't care. The last thing the thief would think of when folds of?esh 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. Sharp, so very, very sharp.

Now he was ready.

He knocked on the door.

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 de?ne. I caught myself in midstride. To gather our wits after such a crushing blow, we'd returned to his of?ce-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. "Sure you don't mind?" I asked.