Blue Smoke and Murder (6 page)

EUREKA HOTEL
SEPTEMBER
13
7:00
P.M.

W
hen it was full dark, Score finally stirred from his observation post in the back of his minivan. Ms. Breck’s dirt-bag SUV was where it had been for the past four hours, collecting dust.

He’d been collecting dust since dawn. He was used to the stake-out routine, but he didn’t love it. Eating mini-mart snacks and pissing into Gatorade bottles got old real quick.

It had been especially hard to wait knowing that the paintings were locked in that tin-can SUV fifty feet away. She hadn’t carried anything sizable inside, or sent the bellman out after any more luggage.

Score bit back a yawn, checked his watch, then looked for the guard whose boring job it was to drive through the hotel parking lot for eight hours, five days a week. The dude must have decided to save wear and tear on tires, because he’d parked his little golf cart and was drinking coffee, using one of the long-haul trucks for a windbreak.

When Score moved forward and opened the driver’s door of his minivan, the wind nearly yanked the handle out of his hands. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

The wind was as cold as it was strong. No wonder the guard wasn’t driving around in the open golf cart.

If somebody told me to freeze in this wind for minimum wage, I’d tell them to jerk off.

Even though it was dark between the parking lot’s widespread, sickly orange lights, Score pulled a toque over his head and down to his eyebrows. The result concealed the color of his hair and kept his ears warm. He stuffed a machete under his thigh-length leather jacket, taking care to keep the hooked end of the blade from notching his balls by mistake. His “slim jim” was already in its own special inside pocket, just itching to be used on a locked car.

He walked to the Breck SUV. As he’d guessed from the way she locked it up, the vehicle had a manual rather than an electronic lock.

Piece of cake.

He pulled out the slim jim, slid it down the driver’s window, fished a bit, and yanked up the lock.

No alarm.

Nobody looking his way.

It took less than a minute to see that there weren’t any paintings inside the SUV.

Hell, that would have been too easy.

But there was a satellite phone underneath the passenger seat that was as old as the car. Like the car, it still worked.

Tucking the satellite phone under his jacket, Score went back to his minivan. He opened the sliding door, ducked in, and closed it behind him. Both side walls of the van had custom racks that secured a multitude of metal suitcases, ranging from palm-size to big enough to hold an automatic rifle. He selected a case, turned on his penlight, and glanced quickly at the contents. Locaters and bugs of all sizes were stashed in their cut-out foam nests. He opened Jill’s satellite phone, looked at the battery, and shook his head.

He pulled out a second metal suitcase. The bugs and locaters in this one came inside their own batteries.

Pricey bastards.

But it all goes on the client’s tab.

One of the expensive bugs would work for Jill’s phone. He popped out the old battery, put in the new and improved one, and opened up a special computer. He booted it up, checked the readout, and saw that the locater was hot. He muttered into the phone, checked that the bug was working just fine, and decided it was good to go. Unless she kept the phone five feet from her at all times, he doubted that he’d overhear much, but the voice-activated bug was part of the only locater/battery setup that fit her old sat phone.

If she’s smart and bolts, then my client wasted some money. No problemo. Clients are made of the green stuff.

If she goes after the paintings, she’ll give me the GPS coordinates.

In all, it would be more reliable and a whole lot less dangerous than beating the truth out of her.

He replaced all the suitcases in their niches, stashed the phone in his jacket, and went back to the little SUV. Just to be certain Ms. Breck hadn’t hidden anything, he took out the SUV’s overhead light and ripped up the seats with the machete.

Nothing.

More nothing under the spare tire, which he took bites out of with the machete.

He almost punched holes in the motor oil cans on the passenger side, but decided he didn’t want to drip all the way back to his van.

Where are the paintings?

She didn’t take them inside with her. Even rolled up, they wouldn’t have fit in that little belly bag she wore.

And the fitted jacket she wore over her jeans didn’t leave room for anything but the body beneath. Not a great rack, but she had a nice way of moving.

He checked the guard—still sucking on coffee. Moving quickly but not in a way that would attract attention, he went back to his van for a few more items, then returned to work on the SUV.

Stage setting. Jesus. I shoulda been a producer.

Even as he worked, he kept an eye on the parking lot. If the clever Ms. Breck decided to come out before he was done, well, shit happened.

And he had a load with her name all over it.

EUREKA HOTEL, NEVADA
SEPTEMBER
13
11:00
P.M.

J
ill forced herself not to reach for the room phone and call the desk again. They were as tired of telling her that she had no messages as she was of hearing it. She’d used pay-per-view to see a recent movie that interested her, lost a few bucks and gotten her hands grimy playing the penny slots, ordered another hamburger, and finally returned to her room after three hours of perching on the deliberately uncomfortable stools in front of the cheap slot machines.

