St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

bought several liters of water, and paid for everything. The old man who took her money wasn’t feeling chatty. Neither was she.
    While the man slowly, painfully, counted out her change, she looked behind the counter at the faded black-and-white print of the gas station with a ribbon proclaiming the date and the grand opening of the station. The photo had been taken a long time ago, when cars in the rugged land were an adventure, not a necessity, back when the frail man counting pennies over the counter had been a little boy yearning to be old enough to break broncs and chase lean cattle through sagebrush valleys.
    Jill looked from the photo to the man whose fingers were arthritic from winters spent chasing stubborn cows out of nameless ravines.
    Were things really simpler then?
    Or does it just seem that way now?
    She put the change in her belly bag, went to the car, pulled back onto the road, and settled in for an unknown time of driving before her sat phone rang with new instructions.
    She’d no more reached cruising speed when her phone came alive. She eased off the gas and answered.
    “What?” she demanded.
    “A sheriff’s car will stop you. Do what the deputy says.”
    The connection ended.
    “O frabjous day,” she said bitterly. “The local cops are friends with the other guys.”
    Silence answered.
    It was all she’d expected.

78
    SAN DIEGO
SEPTEMBER 17
6:18 P.M.
    G race had watched and listened while her husband peeled away layers of bureaucracy until he got to the man in charge. She stayed silent, because the phone was on speaker.
    Besides, she’d already done her part by calling a retired federal judge and having him talk to the sheriff’s secretary.
    “So what you’re saying, Sheriff, is that you won’t tell me why your deputy singled out that particular young woman and told her to follow him?” Faroe’s voice was mild, gentle.
    Grace winced. She’d learned that when her husband sounded most gentle, he was the most dangerous.
    The sheriff might have to learn, too.
    Faroe’s hand gripped the phone hard. He wished it was the sheriff’s balls.
    “No, I won’t tell you,” the sheriff said impatiently. “None of your business, no matter how many retired judges your wife knows.”
    “Then I’ll guess why your deputy decided to pull the woman over,” Faroe said. “My teenage son did a quick database check of contributions to your last election. You received thirty thousanddollars and change in campaign contributions from a group of law-abiding folks up in Carson City.”
    “What does—”
    Faroe kept talking. Gently. “That’s a lot of money in a little county like yours, so I asked my son to check out those Carson City names. It took him maybe thirty seconds to find links between five of the ten contributors. Seems like they’re all members of the same law firm. Are you following me okay, Sheriff?”
    “You’re wasting my—”
    “My kid could start a court-records search on one of the proprietary databases that covers your state,” Faroe continued gently, relentlessly. “But I’m betting he’ll find that the law firm has only one real client, and more digging would prove that single client is the source of your campaign funds. Do you want me to name that client?”
    Silence, then a sigh. The sound of papers being stacked. The click of high heels on tile as some woman came and went from his office.
    “What do you want?” the sheriff asked.
    “St. Kilda Consulting is engaged in a murder, arson, and robbery investigation in behalf of the young woman who is presently being intimidated by your deputy, acting in behalf of your big-time donor,” Faroe said.
    “I don’t know anything about that.”
    “Just doing a favor for a big man, huh?”
    “Nothing illegal about it,” the sheriff said. “The deputy has to patrol the area around Beaver Tail Ranch anyway.”
    Quickly Grace typed the destination into her mapping program.
    “Odd name for a ranch in the desert,” Faroe said, watching Grace.
    “We have some odd ranches here. Again, nothing illegal.”
    The printer spat out a piece of paper. Grace handed it to Faroe.
    “You keep telling yourself that, Sheriff. Then you listen real good when I tell you that you’re in danger of becoming accessory after the fact to murder.”
    “That’s a load of BS,” the sheriff shot back. “There haven’t been any murders in my county in nine months.”
    “If you want to keep your record clean,” Faroe said, “you’ll get