St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

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