Blue Smoke and Murder

43

SEPTEMBER 15

7:10 P.M.

Score sat in the back of the anonymous rental minivan. He was parked close to a cutesy bed-and-breakfast sign. That was the good news-a strange vehicle wouldn’t be noticed.

The bad news was that the B amp;B actually had some guests, even though it was the lull between summer tourists and winter skiers. But there wasn’t enough foot traffic to get in the way and the van’s heavily tinted glass offered surprising privacy. He was rather comfortable as he stared across the street and down the block at the iron gate and high adobe walls of Garland Frost’s home.

The really bad news was that nothing Score had learned about Frost made him want to smile.

Western art expert. Big reputation despite lack of degrees. Uncanny eye for good stuff. Retired.

But not so retired that St. Kilda can’t get to him.

At least Frost has a reputation for being arrogant. People spend a lot of time on their knees before they get his attention.

With any luck, the Breck bitch will piss him off.

The script from the bug in Breck’s sat/cell was tantalizing, but hardly definitive. Amy was running it through various electronic cleaner programs. He should hear from her or Steve any minute.

He’d better.

Man, this is turning into a real cluster. I have to know if Frost is looking at JPEGs or the real thing or refusing to look at all.

And I have to know real soon.

The auction was breathing down his neck. The worst-case scenario told him that Frost was looking at the real paintings.

I can get over or through the gate. No problemo.

But the house?

Big problemo.

He’d bet real money that Garland Frost’s house was wired for sound and pictures. Not like the old lady with her piece-of-crap rifle for security. Frost had a lot of valuable goods inside.

Score wasn’t going to risk a black-bag job on that house unless he was certain there was no other way.

What really steamed him was that he couldn’t even use his directional microphone to pick up conversation inside the house. Those adobe walls were a real sound sponge, and he couldn’t get to any windows without exposing himself all over the place. Stalemate. His second computer beeped. He looked over, then activated the voice-calling feature. Steve’s voice came out over the built-in speakers.

“Score?”

“No, it’s the Easter Bugger. What do you have?”

“Definitely a third voice,” Steve said.

Ya sure? Score thought sarcastically. I could have told him that myself.

“Dude’s got a mouth like a sewer,” Steve continued. “It’s all in the transcript.”

“Individual words or just the general direction of the conversation?”

“Words. Want me to read the script?” Steve asked.

“Not unless it’s talking about paintings.”

“Plural? Nope. Everything was really muffled, just like it has been,” Steve said, “then suddenly it was clear. The new dude was on a rant about assholes who destroy art.”

“Anything else?”

“The new voice faded into the other two voices, like the dude walked away from the bug. Things got soft again, but not like before.”

Score came to a point like a hunting dog. “What’s different?”

“Difference between turning the volume down and burying a speaker in mud. I’ve got a new sound-booster program that I’d like to try, but I didn’t want to without ask-”

“Do it,” Score interrupted curtly. “Get back to me soonest.”

“It may be several hours. This program uses complex algorithms that take a lot of time, especially on my laptop.”

“No matter how late, call me. And I mean call. Cell phone. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Then do it.”

Score ended the voice program and stared out the window. All he could be certain of was that a painting had been destroyed. Since he’d been the one with the machete, he already knew that.

Why is it always the simple jobs that go from sugar to shit?

He went to the back of the van, opened a small silver suitcase, and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol. He screwed the silencer on, checked the magazine, and went back to the front of the van.

When it was fully dark, he’d look around Frost’s grounds. There might be a window where he could safely set up shop. From what he’d learned about the cargo at Taos Regional, six crates of goods had been unloaded from the plane St. Kilda chartered. It looked like the op was putting all his eggs in one basket.

Or maybe not.

If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck…

It could be a red herring.

And Score knew just how to fry fish.