Dead Men's Dust (19 page)

Cain detected movement on the deck above him. He glanced up, ready to lift the gun, and saw a young bikini-clad woman move hurriedly away.

One of two things was about to happen. The bitch would have the good sense to get the hell off the boat, or she was going to set up a racket to alert her sugar daddy in the cabin. Cain couldn’t take the chance it would be the second option. He had to act now, while he still had surprise on his side. And with the decision came action. He only had six bullets and he had to make them count. The minders first.

Cain stepped up to the doorway. One of the sliding partitions was open, so he stepped inside. He was only ten feet away from the first minder when he lifted the gun and fired. The man’s head erupted in cherry-red fragments.

Then chaos ensued.

Chaos was fine with Cain. He loved chaos.

Telfer’s face came up, registering shock, and not a little relief in a mad sort of way. The Latinos were spinning, both going for their guns, the second minder already rounding on Cain. Only Carson had the good sense to throw himself to the floor and attempt to escape beneath a nearby counter.

Cain snorted, and shot the second minder. He hit the man in the right arm, the bullet passing through it into the flesh of his thick chest. The man went down, though Cain knew immediately he wasn’t dead. Didn’t matter, he’d dropped his gun, and he saw that Telfer had the presence of mind to snatch it up.

The two Latinos were next. Cain shot the one with the bandaged ear, hitting him in the thigh as the man leaped away. The bullet spun him, and the man went to the floor at the feet of his friend. The second Latino was already bringing up his gun to fire, and Cain realized it was
time to move. But instead of bolting for cover, he leaped farther into the room, shouting, “Move your ass, Telfer!”

The second Latino fired. Not at him, as Cain had hoped, but at Telfer. The bullet struck the back of Telfer’s chair. Directly where his head had been an instant earlier. Telfer was already bent double over the glass table, reaching for the briefcase. As the Latino tried to draw another bead on Telfer, Cain shot him. Twice, once in the gut, then higher up at the jawline. The man went over backward, trailing a ribbon of blood that was stark against the chandeliers’ twinkling lights.

Cain turned on Telfer. “Get a freakin’ move on!”

Telfer snatched the briefcase to his chest, rising up at last. Cain stepped toward him. The gun trained on him. “Give me the gun.”

Telfer shook his head. Lifted his own gun and pointed it at Cain.

“We haven’t got time for this now,” Cain warned him.

“No,” Telfer said. “We haven’t.”

They both eyed each other over the ends of their guns.

“Let’s get the hell out of here and worry about the rest later,” Cain offered.

Before Telfer could accept or decline the invitation, a door burst open at the front of the cabin and another man skidded through. He had a compact Uzi submachine gun in his hands. He made a quick scan of the living area. To give him his due, the chaotic scene didn’t appear to faze him much. He lifted the Uzi and let loose an arching stream of bullets as he thudded over to cover Carson. In the same instant the injured Latino rolled over, grabbing at the gun he’d dropped on the floor. Two targets, one bullet, more coming his way. Cain decided the best course of action was to get out as quickly as possible.

As bullets churned the decor behind him, he flung himself through a side window, crashing through glass to sprawl on the deck. Shouts came from inside the cabin, then Telfer was sprawling on the deck beside him, the briefcase clattering away from him. Telfer’s shirt was
bloody and he groaned as he rolled to his knees. Cain grabbed him, checking his hands.

“What the hell’re you doing?” Telfer demanded.

“Where’s your gun?” Cain snapped.

“I dropped it,” Telfer said.

“Jesus Christ,” Cain said. He slapped Telfer’s shoulder. “Get the briefcase. We’re out of here.”

Telfer went on hands and knees, grabbing at the Samsonite case. He came back to Cain, the case against his chest. “That better be
real
money,” Cain said.

“Course it is. I’m not a friggin’ idiot.”

Cain nodded, indicated the front of the boat. “That way. Now.”

