Blue Smoke and Murder

71

SEPTEMBER 17

12:31 A.M.

The sound of a satellite phone ringing in the next room brought Zach to full wakefulness. Automatically he started to get up, then realized it was Jill’s phone, not his. He turned on the bedside lamp and reached over to wake her.

Her eyes were open, clear, watching him.

“Do I answer?” she asked softly.

Zach wanted to say no. He nodded his head.

She fought her way through the luxurious pillows surrounding her like a flock of sleeping swans and walked toward the adjoining room.

He watched her push open the door and wished she wasn’t walking closer to danger with every step.

Maybe it’s a wrong number.

But Zach’s gut knew it wasn’t. He kicked clear of the pillows and went to stand next to Jill.

“Hello,” she said, angling the phone so that Zach could hear.

“Ms. Breck?”

The voice had an odd tone that told Zach it was being filtered. No voiceprints would be useful for making a case in court.

“Who is this?” Jill asked.

“I’m an art dealer. I represent a private collector who wants to remain anonymous. My client is very interested in some paintings you have. Are you alone?”

Zach’s dark eyebrows lifted.

“What does that have to do with my paintings?” she asked.

“My client heard that you hired a renegade private security organization named St. Kilda Consulting. If it’s true, my client would refuse to deal with you.”

“Let me make sure I have this right,” Jill said. “Your client doesn’t like who is representing me, so he won’t deal with me?”

“Did you know that St. Kilda was involved in a gun battle that cost the lives of several people and left a federally protected government witness close to death?”

“Really?” Jill said, looking at Zach.

He shrugged. Old news.

“The principals in that matter were Grace Silva, a discredited former federal judge, and Joe Faroe, an ex-convict with a long history of violence.”

Jill looked at Zach.

His smile wasn’t the kind that comforted people. He walked toward the desk and found a notepad and pen with the hotel’s logo on them.

“I didn’t know that,” she said slowly. “It makes St. Kilda sound, well, sort of shady.”

“St. Kilda Consulting has been put on the watch list of every government agency in the United States,” the caller said. “It’s a mercenary corporation, a private military company, and as such is required to register with the State Department because of its many questionable overseas contracts.”

Zach returned with a hotel note tablet that said go with it.

She gave him a well, duh look.

“You’re making me very uneasy,” she said into the phone. “That’s not at all what I thought St. Kilda was.”

“Sorry to be the one bringing bad news,” the caller said smoothly. “The good news is that we can do some profitable business, but only if you get rid of St. Kilda. My client simply refuses to have any part of such an organization.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” she said, trying not to laugh. “How did your client learn about the paintings?”

“The world is full of wealthy, anonymous collectors. At the high end, art is best conducted on a private basis. Many collectors are afraid that publicity will draw the attention of thieves and extortionists. As long as you’re with St. Kilda, my client thinks that you might be, at best, an extortionist. After all, that’s what St. Kilda Consulting is noted for.”

“Extortion?”

“In a word,” the caller agreed.

“Frankly, I’m just a woman alone who finds herself in a very strange, sometimes dangerous world,” Jill said. “I didn’t ask for any of this, but I’ve got it just the same. And…”-she sighed-“I’ve become uneasy with St. Kilda.”

Go, babe! Zach nodded, silently encouraging her. Base the lies on truth. So much more convincing that way.

“Then we have a basis for the deal,” the caller said.

“What is your client willing to pay for the paintings?” Jill asked.

“If the paintings are all similar to the one that was trafficked around Salt Lake City-”

“They’re better,” she cut in. “Bigger.” She looked at Zach and smiled. “Size does matter, you know.”

He bit back laughter.

“I could offer you a million dollars for your paintings,” the caller said.

“A million?” She made a scornful sound. “How about ten million? Do you know what Dunstans are selling for on the market today?”

“Not a chance,” the caller said. “Your paintings aren’t signed Dunstans, and no one who matters will authenticate them. Considering that, a million is very generous.”

“What if the paintings could be authenticated?” she insisted.

“That’s the ten-million-dollar question, isn’t it?” The caller’s voice roughened. “There’s no historical record of the paintings other than your unsupported word they were in your family. Even if you found, say, a thumbprint in place of a signature, there’s no way to prove that the thumbprint belonged to the artist.”

Zach was writing busily.

“Really? But fingerprints are accepted in-” she began.

