St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

the old-fashioned way.”
    Zach let go of Jill and came to his feet.
    “Can you stand up?” he asked her.
    Wincing, she pushed to her feet, then swayed a bit.
    “You okay?” he said quickly, stepping close, ready to catch her.
    “As long as I don’t have to do another two-thousand-yard dash over broken country, I’m good.” She accepted his arm and leaned into him. “Not great. Just good enough.”
    “You’re way better than that.” Zach brushed a kiss over her bleeding lip. “Ready?”
    She started to say something, then stopped, remembering. “Have you searched all the cabins? Ski Mask—Score—said something about taking the paintings to be authenticated. I don’t think the lawyer was the art expert.”
    Zach looked at the remaining op.
    “We’re checking the cabins one by one,” the op said.
    “Find anyone?” Zach asked when the op switched back.
    “So far, two men. Their ID says they’re Ken and Lee Dunstan, son and father.”
    “What’s their excuse for being here?”
    “They say that they were working for the dead lawyer,” the op said. “The old man came here to look at some paintings for the lawyer’s client, who claims he was being extorted by one Jillian Breck. Ken Dunstan came along to keep his father company in—and I quote—‘a stressful situation.’”
    Zach said something bleak under his breath.
    “Now what?” Jill asked, looking at him.
    “The story is just plausible enough to close the case right here.”
    “I didn’t extort anyone! You know that!”
    “Yes, I know.” For all the good that does, Zach thought tiredly. “But with Glammis and that lawyer dead, we don’t have anywhere to go.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s over.”
    “But whoever hired Glammis is at least an accessory to murder,” Jill said.
    “Glammis is dead. All the dude paying the bills has to say is that Glammis exceeded his orders. Hell, it could even be true.”
    “You mean the son of a bitch who hired my great-aunt’s killer can’t be touched?” Jill demanded, her eyes narrow.
    “Legally, no. And St. Kilda doesn’t do illegal.”
    Jill just stared at him, her eyes dark.
    He pulled her close and held her, rocking slowly. “I’m sorry. Sometimes a little revenge is all you get.”
    “It’s not good enough,” she said against his chest.
    “I know. But it’s all we have.”
    Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had called the sheriff.
    “Can St. Kilda keep us out of jail?” Jill asked.
    “The sheriff won’t like it, but yes. Self-defense is a fact.”
    Jill took a deep breath. “Good. I have an idea.”

93
    LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER 18
2:00 P.M.
    T he conference room that the Golden Fleece had turned over to St. Kilda for the afternoon looked like an important high-end business center in L.A., Boston, Houston, or Manhattan. Gleaming table, automatic digital and sound recording, computers for everyone attending, pen and paper for those who felt more in control that way, and lush leather chairs for the comfort of the important high-end assets attending the meeting.
    Twelve beautifully framed, unsigned landscape paintings stood on easels at the front of the room. Only Ramsey Worthington looked at them. Fascination and dismay fought for control of his expression.
    Grace paused in the hallway outside the open door and asked Faroe in a soft voice, “Any word yet?”
    “Incoming,” he murmured, tapping his Bluetooth earpiece.
    “With or without?” she asked.
    “With.”
    Grace’s smile was the kind that made Faroe glad she was on his side. She stepped through the open door into the room, where impatience and importance seethed. The air-filtration system was having a hard time blanking out the smell of stale bourbon that Lee Dunstan sweated with every heartbeat. His face looked like he’d slept in it for a long time.
    “I was just going to advise my clients to leave,” Carter Jenson said, looking at his ten-thousand-dollar watch.
    “They would have regretted it,” Grace said.
    She didn’t sit down. Instead she stood at the front of the table, dressed in a silk blouse, low heels, and well-cut slacks, a woman comfortable in her own power. She placed a folder within easy reach on the table.
    Faroe leaned against the wall by the doorway with the relaxed readiness of a predator. He purely loved watching Grace downsize swollen egos.
    “Do I need to summarize the events of yesterday?” Grace asked, looking around the table.
    Caitlin Crawford’s suit was much more