I should have brought my dirty clothes. Bet there’s a laundry somewhere in the hotel. Then the trip wouldn’t have been a total waste of time, money, and gas.

She watched the bedside clock crawl through a few more minutes. How bad could connections be between east Texas and Nevada? Was Blanchard hitchhiking?

She paced and then paced some more. After the physical activity of the river, her body wasn’t used to hanging out in smoky rooms.

Screw this. I’m going for a walk.

She grabbed her jacket and the belly pack that doubled as her purse and headed for the elevator. Ignoring the relentless mechani
cal yammering of the slot machines in the casino, she strode toward the front doors.

After the air in the hotel, the wind was like diving into cold rushing water. For the freshness, she’d live with the flying grit. She paced the front of the hotel several times, wishing she was doing something useful.

Check the oil in your SUV. That’s useful. Then you won’t have to do it at dawn tomorrow, when you leave this place.

On the subject of oil, her vehicle could only be described as greedy. It had a quart-a-day habit.

Check the tires while you’re at it.

Give the SUV a wax job.

Do something besides fidget.

She dodged a latecomer hurrying to the check-in, crossed the driveway to the parking lot, and headed for her aging SUV. The lot was partially full. Compressors on refrigerator trucks rumbled, waiting for drivers to bust out at the tables or stop hitting on waitresses. Some of the RVs had lights on inside, either night-lights or a beacon for bleary gamblers to stumble toward when they got tired of losing.

The guard’s golf cart was idling at the entrance to the parking lot. A low conversation came on the wind, the guard telling a newbie where the overnight RV parking was. The mercury-vapor lamps cast a ghastly orange glow over everything, changing colors dramatically. If Jill hadn’t known exactly where she was parked, she never would have recognized her vehicle. She cut through ranks of monster pickup trucks and SUVs the size of railroad cars. Finally she could see her own modest rig. It looker even smaller than she remembered.

Then she realized that the left front tire was flat.

So was the left back tire.

She froze, listening for any sound, searching for any movement.
All that came was the wind and the sound of voices headed toward the casino, away from her. Warily, keeping other vehicles between herself and her own car, she circled the SUV.

Four flat tires.

Front door ajar.

I locked it. I know I did.

When Jill was sure she was alone, she stood back and dug a tiny, powerful penlight from her waist pack. She sent the narrow beam over the interior of the car.

Nothing moved.

No one was inside, sleeping off a drunk or waiting for a victim.

The seats had been ripped apart. The dome light was broken. There was a piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper. What looked like ripped, coarse cloth jammed the open glove compartment.

She used the beam on nearby cars. Empty. Locked. Tires intact. No ads tucked under the windshield wipers. Whoever had trashed her ride had left the others alone.

Adrenaline lit up her blood like fireworks.

Gee, I feel really special.

Pissed off, too.

She looked around again, listened, heard nothing but wind and the growl of compressors keeping lettuce cold while drivers gambled the night away.

Quickly she closed the distance to her mutilated SUV. Nothing looked better up close. It looked worse.

She jerked the piece of paper out from under the windshield wiper. Block letters leaped into focus.

STAY OUT OF IT OR DIE

Adrenaline twisted into nausea.

She looked around the SUV again. Still alone. Still quiet. The
guard was quartering a different part of the parking lot. She thought of calling him over, then thought of all the questions that the local cops would ask. Questions she really didn’t want to answer.

With a hissing curse she went to the passenger side, opened the door, and reached under the seat. To her surprise her satellite phone was still there. She pulled it out and stashed it in her belly bag. Then she grabbed a fistful of whatever was choking the glove compartment.

As soon as her fingers touched the material, she knew.

Canvas.

Oil.

Anger burned away the faint nausea of fear.

That slime-sucking son of a bitch. The threat wasn’t enough to make his point. He had to cut the missing painting to rags.

And it could just as easily have been her.

MANHATTAN
SEPTEMBER
14
2:21
A.M.

A
s usual, Dwayne Taylor had night duty. He liked it that way. The calls were more interesting and the view from Ambassador Steele’s office was one of the best in the city. Two of the office’s six walls overlooked Manhattan. The odd sheen of the bulletproof glass only added to the dramatic color-and-black view of skyscrapers. Three other walls held screens with satellite views of places where St. Kilda had operatives and/or things were going to hell. The final wall held a door and various reference books.

Ambassador Steele sat in his high-tech wheelchair, talking through a headset, debriefing someone in Paraguay. Mission accomplished. International executive returned largely unharmed to his worried family.

The “hot” phone rang.

Steele covered his microphone. “Get that, will you?”