They both lurched up as the fourth minder appeared at the window they’d recently crashed through. He gave an angry shout, twisted so he could bring the Uzi into play. As he did, Cain sprang toward him with his Bowie knife. The knife connected before the man could depress the trigger, severing his thumb. The man screamed and the gun flopped sideways, bullets splintering the wooden deck next to Telfer. Cain chopped again, this time deep into the man’s wrist and the man withdrew his seriously wounded arm from further harm.

Telfer was up and running. Cain glanced at him, then down at the deck. He paused in his flight to retrieve the severed thumb, popping it into his pocket alongside his other mementos.

The bodyguard was back at the window again, but only to scream in abstract terror while he attempted to replace his drooping hand in its rightful place. Cain grinned at him, then charged after Telfer.

He caught up with Telfer at the helm of the yacht. Telfer was wide-eyed as he looked down at the seemingly bottomless gulf below them. The water had a turquoise sheen from the thin layer of diesel oil on its surface.

“Jump,” Cain told him.

“No,” Telfer said, the briefcase clutched tightly to him.

“Jump, Telfer.”

“No way. I can’t swim.”

“Jesus Christ on a freakin’ bike! You can’t swim?”

Again Telfer shook his head.

“I don’t believe it,” Cain said. He grabbed at Telfer and propelled him toward the rail. “Get the hell over the side. If you think I’ve gone to all this trouble to let you drown…”

Telfer resisted, though he knew it was his only chance of survival. Even as he dithered, he could hear the slap of running feet from inside the cabin.

“One of them spicks is still alive,” Cain snapped at him. “So are two of the guards and Carson. Any second now, they’re going to be out here and we’ll be dead. You got that?”

Telfer nodded but still held back from jumping.

“Oh, Holy Christ!” Cain said as he grabbed him and flung him bodily over the railing. Telfer hit the water like a stone and sank immediately. Cain lifted a leg to the railing, just as the minder he’d shot in the arm rounded the deck. Blood had made a patchwork of his chest but he was still in the game. He had the Uzi and was already searching for a target.

Cain lifted his gun and fired.

Not at the man, but at the scuba-diving tanks he saw stacked neatly along one wall of the cabin. It was a desperate shot, one he hadn’t time to calculate, but even as he plunged headfirst into the sea he felt the concussion of the explosion send shock waves through the water around him. Cain hit the water and swam deeper, his ears thrumming with the concussive blast, until his clawing hand found Telfer’s shirt. Telfer twisted and tugged, in the throes of panic.

Cain cursed, letting loose a stream of bubbles. He couldn’t get a grip on Telfer because he was also holding on to his Bowie. All the trouble he’d gone to in order to regain his knife and now this? He let the blade drop from his hand, watched it sink with a wistful look on
his face until it was lost in the murk. Then he angrily grabbed hold of Telfer’s clothing and kicked upward.

They broke the churning surface, Cain behind Telfer with an arm looped around his neck. Telfer gagged, spat, and sucked in great lungfuls of air as he cradled the briefcase to his chest like a baby. Cain guessed his death grip on the case had nothing to do with what was inside, but rather that the sealed case was a handy flotation device.

Twenty feet away, the yacht was on fire. When the tanks had gone up, they’d taken the minder with them, not to mention a good portion of the deck and cabin. Cain spied a bikini-clad figure leaping from the boat into the water. Another figure hobbled down the steps onto the pier, a white patch on the side of his head. Even from here, Cain could tell it was the remaining Latino.

Of the remaining minder and Carson, there was no sign. Perhaps the Latino had turned his gun on them before making his escape. But Carson appeared, staggered to the railing, and fired a handgun at the limping Latino trying to escape. His aim was useless, and the Latino made it to the shelter of a second boat. The Latino proved a better shot, firing back at Carson three times in quick succession. Carson folded, somersaulted over the rail, and sprawled facefirst on the boardwalk. Didn’t look like he’d be getting up again.

