St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

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