Blue Smoke and Murder (19 page)

TAOS
SEPTEMBER
15
8:05
P.M.

S
core eased open the side door of the van. The dome light didn’t come on, because he’d smashed it. Streetlights were few and far between. Probably because the “sidewalk” was a strip of dirt along the narrow side street between what passed for a curb and the adobe walls of the houses. Despite the cheerful B&B, tourism hadn’t really caught on in the neighborhood of high fences and iron gates.

Two streets over, traffic came and went along a strip of restaurants and galleries. No one turned down the narrow lane lined with thick adobe walls and inward-facing houses in the old Spanish style.

Time for a little recon.

His pistol rode uncomfortably in its belt holder. Silencers were always a pain. But they were a useful pain.

He really wished he didn’t have a bad feeling about this op. Maybe it was just his natural paranoia. Maybe it was the six shipping cartons that had been driven to the house of a Western art expert.

Maybe it was the adobe walls closing in. Houses like fortresses lining dark lanes. Enough to make a man look over his shoulder.

Score shook off the uncomfortable feeling and concentrated on
his work. Walking casually, like someone with every right to be where he was, he strolled down the dark, rough dirt path.

When he got to the gate, it was just the way it had looked through his binoculars. Closed. Locked. Good alarm, well installed. From the street side, the electronics that operated both gate and alarm were out of reach.

He turned to the adobe walls. If they had been meant to keep out intruders, they weren’t very good for the job. Regularly spaced tile niches offered a fast way to the thick tree branches that overhung the walls.

Score went up.

No razor wire on top of the thick wall. No sensors. No broken glass. No bells or whistles. Nothing but dust and a few dead leaves.

Frost might as well put out welcome mats.

Score smiled. People that careless deserved whatever happened to them.

He dropped lightly down into the yard behind a tree trunk. After a few minutes of listening and watching, he glided up to the Dodge Magnum.

Locked.

Electronic security.

The St. Kilda op isn’t careless, even if Frost is.

Since there was no light coming through any of the windows on the street side of the house, Score risked a quick flash of his penlight into the Magnum. Shipping cartons, just the way the man at the airport had described. Six of them. Closed up tight.

Looks like Frost wasn’t real eager to help out by appraising the paintings.

Assuming they’re paintings in the cartons rather than something to throw anyone who cares off the trail. St. Kilda has more tricks than a school for magicians.

Score turned off the penlight and faded back into the cover of the tree trunk. He could steal the car, but that was a fool’s game. Even if
he got through the gate security, this close to the Mexican border a lot of the more expensive rental jobs had a hidden locater built right into the vehicle.

Trying to take the shipping cartons out of the Dodge one by one didn’t appeal to Score. Six trips up and over the wall with a crate was begging for trouble.

No matter what he decided to do, he’d have to wait until everyone inside the house was asleep. Or gone. There was nothing to guarantee that the op and the Breck woman wouldn’t leave the house at any moment. Frost’s reputation for being a difficult bastard was part of his record. He was more likely to throw out the op than he was to help St. Kilda.

Score smiled thinly. He’d wait and see what happened. A motel parking lot would be a lot easier to work with than Frost’s driveway.

He went back over the wall as silently as he’d come.

Nobody noticed.

He eased back inside the van and resumed watching the only vehicle entrance and exit to the old adobe house. If no one in the house moved out by midnight, he’d leave long enough to get some supplies from the 24/7 mini-mart/gas stations near the edge of town. Then he’d come back, make a commotion, and pick off anyone who was stupid enough to run outside.

If nothing else, it should slow down the opposition long enough for the auction to take place.

After that, he didn’t care what happened.

TAOS
SEPTEMBER
15
8:30
P.M.

T
hat hasn’t changed,” Zach said, disgusted.

“What?”

“Lupita won’t be in tomorrow and Garland will do anything to avoid dishes.” Zach began collecting dirty plates. “Figures it’s beneath him, I guess.”

Jill laughed. “How long have you two been pretending to dislike each other?” she asked as she joined him in clearing the table.

“Pretending?”

“Pretending. You’re not fooling anyone except yourselves.”

Zach scraped plates into the garbage disposal and stacked them on the counter. Jill opened the dishwasher and began loading it.

“I went to work for Frost my last few years of college,” Zach said. “Unpaid intern, and worth every cent, he used to say. I finally got a paycheck after six months. I stayed for five years. But…” He shrugged. “The place wasn’t big enough for both of us.”

“Two captains on a ship is one too many,” she agreed. “First thing you learn on the river.”

Smiling, Zach opened a drawer and pulled out an old brass key.
“C’mon. I’ll walk you to your room. I put your backpack in there earlier.”

“What about my belly bag?”