Cain paid them no further heed. He kicked with his feet, trawling Telfer and his precious cargo backward. They’d just made it to the ladder of a yacht about a hundred feet away when the air turned inferno hot around them. Cain held Telfer down, following him beneath the water as Carson’s yacht erupted in a churning fireball that scattered steaming chunks of metal and wood across the harbor.

“
YOU’VE GOTTA BE YANKIN’ MY GODDAMN CHAIN.
”

Rink was standing with his knuckles on the hood of Cheryl Barker’s squad car. His bowed head emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, equally emphasizing his dismay.

I wasn’t feeling much better. I was thinking much the same thing as he was.

We’d both caught the TV news earlier.

A man with a hangdog expression related the disaster that had struck an exclusive yachting club only minutes earlier. The camera cut from the studio to an on-scene reporter who was standing amid crowds of stunned onlookers as a huge pall of black smoke breached the heavens behind them. I’d grimaced at the screen. The world was full of doom and gloom. Even, I’d decided, in exclusive rich men’s playgrounds like Marina del Rey.

Uninterested, I’d switched channels. Then we’d driven out here to meet with Cheryl Barker.

We were parked on the ridge of a shale embankment at the head of a valley in which we could glimpse the roofs of houses amid lush
greenery. Palms and peppertrees dominated. Birds called and flapped in the skies above us.

Cheryl had chosen this place for an impromptu meeting simply because it was a halfway point for us all. I could hear the disjointed chatter and squeals of children and guessed it was playtime at some park hidden in the trees. It was a surreal moment, us talking about death and destruction while dozens of kids laughed and whooped with delight below us.

Barker, an attractive woman with light freckles and short but unruly red hair, shook her head. “I ain’t the one yankin’ chains, Jared. It’s just come over the air. The fireball in Marina del Rey is down to your good buddy John Telfer.”

Rink glanced my way, and I lifted my shoulders in a noncommittal way. Since the nonsense I’d read on Harvey’s computer, not to mention the subsequent newscasts I’d caught on TV and our rental car radio, it didn’t surprise me that this latest atrocity was being laid at John’s door. It seemed that John had superseded Osama bin Laden as the most notorious felon in the western hemisphere.

Barker was almost as tall as Rink but she was much leaner, and that made her appear diminutive next to my friend’s bulk. She stood with her thumbs hooked in her belt like some Wild West gunslinger. Annie Oakley in the flesh.

Rink turned from bracing himself on the hood of the LAPD mobile. He looked Barker up and down. He took in the officer’s pristine uniform.

“You ain’t made detective yet?”

“Nope,” Barker said.

“Someone has to see sense soon,” Rink offered.

“Tell the truth, I’m in no great hurry. I’m as happy swanning around in a squad car as steering a desk. If I get the promotion, all well and good. If not, well, I’m as happy busting the balls of gangbangers and writing misdemeanor tickets for little old ladies driving the wrong way
up the freeway.” Barker glanced down, brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her black shirt. “Anyways, I’m partial to the uniform. Can’t see why there’s such a big deal about getting into civilian duds.”

Rink gave Barker a tight-lipped grin. “Plus you get to drive a cool car, huh?”

“Yep, beats the hell outta the pool cars the detectives limp around in. More power under the hood, for one thing.”

“You’ll need it when you’re chasing all those rogue grandmothers in golf carts.” The small talk out of the way, Rink asked, “You putting much credence in it?”

“What? The fireball? No doubt about it, Jared. Eyewitness testimony places your boy at the scene.”

“They sure it was John Telfer?” I asked, stepping into their circle.

Barker turned and squinted at me.

“Joe Hunter,” I said, introducing myself. I stuck out a hand and Barker accepted it, shaking it languidly. “John is my brother.”

Barker frowned and glanced at Rink, who said, “It’s cool, Cheryl.”

Rink’s word was enough for Barker.

“Your boy’s been on every network and newspaper in the country. Witness swears that Telfer was the one who brought hell to that boat.”

I still wasn’t convinced and it obviously showed in my face.

