Blue Smoke and Murder (27 page)

LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER
16
5:19
P.M.

V
ery lightly Zack ran his fingertips along the bottom edge of the painting. Jill took a deep breath, let it out, then took another breath, sniffing the bottom corner of the second painting.

“Black light,” she said.

Zach gave her the light. She held it at an oblique angle to the edge of the stretcher.

“See it?” she asked.

“Looks like it was added after the paint dried,” Zach said.

“Well after,” she said. “It still smells faintly of oil. The modern, quick-dry kind, complete with modern, quick-dry sealant.”

Once discovered, the over-painting leaped out like a scab on otherwise smooth skin.

Jase crowded in on the painting and stared. “You’re right, the repair seems new. But it has no significance.”

“Really?” Jill said skeptically.

“Probably the original frame was put on before the canvas had completely dried,” Jase explained. “When the frame was recently removed for the canvas to be re-stretched, some paint came with it. Thus the repair. It certainly doesn’t matter to the value of the paint
ing as a whole. I doubt if you would even notice it without the black light. Once the canvas is back in its frame, the over-painting will be invisible.”

“Looks like the canvas might have been damaged,” Zach said. “That would affect the price.”

“If it was true, yes. The documents from Lee Dunstan didn’t indicate any such damage,” Jase said.

Zach shrugged. “Then you won’t mind if I record this for my client?”

“Record?”

Zach produced the little digital camera.

“No images,” Jase said immediately. “All reprographic rights remain with the artist’s estate.”

“I’m not going for the front of the painting,” Zach said. “Just the part that will be hidden by the frame at the auction.”

Jase hesitated, glanced at his watch, and said, “Please be quick about it. I have another appointment in two minutes.”

Zach bent over the canvas and recorded the over-painting under various lighting conditions.

The pager on Jase’s belt went off. He looked at the code and frowned.

“We can find our way out,” Jill said. “Don’t be late on account of us.”

“If you need to shift a canvas, one of my helpers will do it,” Jase said. “Insurance, you understand. We can’t have anyone touching the art.”

“Of course,” Jill said. “Thank you for your time. I assure you that our client will be very interested in these paintings. Nothing like a new, extremely wealthy collector to spice up an auction, is there?”

It was every auctioneer’s wet dream, and Jase knew it. “All qualified bidders are welcome.” He smiled. “If you’ll excuse me…”

While Jase hurried out of the room, Zach went to the other
canvas. The black light flashed over his face. His grin looked demonic in the purple glow.

When Jill would have said something, he bent and kissed her swiftly, then breathed in her ear, “Not one word about thumbprints.”

Like the other canvas, this one must have been put into the frame before it fully dried, because there was more over-painting near the bottom corner.

Jill leaned in, breathed deep, and said, “Same as the other.”

“Yeah. What do you want to bet it has the same cause?” Zach asked mildly.

“I wouldn’t bet against it,” she said, flinching when the camera’s built-in flash went off.

“Not even in Vegas?”

“Especially not in Vegas.”

“Smart woman.”

“Keep it in mind,” she said.

“Always,” he promised.

As soon as Zach was finished, they thanked the helpers and headed out of the room. When Jill was certain no one could overhear, she turned to Zach.

“How did someone know to—”

He stopped her words with a hard kiss.

“But when—” she began as soon as he lifted his head.

“Not until we’re in the shower. Naked.”

LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER
16
6:05
P.M.

L
ee Dunstan staggered slightly, then righted himself by leaning against the plush sofa.

Can’t hold liquor the way I used to.

But he wanted another drink anyway.

When he went to get it, he found Betty pouring the rest of the bottle into the bathroom sink.

With an angry cry, Lee lunged toward her, knocking her and the empty bottle against the glassed-in shower enclosure. The shower’s heavy glass banged, vibrated, and held. The bottle shattered.

Betty slid down to the floor and put her face in her hands.

Lee turned on his heel and went to the room phone to order another bottle. Before he could pick up the receiver, the phone rang.

“What?” he snarled into the receiver.

“Ah, Mr. Dunstan?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jase Wheeler, with the auction. I just wanted to share some very good news with you.”

Lee took a deep breath. The room spun. He took another breath. Things settled down.

Mostly.

“I’m listening,” Lee said.

“The advisers for an unknown, extremely wealthy mystery bidder showed up to look at your Dunstans. They inspected them very thoroughly. They floated the idea that some damage had been done to the canvas because there were spots of over-painting on the bottom edges of the stretched canvas, but I—”

“Edges?
Edges!
Those paintings are in frames!” Lee shouted.