“Stuffed in the backpack. You need it?”

“No.”

She followed him into the crisp, high mountain air. A breeze shifted dead leaves across the Spanish tiles of the courtyard. The splash of a fountain was like soft laughter in the darkness.

Zach opened the door of a small cottage and stepped aside for Jill to enter. As she brushed by him, her warmth and subtle fragrance made his body tighten even more.

He shut the door behind him. The only light in the room came from a wall niche holding a small, ancient pottery cup.

“When I left Frost,” Zach said, hanging the key on a nearby nail, “I wasn’t planning on coming back. Ever. One of Frost’s old business associates hired me on at the CIA, advising people on the international art market.”

“I wouldn’t think the CIA would have much use for art,” Jill said, going to the fireplace.

“You’d be wrong. There’s a lot of diplomacy and international intelligence work involved in the art trade. The Russians alone have laundered hundreds of millions of black dollars through high-end auction houses in London and New York.”

A long match flared in the darkness. Jill touched flame to the dry tinder and small branches in the fireplace.

“Whatever happened to art for the sake of art?” she asked, straightening.

“Reality.” Zach walked until he stood close to her and the graceful dance of flames. “But I wasn’t any happier being a bureaucrat than I was as a gofer for an arrogant genius. So when Ambassador Steele made me an offer of contract work, I jumped.”

Jill turned and looked at Zach. Really looked at him.

She liked what she saw.

“What?” he asked. “Is my nose on backward?”

“I didn’t get to read your dossier, so I’m at a disadvantage.”

His whiskey eyes were nearly gold with the reflection of fire. “You didn’t miss anything worthwhile.”

“For work, probably not. But for play…?” She waited.

He went still. The tactile memory of her hard nipples was burning at the edges of his mind like fire.

“Ask away.” His voice was too husky, but he could no more change that than he could the fit of his jeans, tighter with every heartbeat.

“Are you involved with anything other than St. Kilda and old muscle cars?” Jill asked.

“Like what?”

“A woman.”

“No. You?”

“I prefer men.”

“Plural?” he asked, deadpan.

“I think one of you is all I can handle.”
Probably more than I can handle
, she admitted silently,
but finding out will be a wild ride.

Just the way she liked it.

Zack wrapped his hand around the back of Jill’s neck and drew her close, then closer still, until he could feel her from his mouth to his knees.

“Are you thinking what I hope you’re thinking?” he asked.

“If your thoughts include two of us and one bed, yes.”

“Bed, floor, wall, whatever. I’m easy.”

“You’re hard,” she said against his neck, “which makes you easy.”
And too tempting to pass up.

The feel of her tongue lightly tasting him made Zach’s breath break. “You’re making me forget my lecture about the dangers of mixing business and pleasure.”

“Running rivers is my passion and my work. Where’s the downside?”

“Damned if I know.”

Jill went up on tiptoe as his arms closed around her. The kiss was like Zach—strong, hot, hard, as exhilarating as the moment when the rapids took the raft.

All the anger and fear that Jill had been working to control since she’d found her vandalized car flashed into passion. The hunger that shook her was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. After her virginal curiosity had been satisfied in college, she’d rarely taken a lover. The river had been much more exciting than any man.

Until now.

Zach felt the passion trembling in Jill, heard her husky sound of hunger, and forgot everything but her taste, her heat, her skin sliding beneath his hands and tongue.

The bed was across the room.

Way too far.

He tossed her blouse over his shoulder and bent to the hard nipples that had been driving him crazy since dinner. Just as he sucked one of them into his mouth, he felt the cool breath of the room on his back as she peeled off his shirt and threw it aside.

The feel of her hands on the fly of his jeans made him flush with heat.

“Condom,” he managed.

“Where?” she said against his bare chest, biting him with tiny little movements of her head.

“Back pocket.”

“I was hoping for the front.”

His laugh became a groan as one of her hands opened his fly and the other hand fished slowly for a condom in one of his back pockets.

“You’re a tease,” he said.

“You’re worth teasing.”

The approval in her voice and her hand stroking him almost made him lose it right there.

“Other pocket,” he said hoarsely.

Her hand slid inside his underwear and emerged a few seconds later wrapped around him. He said something low and rough as her fingers and then her mouth caressed him.

“That’s it,” he said. “School’s out.”

A few seconds later Jill found herself naked and on her back next to the fire. Zach went to his knees between her legs, slid the condom into place, and tested her heat with his finger. Her liquid response and the scent of her arousal made him glad he was already on his knees, because sure as hell she would have brought him there. She was slick and hot and tight, her skin flushed with passion, her hips lifting to meet his touch.

He tried to push gently into her, but it was too late. She was way too hungry for any more play and so was he. He flexed his hips and entered her in a hard thrust, filling her.

