Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"The FBI?"

"Just watch the news. You'll see what I mean."

"Okay, Walt. I appreciate your help."

"No problem," he said. "Good speaking to you again, Hunter."

"Likewise." I paused, considering. Then, "Walt, seeing as you've been so open with me, there's something I have to tell you." "Go on." "I was involved in a job an hour or so ago. Guy I was up against said he'd been visited by some of your boys asking about John."

"Wasn't us."

"I appreciate that. But I think you might want to look into who's going round posing as government agents. Might cause a stink for you if something goes wrong."

"I get it now. That's why you wanted to check in with me?"

"Yeah. Just in case I have to defend myself."

"They're not mine, Hunter. So… stay safe."

Stay safe. This from a sub-division director of black ops. In other words, Walter had just given of?cial sanction to retaliate with lethal force if that situation should arise. What's known in the trade as an executive decision.

"Thanks, Walt." Walter isn't big on pleasantries. I was left holding a handset issuing the soft purr of a dead line. Something popped up on Harvey's computer screen. I set the phone back in its cradle. All I could think of to say was "Shit." With equal lack of verbosity, Rink cursed loudly. After a beat, Harvey joined in. On the screen of Harvey's computer were headlines I could barely comprehend.

FBI CLOSES IN ON MASS KILLER THE HARVESTMAN FINALLY NAMED

Beneath the headlines was a photograph of my little brother.

Cain knocked again.

Louder this time.

Again there was no answer. Frowning beneath his impromptu hood, he stepped to the side of the door. By pressing close to the glass, he could make out any movement from within. Or in this case, lack of movement.

No one home? How unbelievable is that?

Letting out a sigh, he pulled the hood free and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. His palms were sweating inside the plastic bags, but he didn't take them off yet.

"Where the hell are you?" he wondered aloud. There was a possibility that the thief had given him the slip, but he didn't give it much credence. He'd been parked in a position where he could watch the major exits from the hotel, and unless the thief had come down the back stairs and scaled the nine-foot perimeter fence, he was still here.

What are the chances of that happening? Slim to zero.

There was a chance he'd gone down to the restaurant for an evening meal, but again it was highly unlikely. From the furtive way the thief acted when he was in the parking lot, he was hiding from some one. He wouldn't eat in plain sight in the restaurant, not when he could order food to be delivered to his room.

That left two or three possibilities. The thief was asleep and hadn't heard him knock. Or he was in the bathroom, and had again missed the knock. Or he'd slipped out while Cain had made his way around the back of the hotel and was even now in the parking lot looking for another vehicle to appropriate. Maybe an Oldsmobile.

Vacillation danced a quickstep through his mind. He could run back out to check on the state of play, or he could gain admittance to the hotel suite and check out his other theories. In the end, he chose the latter.

As quietly as possible, he tested the door handle. The door didn't open. Not a problem. He inserted the tip of his scaling knife between door lock and frame and twisted. The lock snicked open with barely any pressure.

The door swung open to reveal a short vestibule with two closed doors on one side. At the far end a door was open, and he could see part of a combined sitting room/bedroom apartment. Next to a recliner was a pair of running shoes, and a denim jacket was slung over the arm of a chair. Looked like the thief hadn't packed to leave.

Inside the vestibule, Cain listened. He could discern neither running water nor snoring. He took another step, the plastic bags making a faint sucking noise on the tiled?oor. Watching the open room at the end, he pushed the front door closed, then turned to the?rst door to his right. Slowly he pushed down on the handle, allowing the door to swing open.

He sneaked a look into the room. It was a tiny kitchen. A couple of buzzing flies bashed themselves against a window in an effort to escape the stffiing heat. There were a few dirty dishes piled in the sink and a ring-stained coffee cup on the drain board. He reached out and touched a kettle. Through his plastic shrouding, he could feel that the kettle still bore the heat of being boiled. Proof of recent or current occupancy, Cain decided.

Leaving the kitchen, he moved along the vestibule. He held his breath, anticipation building. If his assumption proved true, the next door would open into a bathroom, the most likely place to?nd the thief. Cain smiled to himself, imagining opening the door and?nding the thief sitting on the toilet with his trousers around his ankles, a shocked look on his face. How ignoble!

He pressed an ear to the door, listening for the telltale sounds of an industrious man at work. Nothing. No soft grunts, no delicate splashes, no sighs of relief or rustle of newspaper. Neither was there the sound of a shower or faucet trickling, but that didn't mean the thief wasn't prone in a tub and taking a moment of silent re?ection.

By habit, Cain always bolted the door to his bathroom, even when he knew he was alone. But the door swung open as easily as had the kitchen door. Cain stepped into the cooler con?nes of the bathroom, a delicate breath of lavender invading his senses. The lid on the toilet was up. The bath was empty. Unfortunately, the shower curtain was pulled to one side, so there was no chance of a Hitchcock moment.

He fought down the impulse to swear. That is for the uncultured killer; he of the chainsaw or machete and lampshades made from human hide. Turning back to the vestibule, he walked with the stealth of a ninja assassin. His blade led the way, lifted like that of a matador poised for the coup de grace.

The open room remained constant. He attempted to tune himself to the still air, to feel the subtle drafts and eddies of the atmosphere around him. Feeling for restrained hints that human life stirred in the space out of his sight but not beyond the reach of his other senses.

At the threshold, he once more tugged the hood from his pocket and pulled it over his head. The shock of a hooded man stepping into the room would have the desired effect and halt the thief in his tracks.

All he required was a second or so of addled wits in order to take charge. He drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.

"Damn it!"

The room was sterile.

Sighing now, Cain looked back over his shoulder.

"Perhaps I should've checked the parking lot?rst." He sighed. There was nothing he could do about that now. Might as well search the room. The thief could have left his precious Bowie knife behind in his need to move on.

Cain checked the layout of the room. The recliner was off to his right, but all that remained there were the denim jacket and the running shoes. On a coffee table there was a yachting magazine with photos of an exclusive club over at Marina del Rey.

Cain moved over to a bed and chest of drawers that took up the far wall. The bed was unmade. A pair of boxer shorts lay crumpled on the?oor at its foot. Cain walked over and kicked the boxers until he could read the label inside. They con?rmed the thief's nationality. De?nitely an Englishman. The label read St Michael, the brand name of Marks amp; Spencer, the source of many a conservative Englishman's underwear.

He next tried the drawers in the chest. T-shirts were pushed into the top drawer along with more underwear and wadded socks. The next drawer down held a pair of folded sweatpants but nothing else. The?nal drawer held nothing belonging to the thief, just a stack of well-?ngered brochures and menus from local businesses. As well as the obligatory welcome message from the hotel manager that no one ever reads.