St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

grimaced and hurried through the casino. She might have problems with the sober, righteous Mormon patriarchy, but at least the air in Utah’s public buildings was breathable.
    When she walked into her room, the smell of air “freshener” made her feel like she was walking through the perfume aisle in a dollar store. She shut the door behind herself and threw the dead bolt. She didn’t like hotels much, but it was more anonymous than the Rimrock Café.
    She ordered a big salad and a hamburger from room service and settled in to wait.

11
    EUREKA HOTEL
SEPTEMBER 13
7:00 P.M.
    W hen it was full dark, Score finally stirred from his observation post in the back of his minivan. Ms. Breck’s dirt-bag SUV was where it had been for the past four hours, collecting dust.
    He’d been collecting dust since dawn. He was used to the stake-out routine, but he didn’t love it. Eating mini-mart snacks and pissing into Gatorade bottles got old real quick.
    It had been especially hard to wait knowing that the paintings were locked in that tin-can SUV fifty feet away. She hadn’t carried anything sizable inside, or sent the bellman out after any more luggage.
    Score bit back a yawn, checked his watch, then looked for the guard whose boring job it was to drive through the hotel parking lot for eight hours, five days a week. The dude must have decided to save wear and tear on tires, because he’d parked his little golf cart and was drinking coffee, using one of the long-haul trucks for a windbreak.
    When Score moved forward and opened the driver’s door of his minivan, the wind nearly yanked the handle out of his hands. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
    The wind was as cold as it was strong. No wonder the guard wasn’t driving around in the open golf cart.
    If somebody told me to freeze in this wind for minimum wage, I’d tell them to jerk off.
    Even though it was dark between the parking lot’s widespread, sickly orange lights, Score pulled a toque over his head and down to his eyebrows. The result concealed the color of his hair and kept his ears warm. He stuffed a machete under his thigh-length leather jacket, taking care to keep the hooked end of the blade from notching his balls by mistake. His “slim jim” was already in its own special inside pocket, just itching to be used on a locked car.
    He walked to the Breck SUV. As he’d guessed from the way she locked it up, the vehicle had a manual rather than an electronic lock.
    Piece of cake.
    He pulled out the slim jim, slid it down the driver’s window, fished a bit, and yanked up the lock.
    No alarm.
    Nobody looking his way.
    It took less than a minute to see that there weren’t any paintings inside the SUV.
    Hell, that would have been too easy.
    But there was a satellite phone underneath the passenger seat that was as old as the car. Like the car, it still worked.
    Tucking the satellite phone under his jacket, Score went back to his minivan. He opened the sliding door, ducked in, and closed it behind him. Both side walls of the van had custom racks that secured a multitude of metal suitcases, ranging from palm-size to big enough to hold an automatic rifle. He selected a case, turned on his penlight, and glanced quickly at the contents. Locaters and bugs of all sizes were stashed in their cut-out foam nests. He opened Jill’s satellite phone, looked at the battery, and shook his head.
    He pulled out a second metal suitcase. The bugs and locaters in this one came inside their own batteries.
    Pricey bastards.
    But it all goes on the client’s tab.
    One of the expensive bugs would work for Jill’s phone. He popped out the old battery, put in the new and improved one, and opened up a special computer. He booted it up, checked the readout, and saw that the locater was hot. He muttered into the phone, checked that the bug was working just fine, and decided it was good to go. Unless she kept the phone five feet from her at all times, he doubted that he’d overhear much, but the voice-activated bug was part of the only locater/battery setup that fit her old sat phone.
    If she’s smart and bolts, then my client wasted some money. No problemo. Clients are made of the green stuff.
    If she goes after the paintings, she’ll give me the GPS coordinates.
    In all, it would be more reliable and a whole lot less dangerous than beating the truth out of her.
    He replaced all the suitcases in their niches, stashed the phone in his jacket, and went back to the little SUV. Just to