Dead Men's Dust

    'You think Jennifer's going to be happy with that?'

    'Jennifer isn't going to be happy whatever the outcome,' I told him.

    'And what about you, Hunter? What if you don't take him home? How will you feel?'

    'How d'you think I'll feel?' I pondered for a moment. 'What about my family? How d'you think they'll feel when I have to tell them my brother's locked up in an American prison?'

'Won't be good.'

'No, Rink, it won't.'

    Harvey swung his chair side to side. The machinations of thought whirred away behind his furrowed brow. In the end, he looked up at the two of us and said, 'Neither of you boys thought about it yet?'

    'Thought about what?' Rink asked.

    'The obvious,' Harvey said.

    'Obviously we haven't or we'd have mentioned it already.'

    Christ, it was like working with Abbott and Costello.

    'Thought about what?' I asked.

    'When you spoke with Petoskey earlier, why didn't he mention that the FBI had been in contact with him? That they'd already talked to him about his car? That John was a suspect in the biggest hunt since the Unabomber?'

    'Son of a bitch was lying to us,' Rink said. 'Unless he got mixed up when he said the CIA had been on his back.'

    'Bit of a difference between the Feebies and the Spooks,' Harvey said.

    'It doesn't make any sense,' Rink said.

    'No, it doesn't,' I said. 'And John as a serial killer doesn't make any sense, either.'

    'I'm beginning to think that nothin' about this case makes sense,' Rink said.

    'Me, too,' I admitted. 'Petoskey knows more than he's saying, that's for sure.'

    'What about Louise Blake?' Harvey offered. 'Should we talk to her again?'

    'Yes,' I said. 'Let's see her first thing in the morning.'

    'We'll have to be careful, Hunter,' Rink cautioned. 'With the heat on John over this Harvestman thing, you can bet your ass that the FBI is staking out her home.'

    I nodded.

    'Harvey, you said someone was watching Louise's place. You think they were feds?'

    Harvey shook his large head. 'No. They've been watching her since before Telfer became a suspect in these killings.'

    'Any ideas?'

    'All I can say is they're not from around here. They look Mexican or Puerto Rican, could even be Cuban,' he said. 'I spotted two of them, but there could be more; looked like backing singers for the Kings of Mambo. Slick- dressed muthas.'

    Whatever involvement these two had, it wasn't good.

    'We have to find these guys,' I said.

    'Shouldn't be too difficult,' Rink said. 'Ain't too many homeboys hanging around Louise's hood.'

    'Unless,' Harvey reminded us, 'the FBI are already there and they've beat a hasty retreat.'

    Rink sniffed. 'You want to have a run over and see if we can round them up now?'

    I glanced around, looking for a clock. Other than that it was late, I hadn't a clue what time it was. Finally I said, 'We'll wait for morning. I don't know about you boys, but I need a couple hours' sleep. Jet lag's got to me, I think.'

    Rink shook his head sadly.

    'Jet lag, my ass. Admit it—old age is finally catching up with you.'

    I gave him a weary smile. 'No, I just think it'd be better if we speak to them at a more civilized time.'

    'And,' Rink asked, 'in a more civilized manner this time?'

    Only thing is, there's no such thing as dealing with scum in a civilized manner.

23

'son of a bitch.'

        Cain sighed as the gun barrel pressed to his hooded forehead. Even cultured killers let a little profanity slip now and again.

    'You've got that right,' said the thief as he stepped out of the wardrobe. Pressure from the gun made Cain step backward. 'Now drop the knife or I'll shoot you where you stand.'

    Cain dropped the knife. It landed with a faint thud on the carpet.

    'Kick it away,' the thief ordered.

    Cain glanced at his bagged feet.