“Before the boat went supernova, the witness managed to get off it unscathed. She says that John Telfer must’ve brought a bomb on board with him. He was carrying some kinda backpack when he arrived.” Barker sucked air through her teeth. “Mind you, we ain’t giving the bomb part much weight. More than likely, something on the boat went bang. Apparently there were a lot of guns going off prior to the explosion.”

“It’s not like John,” I said, thinking aloud.

Barker lifted her knobby shoulders. “Just telling you what’s been said.”

“Was there any mention of why John was on this boat in the first place?”

“Nothing the witness will admit to.”

“Who is the witness?”

Barker said, “A hottie Rhet Carson picked up over on Catalina Island. You know how these old rich guys are. They like a touch of eye candy draped over the rails of their yachts when they pull into dock. Gives them, whaddaya call it, self-esteem?”

“Are you saying your eyewitness is a hooker?”

“Hookers have eyes the same as anyone,” Barker replied. “She says that Telfer wasn’t the only one to come on board. Two guys in sharp suits turned up. Then some other guy. She seems to think that the last guy on board was with Telfer. The shooting started just after he got there.”

Rink and I looked at each other.

“Did she give a description of any of the three that turned up after John? The two guys in suits, for instance?”

“Let me see.” Barker pulled a notebook from her shirt pocket and thumbed through to a page marked with an elastic band. I doubted she needed the prompt. “Yeah, here we are. An APB was put out for them. Both guys are in their thirties, medium build, dark haired. Kinda swarthy-looking. Dressed in designer suits by all accounts.”

“The Mambo Kings.” I nodded to Rink.

Barker lifted the corner of a lip at my remark. “You know these two?”

“Not personally,” I said. “But I intend to.”

Barker looked off across the valley. “Whatever your intentions, you can scratch one of them from your ‘to-do’ list. Got another dispatch not ten minutes ago saying one of them was among the dead found in the burned-out wreckage. The other could be at the bottom of the harbor for all we know. They’re sending divers down as we speak.”

“What about the third man? The one she thought was with John?”

Again Barker scanned her notebook. She made an exasperated noise as she puffed out her cheeks. “White guy. Late thirties to early forties. Cold eyes. That’s about it.”

“Nothing about his clothing? His hair coloring?”

“Nope. The witness said she only got a quick glance at him. Something about the way he looked at her was enough to send her scuttling for cover, she said.” It was apparent Barker didn’t like what she was reading. “Not to mention the fact he’d just gutted one of Carson’s bodyguards with a knife.”

It was my turn to puff out my cheeks. I looked at Rink and saw him staring back. Turning back to Barker, I asked, “Did the witness say anything else about him or John? Did they make it off the boat before it blew?”

“She says they jumped in the harbor just before the boat went up. She didn’t see them after that. Chances of them surviving that kind of explosion would be pretty slim.”

“John can’t swim,” I said, a feeling of dread gnawing at my insides. Burned or drowned, neither would be pretty. I had the fleeting impression of John’s bloated face peering up at me from some infinitely deep place. Shaking off the disturbing vision wasn’t easy, but I had to remain optimistic. I wasn’t prepared to admit defeat just yet. Neither was I ready to give up looking for him until the police divers dragged his corpse from the murky water.

“He could’ve made it out,” Rink offered. “Boats are generally moored closely together. Its likely he made it to another one and climbed out of the water.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“Funny thing is,” Barker said, “this other guy, the one who was with Telfer, apparently he did something extremely odd while he was on the yacht.”

“Apart from gutting someone with a knife?” I asked.

“Yeah. One of Carson’s bodyguards survived the explosion. He was pretty mangled up and not making much sense. He was off his head with pain and blood loss, but he kept on saying, ‘He stole my thumb.’”

I glanced sharply at Barker, who gave me a wry smile in return. “Apart from burns over much of his body, his wrist was cut open and he was missing a thumb. Of course, his injuries could’ve been caused by flying shrapnel from the explosion. Thing is, he was adamant that this mystery man picked his thumb up off the deck.”