Dwayne switched the channel on his headset and picked up immediately. “St. Kilda Consulting. Who or what do you need?”

“This is Jillian Breck. Joe Faroe told me to call this number if I was ever in trouble.”

Dwayne noted the tension in the woman’s voice, typed his best-
guess spelling of her name into the computer, and simultaneously asked, “Are you in danger at this moment?”

“Only of losing more money to the penny slots.”

Dwayne smiled. “Not much danger, then.”

“My car is cut to pieces. Someone put a note under the windshield that said go away or die.”

Dwayne’s smile vanished. Information on Jillian Breck began to roll up on his computer screen.

Highest priority.

Joe Faroe.

“Where are you now?” Dwayne’s voice was a lot calmer than he was feeling. If Faroe said something was important, it was
important
.

“I’m in the Eureka Hotel, outside Mesquite, Nevada, in the casino. I figured it was safest here. Lots of guards.”

“Excellent choice. Do you have a room?”

“Yes.”

“Number, please.”

Jill hesitated.

Dwayne waited for her to realize the obvious—if she didn’t trust St. Kilda Consulting, why was she calling?

“Four-three-five,” she said.

“Ask a guard to escort you to your room. Make sure the drapes are shut before he leaves. Lock the door, both dead bolt and chain. Joe Faroe will call you within fifteen minutes.”

“Wait. I’m okay, just scared and mad. No need to wake him up. I’ll just—”

“Get escorted to your room,” Dwayne cut in firmly. His ruby signet ring glowed against his chocolate skin as he keyed instructions into the computer. “Fifteen minutes, Ms. Breck. If your room phone doesn’t answer, Faroe will”—
have a shit-fit
—“be very concerned.”

Silence.

“Ms. Breck? Are you all right?”

She made a tight sound that could have been a laugh. “Yes. I’m just not used to taking orders.”

Dwayne almost chuckled. From what he was reading about her on the screen, he wasn’t surprised. “Sorry. Let me make that a request. Please go to your—”

“I’m on my way to the elevator,” she cut in.

“With a guard?”

“A bellman. I waved a ten and he appeared.”

Not used to following orders, either,
Dwayne thought.
Should make life interesting for whichever operative is assigned to her.

A name came up on the screen. Zach Balfour was the op who was closest to Mesquite, Nevada. On vacation.

Not anymore,
Dwayne thought.

He punched in Zach’s number on line 4.

“I’ll hold until you’re safe in your room,” Dwayne said to Jill.

“Really, there’s no need for that. I feel foolish enough as it is.”

“Better to feel foolish than be hurt.”

“The bellman is really big,” Jill said. “And I’m going to lose you in the elevator.”

“Take the stairs.”

“You sound like Joe Faroe.”

“I’m much better looking,” Dwayne assured her.

She laughed.

Steele finished debriefing the operative and glanced over at the man who was his administrative assistant and right hand. Joe Faroe was his left. Grace Faroe was his alter ego in the field.

Dwayne gestured with his head toward Steele’s desk and kept typing, transferring information into Joe Faroe’s priority file, copy to Steele, while Jill and an increasingly breathless bellman climbed stairs to her fourth-floor room.

Line 4 dropped Dwayne into Zach’s voice mail. Dwayne paused in his typing long enough to punch in the override code.

Jill’s breathing didn’t change during the climb. Dwayne heard a door opening, then closing, and the sound of a bolt going home, followed by the rattle of a chain.

“All safe and tight,” Jill said into the phone.

“Stay there, please, until a St. Kilda operative knocks on your door. Don’t open for anyone else, including room service, maids, hotel security personnel—”

“Or Santa and his busy elves,” Jill cut in. “I get it. I’ll wait for St. Kilda.”

“We’ll call and tell you which operator to expect.”

When Dwayne switched his headset over to line 4, Steele said, “And?”

“The river guide who saved Lane’s life just called. Someone gave her a screw-off-or-die note.”

“Interesting. Where is she?”

“Mesquite, Nevada. Eureka Hotel casino when she called, now locked and bolted into her room, same hotel. Zach Balfour is our closest bullet catcher.”

Steele’s light, clear eyes absorbed information from his screen. Zach was St. Kilda’s valued utility infielder and a man whose instinct for when an op was going south was legendary.

“Unhappy ex?” Steele asked, skimming Jill’s file.

“She didn’t say.”

“Call Faroe.”

“Just put in his number, line two. Zach Balfour hasn’t picked up his—there you are, Zach. It’s Dwayne. You’ve got a code two waiting in Mesquite, Nevada, Eureka Hotel, 435, Jillian Breck, death threat. You’ll know more when we do. Move it.”

Dwayne hung up in the middle of Zach’s rant about bimbos and bullet catching.