Dead Men's Dust

knows what they would have done next? Louise's face fell. She wrapped her arms around her body as if to stop her aching ribs from exploding. She rocked in place.

    I felt shitty. After all she'd been through, I wasn't coming across as the sympathetic type. Sure, she'd been lying . . . at first. But what woman wouldn't do that to protect her man? It was probably the ideal time to give her a little hope again.

    'Now that they've got a lead on John, I guarantee you won't see them again,' I said.

    'But what if they don't find John? Won't they come back?'

    'They won't,' I promised. Not if I stopped them first.

    Louise was growing despondent again, speeding up her back- and-forth movement. She snatched the rope of hair into the corner of her mouth and began gnawing on it.

    'At least we've got a starting point,' I said. 'We'll leave for Los Angeles this afternoon, try and pick up John's trail from there.'

    'Why Los Angeles?' she asked, coming to a sudden halt. I wondered if I'd touched on something she knew. But she didn't say anything, only waited for me.

    'It's obvious that John was headed west. His car was found abandoned only a few hours from Los Angeles; I'm betting that's where he is now.'

    'Some big-time players out on the West Coast,' Rink agreed. 'You think John's out there looking for a buyer?'

    'Yeah,' I said.

    If John wasn't the killer of those people at the motel, something had suddenly become very obvious to me. The real killer and John had crossed paths. Maybe John was already dead, buried somewhere out in the Mojave Desert. In all likelihood, the killer now had what John had stolen, which probably meant he'd be looking for a buyer for it. That meant the killer was probably in the L.A. area trying to hook up with one of these big-time players. Whatever this something big turned out to be, it was a curse; he was welcome to the damned thing. But if he had killed John, he'd just made himself a major enemy.

28

'ken bianchi and angelo buono,' cain whispered to himself.

    As serial killers go, their names aren't easily recalled. Not like Bundy or Gacy. Not until their singular epithet is apparent: the Hillside Strangler. Now that's a name that's familiar to every American citizen over the age of puberty.

    Cousins Bianchi and Buono terrorized the western states in the 1970s, raping and killing in unison. The law only caught up with them after Bianchi's lust became too great and, without the aid of his partner, he'd botched the abduction of two women.

    It isn't often that killers work together. As far as Cain was concerned, Bianchi and Buono were the only true serial killers to do so. Which was why he'd been toying with the notion that the world was overdue for another terrible twosome.

    The thought hadn't appealed for long. For a number of reasons. John Telfer didn't have the gall to pull the trigger when he'd had the opportunity. He was no killer. He was a thief who deserved only to be punished. But mainly, why the hell should John freaking Telfer share any of his glory?

    No, any thought of a fledgling partnership was out the window. Telfer had to die. Perhaps he'd even be Cain's magnum opus, his announcement to the world. The death that would make him famous.

    However, there was still a task or two to be completed before Cain allowed himself the satisfaction of flaying the hide from Telfer's thieving hands. First off, there was the subject of what he'd discovered in Telfer's backpack.

    The denouement had come as a surprise to him.

    'I've got a feeling I know what this is,' Cain said.

    Telfer sighed. 'They're plates.'

    'Litho plates? For printing counterfeit money.'

    Telfer sighed again.

    Cain slowly bent down and picked up one of the wads. As Telfer eyed him expectantly, he peeled one of the bills loose and held it up to the light above his head. The watermark was there.

    'Not bad,' Cain said. 'Though if you look closely, there's a little merging of the whorls along the edge. It wouldn't pass the scrutiny of a Treasury agent.' He was lost momentarily as he studied the note, turning it over in his hand. The gun was no longer pointed at Telfer, and for a split second the opportunity was there for Telfer to leap at him. Even with his hands bound, he might have wrenched the gun free and turned the tables on his captor. But the moment passed. 'This paper stock. How did you get it?'

    'I don't know,' Telfer said. 'I had nothing to do with the printing of the money. I was just a courier.'

    Cain nodded to himself. 'Apparently the paper's the hardest thing to come by. It's all produced up at a mill in Massachusetts. Under guard of the U.S. Treasury Department, no less. It's some sort of high-grade cotton and linen mix, extremely hard to duplicate. And see these little blue and red lines? They're rayon fibers mixed in to make the paper even more difficult to fake. Most counterfeit bills don't have these. Oh, wait, I see it now.' He held the note very close to his face. 'The security marks aren't actually in the weave of the paper. They've been added at the printing stage. Still, it's a very good copy.'

    Telfer looked at him as though he was mad—which in effect he probably was.

    Cain laughed to himself. 'I have a keen eye for detail, that's all.'

    'You sound like you know what you're talking about.'

    Cain waved down the flattery.

    'I just know these kind of things.' He laughed in a self-conscious manner totally out of character. 'I