Blue Smoke and Murder

92

SEPTEMBER 17

6:46 P.M.

Flashlight beams danced through the brush and finally came to the edge of the dry creek.

“We’re coming in,” a male voice said through Zach’s headset.

“Just don’t fall on us,” Zach said.

Two St. Kilda operators jumped down the bank and landed in the sand like paratroopers.

“Anybody need a medic?” the female op asked.

“No,” Jill said.

“Yes,” Zach said.

“You told me you were okay,” Jill said instantly, running her hands over him, searching for hidden injury.

“Not me,” he said, kissing her gritty forehead. “You.”

“Nothing wrong with me that soap and water won’t cure.”

Zach winced and touched his earphones. “Faroe wants me to be sure. Or it could be Lane. Their voices are getting more alike every day.”

She leaned over the tiny mike that rested along Zach’s jaw. “I’m okay. Dirty, tired, scuffed up some, but nothing dangerous.”

“Where’s the shooter?” one of the ops asked.

“About forty feet up the draw,” Zach asked.

“Dead?”

“Oh yeah,” Zach said.

“Know him?” the op asked.

“No. We’ll need fingerprints. He was wearing full body armor.”

“Gotcha. Photo ID won’t help.” The op turned and started up the dry wash.

“Why will it take fingerprints?” Jill said.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Zach asked.

The sound of Velcro being stripped open told Zach that the op had found the shooter and was removing body armor.

“That man killed Modesty,” Jill said flatly. “I have a right to know.”

“I shot him twice in the face at pretty close range.”

She drew a ragged breath. “Okay. A photo ID wouldn’t be much good right now. Do we know who the well-dressed dude was?”

The remaining op switched channels, talked quietly, and turned to Jill. “The ID we ran on the DOA makes him as a Carson City lawyer.”

Jill blinked. “What was he doing here?”

“Good question,” the op said. “We don’t have an answer. Yet.”

The female op’s voice carried through the darkness. “Well, hello, Harry.”

“You recognize the shooter?” Zach called.

“Not by his beautiful face, that’s for sure,” the op called back. “He’s got a tatt on his left pec. Susie. That was his third wife’s name.”

“You know him?”

“I worked for Harry ‘Score’ Glammis while I went to college. He was private eye to Hollywood’s rich and corrupt. I quit after Harry beat his wife’s lover to death and got away with it. Still has the scars on his knuckles. It wasn’t the first time he killed someone. Always in self-defense, of course.”

“A real sweetheart,” Zach said.

“Word was he had anger-management issues,” the female op said dryly, “aka ’roid rage. Looks like you solved his problem the old-fashioned way.”

Zach let go of Jill and came to his feet.

“Can you stand up?” he asked her.

Wincing, she pushed to her feet, then swayed a bit.

“You okay?” he said quickly, stepping close, ready to catch her.

“As long as I don’t have to do another two-thousand-yard dash over broken country, I’m good.” She accepted his arm and leaned into him. “Not great. Just good enough.”

“You’re way better than that.” Zach brushed a kiss over her bleeding lip. “Ready?”

She started to say something, then stopped, remembering. “Have you searched all the cabins? Ski Mask-Score-said something about taking the paintings to be authenticated. I don’t think the lawyer was the art expert.”

Zach looked at the remaining op.

“We’re checking the cabins one by one,” the op said.

“Find anyone?” Zach asked when the op switched back.

“So far, two men. Their ID says they’re Ken and Lee Dunstan, son and father.”

“What’s their excuse for being here?”

“They say that they were working for the dead lawyer,” the op said. “The old man came here to look at some paintings for the lawyer’s client, who claims he was being extorted by one Jillian Breck. Ken Dunstan came along to keep his father company in-and I quote-‘a stressful situation.’”

Zach said something bleak under his breath.

“Now what?” Jill asked, looking at him.

“The story is just plausible enough to close the case right here.”

“I didn’t extort anyone! You know that!”

“Yes, I know.” For all the good that does, Zach thought tiredly. “But with Glammis and that lawyer dead, we don’t have anywhere to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s over.”

“But whoever hired Glammis is at least an accessory to murder,” Jill said.

“Glammis is dead. All the dude paying the bills has to say is that Glammis exceeded his orders. Hell, it could even be true.”

“You mean the son of a bitch who hired my great-aunt’s killer can’t be touched?” Jill demanded, her eyes narrow.

“Legally, no. And St. Kilda doesn’t do illegal.”

Jill just stared at him, her eyes dark.

He pulled her close and held her, rocking slowly. “I’m sorry. Sometimes a little revenge is all you get.”

“It’s not good enough,” she said against his chest.

“I know. But it’s all we have.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had called the sheriff.

“Can St. Kilda keep us out of jail?” Jill asked.

“The sheriff won’t like it, but yes. Self-defense is a fact.”

Jill took a deep breath. “Good. I have an idea.”