St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

stuck under the windshield wiper. What looked like ripped, coarse cloth jammed the open glove compartment.
    She used the beam on nearby cars. Empty. Locked. Tires intact. No ads tucked under the windshield wipers. Whoever had trashed her ride had left the others alone.
    Adrenaline lit up her blood like fireworks.
    Gee, I feel really special.
    Pissed off, too.
    She looked around again, listened, heard nothing but wind and the growl of compressors keeping lettuce cold while drivers gambled the night away.
    Quickly she closed the distance to her mutilated SUV. Nothing looked better up close. It looked worse.
    She jerked the piece of paper out from under the windshield wiper. Block letters leaped into focus.
     
    STAY OUT OF IT OR DIE
     
    Adrenaline twisted into nausea.
    She looked around the SUV again. Still alone. Still quiet. Theguard was quartering a different part of the parking lot. She thought of calling him over, then thought of all the questions that the local cops would ask. Questions she really didn’t want to answer.
    With a hissing curse she went to the passenger side, opened the door, and reached under the seat. To her surprise her satellite phone was still there. She pulled it out and stashed it in her belly bag. Then she grabbed a fistful of whatever was choking the glove compartment.
    As soon as her fingers touched the material, she knew.
    Canvas.
    Oil.
    Anger burned away the faint nausea of fear.
    That slime-sucking son of a bitch. The threat wasn’t enough to make his point. He had to cut the missing painting to rags.
    And it could just as easily have been her.

13
    MANHATTAN
SEPTEMBER 14
2:21 A.M.
    A s usual, Dwayne Taylor had night duty. He liked it that way. The calls were more interesting and the view from Ambassador Steele’s office was one of the best in the city. Two of the office’s six walls overlooked Manhattan. The odd sheen of the bulletproof glass only added to the dramatic color-and-black view of skyscrapers. Three other walls held screens with satellite views of places where St. Kilda had operatives and/or things were going to hell. The final wall held a door and various reference books.
    Ambassador Steele sat in his high-tech wheelchair, talking through a headset, debriefing someone in Paraguay. Mission accomplished. International executive returned largely unharmed to his worried family.
    The “hot” phone rang.
    Steele covered his microphone. “Get that, will you?”
    Dwayne switched the channel on his headset and picked up immediately. “St. Kilda Consulting. Who or what do you need?”
    “This is Jillian Breck. Joe Faroe told me to call this number if I was ever in trouble.”
    Dwayne noted the tension in the woman’s voice, typed his best-guess spelling of her name into the computer, and simultaneously asked, “Are you in danger at this moment?”
    “Only of losing more money to the penny slots.”
    Dwayne smiled. “Not much danger, then.”
    “My car is cut to pieces. Someone put a note under the windshield that said go away or die.”
    Dwayne’s smile vanished. Information on Jillian Breck began to roll up on his computer screen.
    Highest priority.
    Joe Faroe.
    “Where are you now?” Dwayne’s voice was a lot calmer than he was feeling. If Faroe said something was important, it was important .
    “I’m in the Eureka Hotel, outside Mesquite, Nevada, in the casino. I figured it was safest here. Lots of guards.”
    “Excellent choice. Do you have a room?”
    “Yes.”
    “Number, please.”
    Jill hesitated.
    Dwayne waited for her to realize the obvious—if she didn’t trust St. Kilda Consulting, why was she calling?
    “Four-three-five,” she said.
    “Ask a guard to escort you to your room. Make sure the drapes are shut before he leaves. Lock the door, both dead bolt and chain. Joe Faroe will call you within fifteen minutes.”
    “Wait. I’m okay, just scared and mad. No need to wake him up. I’ll just—”
    “Get escorted to your room,” Dwayne cut in firmly. His ruby signet ring glowed against his chocolate skin as he keyed instructions into the computer. “Fifteen minutes, Ms. Breck. If your room phone doesn’t answer, Faroe will”— have a shit-fit —“be very concerned.”
    Silence.
    “Ms. Breck? Are you all right?”
    She made a tight sound that could have been a laugh. “Yes. I’m just not used to taking orders.”
    Dwayne almost chuckled. From what he was reading about her on the screen, he wasn’t surprised. “Sorry. Let me make