“Of course. We took them out. It’s quite common for potential buyers to inspect—”

“Tal Crawford is the only buyer that matters,” Lee cut in, “and he’s looked at my paintings all he needs to. What is this bullshit?”

Behind Lee, shards of glass clinked into the trash as Betty began cleaning up after him.

“Obviously I’ve caught you at a bad time,” Jase said smoothly. “I apologize. I just thought you would be pleased to know that, from all the buzz that’s going on, it appears that your paintings could be worth every bit of their high-end estimate. If you have any questions or would like to know any more, please feel free to call me at your convenience.”

Lee looked at the dead phone and slammed it back into the cradle so hard it hurt his hand.

Cursing steadily, he punched in Tal Crawford’s cell number. When it was picked up he said harshly, “Tal, old buddy, we got ourselves a problem.”

LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER
16
7:30
P.M.

L
ike Zach, Jill was freshly washed, wearing new clothes from the skin out, and feeling like a well-scrubbed vegetable. Unless the devices were smaller than anything St. Kilda had heard of, they weren’t carrying bugs.

Anywhere.

They had left everything in their suite, where one of the hotel’s security officers was going over the place for bugs. The new, certified bug-free clothes and electronic sweep were compliments of Shane Tannahill, who really hated devices that weren’t part of his own casino security network.

“Hungry?” Zach asked, massaging the nape of Jill’s neck absently as he sat next to her in a plush booth and looked around the luxurious restaurant.

The Golden Fleece had one five-star and three four-star restaurants on the premises. Foodie heaven. And tonight’s meal was on St. Kilda.

Five stars all the way.

Jill gave him a sidelong look. “I’m hungry. Are you on the menu?”

He smiled. “You are. Dessert.”

She smiled and tried not to think about how much fun their shower had been. Zach in a playful mood was mind blowing.

A beautifully groomed young woman stopped by their table. “Hello, I’m Lia Maitland. Mr. Tannahill asked me to give you a message. May I join you for a moment?”

Jill waved her hand at the opposite side of the booth, which was empty, as she and Zach were sitting thigh to thigh.

“Thank you.” Lia slid into the booth and continued speaking in her low, discreet voice. “Your suite was clean. Your apparel was clean. So was your duffel and backpack. As you suspected, the satellite phone in the belly bag has a locater and an eavesdropping bug.”

Jill blinked.
As who suspected?
She looked at Zach.

He was watching Lia.

“The bugs are probably integrated into the satellite phone’s battery,” she continued, “but since we were told only to identify, not to neutralize, any bugs, I left the phone intact. The locater is broadcasting on a frequency anyone could pick up. The bug is voice-activated. We attempted to trace it. It’s shielded. Given enough time, we could break the security. If we can’t do it, Shane Tannahill can.”

“Not necessary,” Zach said. “We’ll handle it on our end.”

Lia nodded. “Will there be anything else you require?”

“I’d appreciate it if you could relay your message to St. Kilda Consulting through the same coded channel they used to reach you,” Zach said.

“Of course.”

“And thank Mr. Tannahill for us,” Jill added.

Lia nodded, slid out of the booth, and vanished.

“What made you suspect my satellite phone was bugged?” Jill asked in a low voice.

“I was wondering before the thumbprints got covered over,” Zach said, leaning close to Jill. “Then I was sure.”

“Why?”

“Flight plans are only good for airports, yet someone found us at Frost’s house.”

“Did we mention Frost on the plane to Taos?” Jill asked.

“No. I was thinking and you were mad. We didn’t talk much.”

“But someone knew about the thumbprints in time to cover them on the Dunstan family paintings.”

Zach nodded. “The only way I could have been bugged was if someone knew I would be assigned to this op. No one knew that until it happened, including yours truly.”

“You were on vacation anyway.”

“Yeah. Somebody could have sold out St. Kilda and bugged my phone,” Zach said, “but that’s not my first choice. Faroe is very, very careful who he employees. Steele is even worse. Everybody who works for St. Kilda gets the kind of vetting that makes sure secrets stay that way. Individual clearances are updated frequently and randomly.”

“So you decided it was probably me,” Jill said.

“Yeah, but I was damned if I could figure out how or where you were bugged. You came straight from the river to your ranch and then to Mesquite.”

“Blanchard,” she said bitterly. “While I was in my hotel, I left the satellite phone in my car, shoved under the passenger seat.”

“That was my next question—if your sat phone had ever been in a vulnerable place.”

“Now what?” she asked.

“We eat the first decent meal we’ve had since we met.”

