Blue Smoke and Murder

8

SEPTEMBER 12

9:00 P.M.

Score was sweating hard, pumping iron in a controlled frenzy that kept him from punching a hole through the wall. It seemed that people just got stupider every day. He’d been lucky to leave the office before he took somebody’s head off and shoved it up their dumb ass.

His cell phone went off. His private cell, the one that only a few people had the number for. He racked the weight and looked at the caller ID.

Blank.

“Score,” he said briefly into the phone.

“I hope you’re on the trail of those paintings.”

“Like I told you.” About ten times already. “Dead end. They burned.” The only thing that kept Score’s voice neutral was the really sweet yearly retainer this client paid.

But the more they paid, the more demanding they were.

“Then why is Jillian Breck asking galleries all over the West to look at JPEGs of three unsigned Dunstans?”

“So there were photos somewhere, sometime,” Score said, wiping off his sweat with a big towel. “So what? I took care of the paintings, and the rest is bullshit and ashes.”

“I’d like to believe that. I don’t. Find those paintings or bring me proof that they don’t exist. And do it before the auction!”

Score looked through his home gym’s front window to the glittering panorama of lights that was the L.A. basin at night. “How can I prove something doesn’t exist? Run the ashes through a spectrograph?”

“Whatever it takes. That’s what you’re paid for.”