Blue Smoke and Murder (7 page)

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER
13
11:28
P.M.

G
race picked up Faroe’s phone, saw who it was, and switched on the scrambler before putting the phone on speaker. “Grace, here. Joe’s busy driving.”

“How bad can traffic be at this time of night?” Steele asked, his voice crisp.

“It’s not the traffic, it’s the fact that she’s having the baby!” Faroe said loudly. “Lane, how long since the last contraction?”

“Two minutes, twenty-eight seconds.” Lane’s voice was tight, deep. Like Faroe’s. “How you doing, Mom?”

“Will you both shut up?” Grace asked pleasantly. “I can’t hear the ambassador. And slow down unless you want a police escort.”

Steele’s surprisingly warm laughter came from the speaker. “I take it all is under control, Judge?”

“Yes, but you couldn’t tell by talking to my men. My doctor is on the way in to the hospital, the staff is ready, and apparently so is the baby. What do you need?”

“Jillian Breck just called for Joe.”

“What?” Lane said. “Is she all right? Is she hurt? Does—”

“Belt up, Lane,” Faroe said. He knew his son had a crush on
Jill—what healthy young man wouldn’t?—but that wasn’t the point. “Where is she?”

“Mesquite, Nevada. Eureka Hotel. Room 435. Safe enough for the moment. She’s had a death threat.”

“Craptastic,” Faroe said, checking the intersection again as he accelerated through a yellow-going-red light. The Mercedes SUV gave a happy roar. “Never rains but it bloody pours.”

Grace started to say something, then shut up as her abdomen clamped down back to front, hard and long, pushing the baby closer to the moment of birth.

“Time,” she said to Lane between her teeth.

“Oh, god,” Lane said, his voice thinning. “They’re coming too close!”

Grace felt the same way herself. This baby was in one big hurry. She knew that for most women a second baby came faster than the first, but with a sixteen-year-gap between pregnancies, she hadn’t expected the rule to apply to her.

“Zach Balfour is our closest free operative,” Steele said. “Until we know the exact nature of the threat, we’re going with an intelligent bullet catcher.”

Faroe grunted. “Good. I like Zach’s style. But the last time I talked to him, he was packing for a vacation. He change his mind?”

“No, I did. He was about forty miles from Mesquite, Nevada, heading south in the morning. Now he’s heading north.”

“Works for me.”

“I doubt if it worked for him,” Steele said dryly, “but he’s on the way to Ms. Breck just the same.”

Faroe almost smiled. “Did you get him out of bed?”

“He’s recovering from babysitting DeeDee Breitling.”

“Jesus. Give him double pay. Whatever. Just get him to Jill fast.”

“I’ve seen the man drive,” Steele said. “He’ll be there fast.”

Faroe slowed for another red light, scanned the intersection,
gunned through it without stopping, and turned hard right. “We’re almost at the emergency entrance to the hospital. Give me Jill’s hotel phone. I’ll call while they’re checking Grace in.”

“I could call her and—” Lane began.

“Time contractions!” Faroe and Grace said together.

Steele said Jill’s number in a loud, precise voice.

“How long was that contraction?” Faroe asked, never looking away from the hospital rushing toward him.

“Not—done—yet,” she said in a strained voice.

“Bloody hell,” Steele said. “I’ll talk to Jillian myself.”

“No,” Faroe said, leaning on the SUV’s horn, summoning the emergency staff as he braked gently to a stop by the wide glass doors. “I owe her. This op is on me.”

“It’s on St. Kilda. I have plans for Lane,” Steele shot back. “Now, just for the novelty of the experience, be reasonable. Grace needs you more than—”

“I can talk to Jill and tell Grace to push at the same time,” Faroe cut in.

“You do and you’ll need a surgeon to remove the phone from your ass,” she shot back.

Steele almost laughed out loud.

Faroe did. “That’s the delicate little flower I know and love. And here comes the med team. I’ll call Jill.”

He hung up, looked at Lane and the people hurrying close, and said, “Help your mother and answer their questions while I talk to Jill.”

“Will do.”

Faroe didn’t answer. He was already punching in Jill’s hotel number.

EUREKA HOTEL
SEPTEMBER
14
12:17
A.M.

