Blue Smoke and Murder

11

SEPTEMBER 13

7:00 P.M.

When it was full dark, Score finally stirred from his observation post in the back of his minivan. Ms. Breck’s dirt-bag SUV was where it had been for the past four hours, collecting dust.

He’d been collecting dust since dawn. He was used to the stake-out routine, but he didn’t love it. Eating mini-mart snacks and pissing into Gatorade bottles got old real quick.

It had been especially hard to wait knowing that the paintings were locked in that tin-can SUV fifty feet away. She hadn’t carried anything sizable inside, or sent the bellman out after any more luggage.

Score bit back a yawn, checked his watch, then looked for the guard whose boring job it was to drive through the hotel parking lot for eight hours, five days a week. The dude must have decided to save wear and tear on tires, because he’d parked his little golf cart and was drinking coffee, using one of the long-haul trucks for a windbreak.

When Score moved forward and opened the driver’s door of his minivan, the wind nearly yanked the handle out of his hands. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

The wind was as cold as it was strong. No wonder the guard wasn’t driving around in the open golf cart.

If somebody told me to freeze in this wind for minimum wage, I’d tell them to jerk off.

Even though it was dark between the parking lot’s widespread, sickly orange lights, Score pulled a toque over his head and down to his eyebrows. The result concealed the color of his hair and kept his ears warm. He stuffed a machete under his thigh-length leather jacket, taking care to keep the hooked end of the blade from notching his balls by mistake. His “slim jim” was already in its own special inside pocket, just itching to be used on a locked car.

He walked to the Breck SUV. As he’d guessed from the way she locked it up, the vehicle had a manual rather than an electronic lock.

Piece of cake.

He pulled out the slim jim, slid it down the driver’s window, fished a bit, and yanked up the lock.

No alarm.

Nobody looking his way.

It took less than a minute to see that there weren’t any paintings inside the SUV.

Hell, that would have been too easy.

But there was a satellite phone underneath the passenger seat that was as old as the car. Like the car, it still worked.

Tucking the satellite phone under his jacket, Score went back to his minivan. He opened the sliding door, ducked in, and closed it behind him. Both side walls of the van had custom racks that secured a multitude of metal suitcases, ranging from palm-size to big enough to hold an automatic rifle. He selected a case, turned on his penlight, and glanced quickly at the contents. Locaters and bugs of all sizes were stashed in their cut-out foam nests. He opened Jill’s satellite phone, looked at the battery, and shook his head.

He pulled out a second metal suitcase. The bugs and locaters in this one came inside their own batteries.

Pricey bastards.

But it all goes on the client’s tab.

One of the expensive bugs would work for Jill’s phone. He popped out the old battery, put in the new and improved one, and opened up a special computer. He booted it up, checked the readout, and saw that the locater was hot. He muttered into the phone, checked that the bug was working just fine, and decided it was good to go. Unless she kept the phone five feet from her at all times, he doubted that he’d overhear much, but the voice-activated bug was part of the only locater/battery setup that fit her old sat phone.

If she’s smart and bolts, then my client wasted some money. No problemo. Clients are made of the green stuff.

If she goes after the paintings, she’ll give me the GPS coordinates.

In all, it would be more reliable and a whole lot less dangerous than beating the truth out of her.

He replaced all the suitcases in their niches, stashed the phone in his jacket, and went back to the little SUV. Just to be certain Ms. Breck hadn’t hidden anything, he took out the SUV’s overhead light and ripped up the seats with the machete.

Nothing.

More nothing under the spare tire, which he took bites out of with the machete.

He almost punched holes in the motor oil cans on the passenger side, but decided he didn’t want to drip all the way back to his van.

Where are the paintings?

She didn’t take them inside with her. Even rolled up, they wouldn’t have fit in that little belly bag she wore.

And the fitted jacket she wore over her jeans didn’t leave room for anything but the body beneath. Not a great rack, but she had a nice way of moving.

He checked the guard-still sucking on coffee. Moving quickly but not in a way that would attract attention, he went back to his van for a few more items, then returned to work on the SUV.

Stage setting. Jesus. I shoulda been a producer.

Even as he worked, he kept an eye on the parking lot. If the clever Ms. Breck decided to come out before he was done, well, shit happened.

And he had a load with her name all over it.