“Jumpin’ Jesus,” Rink said, and I could only agree with him.

My theory about John crossing paths with this Harvestman was beginning to take greater shape. Only thing I couldn’t fathom was what that meeting meant to them. What was John doing going there with a murderer? Were they acting as allies, on some mad spree where they were working together? Or was John being compelled to work with this beast? I could only hope it was the latter. For everyone’s sake.

I didn’t realize I’d fallen silent, caught up in my own thoughts, until Rink nudged me. “You hear that, Hunter?”

“Uh? Hear what?”

“Rhet Carson? The guy who owned the yacht?”

I squinted at Rink in miscomprehension.

“I knew we’d lost you there,” Rink said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking.”

“Yeah,” Rink said. “I could hear the cogs turning from here.”

I shook myself into the here and now. “So what did I miss?”

“Rhet Carson’s a major player. Head man of one of the outfits out here.”

“What? Like the Mafia?”

Barker gave a little laugh. “The Mafia doesn’t hold much sway any longer. Not if you’re looking for the old-time Godfather type. But you could say he was a key player in the local underworld. Nowadays your most successful mobsters shun the old-style Cosa Nostra
methods. Carson’s a top-flight business executive. Runs his business from a downtown commercial center, even advertises on the cable networks.”

“His business being?” I asked.

“Banking,” Barker said. “But more specifically, moneylending.”

I said, “You telling me he was money laundering? What better front than to use your own bank?”

Barker snapped her fingers. “You’ve got it, my friend. There have been a number of high-profile investigations into his business, lots of supposition, but nothing that would stick. There was the rumor that he was laundering counterfeit dollars for some outfit from the East Coast, but the case never really got off the ground. He’s laid low for the last coupla years, kept his nose clean, spent more time on his boat. I’m thinking Carson was maybe about to get back in the business again.”

I’d had my suspicions since our last talk with Louise Blake. What the
something big
was that she’d referred to.

Forged money has never been a big problem in the U.S., obtaining decent paper being just about impossible. But I also knew that it was a ploy of some terrorist groups to flood countries with fake currency. Kind of destabilized the value of the dollar, bringing down the almighty American Dream. What they couldn’t achieve with bombs, they made up for in Mickey Mouse money. Petoskey and Hendrickson would have been making top dollar, selling to the enemies of the USA.

And Rhet Carson had wanted in on the action.

To Cheryl Barker, I said, “But without the drawback of being the middleman this time?”

“It’s a fair assumption,” Barker said.

“This outfit he was working with, do you know who runs it?” I asked.

“Not personally,” Barker said. “I suppose I can find out.”

“I might be able to give you a couple of names.”

“You already have your suspicions?”

“Yeah. A couple. Could be a guy called Sigmund Petoskey. He has his base in Little Rock, Arkansas.”

Barker shook her head at that. “Nah. The mob I’m talking about was rumored to be up in Virginia, maybe Georgia, I can’t recall.”

“How about Hendrickson?” I asked.

“Like I said, I don’t know the names personally. Hendrickson? Sounds familiar. I’ll find out.”

Rink gave Barker his cell phone number.

Barker, looking every bit the cowgirl, tipped the brim of an imaginary Stetson our way. “I’d best be on my way. Dallied a little too long. Dispatcher’s probably wondering if I’ve got myself shot dead and is already planning a search party.”

I shook hands with Barker, wondering if we’d ever cross paths again. Probably not. Then Barker and Rink hugged as if they’d been intimate once. I didn’t ask. Barker then turned to her car and slid behind the wheel. She gave us both an exaggerated wink. “I’ll be in touch.”

We watched her drive off, her vehicle almost concealed by the plume of road dust churned up by her wheels. After she was gone, we stood kicking our heels.

“So what’s the plan of action?” Rink finally asked.

“Marina del Rey’s about as good a place as any to start,” I suggested.