Z
ach Balfour knocked smartly on the door of 435, then stepped back so that he was clearly visible in the room door’s peephole. Not that a view of his four-day stubble would be reassuring, but he didn’t give a damn. He was supposed to be on vacation, not catching imaginary bullets for another bimbo.

“Who is it?” asked a woman.

The voice was low, slightly husky without being at all breathless.

At least she doesn’t sound like a squirrel on speed,
he told himself.
That’s worth something.

“Zach Balfour, St. Kilda Consulting.”

“Slide your card under the door.”

It wasn’t a request.

His dark eyebrows climbed, but Zach dug out a St. Kilda card and pushed it as far as he could under the hotel room door.

A few moments later, the bolt clicked, the chain rattled, and the door opened.

“Come in,” Jill said.

Zach didn’t wait for a second invitation. He stepped into the
room and watched while Jillian Breck closed, bolted, and chained the door again.

The room was pretty much what he expected. Against the far wall there was a double bed sporting a rumpled spread and a belly bag stuffed like a sausage. A small, butt-sprung couch that likely pulled out into another bed faced the TV. Neither clean nor dirty, the room was just a place to stash stuff between casino raids.

Jillian Breck wasn’t what he’d expected. She wore jeans, a Ray Troll T-shirt, and beat-up river sandals. She had unpolished fingernails, minimal if any makeup, hair a casual auburn cap, nice breasts, trim butt, and a body that was both fit and unmistakably female.

Pale green eyes, steady and clear.

Real green, too, not contacts like the unadorable DeeDee.

Slowly Zach began to feel less homicidal toward St. Kilda Consulting. He held out his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Breck.”

“Jill.”

Her handshake was brief, surprisingly strong, with ridges of callus that came from rowing rafts down unruly rivers.

“Call me Zach. Have you had any more trouble since you first called St. Kilda?”

She blinked. “Well, that’s blunt.”

“Saves time.”

She tilted her head and looked up, then down the long, lean man who stood in front of her. She’d worked with enough men on the river not to underestimate the power in his rangy body and wide shoulders, or the penetrating intelligence of his whiskey-colored eyes. A crop of black stubble did nothing to soften the hard planes of his face. He had equally black hair that was too rough to be well groomed, and too clean to be a collar-length gesture of contempt aimed at the civilized world. His clothes looked like he’d slept in them after a long day of hiking. Maybe several days.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“No tuxedo, pistol, and martini, shaken not stirred?”

Her laugh was as real as the color of her eyes. “Sorry, I’m very new to this.”

“Don’t feel bad. Damn few people are used to death threats.”

Her laughter vanished. Tight, pale lines appeared around the mouth that had been a soft, deep rose.

Nice going,
Zach told himself with a sigh.
Turn the client into a net of twanging nerves with a few badly chosen words.

DeeDee had never noticed.

Could be why he spent a lot of the time working with intel, not clients.

“My social skills need polish,” he said. “Let’s start all over again. Hi, I’m Zach. Joe Faroe wanted to come in my place but his wife is having a baby as we speak.”

“Really?” Jill grinned. “I’ll bet Lane is so excited he’s bouncing in place. Not many boys his age would be, but he’s really looking forward to having a crumb-crusher in the house.”

Zach’s smile surprised her as much as his beat-up hiking boots, dirty jeans, and clean hands.

“I hope he gets a brother,” he said.

One of Jill’s dark brown eyebrows rose. “You don’t like women?”

“I have four sisters, all older than me by at least eight years. My dad died in a stock car race when I was twelve. I couldn’t wait to live in an estrogen-free zone.”

Jill smiled slightly. “I was raised by women in a militantly testosterone-free zone.”

“Should be interesting.”

“What?”

“The next few days.”

Her smiled faded. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Like I said, my social skills need some work. So why don’t you do the talking? Tell me about everything that led up to my knock on your hotel room door.”

“Everything?”

“If it has to do with the reason your little SUV got slashed, yes. You can leave out the boyfriend trashing, giggling sleepovers, brutal labor stories, and choices in gear for your monthlies.”

Jill stared at him for a long moment. “Whew. You really meant it, didn’t you? About the estrogen free.”

“If I never again have to listen to a debate over the joys of pads versus tampons, it’s fine by me. You can leave out the my-cramps-are-worse-than-yours contest, too.”

“In return, you won’t drool over big tits, pant over heart-shaped ass, and whine about not getting any. Deal?”