“But—” she began.

“And we talk about options.”

Zach was hoping they’d come up with one that didn’t include putting Jill on the firing line, but he didn’t expect it.

Her sat phone was their only connection to whoever had shot Frost.

LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER
17
12:31
A.M.

T
he sound of a satellite phone ringing in the next room brought Zach to full wakefulness. Automatically he started to get up, then realized it was Jill’s phone, not his. He turned on the bedside lamp and reached over to wake her.

Her eyes were open, clear, watching him.

“Do I answer?” she asked softly.

Zach wanted to say no. He nodded his head.

She fought her way through the luxurious pillows surrounding her like a flock of sleeping swans and walked toward the adjoining room.

He watched her push open the door and wished she wasn’t walking closer to danger with every step.

Maybe it’s a wrong number.

But Zach’s gut knew it wasn’t. He kicked clear of the pillows and went to stand next to Jill.

“Hello,” she said, angling the phone so that Zach could hear.

“Ms. Breck?”

The voice had an odd tone that told Zach it was being filtered. No voiceprints would be useful for making a case in court.

“Who is this?” Jill asked.

“I’m an art dealer. I represent a private collector who wants to remain anonymous. My client is very interested in some paintings you have. Are you alone?”

Zach’s dark eyebrows lifted.

“What does that have to do with my paintings?” she asked.

“My client heard that you hired a renegade private security organization named St. Kilda Consulting. If it’s true, my client would refuse to deal with you.”

“Let me make sure I have this right,” Jill said. “Your client doesn’t like who is representing me, so he won’t deal with me?”

“Did you know that St. Kilda was involved in a gun battle that cost the lives of several people and left a federally protected government witness close to death?”

“Really?” Jill said, looking at Zach.

He shrugged. Old news.

“The principals in that matter were Grace Silva, a discredited former federal judge, and Joe Faroe, an ex-convict with a long history of violence.”

Jill looked at Zach.

His smile wasn’t the kind that comforted people. He walked toward the desk and found a notepad and pen with the hotel’s logo on them.

“I didn’t know that,” she said slowly. “It makes St. Kilda sound, well, sort of shady.”

“St. Kilda Consulting has been put on the watch list of every government agency in the United States,” the caller said. “It’s a mercenary corporation, a private military company, and as such is required to register with the State Department because of its many questionable overseas contracts.”

Zach returned with a hotel note tablet that said go with it.

She gave him a
well, duh
look.

“You’re making me very uneasy,” she said into the phone. “That’s not at all what I thought St. Kilda was.”

“Sorry to be the one bringing bad news,” the caller said smoothly. “The good news is that we can do some profitable business, but only if you get rid of St. Kilda. My client simply refuses to have any part of such an organization.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” she said, trying not to laugh. “How did your client learn about the paintings?”

“The world is full of wealthy, anonymous collectors. At the high end, art is best conducted on a private basis. Many collectors are afraid that publicity will draw the attention of thieves and extortionists. As long as you’re with St. Kilda, my client thinks that you might be, at best, an extortionist. After all, that’s what St. Kilda Consulting is noted for.”

“Extortion?”

“In a word,” the caller agreed.

“Frankly, I’m just a woman alone who finds herself in a very strange, sometimes dangerous world,” Jill said. “I didn’t ask for any of this, but I’ve got it just the same. And…”—she sighed—“I’ve become uneasy with St. Kilda.”

Go, babe!
Zach nodded, silently encouraging her.
Base the lies on truth. So much more convincing that way.

“Then we have a basis for the deal,” the caller said.

“What is your client willing to pay for the paintings?” Jill asked.

“If the paintings are all similar to the one that was trafficked around Salt Lake City—”

“They’re better,” she cut in. “Bigger.” She looked at Zach and smiled. “Size does matter, you know.”

He bit back laughter.

“I could offer you a million dollars for your paintings,” the caller said.

“A million?” She made a scornful sound. “How about ten mil
lion? Do you know what Dunstans are selling for on the market today?”

“Not a chance,” the caller said. “Your paintings aren’t signed Dunstans, and no one who matters will authenticate them. Considering that, a million is very generous.”

“What if the paintings could be authenticated?” she insisted.

“That’s the ten-million-dollar question, isn’t it?” The caller’s voice roughened. “There’s no historical record of the paintings other than your unsupported word they were in your family. Even if you found, say, a thumbprint in place of a signature, there’s no way to prove that the thumbprint belonged to the artist.”

Zach was writing busily.

“Really? But fingerprints are accepted in—” she began.