The man kept talking. “A lot of people could handle paintings before they’re dry. Friends, fellow artists, groupies, a hasty framer. Considering that fingerprints as a whole, like DNA evidence, have become an area of controversy in criminal cases, you’d be stupid to front those paintings as Dunstans. Unless you have the resources for a prolonged legal battle…?”

Zach shoved the notepad under Jill’s nose.

“Three million dollars,” she said, reading quickly, her voice hard and her eyes shocked. “Cash. Used, nonsequential bills. Nothing smaller than fifties or larger than hundreds.”

“Two million,” the caller said.

She looked at Zach.

He nodded.

“All right,” she said. “Two million.”

“Where are the paintings now?”

“Safe,” she said quickly. “Don’t you worry about them. I nearly lost them twice to fire. Not taking that chance again.”

“Can you get to the paintings or does St. Kilda have them?” the caller asked.

She looked at Zach.

He pointed at her.

“I can get to the paintings,” she said.

“Fire St. Kilda,” said the man. “Check out of your hotel. Pick up the paintings and drive north out of Las Vegas. Be prepared to drive all the way to Reno if you have to. You’ll be contacted along the way and given instructions on how to proceed.”

“You need your meds adjusted,” she said without looking at Zach, who was writing rapidly. “I’m not bringing the paintings with me.”

“Then we don’t have a deal.”

“Let me think a minute,” she said.

Zach wrote faster.

“I’ll leave the paintings with a concierge at a Vegas hotel,” she said, reading upside down. “I’ll give the storage receipt to a friend of mine.”

He turned the tablet and held it out to her.

“This friend will wait for my call,” she said, reading quickly. “After you give me the money, I’ll get in my car and call my friend, who will be waiting in the lobby of a Vegas hotel. She’ll hand over the storage receipt and tell your people which hotel has the paintings.”

“You must watch a lot of television,” the man retorted.

“Listen, dude,” Jill said, using her river-captain voice, “I learned a lot about structuring a safe deal when I was selling date-rape drugs to USC frat boys. Just because I spent a lot of time on the river doesn’t mean I don’t know city ways.”

There was a long pause, then a laugh before the caller asked, “Can you arrange all of this by early tomorrow?”

She looked at Zach.

He nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “When do we meet?”

Zach made a stretch-it-out motion with his hands.

“I’ll call,” the man said.

“So when do you want me to start driving north?”

“In time to reach the Idaho border before sunset, even if you take a few side trips along the way.”

Zach nodded.

“Okay,” Jill said. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Bring half the paintings with you or the deal is off,” the caller said.

“But-”

“Not negotiable,” the caller said, talking over Jill. “Fire St. Kilda. Keep the phone you’re talking on with you at all times. I won’t call a different number or accept your call from a different number. No phone, no deal. No six paintings, no deal. Come with company, no deal. Get it?”

Zach’s smile was as thin as the cutting edge of a knife.

“Got it,” Jill said. “When are you calling?”

“You’ll be the second to know, while you’re driving somewhere north of Las Vegas on Highway 93, tomorrow afternoon. But don’t count on staying on 93, and have a full tank of gas.”

The caller broke the connection.

Jill hit the caller-ID function. The number was blocked.

Surprise, surprise.

Muttering under her breath, she threw the phone at the top of the unused bed, where it sank out of sight in soft piles of pillows.

Zach dragged her through the connecting doorway. Silently he eased the door shut. He led her into the far bathroom and turned on the shower, but didn’t get into it.

“Okay,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “I need a friend in Vegas I can trust with the paintings.”

“You’ll have one. Male or female?”

“Female. But this guy doesn’t play nice. His friends are probably the same.”

“No worries.” Zach grinned. “We have some very competent females at St. Kilda Consulting. The paintings are going straight into Shane Tannahill’s casino vault.”

“I won’t get away with that on my end,” Jill said. “I’ll have to have six real paintings for the show-and-tell.”

Zach wanted to argue but didn’t. He could already hear Grace. We can’t prove anything unless the paintings are real, the money is real, and the exchange is made.

That was the downside of employing judges. They had such firm ideas about what would and would not fly in court.

“And I’ll have to be alone,” Jill said tightly.

“No way. Forget it.”

She didn’t like it, but she didn’t see any way around it.

Sometimes rapids couldn’t be finessed. They had to be ridden.

“I’m not going to waste time arguing about this,” Jill said. “Where’s your phone?”

“Why do you need it?”

“I’m calling Grace Silva Faroe. Then I’m going back next door and firing St. Kilda over my sat phone.”