Zach smiled slowly, then laughed. This one definitely wasn’t DeeDee. “Deal. Now tell me why you called St. Kilda Consulting instead of the cops.”

“I trust Joe Faroe.”

“And you don’t trust cops?”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m not real impressed by the sheriff of Canyon County, Arizona. And he’s even less impressed with me.”

“Any particular reason?”

Jill took a deep breath and told Zach about her great-aunt, the paintings, the gallery letter, the fire, the stiff-necked sheriff, and an art dealer called Blanchard from east Texas.

Zach might look scruffy, but he listened with an intensity and intelligence that reminded her of Joe Faroe. He asked questions, she answered with what information she had, he asked more, and she got frustrated by her lack of answers for basic data on her relatives.

“Hey, don’t feel bad,” he said. “Most people barely know their parents’ birth dates, much less the grandparents’ and grand-siblings’. I’m lucky to remember my sisters’ birthdays. As for my herd of nieces
and nephews, forget it. Don’t worry, St. Kilda will fill in your family gaps. Beginning now.”

Zach took out his cell phone, put it on speaker, and hit speed dial.

“Research,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Zach Balfour. I need a run on an art dealer called Blanchard, male, may or may not be based in east Texas. A photo would be primo. I know that you probably won’t find zilch, but you may get lucky.”

“Hey, Zach. It’s Shawna Singh. Steele told me to put you on the top of my list tonight. No guarantees about tomorrow, though.”

Zach whistled softly. “I appreciate whatever time you can spare. I do like working with the best. If I’d known you were back from maternity leave, I’d have asked for you by name.”

“Keep that in mind when you start chewing on me for not getting something from nothing. You know how useless a search based on a single name will be.”

Zach grunted.

Jill smothered a laugh. She’d never met Shawna and already liked her.

“Anything better than Blanchard for me to handle?” the researcher continued.

“Modesty Breck,” Zach said. “Normal spelling. DOB June 1922, ’23, or ’24, maybe ’25, residence on Breck ranch outside of Blessing, Arizona. Sheriff Ned Purcell, Canyon County, Arizona. Justine née Breck, DOB…”

Pulled between curiosity and a feeling of unease, Jill listened while Zach ordered up research on her family. She wanted to ask if it was really necessary to pry into the lives of the dead, but didn’t. She’d called for help, and she’d gotten it.

Now she had to live with it or walk away and go it alone.

Memories of the death threat, the trashed SUV, and the canvas
rags jamming her belly pack along with her sat phone didn’t make being alone look attractive to Jill.

Nature’s violence was one thing.

Human violence was quite another.

“Then look at Ford Hillhouse, Art of the Historic West, Park City, Utah,” Zach said. He knew a lot about Western art, but he’d been out of the art loop too long to take anything for granted. “Ramsey Worthington, Fine Western Arts, Snowbird, Utah. When I get more, you’ll get more.”

Zach answered a few questions, disconnected, saw his battery wasn’t holding a charge worth a damn, and sighed. He doubted that any small Western towns sold the kind of goods he needed for his sleek sat/cell phone. He’d plug it in overnight and hope for the best.

He looked at his watch. “Two choices—sleep here or go get the paintings.”

“Nobody but my great-aunt knows that I use the homestead cabin, so the paintings should be safe there. My mail comes to a P.O. box in Blessing.”

Since St. Kilda’s researchers hadn’t mentioned the cabin, and it hadn’t burned, Zach figured the art would be good overnight.

Besides, he’d been told to guard Jill Breck, not a bunch of paintings.

“I’ll take the foldout bed,” he said, looking at the butt-sprung couch facing the TV.

“What about my car?”

“Someone from St. Kilda will handle it. Just like they’ll take care of the Chevelle I was hauling home when they called me.”

Jill opened her mouth, closed it. “Just like that? They’ll take care of my car?”

“Is that a problem?”

“I’m not used to other people taking care of things for me.”

He smiled slightly. “Get used to it. It’s what St. Kilda Consulting does best.”

RENO, NEVADA
SEPTEMBER
14
8:00
A.M.

L
ee Dunstan hung up the phone with a curse and wished he could have a whiskey with his breakfast eggs.

Damn doctors. Get a few fast heartbeats and they make you give up everything worth living for.

