Blue Smoke and Murder (30 page)

NEVADA
SEPTEMBER
17
6:24
P.M.

H
i, Mary,” Jill said into her sat phone. “I wanted to make sure you were still awake.”

“Working on it. How’s it on your end?”

“Just got a wake-up call from the cop behind me. I’m slowing down and pulling over. I’ll leave the connection open.”

“Watch yourself,” Mary said. “Friends are hard to find.”

“Same goes.”

Jill laid the phone aside. Now that it was happening, she wished she had more time. Something had been bugging her since the service station at Indian Springs, but she couldn’t pin it down.

Later,
she promised herself.

The wheel bucked in her hands when the two tires on the right side of the Escalade hit rough gravel at the edge of the pavement.

The cop pulled even, matched speeds, and used the loudspeaker in the car’s grill.
“Follow me!”

The voice sounded like Halloween in hell, but she signaled agreement and eased back onto the highway.

“Okay, I’m not pulling over,” Jill said into the sat phone. “I’m back on the highway. He wants me to play Follow the Leader.”

“Keep me in the loop,” Mary said.

“Don’t worry. I’m feeling real talkative right now.”

Jill picked up her speed again to match the officer’s. Two miles later, his brake lights flashed once in warning. She slowed as he did.

The cop’s left turn signal came on.

“We’re turning left,” Jill said. “Old gravel road, mostly dirt and weeds now. Buildings about a half mile away. Dead trees around. Could have been a ranch once. Or a resort. Or—”

Her voice died as she focused on a battered, sun-faded sign next to the dirt road.

“Okay, this is weird,” Jill said into the sat phone. “It’s a cathouse. Or was. The sign reads ‘Beaver Tail Ranch, Lots of Both Right Here. Y’all Come.’ The place looks like it’s been a long time between lube jobs.”

Mary choked off laughter. “Anybody there?”

“So far, all I see is me and the cop. Why don’t I feel good about that?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Yeah?” Jill asked. “Then why am I here?”

Mary didn’t answer.

Jill didn’t expect her to.

BEAVER TAIL RANCH
SEPTEMBER
17
6:25
P.M.

S
core watched the deputy park at the end of a row of rickety cottages whose doors opened onto the dried, rocky area surrounding an equally dry swimming pool. The pale, curving body of the pool was pocked by dark holes where tiles had fallen out. The dying light gave the cement a creamy glow.

“Alert the ops in the barn,” Score called over his shoulder.

A voice from another room called, “Yo.”

Score watched the deputy go to the Escalade and circle his finger, silently telling the Breck woman to lower her window. Her words carried clearly from the bug to the headset he wore.

“I don’t like this, Mary,”
Jill said.
“It looks deserted. And the deputy wants me to roll down the window.”

“Your call.”

“I wish.”

Score grinned. He knew it was his call all the way.

The deputy was a middle-aged man with buzz-cut hair beneath his uniform hat. He hitched his utility belt up over his belly, leaned in, and spoke through the partially open window.

“The man you wanted to meet is in the fourth cottage down the row,”
the deputy said, pointing.

“Who’s with him?”
she asked.

He shrugged.
“I was told to bring you here. I’ve done it. That’s all I know.”

“That’s right, you dumb putz,” Score said in a low voice. “Now go back and sit in your car until we call and tell you to arrest Ms. Breck on extortion charges.”

The deputy got in his car, made a U-turn, and sped back down the gravel road to the highway.

“What the hell?” Score said. “Dumb as a brick. Can’t remember even simple orders.” He hissed through his teeth. When the time came, he could get the deputy back here quick.

Through the partly open window, a surge of wind shifted dust into the Escalade.

“C’mon, babe,” Score said in a low voice, pulling a black ski mask over his face. “Come and get it.”

BEAVER TAIL RANCH
SEPTEMBER
17
6:26
P.M.

I
’m going in,” Jill said to Mary. “I’ll call you once I check the money.”

“Be safe. If that doesn’t work, be matte-black bad.”

Jill almost smiled. Someday she’d like to meet Mary. “Same goes.”

She hung up and tossed the phone in back with the aluminum suitcases. It banged and clattered.

Hope your ears are ringing, whoever and wherever you are.

She picked up the BlackBerry and put it in one of the cargo pockets of her hiking pants. The belly bag hung around her waist. She opened the top zipper, shifted the pistol so that she could reach it with one grab, and checked the safety.

Matte-black bad.

And the mother of all rapids is just ahead.

The idea of rowing with a black pistol was unnerving.

It can’t be any worse than my first trip alone down a class-five rapids.

Can it?

Jill got out of the car and looked at the cribs arrayed around the dusty pool. The “cottages” looked shabby, abandoned.

Looks like the sex business isn’t real good out here.

Beyond the ranks of cottages, more than half a mile down the rutted road, several sagging barns and outbuildings silently stated that once this had been a working ranch, rather than a working girls’ ranch. The distant buildings were even more beaten down by time and sun than the cribs, where sex had come with time limits and a price list.