Jill’s breath came out in a throaty cry that made Zach go completely still.

“Too soon?” he asked through clenched teeth.

When she didn’t answer, he started to withdraw. Then he felt the rhythmic contractions of her release around him, caressing him, taking him with her over the edge of passion. He thrust hard, deep, fast, then shuddered, pumping into her until the world went black.

Zach didn’t know how long it was before he became aware of the fire crackling nearby, the feel of Jill’s palms stroking his back, the softness and strength of her body beneath him.

“I’m crushing you,” he said.

She laughed breathlessly. “Yeah, but I like it. Good thing, because there’s a lot of you to like.”

He nuzzled against her throat, then rolled onto his side, taking
her with him, still buried inside her. “Sorry. Usually I’m not so quick off the mark.”

“I rarely get off the mark at all,” she said, stretching out against his chest with a sigh. “I’m still wondering what happened. And how to make it happen again.”

Lazily he ran his fingertips down her spine and between her tight, sexy cheeks, then lower, where she was still hot and wet.

Her breath broke. “Zach?”

“Mmm?”

“Isn’t it too soon?”

“Not for you.”

She started to ask what he meant but found she couldn’t breathe. She could only respond to the sleek probe of his fingers, the pressure, the rub and glide and tug, the fire burning up from his touch to consume her whole body.

He smiled at the feel of her climax. When she finally stilled and lay like a steamy rag against him, he slid slowly out of her.

She made a grumpy cat sound.

He laughed and hauled her to her feet. “Time for bed.”

She yawned. “I like it here better.”

“Come morning, you’ll be thanking me.”

“I’m thanking you all over the place right now.”

Zach grabbed his jeans, scooped out more condoms, and looked at her. “Hope you’re not too sleepy, because I’ve got some tasting and licking in mind.”

Jill gave him a sideways, lazy kind of smile. “Where?”

“All over the place.”

TAOS
SEPTEMBER
15
11:07
P.M.

G
arland Frost sat surrounded by paintings, brooding over the collection. Dunstan’s catalogue raisonné was open on the desk. As comparisons went, the photos were nearly useless, but it was all he had to work with besides his own two paintings.

The more he looked at the unsigned canvases and the catalogue raisonné and his two Dunstans, the more convinced he was that Jill Breck’s canvases were indeed Dunstan’s work. Despite the female figures, despite the
Indian Springs
painting with its now-quaint gas station, despite the lack of signatures.

The paintings simply had to be Dunstan’s work, or the work of a forger so brilliant that there was no meaningful difference between forgery and art.

An artist’s true signature was in the brushstrokes, the energy, the choice of colors, the feel of space or the lack of it, the feel of peace or the lack of it, all the thousands of small artistic decisions that added up to one uniquely Dunstan canvas.

These were Thomas Dunstans.

All Frost had to do was prove it.

Exhilaration bubbled through him, giving him the kind of charge
that he thought he’d lost to age. But it was all there, all waiting, needing only the introduction of something worthy of interest into a life that had slowly gone stale.

He felt like waking up Zach and hugging him. But he suspected Zach wouldn’t welcome the interruption.

Smiling, Frost did what he’d done many times in the past few hours. He picked up each canvas in turn and examined it front, back, and sides. He was missing something important. He knew it.

He just didn’t know what it was.

With an impatient sound he opened the laptop that he used for research. He scanned again the mentions he had found of Dunstan, the old photos of his work, the learned words describing the indescribable.

“Idiots and fools,” Frost muttered. “Especially Lee Dunstan. Man no more knows art than horseshit knows heaven.”

Absently Garland ran his fingertips lightly over the side of the
Indian Springs
canvas, thinking about Dunstan and art and life and the unknown. When he realized that his fingertips returned to the same spot on the canvas stretcher again and again, he stopped, then repeated the light movement, this time conscious of what he was doing.

Definitely a different texture.

He flipped the canvas so that it was bottom side up to look at what he’d felt. It could have been just an extra-thick bit of paint that intrigued his fingertips, but he couldn’t be sure in this light. He took the canvas over to his desk, angled the bright light, and frowned over the bottom edge of the canvas wrapped around the stretcher, a part of the painting that wouldn’t show after the canvas was framed.

He switched to black light and turned off the desk lamp. He looked at the result for a minute, then began going over the bottom edge of each painting with the black light.

Halfway through the examination, he was grinning. By the time
he was done, he was laughing with the sheer exuberance of having discovered something fresh and wonderful at a time in his life when everything had seemed old and flat.

“Zach, my boy, you’re going to kiss me on all four cheeks in the morning, and what’s more, you’ll thank me for the opportunity.”

Still grinning, Frost started nailing down the truth with some online research.