“What’s wrong?” Betty asked.

Ken Dunstan looked at his father with concern. Lee was a stubborn old man who refused to slow down and let his son manage what was left of the family art appraisal/reprographic business. Lee wouldn’t have known an opportunity cost if it crawled up his leg. Hanging on to the Dunstan paintings for an extra quarter century had been foolish.

And then selling one to a single collector without soliciting other bids had been stupid.

“Whatever it is,” Ken said, “take it easy. It’s not worth getting a heart attack over.”

“I’m not having any damn heart attack,” Lee said, ignoring his wife. “You’ll have to wait a long time for your inheritance.”

Ken looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “Yeah, like I’m counting the days.”
And like there will be anything left by then.

“You should be,” Lee retorted. “Only five days to the auction.”

Under the table, Tiffany Dunstan put her hand on her husband’s thigh, silently telling him to let his father’s sniping go.

“Now, Daddy Dunstan,” she said, “you know a few dollars will never replace you.”

“Huh,” was all Lee said.

Betty sighed, picked up the thermos beside Lee’s plate, and poured another cup of decaf for her husband. She’d be lucky if he didn’t throw the coffee into the fireplace. He hated decaf almost as much as he hated green vegetables, blood pressure meds, and getting old.

“That goddamn bitch!” Lee growled.

Nobody asked who the bitch was. In the Dunstan household, there was only one bitch that redlined Lee’s temper in nothing flat.

Justine Breck.

“She’s been dead for decades,” Betty said, handing Lee the decaf. “You’re alive. If that isn’t revenge, what is?”

“Dead, but not buried. Not deep enough.” He looked like he’d been chewing on bitterweed. “Troublemaking slut.”

With that, Lee took a drink from the cup his wife handed him—and almost spit it back. He slammed the cup down and went to the kitchen for the other pot of coffee, the one everyone else drank from.

“Don’t tell me that was her on the phone,” Ken said dryly.

Tiffany gave him a look.

“Lee, you know what the doctor said about caffeine,” Betty murmured.

“It’s my life, damn it.” Returning to the table, Lee took a swig of coffee and wished it was whiskey.

But he knew better than to start drinking when he was angry. Nothing good came of that, and a whole lot of bad.

He didn’t want to end up like his father.

“The bitch ruined my daddy,” Lee muttered.

Betty started to tune out. She’d heard enough about her father-in-law’s old lover to last several lifetimes.

“He should have killed the bitch,” Lee said.

Instead, Thomas Dunstan had killed himself.

Betty bit back a sigh. She was tired of the past getting in the way of the present. Real tired.

“So, who called?” Ken asked, wondering what had set his father off.

“Some gallery owner, wanting to know if I’d been approached about some new Dunstans.” Lee’s lip curled.

Ken didn’t ask what that had to do with the bitch. He was just glad his father had switched the channel. The past couldn’t be changed. The future could. He knew it even if his father didn’t.

Tiffany got to her feet and hugged Lee. “I’m so sorry. Why can’t galleries just accept that you and Mr. Crawford have all but two of the privately held Dunstan paintings? Why do unsavory people keep making trouble for you?”

Lee grunted and patted Tiffany’s thin shoulder. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. I know how to protect Ken’s heritage.”

Ken grimaced. If his father screwed this up the way he had everything in the past, there wouldn’t be anything left to protect.

Tiffany smiled at Lee. “I’m sure you’ll protect everything just fine.”

Betty wished she was equally sure. “I’ll be glad when this auction is over.” She pushed her scrambled eggs around on her plate. “Most people in the West are land poor. We’re art poor. It gets old.”

Nobody said anything. It was the simple truth.

Lee drank more coffee. A retired teacher’s pension, plus the occasional income from authenticating his father’s paintings, didn’t add up to the high life. But Tal Crawford was nobody’s fool. At the end of the auction, Lee would be rolling in the kind of green cows didn’t eat.

Assuming nothing went wrong.

Nothing will,
Lee told himself.
Tal Crawford didn’t get where he is by backing three-legged ponies.

“You want diamonds, I’ll get you diamonds,” Lee said gruffly. “After the auction.”

Betty pushed a few more yellow bits around her plate and didn’t say a word of another simple truth ringing in her head.

In the closed world of Western art, nothing was a sure thing.