St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

started to say something, then shut up as her abdomen clamped down back to front, hard and long, pushing the baby closer to the moment of birth.
    “Time,” she said to Lane between her teeth.
    “Oh, god,” Lane said, his voice thinning. “They’re coming too close!”
    Grace felt the same way herself. This baby was in one big hurry. She knew that for most women a second baby came faster than the first, but with a sixteen-year-gap between pregnancies, she hadn’t expected the rule to apply to her.
    “Zach Balfour is our closest free operative,” Steele said. “Until we know the exact nature of the threat, we’re going with an intelligent bullet catcher.”
    Faroe grunted. “Good. I like Zach’s style. But the last time I talked to him, he was packing for a vacation. He change his mind?”
    “No, I did. He was about forty miles from Mesquite, Nevada, heading south in the morning. Now he’s heading north.”
    “Works for me.”
    “I doubt if it worked for him,” Steele said dryly, “but he’s on the way to Ms. Breck just the same.”
    Faroe almost smiled. “Did you get him out of bed?”
    “He’s recovering from babysitting DeeDee Breitling.”
    “Jesus. Give him double pay. Whatever. Just get him to Jill fast.”
    “I’ve seen the man drive,” Steele said. “He’ll be there fast.”
    Faroe slowed for another red light, scanned the intersection,gunned through it without stopping, and turned hard right. “We’re almost at the emergency entrance to the hospital. Give me Jill’s hotel phone. I’ll call while they’re checking Grace in.”
    “I could call her and—” Lane began.
    “Time contractions!” Faroe and Grace said together.
    Steele said Jill’s number in a loud, precise voice.
    “How long was that contraction?” Faroe asked, never looking away from the hospital rushing toward him.
    “Not—done—yet,” she said in a strained voice.
    “Bloody hell,” Steele said. “I’ll talk to Jillian myself.”
    “No,” Faroe said, leaning on the SUV’s horn, summoning the emergency staff as he braked gently to a stop by the wide glass doors. “I owe her. This op is on me.”
    “It’s on St. Kilda. I have plans for Lane,” Steele shot back. “Now, just for the novelty of the experience, be reasonable. Grace needs you more than—”
    “I can talk to Jill and tell Grace to push at the same time,” Faroe cut in.
    “You do and you’ll need a surgeon to remove the phone from your ass,” she shot back.
    Steele almost laughed out loud.
    Faroe did. “That’s the delicate little flower I know and love. And here comes the med team. I’ll call Jill.”
    He hung up, looked at Lane and the people hurrying close, and said, “Help your mother and answer their questions while I talk to Jill.”
    “Will do.”
    Faroe didn’t answer. He was already punching in Jill’s hotel number.

15
    EUREKA HOTEL
SEPTEMBER 14
12:17 A.M.
    Z ach Balfour knocked smartly on the door of 435, then stepped back so that he was clearly visible in the room door’s peephole. Not that a view of his four-day stubble would be reassuring, but he didn’t give a damn. He was supposed to be on vacation, not catching imaginary bullets for another bimbo.
    “Who is it?” asked a woman.
    The voice was low, slightly husky without being at all breathless.
    At least she doesn’t sound like a squirrel on speed, he told himself. That’s worth something.
    “Zach Balfour, St. Kilda Consulting.”
    “Slide your card under the door.”
    It wasn’t a request.
    His dark eyebrows climbed, but Zach dug out a St. Kilda card and pushed it as far as he could under the hotel room door.
    A few moments later, the bolt clicked, the chain rattled, and the door opened.
    “Come in,” Jill said.
    Zach didn’t wait for a second invitation. He stepped into theroom and watched while Jillian Breck closed, bolted, and chained the door again.
    The room was pretty much what he expected. Against the far wall there was a double bed sporting a rumpled spread and a belly bag stuffed like a sausage. A small, butt-sprung couch that likely pulled out into another bed faced the TV. Neither clean nor dirty, the room was just a place to stash stuff between casino raids.
    Jillian Breck wasn’t what he’d expected. She wore jeans, a Ray Troll T-shirt, and beat-up river sandals. She had unpolished fingernails, minimal if any makeup, hair a casual auburn cap, nice breasts, trim butt, and a body that was both fit and unmistakably female.
    Pale