The door in the fourth cottage away from her banged open with more than the force of the wind. There was a flickering blue light showing inside. Somebody was watching TV.

Got bored waiting, did you?
she thought with grim satisfaction.
Too bad. I’m tired of being your puppet.

Besides, she didn’t know how much time it would take St. Kilda’s people to close in on the ranch. She wanted to give them every second she could.

Slowly, like a woman with all the time in the world, Jill stretched, loosening muscles that had been confined too long in a car. The stretch felt so good that she repeated it, held it, and did it all over again a third time, breathing in the fading heat and exhaling clammy manacles of fear.

She could fairly taste the impatience radiating out of the fourth cabin.

You can just wait for it, dude,
she thought.
I certainly have.

Ignoring the primitive unease that slid down her spine from her nape to the bottom of her hips, she pressed down on part of the key fob. The Escalade’s cargo area opened. She pulled out one suitcase and locked the vehicle again, leaving two cases inside. No way was she going to be shuffling three suitcases when she needed a hand free for the pistol.

The open door on the fourth cottage banged in the wind again. Despite the nerves jumping in her stomach, Jill didn’t flinch at the sound. Wind rattling around old buildings was as familiar to her as her childhood.

Neither fast nor foot-dragging, she walked toward the open cottage.

And wished she was somewhere else.

Anywhere.

Zach, I sure hope you aren’t far away. This isn’t the kind of river I know how to run alone.

ABOVE NEVADA
SEPTEMBER
17
6:28
P.M.

T
ake one quiet orbit close enough for me to read the serial numbers on the helo in back of the barn,” Zach said to the pilot. “Do it fast.”

The plane began shedding altitude. It hit the layer of air where the heat of day met the coming chill of night. The plane jumped around, a drop of water in a searing skillet.

Even with motion-compensated binoculars, getting numbers wasn’t easy. He stared through the lenses and memorized the numbers on the helo.

“Got it,” Zach said. “Take us up again.”

The plane began to climb back into twilight while Zach punched number one on his speed dial.

“Faroe,” said a deep voice.

“We’ve got trouble,” Zach said. “There’s a Jet Ranger parked behind the whorehouse barn, which is about three thousand feet from the cribs. Two black Suburbans are parked with the helo. Looks to me like somebody brought in another security outfit.”

“Who?”

“Trace these helo serial numbers,” Zach said, speaking distinctly as he repeated what he’d seen through the binoculars.

“I’ll get back to you,” Faroe said.

Zach switched to the pilot’s frequency. “We’re going to land.”

“Where?”

“On the highway.”

“What about traffic?” the pilot asked.

“It’s taken care of.”

The pilot took the plane higher.

“I told you to land,” Zach said.

“Do you want to walk away from it?”

“Yes.”

“Then shut up and let me do my job.”

Zach switched back to his sat/cell. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “How long can it take to run the numbers on a—”

His sat/cell rang. “Who are they?” Zach demanded.

“Red Hill International,” Faroe said.

“The high-ticket security outfit out of Las Vegas?”

“The same.”

“They have a pretty good rep,” Zach said. “What are they doing working for an arsonist and shooter?”

“Best guess? They’re getting hosed by a lying client.”

“God knows that never happens in this business,” Zach said sarcastically. “The really bad news is that friendly fire kills just as dead as the other kind.”

“The ambassador is talking to General Meyer of Red Hill as we speak.”

“Screw talking. I’m taking this bird down,” Zach said. “Jill isn’t armed to go up against Red Hill.”

“Neither are you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Zach disconnected and switched frequencies to talk to the pilot. “Take me down.”

“Which part of the highway?”

“The cop car with the flashing lights is the upwind end of the runway.” Zach pulled his duffel from behind the seat and took out a long-barreled pistol and spare magazines. “The downwind end is behind us, where the RV is parked across the highway. From the dust I’ve seen in the headlights, I’m guessing we’ll get occasional gusts of wind from southwest to northeast.”

Not good news for a landing.

“I’ve noticed.” The pilot’s voice was flat.

He turned the plane into the wind and lined up with the highway. He dropped into a zone where the air wasn’t quite as bumpy.

But it was still a long way from smooth.

“I’m glad St. Kilda will be the one explaining this to the FAA,” the pilot said.

“Engine trouble, what can I tell you?” Zach said. “Put me as close as you can to the ranch entrance.”

That meant a really short landing. The pilot hissed a word not approved by the FAA.

“Can you do it?” Zach asked.

“Tighten your harness” was all the pilot said.

Zach looked at the buildings coming closer with every second. Jill wasn’t anywhere in sight.

She’d already gone in.

Be smart, Jill,
Zach prayed silently.
Turn around and run like hell to the Escalade.

But he knew she wouldn’t. Worse, he knew it wouldn’t make any difference if she did.

Red Hill wasn’t a bunch of amateurs.

BEAVER TAIL RANCH
SEPTEMBER
17
6:31
P.M.

