Blue Smoke and Murder

23

SEPTEMBER 14

2:03 P.M.

Score watched the intercom light flash at double speed. Urgent.

Now what? Never get a minute to myself. What the hell is it now? Score ignored the leap of his temper.

“Excuse me,” he said to the frightened trust-fund baby sitting on the other side of the big desk. The dude was a coke-smoking gambler afraid of kneecap collectors. Not Score’s favorite kind of client, but money was money. The kid’s mother had a lot of it. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Without waiting for an answer, Score strode into the adjoining office where Amy was waiting, looking like someone who expected a pat on her spiky hair and a wad of money. He shut and locked the door behind him.

“This better be good,” Score said harshly.

“The subject talked to St. Kilda Consulting. The man with her is a St. Kilda op.”

“Huh.” Score thought fast and hard. No matter how he looked at it, he didn’t like it. St. Kilda was bad news. “Were the paintings mentioned?”

“Just once. From the context, I’d say the subject either has the paintings or knows where they are. She was objecting to the op’s plan to stash her in a safe house while he pursued the death threat against her. No one said where the paintings were, but the implication is that the art is real and available.”

Mother of all whores. How does a country girl know about, much less afford, St. Kilda Consulting?

Maybe Steele was betting on the paintings being worth St. Kilda’s usual fee.

Worse and worse.

“You get the op’s name?” Score demanded.

“Zach was all she called him.”

“Don’t know him.” Which meant nothing. A lot of St. Kilda ops were contract workers rather than full-time. “You have a script?”

“Coming up.” She hurried to a nearby printer and scooped paper from the tray. “She talked to someone called Joe Faroe.”

Faroe. Bad, bad news. This could be a real cluster.

Or not.

Some of St. Kilda’s ops are straight bullet-catchers. Nothing fancy. Just one-on-one.

No problemo. I’ll bend him into a pretzel and then take him apart.

The thought made Score’s blood heat with something between anger and pleasure.

Score read while Amy waited, vibrating eagerness. All he learned was what she’d already told him. The only good news was that the subject wasn’t going to any safe house.

If Score had to, he could still get to Jill Breck. With her out of the picture, no one would get their act together in time to affect the auction.

His client would be happy.

Score would be happy.

Jill Breck would be history.