The man kept talking. “A lot of people could handle paintings before they’re dry. Friends, fellow artists, groupies, a hasty framer. Considering that fingerprints as a whole, like DNA evidence, have become an area of controversy in criminal cases, you’d be stupid to front those paintings as Dunstans. Unless you have the resources for a prolonged legal battle…?”

Zach shoved the notepad under Jill’s nose.

“Three million dollars,” she said, reading quickly, her voice hard and her eyes shocked. “Cash. Used, nonsequential bills. Nothing smaller than fifties or larger than hundreds.”

“Two million,” the caller said.

She looked at Zach.

He nodded.

“All right,” she said. “Two million.”

“Where are the paintings now?”

“Safe,” she said quickly. “Don’t you worry about them. I nearly lost them twice to fire. Not taking that chance again.”

“Can you get to the paintings or does St. Kilda have them?” the caller asked.

She looked at Zach.

He pointed at her.

“I can get to the paintings,” she said.

“Fire St. Kilda,” said the man. “Check out of your hotel. Pick up the paintings and drive north out of Las Vegas. Be prepared to drive all the way to Reno if you have to. You’ll be contacted along the way and given instructions on how to proceed.”

“You need your meds adjusted,” she said without looking at Zach, who was writing rapidly. “I’m not bringing the paintings with me.”

“Then we don’t have a deal.”

“Let me think a minute,” she said.

Zach wrote faster.

“I’ll leave the paintings with a concierge at a Vegas hotel,” she said, reading upside down. “I’ll give the storage receipt to a friend of mine.”

He turned the tablet and held it out to her.

“This friend will wait for my call,” she said, reading quickly. “After you give me the money, I’ll get in my car and call my friend, who will be waiting in the lobby of a Vegas hotel. She’ll hand over the storage receipt and tell your people which hotel has the paintings.”

“You must watch a lot of television,” the man retorted.

“Listen, dude,” Jill said, using her river-captain voice, “I learned a lot about structuring a safe deal when I was selling date-rape drugs to USC frat boys. Just because I spent a lot of time on the river doesn’t mean I don’t know city ways.”

There was a long pause, then a laugh before the caller asked, “Can you arrange all of this by early tomorrow?”

She looked at Zach.

He nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “When do we meet?”

Zach made a stretch-it-out motion with his hands.

“I’ll call,” the man said.

“So when do you want me to start driving north?”

“In time to reach the Idaho border before sunset, even if you take a few side trips along the way.”

Zach nodded.

“Okay,” Jill said. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Bring half the paintings with you or the deal is off,” the caller said.

“But—”

“Not negotiable,” the caller said, talking over Jill. “Fire St. Kilda. Keep the phone you’re talking on with you at all times. I won’t call a different number or accept your call from a different number. No phone, no deal. No six paintings, no deal. Come with company, no deal. Get it?”

Zach’s smile was as thin as the cutting edge of a knife.

“Got it,” Jill said. “When are you calling?”

“You’ll be the second to know, while you’re driving somewhere north of Las Vegas on Highway 93, tomorrow afternoon. But don’t count on staying on 93, and have a full tank of gas.”

The caller broke the connection.

Jill hit the caller-ID function. The number was blocked.

Surprise, surprise.

Muttering under her breath, she threw the phone at the top of the unused bed, where it sank out of sight in soft piles of pillows.

Zach dragged her through the connecting doorway. Silently he eased the door shut. He led her into the far bathroom and turned on the shower, but didn’t get into it.

“Okay,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “I need a friend in Vegas I can trust with the paintings.”

“You’ll have one. Male or female?”

“Female. But this guy doesn’t play nice. His friends are probably the same.”

“No worries.” Zach grinned. “We have some very competent females at St. Kilda Consulting. The paintings are going straight into Shane Tannahill’s casino vault.”

“I won’t get away with that on my end,” Jill said. “I’ll have to have six real paintings for the show-and-tell.”

Zach wanted to argue but didn’t. He could already hear Grace.
We can’t prove anything unless the paintings are real, the money is real, and the exchange is made.

That was the downside of employing judges. They had such firm ideas about what would and would not fly in court.

“And I’ll have to be alone,” Jill said tightly.

“No way. Forget it.”

She didn’t like it, but she didn’t see any way around it.

Sometimes rapids couldn’t be finessed. They had to be ridden.

“I’m not going to waste time arguing about this,” Jill said. “Where’s your phone?”

“Why do you need it?”

“I’m calling Grace Silva Faroe. Then I’m going back next door and firing St. Kilda over my sat phone.”