T
he gaping door of the fourth cottage opened into a room that looked cheap and hard-used. Jill stood to one side of the doorway and glanced around. The carpet was faded and stained, but the coffee table had been dusted recently. Two cheap cast-iron chairs huddled around an equally cheap ice-cream table. The TV was on, picture only. The sex tape that was running showed Tab-A-to-Slot-B graphics for the sexually stupid.

Despite the lack of landscaping and the dry pool, it looked like the room was still being used by working girls. The bed was made. The table and the TV had been dusted. The electricity was on.

A half-wall across the rear of the room partially concealed an oversize spa tub. The tub was full, but unoccupied. The jets were off. The sharp, unmistakable smell of chlorine hung in the air.

Maybe the women make their tricks sluice off in bleach before they climb on.

She certainly would.

“Anybody here?” Jill called out.

In the bathroom, Score wanted to laugh. He finally had the bitch within reach. He’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Too long.

“Come on in,” he snarled. “Close the door.”

Jill thought the voice was almost familiar.
Blanchard without the cold? The mysterious caller without the filter?

“Do you understand that there are people who know exactly where I am?” Jill asked, not entering.

“Just get your ass in here,” Score said, scratching his face through a ski mask. “You’re wasting my time.”

Like you haven’t wasted mine?
Jill thought.

Slowly she stepped just inside the room. One of her hands was around the suitcase handle. The other was very close to the unzipped belly bag. Her heart was trying to crawl up her throat, but her stomach kept getting in the way.

“I said, close the door.” Score said roughly. “You have a problem with your hearing?”

Jill’s adrenaline turned into anger. “You want it closed, you close it.”

Score stepped out of the bathroom. “You didn’t learn much in Mesquite, did you?”

“Much what?”

“Fear.”

“If you want to scare me, take off the mask. I bet I’ll be terrified.”

Score came around the half-wall and stood close to her. He was about her height, twice her weight, and three times her muscle. He glared at the single suitcase in her hand.

“Where are the rest?” he demanded.

“I have two paintings with me. You can inspect them, but only if you show me the money first.”

“You think you clang when you walk?” Score asked.

Jill struggled with an unholy cocktail of fear, adrenaline, and anger.

She lost.

“Is that what happened to Modesty?” she taunted. “You didn’t like listening to her clang?”

Score laughed despite the rage sleeting through his blood. “She was stupid. She jumped me, fell, and knocked herself right into the next world. You feeling that kind of stupid?”

The man’s casual summary of her great-aunt’s death was like a bucket of ice water in Jill’s face.

“No,” she said. “I’m feeling like getting this done and getting on the road.”

“Don’t want to play, huh?” He licked his lips slowly.

His tongue looked thick and wet in the slit of the black mask. She simply stared at him, suspended between adrenaline and disgust.

Score laughed, knowing he was scaring her. He went to the closet, yanked out a briefcase, and walked over to stand close to her.

Real close.

Jill wanted to back up. She didn’t.

Ski Mask knows I’m sickened by him. He’s using it to intimidate me.

She took the briefcase and handed over the suitcase, not even flinching when his latex-gloved fingers slowly stroked over her hand.

“Stay here,” he said. “Count your money. Throw it on the bed and get off on it. Just don’t try to leave before I tell you to. You’ll get hurt. I’ll enjoy that, but you won’t.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make sure the paintings are real.”

The instant the door closed behind him, Jill raced to the window and pulled the heavy, faded curtain aside just enough to peek through.

The man stripped off his mask, walked toward the crib two doors down, knocked, and entered.

But not before she memorized his face in the last cool gasp of sunlight.

The angle of view she had was tight, but she could see another man step out of the other cottage into the dying day. The second man was well groomed, freshly shaved, dressed in black slacks, charcoal shirt, and no tie. His loafers screamed of city sidewalks and money, a lot of money.

He had the self-assurance to go with it.

Art buyer? Lawyer? Sleazy millionaire?

Whatever, he wasn’t wearing exam gloves, which might put him a step out of Ski Mask’s gutter. Then again, maybe not. The biggest thieves hired the most expensive lawyers.

The man in the exam gloves signaled toward the barn. She caught a flash of movement—sun on glass or metal—in the hayloft.

She brought out the BlackBerry and spoke clearly. “I’m in the number four cottage, no names exchanged. There’s a well-dressed lawyer or art buyer or city millionaire waiting two doors down. The muscle-bound thug who met me in a ski mask is talking to him. There are more men out in the barn. I don’t know how many. Whoever the opposition is, he has money to spend.”

Jill let go of the curtain. “I’m alone right now. I’m checking to see if there’s a back way out.”

No such luck.

Above eye level, over the toilet, there was a sliding frosted glass panel. Jill stepped up onto the lid of the toilet and eased the panel open.

“No back door, but there’s a small window over the head. I see a barn and—” Her voice broke. She swallowed. “There are two really big black SUVs, smoked windows, waiting in the barn doorway. And what looks like the rotor of a helicopter. Are you listening, St. Kilda?
This is a trap.
”

And she couldn’t see a way out.